What I discovered was: my conscience. I never had much occasion to use my conscience. I never suspected I actually owned one. Evidently, I did. I did not like it. It was making my head hurt and my stomach turn queasy.
It kept jabbing at me. A question about the map. Conscience insisted it did not belong to me. I disagreed. We had a not-very-friendly conversation.
Myself: “You’re talking nonsense. The bookseller gave it to me. Free. A gift. He said so.”
Conscience: “Wrong. He gave you the book. He didn’t give you the map.”
“He did, too,” I protested. “He gave me the book. The map was in the book. It comes to the same thing.”
“Does it?” Conscience said slyly. “Answer me this: Did he realize it was there?”
I mentally shrugged. “How should I know? Maybe not.”
“Maybe not?” said Conscience. “Probably not?”
“All right, then: Probably not.”
“Say, rather: Most certainly not. He gave you the book out of kindness and generosity. He had no intention of giving you the map. It was a mistake, an accident.”
“So?”
“Let me put it this way,” said Conscience. “Suppose you gave your old coat to a freezing beggar. And suppose you’d forgotten some gold pieces in the pocket. You’d want them back, wouldn’t you?”
“Of course.”
“Now we’re getting somewhere. Very good. So. What are you going to do?”
“Keep the map,” I said.
“You’re disgusting,” said Conscience. “You haven’t understood a word—”
“What do you want from me?” I said. “I’m a chooch.”
“Even a chooch can do the right thing. Sometimes, at least. Tell me, have you ever had a piece of grit in your eye? And you rub and rub, but you can’t get it out? And only make it worse? I promise you’ll have a piece of grit that won’t go away. It’s going to sting and smart every day for the rest of your life.”
“Get out,” I said. “Let me be.”
I fell back on my cot and slept. Badly. Next morning, I went to the market square with the map in my pocket.
The fruit and vegetable dealers had just set up their stands. I walked—not quickly—past the old woman and her display of melons. I had my hand on the map, ready to give it to the bookseller.
I saw no sign of him.
It must have been too early. I asked the melon vendor what time her neighbor would arrive. She recognized me, she had seen me on my errands; and, in Magenta, everyone knows everyone else’s business.
“Bookseller?” She gave me an odd look. “What bookseller?”
The one, I said, with a stall next to her own.
“Nobody like that.” She kept shaking her head as I insisted I had been there only yesterday. Had he moved somewhere else? Where could I find him?
“What are you blabbering about?” she said. “No bookseller. I’m here thirty years. I should know if there’s a bookseller. No such person. Not yesterday. Not now. Never.”
I was running short of patience. “I bought something from him—that is, he gave me something. Right there. That very spot.”
“Don’t waste my time.” She went back to arranging the melons. “What a fool,” she said under her breath. “Poor uncle, such a burden for him. But, nothing to be done about it. There’s a chooch in every family.”
What she had told me puzzled and, at first, troubled me. I thought it over and finally understood. There was a simple explanation: The bookseller had opened his stall within the past day or two. She hadn’t noticed. His trade had been too slow; he changed to a better location. I walked all around the marketplace, up and down the side streets. Not a trace. No question, he was gone. He could have left Magenta altogether.
Satisfied I had done my duty—my conscience was keeping its mouth shut—I hurried to the office, eager to put my plans in motion.
No sooner did I set foot inside than Melchiorre stepped up. My uncle, he announced, demanded my presence immediately. He was grinning so happily I expected to be yelled at, though it was only Thursday. I was unworried. As soon as he learned what I had in mind, my offense, whatever it was, would be forgotten.
I found Uncle Evariste hunched over the table in his counting room. Beside him, black-robed, looking like a melancholy crow, stood Messire Bagatìn, his accountant.
Since Uncle Evariste didn’t pull his beard or yell, I suspected this might be serious.
“You,” he said, in a voice icy enough to give me gooseflesh, “you’ve ruined me.”
Before I could ask what he meant, he pressed on:
“You’ve made mistakes before. I put up with them for the sake of your parents. But not this time. With your daydreaming and woolgathering—do you know what you’ve done? Of course not.
“I’ll tell you,” he said between his teeth. “You mixed up the accounts. Idiot. You got them backward.
“You wrote down the money I made as if it were money I owed. Yesterday, when you took the receipts to Casa Galliardi, you listed my assets as liabilities. Do you have the least glimmer of the mess you made? Bagatìn can straighten it out—but who knows how long it will take? As far as the bankers are concerned, my account stands at zero. My assets will be frozen. I’ll have to borrow money. At ruinous interest. Meantime, I have nothing.”
That was all? I gave a sigh of relief. Only a temporary disaster.
“Uncle,” I said, “never mind that. I’ll make a fortune for us. A thousand times over.”
I brought out the map and handed it to him.
He squinted at it for a moment. In a pinched voice, he said: “Where did you get it?”
“From a bookseller,” I began. “What happened, you see—”
“Happened? Happened? Who cares?” Uncle Evariste flung at me. “Where is this fellow?”
“In the marketplace,” I said. “That is, he was. I went back and looked all over for him. I couldn’t find him again. He’s gone somewhere else.”
Now the yelling began.
