Stone's Fall (53 page)

CHAPTER
4

Why do I write this? I have spent many an hour, many an evening, at these notes now. It has no real purpose, and I am not used to doing anything without a purpose. Only Elizabeth can manage to make me waste time, although with her nothing is a waste. It is worth any sort of nonsense or frivolity to make her happy, see her smile, to have her turn and say—thank you for putting up with that. For her I even learned to dance, although never well; but I am content to behave like an elephant to see her graceful, to feel her body move as I hold her in my arms. I am not even aware of others. I can honestly say that not once have I thought of how others might admire her and envy me, although surely they do.

But my happiness with her has been different from the sort I found in Venice. We have never experienced together the sort of irresponsible carelessness that I tasted that one time. Inevitably, I am sure; when I met her I was too old to make a fool of myself in the way that only the young can manage, and her life had been too hard, too much of a struggle, ever to be carefree. No; we have made something very different; a world that is safe and warm. We have done grand things, exciting things, pleasurable things together, but never foolish ones. Such things are not truly in my nature, and she knows too well the dangers of them.

Although perhaps a side of her misses the excitement, the need to live on her wits. She gave something up when she married me, in a way that I did not. I still have the pleasure of taking risks; she put aside a part of her character and it may have been a greater loss than either I, or she, realised. Perhaps that is why she is now disobeying me. I refused absolutely her suggestion that she help me track down where this money was going to, identify the people being paid through these strange disbursements in Newcastle. She pointed out that I could hardly use anyone from inside the company itself. I said no. Absurd idea; and so it was, for the wife of a man like myself. But not for the woman she had been, whom I thought was long since dead. She went ahead anyway, took herself off to Germany and returned to live off her wits, disguising herself as someone else, returning to a way of life I thought was gone forever.

I was so angry, so furious when she told me, that I completely lost control of myself. And, as often happened when her iron will collided with my equally strong determination, we fought. Why should she not help me? She was my wife. Did I really know anyone who could do it better? Could I think of any better way?

All of which was irrelevant. What troubled me most was the light in her eyes as she confronted me; the light of excitement, of adventure. That old side of her, the one I had always feared, the one which could not possibly be satisfied with the company of an old man. She has never given me the slightest cause to distrust her. She has had the occasional lover, I have no doubt. But she has never hurt me. They were nothing more than passing amusements, moments of distraction. This was different; it appealed to her sense of danger and her need for real excitement. She said it was for me, but it was for herself as much.

Giving way was one of the most difficult things I have ever done, and one of the best. I quelled my jealousy, subdued my fears, and let her do as she wished. I let her help me, although our life together has been built on my helping her. But it was hard; I knew, could distantly feel, the pleasure she had in acting thus because I also had once been free to do anything I wanted, without having to look forward more than a day or backwards more than an hour. And that is why I write about Venice, because by seeing how much I remember those days, I can judge better how powerfully her own past draws her now.

I was sombre and ill-humoured when I finally descended for breakfast after my bizarre night with my apparition, only to discover a great reluctance on the part of the hotel to supply me with anything to eat at all. Eventually they condescended to provide some watery coffee and stale bread, the sight of which reminded me that I had eaten nothing of substance for nearly a day and a half. That, in itself, went a long way towards explaining my bad mood and headache and also the delusional nonsense of a few hours previously. I needed a purpose and had none, so decided I might as well take care of business, registering myself with the British Consul and picking up any mail that he might be holding for me.

That at least was easy enough. Francis Longman lived in a small apartment with an office attached a few streets away from San Marco, and welcomed me in with enthusiasm. He was a short, fat man, with a squeaky voice which gave him an air of perpetual excitement. His chins wobbled dramatically every time he became agitated and, as I learned over the coming weeks, he was agitated quite frequently and on the least pretext. His abode did not embody the gravity I expected of one of Her Majesty’s diplomatic representatives, being dark and disordered and covered in books and papers. His situation seemed somewhat sad and, while I was gratified to be received with such warmth, I did find it somewhat peculiar.

“My dear sir!” he exclaimed. “Come in, come in!”

I thought initially that he must be mistaking me for someone else, but no: Longman was merely bored to tears, and had little enough to do. As he told me at some length, once I had signed the book to confirm my presence and cast myself officially under both his and the Government of Her Britannic Majesty’s care while in the city.

