A Friend from England (23 page)

My anger was slow to gather but when it came at last it was monumental. It was also quite cold. I coldly reviewed the plans I would have to make, and prepared for my absence as if I might never return. By the end of the following day all my travel arrangements had been made: tickets booked, letters written, bills paid, Robin
alerted. The fact that I had no notion of where Heather was to be found did not seem to hinder me. On the off chance I sent a telegram to the Gritti Palace, remembering that she had once said that she called in there every day. I had no doubt that I would find her, probably in a passive position, in a public place, waiting to be led back. I had visions of myself arresting her outside Quadri’s. And if she did not want to follow me? She was hardly under compulsion, and there was the shadowy figure of Marco in the background to be reckoned with. But I was by now so angry that I saw myself sweeping him aside, taking her by the wrist, throwing her on to the plane, delivering her into the arms of her father, and stalking off, never to speak to any of them again.

My anger was of course mixed with fear. I knew Venice but always avoided it. It was the ultimate nightmare: a city filled with water. It was bad enough in the summer, when it was neutralized by crowds of visitors: one could always join a group when crossing a bridge and thus not lose touch with corporeality. But in late winter, deserted, misty, half sunk, it would unnerve me. My own trepidation would be a factor in the forthcoming exchange. I too might fail through inadvertence.

It was the anger that saved me. I nurtured it as if it were a sacred flame, a talisman that would protect me throughout this journey into the unknown. Without it I would have felt enormously at risk; with it I felt cold, hard, a bully, a brute. With it I could commit murder. And while my victim, in all innocence, sat at a table in some dingy apartment, waiting for her prospective mother-in-law to serve her with a plate of soup, I armed myself with courage, sought out my finest clothes, smoothed the leather of conqueror’s boots against the calves of my legs, slammed the door on my flat, as if the place were of no consequence to me, and walked out
into the street, the dearest place on earth to me at that moment, my face haughty with disapproval.

I did not telephone the Livingstones before I left. My feelings were too mixed to enable me to give them my full attention. Waves of panic and fury threatened my equilibrium: I was not in the mood to offer palliatives. I should have warned them that I was not the best person for this mission, that an aunt, safely backed up by an uncle, a cousin, should have gone in my place, but I remembered them at the hospital, all bereft, devoid of initiative, weakened by tears, and I dismissed the thought. In some curious way – and this was what kept my anger at full strength – I was being used as the most competent member of their entourage to perform this impossible task. I was being seen as tough, and it was true that I gave that impression. No protection was to be afforded me: that was the message. I was in this world to fend for myself, eternally. When I thought of this, Heather’s plight became quite irrelevant. She was merely the pretext for a display of strength that would be forced from me, as if I must live out the fiction that they all entertained. As I got into the first taxi that came along – and it came along very quickly, much too quickly – I vowed silently that if Heather were to make me suffer one moment longer than was necessary I would have a reckoning with her that she would never forget.

I
MET
an amusing man on the plane, with whom I exchanged addresses. We agreed that he should telephone me in a couple of days’ time, when we would meet and have dinner. The flight was uneventful. I bought myself a large bottle of scent from the stewardess and tried to believe that I was going on holiday.

I had booked a room at the Pensione Wildner, hoping that it would overlook the back, but here luck was against me, and I had an uninterrupted view of the Grand Canal. I was shaken on arrival, as I knew I should be, by the ride in the water taxi from the airport. Shooting between the posts that marked the passage for traffic in the uneven rocking expanse, or bucketing in the wake of a larger craft, the tiny launch seemed to expend enormous effort just to skim the surface. As I cowered in the little cabin, wincing every time we struck a wave, I could feel the beat of my heart in my throat, in my stomach, and willed myself to a scrupulous calm. It was raining, of course: through the spattered windows I could make out only a swelling sea of grey. Sky and water seemed to merge in a dull uniformity. Low cloud and watery swell, combined with the jittery motion of the launch, made me fear for my powers of endurance, which, I think, up to that point, had never let me down. Venice, a rim, a crust of buildings, barely visible above the horizon, looked as if it were buried in the sea. I marvelled at the insouciance of Venetians, forever stepping on and off boats, bridging that uneasy gap of water with a negligent foot, ignoring the cats that slipped along like shadows, worshipping in bravura churches poised on promontories or islands. A mineral city, sprouting well-heads
instead of trees and bridges instead of gardens. And devoid of that expansive, almost operatic, and always endearing good humour that characterizes the centre of Italy or even its farther coast. Venetians were doleful, subtle people, not given to loud voices, public eating and drinking, or effusive gestures of greeting or affection. Even the children were quiet. This I remembered from my previous stay, which had been in the early days of a beautiful summer. I had on that occasion been subdued in mood, an effect of the silence and the immobility of the city. Gondolas, gliding in the dark green caverns of canals, had seemed propelled by the agency of a dream. But now the city looked devoid even of that silent life. It rode low in the water, unconvincing. I wondered how it could sustain the weight of stone it had imposed on itself. It is apparently sinking. But it must always have appeared to be sinking, and perhaps the world is willing to believe that it might be, so vainglorious, so utterly irrational and challenging is its disposition. Its ultimate demise will be accepted as a punishment for spiritual pride.