“Make a fortune?” Uncle Evariste cried. “With this? If I had a ducat for every one of these I’ve seen in my time, I’d be a rich man. A fraud! A ridiculous fake! Trash like this is floating everywhere. For sale to gullible jackasses. How much did you pay?”
“Well, nothing—”
“Exactly what it’s worth.”
He crumpled the parchment and threw it at my head. And missed. I scooped it up from the floor.
“This can’t keep on.” My uncle’s face glowed crimson all the way to the end of his nose—an effect I had never before produced on him.
“Enough is enough,” he said, struggling for breath. “You’re no longer in my employ.”
This set me back on my heels. Not that I was sorry to be free of my tedious work, but I was also confused. I murmured something about my lodging. I supposed I would still be living in the house.
“No. You will not.” My uncle snapped off the words. He was calmer now, which upset me more than his yelling.
“You are a walking catastrophe,” he said. “An embarrassment on two legs. I want you to be gone. Away from here. Out of Magenta. Out of Serrano.”
I said I didn’t understand.
“I don’t want you anywhere near me. After what you’ve done—to have you here? A thorn in my side? You’d make me a laughingstock. My trade would suffer. Who’d want to deal with me? It would cost me more to keep you than to let you go.”
My uncle was not a cruel person, neither wicked nor heartless. He was simply a man of business. I saw his point. In his place, I probably would have done the same.
“Even so,” he went on, “family is family.” He motioned to Messire Bagatìn, who took a leather purse from the folds of his robe and passed it over to me.
“The best I can do with what cash I have on hand,” Uncle Evariste said. “It should be enough to tide you over until you get on your feet. Oh, very well, you can have your dinner and stay the night here.”
I thought I saw a passing shadow of sadness on his face. In any case, he wasn’t gloating.
“Tomorrow,” he said, “you’ll go to Campania.” Back to his everyday gruffness, he added:
“With so many fools there, one more won’t be noticed.”
Again, thanks to Silvana, I had dinner on a tray in my attic. Also, at my request, she kindly gave me a needle, thread, and a pair of scissors. I had a night’s work ahead of me. Not in the way of packing: My few extra garments fit easily into a canvas shoulder bag; along, of course, with my book of tales.
The purse—Uncle Evariste had been more generous than I expected. I found a good number of gold pieces as well as a quantity of lesser coins.
The small change I left in the purse, ready to hand. The gold pieces—I had the clever idea of stitching them into the hem of my cloak and traveling clothes. It took longer than I thought, since I kept stabbing myself each time I plied the needle.
Finished at last, I had to admire my work. I was, so to speak, wearing my fortune on my back. I would not be the most fashionably dressed; but, no doubt, the most expensively.
As for the map: I smoothed out the wrinkles and sat staring at it a long time. Uncle Evariste judged it worthless; he, if anyone, recognized worthless when he saw it. If a fraud and forgery, I might as well tear it into confetti and toss it out the window.
So I would have done. I stopped short each time I began. Yet against my uncle’s opinion, against all reason and logic, I believed it was real. Knew in my heart it was real. Anyway, there was no harm in taking it with me. I slid it into the lining of my jacket, slung my bag and cloak over my shoulder, and went downstairs.
The rest of the household lay sound asleep. I did see a light from under the door of the counting room. My uncle and Messire Bagatìn had no doubt been toiling the night away to clear up the mess I’d made.
I had no stomach for leavetaking. I stepped quietly into the street.
The cobblestones were slick and wet. It was well before daybreak. Too early for the fruit and vegetable sellers, the marketplace stood empty. I headed for the docks. I felt glad enough to be free of the office, counting room, Casa Galliardi, the whole business. Not, however, as glad as I expected to be. It was, it occurred to me, the first time in my life I had been without a home.
I cheered up considerably as I neared the quay. This could, I told myself, be all for the best. In fact, I already had a plan.
If, as my uncle claimed, there were so many fools in Campania, surely I could find one to hire me. For something. This time, I resolved to do well. If I was diligent, seriously buckled down and paid attention to my work, my career—whatever my career might be—was bound to prosper. Uncle Evariste would have nodded approval at my common sense. He had, unwittingly, done me a favor by throwing me into the street. I thanked him for it.
As soon as I gained sufficient wealth—it shouldn’t take long—I would lead my own expedition eastward and prove the map real.
There was no doubt in my mind, I would discover the treasure. Then I would sail triumphantly home, gloriously rich, to the awe and admiration of Uncle Evariste, Messire Bagatìn, Silvana, Melchiorre, Simone, every citizen of Magenta, every inhabitant of Serrano, Campania, and far beyond. Carlo Milione.
At the moment, I needed cheap transportation north to the mainland. I walked along the docks, hoping to find a fishing boat or small coasting vessel.
I saw one likely craft and hailed a burly man who had the air of being the captain.
“Where away?” I called.
“Bound east,” he called back. “Bound east for Sidya.”
I knew that name. Most of my uncle’s goods came through this port, the busiest in Keshavar. If Marakand was the gateway to the Road of Golden Dreams, Sidya was the doorstep.
“Want passage?” The captain held up a lantern. “You look like a strong lad. Listen, I’m shorthanded. Help with the bailing, a few light duties, and I’ll take you there free. How’s that suit you? We have a bargain?” He added, “I want to catch the tide, so be quick about it. Come aboard.”
I did.