“Nothing to do here, you see,” he explained once I had been settled down—quite against my will—into an elaborately carved chair in his office. “It’s virtually the life of a recluse.”

I enquired about his duties. “None, to speak of,” he said. “And a salary commensurate with the responsibility. I keep a fatherly eye on British subjects here and once a quarter compile a report on economic activity for the Board of Trade. But there are few enough visitors and little enough trade.”

“A useful task,” I said drily.

“Indeed. Venice is not as interesting as it was.”

“I’ve noticed. How many people are there here? British people, that is?”

“Never more than a hundred. At the moment”—he paused to glance at his register—“I have sixty-three on the books. Most of those are merely passing through; only about twenty have been here more than a couple of months. And that’s including women and children.”

“I met a Mr. William Cort yesterday,” I ventured. “And a Mr. Macintyre, whom I found quite interesting.”

Longman chuckled. “Ah, yes. Macintyre is one of our more difficult residents. Northern bluffness, you know. He can be quite overbearing on occasion. Cort, on the other hand, is a very gentle fellow. You must meet his wife; she is in the kitchen talking with Mrs. Longman at the moment. I will introduce you before you leave.”

I didn’t really want to meet her, but nodded politely. “And Cort?”

“Mr. Cort, yes. He’s been here about four months now. From the way he talks, he’ll be around for another decade at least. He comes from a good family in Suffolk, I believe, although both his parents died when he was young, and he was brought up by his uncle. Spellman, the architect, you know?”

I shook my head. I did not know.

“He is being trained to take over his uncle’s practise, as there are no direct heirs. But I fear it is not a good idea.”

I prompted, as required.

“No business sense at all. It may be his designs are all very well, but the workmen here run rings round him. I found him crying—can you believe it?—
crying,
a week or so back. They bully him terribly, and he does not possess the strength of character to impose himself. Not entirely his fault, of course. He is much too young to take on such a task. But it’s ruining him, poor boy. His wife even asked Marangoni about him, she was so worried.”

“Marangoni? Is he the physician of choice among exiles?”

“Not precisely, but he is willing to lend such expertise as he has and he speaks good English. Delightful man. Delightful. You must meet him. About the only Italian whose society is tolerable. He is an alienist, sent by the Government to reorganise the asylum. He is from Milan and so is in exile, like all of us. Anyway, Mrs. Cort asked him about her husband’s state of mind.”

“And?”

Longman sighed. “Alas, no one could understand the answer. These doctors do talk in a peculiar fashion. Nonetheless, it accomplished one purpose. Marangoni is alerted, and Cort is being watched, to make sure no harm comes to him.”

“I’m surprised there are so few people in Venice. English people, I mean.”

Longman shrugged. “Not so surprising, really. It is ferociously expensive, as you will soon enough discover. And terribly unhealthy. The miasmas arising from the canals are poisonous, and sap the vitality. Few people wish to stay for long. The sensible go to Turin.”

“And you have been here…?”

“Far too long.” He smiled sadly. “I don’t suppose I shall ever leave now.”

There was a note in his voice of disappointment, of hopes frustrated, of someone who had expected more from life.

“Now, tell me about yourself, sir.” Here he hesitated. “You
are
English, I take it?”

“You doubt it?”

“No, no. Not at all. But every now and then some fraud and charlatan does try to hurl himself on our good offices, you know.”

I do not, I suppose, look like an Englishman. I inherited far more of my mother’s looks than my father’s and that side of my ancestry is very much more obvious. It is another of the things that have always set me aside from my countrymen; the difference is always noticed, even if unconsciously. Others have always been slightly suspicious of me.

I had already sized up Mr. Longman as an incorrigible gossip, and had the distinct feeling that everything I told him would not only be noted, but also relayed to any interested party in due course. Such people can oil the wheels of society, but too great an interest in the doings of others, I find, is often accompanied by a degree of malice which is dangerous. So I replied in as brief a fashion as was commensurate with good manners.

“Then you are rich! Must be!” he cried.

“Far from it.”

“That depends on your point of reference. It may be that three hundred yards from Threadneedle Street you are a pauper among your fellows. But here you will be rich. Few people here have any money. Especially among the Venetians; it is why society is so drab. But one can live a rich life with little money, do you not agree?”

“Of course,” I replied.