Yet, as always, once out of the wretched little boat, and relatively safe on relatively dry land, I found it curiously humdrum. Stout black-clad figures with oilcloth bags slipped into dark shops pungent with sweating sausage, or lingered by windows occupied by tall glass jars in which floated olives or small blanched cheeses. In the Piazza San Marco, which was always smaller than I thought it would be, there was already a party of schoolchildren, meek faces under gondoliers’ straw hats, eyes turning towards the pigeons, away from the church whose mosaics they had been sent to study. Weak and desultory Viennese melodies were being sawn on inexpert violins as I took my first cup of coffee there. The city was quiet, for few visitors would choose to come so early in the season, when the mists made the air clammy and frequent rainstorms pocked
the surface of the water. Even as I sat I saw the sky darken, and a brief bolt of lightning ushered in a flood of silver rain: some hidden light in the atmosphere illuminated the heavy drops as they struck the ground and bounced up again, translucent as fishes. A bell boomed the hour. With a sigh I picked up my bag and paid my bill. Then I set out to look for Heather.

In my telegram I had told her where I would be staying, and I assumed that she would leave a message there. But some instinct had urged me to drop my bag in my room and to hasten away without asking for my letters. I had this absurd idea, which was nevertheless extremely tenacious, that I would find her in the street somewhere. In my mind I could see her quite clearly, motionless, in her black garments, poised to vanish into some dark alley. But I would be there before her, spirited and relentless in my fine leather boots, and I would take her by the arm and lead her back in triumph to the Pensione Wildner, where I would sit her on the bed and invite her to a final accounting.

I set off, therefore, without aim or direction, striking inland wherever I could. Of course the water eternally intruded, but I marked off for future reference a tiny bar on a corner, with two small metal tables outside. Janus-like, it faced two ways. If I took up my stance at one of the tables, I could command a wide sweep of the little square, which had the advantage of many entrances and exits, rather like a stage set. A broad-hipped church stood modestly off-centre. A child, muffled in scarves, one of which was crossed over its chest and tied behind its back, chased a ball round my feet. ‘Marco, Marco,’ called its mother. This seemed like a sign. I ordered another cup of coffee and increased my vigilance.

Apart from looking for Heather there was nothing that I wanted to do. I had not chosen to come here, after all, nor would I ever voluntarily choose so watery a
place for my delectation. As the grey day wore on I found myself at a loss. Frequent showers of rain kept me dodging from café to café, staring out from behind silver-streaming windows for a glimpse of that black-clad figure. Time seemed to be passing very slowly. I had lunch, then forced myself to go to the Accademia. The gold polyptychs of what seemed to me a primeval time gleamed dully in the high wooden arched rooms; short flights of stairs floated me down to more altarpieces, curious repositories of mournfulness on these secular walls. The flailing limbs of several martyrdoms assailed me. There seemed to be no visitors. I sought the refuge of corridors, unable to tolerate those dark floating spaces. Bellini’s Madonnas turned cheeks shadowed with sorrow in my direction, their heads describing an arc of grief which nevertheless excluded my inheritance. In a deserted room I found the only picture I wanted to see. The woman suckling her child had a heavy face, immanent with meaning, but from which all explanation had been withdrawn. To her right, on the left of the picture, stood the mysterious and elegant knight, intense and remote, his face in shadow. The storm that broke on the scene bound the two together in puzzling complicity. In the background, a banal hill village. In the middle distance, two broken columns.

