Daughter of Xanadu - Dori Jones Yang [30]
“Where is this famed storyteller from the Far West?” one man asked.
“He probably lost his story inside that thick beard!” Prince Chimkin answered.
“Maybe it popped out of those bulging eyes!” another said.
Marco was keeping the Khan waiting. I could not imagine why. Clearly, some of these men did not share the Khan’s friendly feelings toward foreigners. Maybe I would learn more about who supported the antiforeign movement by observing these men.
Finally, a commotion in the courtyard interrupted the banquet. A servant rushed in and announced the arrival of our entertainer.
Marco Polo entered. He was dressed in fine green clothes but muddy and dripping wet. He prostrated himself to the floor and shouted, “Long-a live the Kaan of all Kaans!”
His outrageous late appearance shocked us all into silence.
“Arise.” The Khan’s voice sounded solemn.
Good! I thought. Maybe Marco’s storytelling career would end before it began. If the Khan banished him from court, maybe I could drop this assignment, forget my turmoil, and go back to daily training.
Marco stood up, dripping on the silk carpet. His wet beard and hair were plastered against his face, making his head look small. His eyes went straight to the Khan, then rested on me. He brushed a strand of wet hair out of his eyes, a pitiful attempt to make himself presentable. He looked miserable, and I felt sorry for him. The chance to entertain the Khan was a rare honor, and something had gone terribly wrong.
The Khan began to laugh. We all joined in.
“Behold, our visitor from afar!” the Khan boomed out.
After the laughter softened, Marco spoke. “I crossed many deserts to come here. So when I saw your lotus pond, I could not resist.”
We laughed again. Unfamiliar with the layout of the gardens of Xanadu, he had slipped and fallen into a pond. Yet instead of acting embarrassed, he used it to his advantage.
“Are you sure you did not take the sea route?” the Khan asked.
“If I had, I would have flooded all of Xanadu.”
I had never heard such hearty laughter. His thick accent, his odd expression, and his wicked smile made us laugh along with him.
“Perhaps you needed to douse the red fire of your beard,” said the Khan.
“My beard was black before I crossed the desert. The flaming sun turned it red.”
I could not believe it. Marco’s wit saved him from a situation that might have been fatal to his hopes. I wondered how Marco could project this air of relaxed, humorous confidence when so much was at stake. Apparently, it was part of his entertaining skills, and very effective. Still, on Uncle Chimkin’s face, I noticed contempt.
“Bring our honored guest some dry robes,” the Khan said to a servant.
A short while later Marco emerged from a nearby room, dry and dressed in a bright green del. A gold belt cinched his waist, making his shoulders and chest appear broad and strong. Richly dressed like a Mongolian noble, he looked almost normal.
From his seat on the far side of the large round table, he glanced at me. His eyes twinkled with relief and mischief, mixed with admiration. Love from a distance, I remembered. Would his story be about courtly love? I hoped not.
A servant poured him a bowl of airag, and he drank deeply, as if enjoying our favorite drink of fermented mare’s milk. Maybe its buzz would relax him.
Soon the Khan said, “Young Latin, are you ready to entertain us? What do you call that city you come from?”
Marco stood up, looking serious and respectful as he began his work. “Venezia,” he said. “It is the finest and most splendid city of Christendom.”
The men tried to get their tongues around the word and ended up mocking the bizarre sound of it. “Tell us about Way-nay-sha,” the Khan commanded.
Marco placed his hands on the table as if to steady himself and control his anxiety. “Venezia—Way-nay-sha—is a city of water,” he began.
“It is built on small islands. Its roads are made of water. Bridges of marble-stone cross the … the water-roads.” He struggled to find the right words in Mongolian. “We have special boats—long and slender.