“You should be careful, though. It is dangerous to have a reputation for wealth. You will be amazed by how many people wish to borrow money from you, or forget their wallets when you dine with them.”

“Then it would be better if they do not develop a false impression,” I replied, with a slight tone of warning in my voice. I could not tell if he took the hint.

I prepared to leave, and Longman bustled around me to show me to the door. “Mrs. Cort!” he called. “You must meet another resident before he goes. He has already met your husband and has only been here a few hours.”

I turned to present myself to the woman, and got the shock of my life when the door to the little salon opened. Louise Cort was beautiful. In her early thirties, a few years older than I was, with beautiful skin and eyes, and a delightful, rounded figure. About as different from her husband as could be imagined. She looked directly at me, and I felt a soft stirring as my eyes met hers. She never looked at Longman, barely acknowledged his existence as she shook my hand.

I bowed to her, and she nodded. I expressed my pleasure in meeting her, and she did not reply. I said I hoped to meet her again.

“And my husband,” she said with the faintest tone of mockery in her voice.

“Naturally,” I said.

CHAPTER
5

I had a dream that night, which I remembered. This was so strange that it unsettled me for days. Not that I had a dream, but that I should remember it, that it should come back to me. Indeed, it has come back to me ever since. Sometimes, for no reason that I can think of, this insubstantial fragment of memory will well up in my mind. Not very often, only perhaps once every couple of years, although more often of late. It is so very perplexing; great events that I have witnessed, taken part in—momentous events, I should say—I can scarcely recall at all. But a fevered imagining of no reality and less importance still stays with me, the images as fresh as if they were brand-new.

I was standing by an open window and could feel the wind blowing over my skin. It was dark outside, and I felt the terror of indecision. I did not know what to do. About what, I do not know; that was part of the dream. The indecision was independent of all cause. Then I heard a footfall behind me, and a soft voice. “I told you,” it said. Then I felt the pressure of a hand on my back, pushing.

And that was the dream. Nothing more. What was it about? I do not know. Why was it so vivid it stuck in my mind? There is no answer to that, either. And nothing to be done about it; dreams have no reason or explanation or meaning. The strange thing is that from then on I began to have a vague fear of heights—nothing too extreme, I did not become one of those poor souls who feel faint if they are more than a few feet off the ground, or who clutch at the railings halfway up the Eiffel Tower and become dizzy. No; I merely developed a tendency to feel uncomfortable, wary, whenever I was, say, on a balcony, or by an open window. It was a very annoying weakness which I tried not to indulge; the more so because it was so obviously foolish. But I could never shake it off and ended up by simply ensuring I was never in a position to make it appear.

The incident was all of a piece with how my life developed over the next few weeks; I became increasingly introspective. My life slowed down markedly; the urge to move on, which had afflicted me wherever I had been so far, quite left me. I still do not know why; I think it was the hypnotic effect of the sun on the water, such a constant feature of life in Venice, that slowly befuddled my mind and sapped my will. It is hard to think of normal life when it is so easy to watch the twinkling reflections of sunlight instead. Remarkably easy to spend a few seconds, then minutes, then even longer, studying without thought or conscious awareness the effect of light and shade on a wall of peeling stucco, or listen to the mixtures of sounds—people, waves, birds—that make Venice the strangest city in the world. A week went past, then two, then more, and I would only occasionally stir myself to do anything.

In retrospect, it is all very clear; I was uncertain of myself. I wished to do something grand in my life and had prepared myself well for it. But the days of apprenticeship under Cardano were at an end. He had no more to teach me, and I was now faced with a choice. I could, very easily, make more than enough money to keep me and mine in perfect comfort. It is, as I have said, not hard. But what was the point of that? Such a way of life did no more than fill out the space between cradle and grave. Agreeable and with its own little satisfactions, no doubt, but ultimately purposeless. I did not want power or wealth for themselves, and I did not in the slightest desire fame. But I wanted, on my death, to be able to expire feeling that my existence had made the world a different place. Preferably a better one, but even that, at the time, was not uppermost in my mind; I have never had any great desire to abolish poverty or save fallen women. I am, and always have been, deeply suspicious of those who do wish to do these things. They normally cause more harm than good and, in my experience, their desire for power, to control others, is very much greater than that of any businessman.

