The hedgehog was now sitting quite a ways from the others, staring at the crowds with a face like thunder. The girl had her head in a book. And Bo was bored.
"Look over here, boy!" Victor whispered while pigeons tripped all over his head. "Go on now, look at this silly man who's playing scarecrow just for you."
Bo pulled at his dyed hair, rubbed his nose, yawned -- and then, suddenly, he discovered Victor. Victor, the pigeon roost. He cast a quick glance at the girl and checked that she was absorbed in her book. And then he slipped off the fountain.
At last! Victor sighed with relief and filled his hands with more seed. Bo strolled hesitantly toward him. He kept looking back toward the others as he pushed his way past three screaming girls who were trying to remove a couple of pigeons from their hair. Then he stood in front of Victor with his head cocked to one side.
When the pigeon on Victor's head leaned forward and pecked at the glass of his fake glasses, Bo giggled.
"Buongiorno," Victor said, chasing the cheeky bird from his head. Another pigeon immediately settled down on it.
Bo screwed his eyes together and tilted his head the other way. "Does that hurt?"
"What?"
"Those claws, of course. And when they peck at your glasses." The little boy's Italian sounded nearly as good as Victor's, maybe even better.
Victor shrugged, and the pigeons fluttered into the air only to settle down again immediately. "Ah," he replied. "It's not so bad. And I like it when they fly around me." What a big fat lie! But then Victor had always been good at lying, even when he was little. "You know," Victor said while Bo watched him intently, "when the birds flutter around me I always imagine that I might take off at any moment and soar right up to those golden horses there."
Bo turned around and looked at the stamping hooves above the entrance to the Basilica. "Yes, they're awesome! I want to sit on one of them. Hornet says they had to cut off their heads when they brought them here. I mean, when they stole them. And then they stuck them back on the wrong way around."
"Really?" Victor had to sneeze because one of the feathers had flown up his nose. "They look all right to me. But those are copies anyway. The real ones have been in a museum for a while now, so that the salty air doesn't eat them up. Do you like pigeons?"
"Not really," Bo answered. "They flap around too much. And my brother says you can get worms from touching them." He giggled. "Now one of them has pooed on your shoulder."
"Vermin!" Victor threw his arms in the air so that all the pigeons scattered. "Your brother said that? He seems to take care of you really well."
"Yes, sometimes he looks after me a bit too much." Bo looked up at the circling pigeons. Then he glanced back toward the lion fountain where the girl was still reading her book and the hedgehog was stirring the filthy water with his hands. Satisfied that he hadn't been missed, he looked back at Victor. "Can I have some of those seeds?"
"Sure." Victor put his hand in his pocket and poured some of the seeds into the little hand.
Carefully, Bo stretched out his arm -- and when a pigeon settled on it immediately, he started to laugh and looked so happy that for a moment Victor forgot why he was standing there with birdseed in his hands. And then a whiff of hairspray, from a young, sour-faced woman pushing by, reminded him of the job to be done.
"What's your name?" Victor asked, picking a gray feather from his jacket. Maybe I'm wrong about them, he thought -- children's faces all look alike anyway, like peas in a pod. Perhaps the ink-black hair is his real color and perhaps the little boy genuinely came here with some friends and will go back home tonight, to his mother. His Italian was really very good.
"Me? Bo. What's yours?" Bo giggled again as the pigeon hobbled up his arm.
"Victor," Victor answered. Immediately he could have slapped himself. Why, by all the devils and demons, did he tell the little one his real name? Had the pigeons pecked his last bit of sense away?
"Aren't you a bit young to be walking around alone in these crowds?" he asked nonchalantly while pouring some more seeds on to the boy's hand. "Aren't your parents afraid that you'll get lost among all these people?"
"But my brother's here," Bo replied. He watched in delight as a second pigeon landed on his arm. "And my friends. Do you come from America? You talk funny. You're not a Venetian, are you?"
Victor felt his nose. It felt sore. "No," he answered. He adjusted his cap. "I'm from all over the place. Where do you come from?" Victor looked across toward the fountain. The girl had raised her head and was looking around.
"From a long way away. But I live here now," Bo answered. "It's much nicer here," he added. He was smiling at the pigeons on his arm. "There are lions everywhere with wings, and angels and dragons. They all look after Venice, Prosper says, and after us. But there's not so much danger -- because there are no cars here. And that's why you can hear better -- because of the water and the pigeons. And you don't have to be scared of being run over."
"Yes, that's right." Victor held back a smile. "Still, you just have to be a little careful not to fall into a canal." He turned around. "Are those your friends over there, at the fountain?"
Bo nodded.
"I think the girl is looking for you," Victor said. "Why don't you give her a wave, so she doesn't worry?"
"That's Hornet." Bo waved at her with his pigeon-free hand.
Reassured, Hornet sat down on the wall again. However, she now kept her book shut and didn't let Bo out of her sight.
Victor decided to do the pigeon-roost trick once more. That seemed the most innocent thing to do. "I live in a hotel right by the Grand Canal," he said while the pigeons settled down on him again. "And you?"
"In a movie theater." Bo drew back with fright as one of the birds tried to hold on to his hair.
"In a movie theater?" Victor looked at him incredulously. "That's great. You can watch movies all day."
"No, we can't. Mosca says the projector is gone. And most of the seats are gone too. And the screen is all eaten up by moths and how it's completely useless."
"Mosca? Is that one of your friends? Do you live with your friends?"
Bo nodded proudly. "Yes, we all live together."
Victor looked at him closely. Was it really possible? Or was this little angel face telling him more lies? A bunch of children living alone? They certainly didn't look hungry, or as if they were sleeping under bridges. Admittedly, the knees on Bo's pants had poorly stitched patches on them, and he wasn't exactly wearing the cleanest of sweaters, but that wasn't unusual. And it was obvious that someone combed the little boy's hair from time to time and washed behind his ears. But perhaps that was his brother?
Well, perhaps he can't tell me anymore, Victor thought. He let his arms drop again. Disappointed, the pigeons fluttered away. Victor rubbed his aching shoulders. "What do you say," he asked as casually as possible, "should we have an ice cream over there in the cafe?"
Instantly, Bo became suspicious.
"I never go anywhere with strangers," he answered haughtily and took a step back. "Not without my big brother."