I took a walk that kept me looking alertly round corners, gazing into the faces that I willed to meet mine. I was getting used to the place now, no longer searched hesitantly with my foot to see if the land were still dry, turned up my coat collar against the rain, thought of telephoning the man I had met on the plane. I tried to withdraw my attention from the task in hand, and even managed to do so for a little while, until it reclaimed me with the fading of the light. As darkness began to fall I hesitantly retraced my steps to the Pensione Wildner, and reluctantly took up residence in the room overlooking the Grand Canal. From my window I could see the
big boats riding at anchor. I could pick out their names, painted in white on the sheer black sides: Maximus, Validus, Strenuus, Ausus, Ludus. With a sigh I turned to the bed and unpacked my bag. The melancholy of the traveller whom nobody has been designated to meet filled the silent space around me. It was with a great effort that I took off my raincoat, the uniform without which I was no longer on guard, and my boots, chosen instruments with which I would quarter Venice until I found my prey, and ran a bath. There was a restaurant down below, and if I did not mind the darkened lapping water that was my horizon I would dine there and retire early, in preparation for another day. The following day, I was sure, would bring me victory. And I thought in terms of victory and defeat, for now I knew that I was engaged in some sort of contest, in which either Heather or I would triumph and with us the vindication of our claims. It seemed to me at that moment that our entire lives were on trial, and it was a matter of some anxiety to me that I should not fail this test, that my hardworking and eminently reasonable existence should be given full marks. I felt as if this whole adventure were a tournament, at which unseen onlookers waited to be persuaded of my ultimate validity. I am not normally given to such romancing, yet the combination of the dark night, the empty room, the too lavish meal that I had ordered and which I was suddenly too tired to eat, made me fearful, like a subject nation, waiting to be overcome by a stronger power. I tried to assume a nonchalance which I did not feel and turned my head deliberately to the canal. A water bus ploughed indifferently along at high speed. It suddenly occurred to me that I might have to travel along hidden ways to find Heather, and I saw myself forced to venture out into the open sea. Yet she would not unnecessarily torment me; I knew that. She was too calm, too fair, too indifferent. And her indifference to my fate would secure her the
victory if I were not extremely on my guard. That was why I must prepare for the following day with due care.

I slept heavily, although I woke once or twice to the spectacle of passing lights dimly reflected on the ceiling of my room. When I awoke finally, some time after eight o’clock, I saw that it had rained heavily in the night but was now fine, with a pearl grey light that seemed to have trapped some vestige of a remote sun. When I had dressed, I went downstairs with a heart which was, in spite of myself, somewhat lighter. I noticed a letter in the pigeon-hole to which a silent porter returned my key. I took it out to breakfast with me, deliberately keeping it by my plate, unopened, until I had drunk my coffee. Finally, when I thought I had imposed enough discipline on myself, I slit the envelope. The single sheet of paper, without salutation, read: ‘I will meet you outside the Gritti at twelve noon today, Wednesday.’ It was signed, simply, ‘Heather’.

Suddenly I felt genial, good-natured. It was as if in replying to my summons Heather had placed herself in my hands. Our forthcoming meeting seemed to me no less crucial than hitherto, but I no longer felt strongly about the outcome. I relinquished the idea of handcuffing her and removing her by force; in fact in a curious way I was willing to concede that she might do as she pleased. Merely by confronting her I would have acted as a reminder. There was no longer any point in telling her to be sensible. But by simply standing before her, meeting her on her own ground, forcing her out into the open, I would provide a pointed comment on her secrecy, her concealment. I would demystify her, tear down the edifice of this great love which could not stand the light of day but must burrow down through the back streets of Venice, clothed in uniform black. Like the child in the story, I would point to the emperor’s non-existent new clothes and ask politely in what ways they differed from the old ones. Then she
would have to attempt, stumblingly, if I knew her, to justify her conduct. I did not demand that she renounce her Marco and follow me home: in my new mood of realism I saw that that would be unlikely. I would simply ask her why she had, apparently with a perfectly good conscience, caused such an upheaval. I would ask if this amorous commotion were really appropriate and whether it would not have been kinder to manage it some other way, whether forsaking all others were to be taken so literally that I should have to endure this pilgrimage simply for the chance of being granted an interview.