When I began to weary of my own company, I decided to take up Longman’s invitation, made as I was leaving, to join him at dinner. I did not quite grasp what sort of an occasion this would be, but in effect Longman had been offering to induct me into his particular group of English exiles, for the men all ate together almost every night. This is common in Venice, where there is really only one meal a day, eaten in the evening. Breakfast consists of little more than bread and coffee, lunch of a bowl of broth bought from a cookshop, and so, come dinnertime, the entire population is both exceptionally hungry and, often, quite ill-tempered. Usually people eat in the same place every evening, and then go on to the same café, also every evening. There is a unchanging rhythm to Venetian life which all foreigners eventually adopt, if they stay long enough. There are advantages to being a regular customer: you tend to get better food, always get served more swiftly and, most importantly, the owner will set aside a table for you so you are not disappointed and have to go away hungry.

Longman and his group ate at Paolino’s; not as grand as the establishments in the Piazza San Marco, which already earned their living mainly from visitors, as they had previously from the Austrian soldiers occupying the city. With its simple wooden chairs, cheap cutlery and roughly painted walls, Paolino’s was for the poorer bracket of the respectable ranks, and Longman’s friends were all of this type. I could dine in style, or I could dine in company; that was the choice that the city presented to me. I liked—have always liked—to eat well, but as there was no refined cooking in the city, or none that I had yet heard of, then I was prepared to compromise. Besides, there is a comradely sense among the genteelly impoverished which is often lacking among the wealthy; it was not a great sacrifice.

When I greeted the Consul, there were only two others sitting at a table prepared for six or more; periodically others drifted in as the evening wore on. There was, in fact, a group of ten or more who came there, but not every night; each evening there was a different combination, some of whom liked each other, others who plainly did not. Cort was one of those present that night, and he greeted me warmly; a quiet, softly spoken American was the other. This man spoke with the gentle, drawling tones of the South of his country, a strange accent and quite foreign until you got used to it. It is a way of speaking well-suited to a dry and lazy-sounding humour, which Mr. Arnsley Drennan possessed in fine degree. He was rugged in appearance, and a few years older than I was, and spoke little until he was ready. When he did, he could be an entertaining conversationalist, delivering pithy observations in a voice which sounded as though he was half asleep, feigning a lack of interest in his own words that added greatly to the delivery. He was decidedly difficult to figure out; even Mr. Longman, far more adept than I was, had failed to breach his walls of discretion and discover much about him. This, of course, added an air of mystery to his person which made him all the more cultivated by others.

“And is your wife to join us later?” I asked Longman.

“Oh, good heavens, no,” he replied. “She is at home. If you look around, you will see there are no women here. You will find few in any dining place, except for those in San Marco’s. Mrs. Cort also eats at home.”

“They must find that a little tedious,” I remarked.

Longman nodded. “Perhaps. But what is to be done?”

Now I might have remarked that he could have eaten at home himself, or that perhaps the company of his wife might be preferable to that of friends, but I did not, and at the time it never occurred to me. A man must eat, and a man must have friends, or what of humanity is left in us? Longman’s dilemma I found as insoluble as he did, but nevertheless my thoughts strayed briefly to consider how much his wife must pine for company. Then they paused briefly on the thought of Cort’s wife in a similar purdah. They did not, however, then move on to considering how my own wife was faring without me.

“Where do you live, Mr. Drennan? Do you have a lonely wife tending the hearth for you?”

It was a lighthearted question, but did not receive an equally facetious reply. “I am a widower,” he said softly. “My wife died some years back.”

“I am sorry for you,” I said, genuinely contrite at my faux pas.

“And I live on the Giudecca, some half hour’s walk from here.”

“Mr. Drennan has found the only inexpensive lodging in Venice,” Longman remarked.

“It is one room only, with no water and no maidservant,” he said with a smile. “I live like most Venetians.”

“You are a long way from home, then,” I observed.

He regarded me intently. “That I am, sir.”

He did not seem to find this line of conversation at all interesting, so he switched his gaze to the window and left matters to Longman, who was the impresario of dinner-table conversation.

“Do you intend to continue living in a hotel throughout your stay, Mr. Stone?”

“Unless something better offers itself, yes. I would happily move somewhere more commodious and less annoying, but on the other hand I do not intend to spend my time here house-hunting.”

Longman clapped his hands in joy at being so useful. “Then there is a perfect solution!” he cried. “You must take rooms with the Marchesa d’Arpagno!”

“Must I?”

“Yes, yes. A delightful woman, desperately in need of cash, with a vast, tumbling-down palazzo begging for occupants. She would never be so coarse as to solicit lodgers, but I can tell she would not be displeased with an enquiry. It would be central and charming. I will happily send a letter around for you, if you like the idea.”

Why not? I thought. I had no plans to stay long, and no plans to leave either. I should have realised this haziness of intention was indicative of a strange state of mind, but no such thought occurred to me. I did not find the cost of the hotel onerous, but the discrepancy between how much you paid and what you got for it I found offensive. So I said, “It would be interesting to look. Who is this lady?”

I noticed that the other two did not look so delighted at the mention of her name, but had no chance to pursue the subject as Macintyre the engineer was stumping over towards the table.

He was clearly in something of a social bind as he wished to dine with the company, but manifestly found it quite unreasonable to admit the fact. He resolved the matter by looking exceptionally ill-humoured and growling his greetings in a manner which escaped being impolite only by a whisker. The effect of his sitting down was to stifle all conversation for several minutes. Longman looked faintly displeased, Cort somewhat frightened. Only Drennan nodded in greeting and appeared unperturbed by his appearance.

“Food arrived yet?” Macintyre said after we had sat in uncomfortable silence for a while. He snapped his fingers at the waiter to call for wine and downed two glasses, one after the other, in swift succession. “What is it this evening?”

“Fish,” Cort said.

Macintyre laughed. “Of course it’s fish. It’s fish every bloody night. What sort of fish?”

Cort shrugged. “Does it matter?”

“I suppose not. It all tastes the same to me anyway.” He scowled ferociously at Cort as he pulled a roll of paper from under his coat.

“There you are. I had my draughtsman do it up properly. Did the costings myself. As I said, Sottini has the proper lengths in stock; good Sheffield bars, won’t let you down. I’ve set him up to give you a fair price. Get in touch with him quickly, though, otherwise he’ll forget. Don’t give him more than twenty-seven shillings a length. But I think you will have a problem with the foundations. I looked again; the central pillar is buried deep down and must be taken out, if this is to work. It will be expensive.”

“How expensive?”

“Very. You will have to support the entire building, then remove it, to give space to put in the new structure. Best thing to do, frankly, would be to blow it out.”

“What? Are you mad?”

“No, no. It’s a very simple. Not dangerous at all, if you know what you’re doing. A very small charge placed low down, just to knock a few of the bigger stones out of the place. Then the entire pillar will come down, leaving the rest of the building standing—if you have buttressed it properly.”

“I’ll think about it,” Cort said uncertainly.

“It’s the only way of doing it. I’ve got the explosives in my workshop. When you see that I’m right, let me know.” Then Macintyre turned to me, a refilled glass in his hand. “And you. What are you doing here?”

Certainly, no one could accuse Macintyre of an excessive courtesy. His flat, northern accent—I placed him as a native of Lancashire, despite the Scottish name—added to the general impression of rudeness, something which, as Longman noted, northerners deliberately accentuate.

“Merely a traveller, from London, where I have lived much of my life,” I replied.

“And your profession? If you have one.”

There was a hint of hostility in his tone. I looked like a gentleman, I suppose, and it appeared Mr. Macintyre did not like gentlemen.

“I suppose you might call me a man of business. If you wish to know whether I live off the money of my family, and idle my days away on the labour of others then the answer is that I do not. Although, I freely admit, I would do so happily if the opportunity came my way.”

“You don’t look English.”

“My mother is of Spanish origin,” I said evenly. “My father, on the other hand, is a vicar of impeccable Englishness.”

“So you’re a mongrel.”

“I suppose you could say that.”

“Hmm.”

“Now, now, Macintyre,” said Longman jovially. “None of your bluntness, if you please. Not until Mr. Stone is used to you. I was just recommending the Marchesa to him as a potential landlady. What do you think?”

Macintyre’s reaction was peculiar. It was a remark of no importance, so I thought, designed merely to divert the conversation into safer waters. But it accomplished the exact opposite. Macintyre snorted. “Bloody madwoman,” he said. “And you’d be mad to go anywhere near her.”

“What was that about?” I asked Drennan later, once Macintyre had wolfed down his food, tossed his napkin on the table and left again. All in all, he was there for less than fifteen minutes; he was not a man to waste time on inessentials.