On the walls, papered in a blood-red fabric, there were a few old architectural plans of Palladian villas, their frames hanging at odd, tangential angles, and in every corner of the room stood towers of books, so unstable they looked like they might collapse at any moment. By the door there was a chest, similar to the ones in the portego, on which stood a bronze statue of a kneeling satyr holding a shell and, near it, a highly decorated, beautifully fluted marble urn.
“I don’t know where you’ll begin,” he said, gesturing with despair. “But I suppose you’ll have to start somewhere.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll soon have it sorted for you.”
“But as I said, ignore the correspondence until I’ve decided the best way to approach it,” said Crace, drifting out of the room. “It’s gotten so out of hand, I’m not sure what to do about it. I’m going to do some reading on the bed. Just shout if you need me.”
Leaving the letters to one side, I got to work straightaway, consigning the mug, apple core and tissues straight to the bin. I dusted each of the objects in the cabinet, taking care over each one, cleaned the Persian rug, swept the marble floor, tidied up the books and straightened the frames hanging on the walls. As I worked, I wondered how and when Crace had managed to do all his collecting; I presumed it must have been before he had confined himself; that or he had authorized a dealer to search for things on his behalf.
As I started to clean the chest by the door I noticed that its wood was fissured, dry and scarred. I fetched a tub of wax polish from the kitchen and carefully started to apply the sticky dark substance to the chest, massaging the mixture, which was the color of burnt sienna, deep into the wood. The polish stained the ends of my fingers a gangrenous black-brown, and for a moment it was as though my hands were those of a dead man.
I picked up the figure of the satyr, with its horns, pointed ears, beard, hairy legs and cloven hoofs, and examined it closely. The shell, which the creature held in its right hand, would, I guessed, most likely have functioned as an ink well, and although it was grotesque, there was something quite intriguing about it. I placed it back on the chest and reached for the urn, which I thought was most probably funereal, when I heard Crace’s voice.
“Don’t touch that. Leave it.”
“Sorry…so sorry,” I said, moving away, but not quite sure what I was supposed to have done.
Crace shuffled toward me, his head shaking with fury.
“Oh, I suppose it was my fault. I should have told you,” he said, trying to compose himself.
“Excuse me?”
“Oh, very well. I’d better tell you. There’s a gun—there—loaded—in that urn.”
“What?”
“It’s just for my own protection. Tiny little thing, so small you’d think it wouldn’t kill a fly. Never used it, of course.”
“I see.”
“So, I’m telling you just so you know it’s there.”
“Don’t you think it might be better if you kept it somewhere else, somewhere a little more secure?”
“What? Like a safe, you mean? I’m not going to wait around messing with a fucking combination lock while a team of burglars work their way through the palazzo and steal everything I’ve got.”
Crace sensed my anxiety and smiled.
“Look, don’t worry. It’s nothing.”
He lifted the lid of the run and reached into the vessel. His fingers had molded themselves around the gun, its surface decorated with mother-of-pearl.
“See? It’s nothing,” he said. “But if you want me to move it, I will.”
“It’s probably fine where it is.”
“Why don’t you go and make of us both a nice drink?” he said, sighing. “Look, it’s nearly six o’clock, and I think we both deserve a little tonic, don’t you?”
“What would you like?” I asked.
“Let’s see…what about a Campari soda or even…a Negroni. Do you know how to make a Negroni?”
I told him I did.
“Well, that’s what it will be then,” he said, putting the gun back into the urn and ushering me out of the room. “Cocktail hour approaches.”
I poured equal measures of Campari, gin and sweet vermouth into the cocktail shaker, mixed them together, strained the alcohol into glasses filled with cracked ice and a slice of orange and passed one of the tumblers to him. As I drank down a draft of the bitter-tasting pink liquid, I noticed Crace staring at me with a curious expression on his face.
“Salute!” he said, looking away.
“Salute!” I repeated.
Despite my employer’s eccentricities, we settled into our respective roles quite easily. Although Crace loathed the idea of venturing over his little bridge that linked his house to the alleys, streets and squares, I could tell that he enjoyed my company. Perhaps I was a little flattered that he took such a keen interest in me and felt relaxed in my presence. He was, or at least had been, a famous writer, and I was on the very lowest rung of the literary ladder looking up at him. He was genuinely grateful that I was helping him and he cheered up a good deal after he realized it was much more pleasant to live in clean rather than dirty surroundings.
After I had done everything I could to make the place look superficially respectable and had taken an inventory of his art collection, I asked him if there was anything else that needed to be done. I was finding it difficult to get down to writing the novel and was looking for an excuse not to work. What about the letters in his study? Did he want me to tackle those? He decided that would be, after all, a good idea and so one morning, after breakfast, about a month after I had first started, we walked into his study to see what could be done.
Although the desk had been cleaned and the room looked much tidier, the letters were still sprawled across the surface in a chaotic heap, piled high in the middle like a paper pyramid.
“When did you last open a letter?” I asked.
“Apart from yours, which you took the trouble to deliver by hand, it was some time ago, I’m afraid,” said Crace. “But I do hope you’ll be able to sort them out for me. I got so bored of reading the same letter over and over again, so I stopped opening them.”
His face flushed as he grew angrier and angrier.
“Always probing, always wanting answers to why I wrote the first book and why I stopped writing. Graduate students, mostly, dreadful creatures. Looking for significances where there aren’t any—at all. However, aspiring, overly curious biographers, it has to be said, are much, much worse. Vultures circling around me, waiting for me to die, eager to get the first bite at the wizened flesh on my corpse. Asking to come and look at my papers, my journals, my diaries. Wondering whether I had, during all this time, actually carried on writing but refused to have my work published. I mean, what an idea! Inquiring whether they can come and talk for an hour or so, completely off the record, of course. Bloodsuckers and vampires and ghouls, jumped-up vulgarians no better than those who stand by and gawp at the scene of an accident. They make me sick, the lot of them.”
Crace looked at the pile of mail with disgust and then realized the violence of his outburst.
“Sorry. I—”
“Would you rather I weed out such inquiries?”
“Oh, would you? That would be marvellous,” he said. “In fact, you could probably throw most of them away.”
He paused.
“Although I’m sure it’s mostly rubbish, you’ll probably find the occasional check from my publisher, which I suppose will come in useful. To be honest, if I didn’t need the money, I’d rather burn the checks. Damned royalties keep rolling in, a constant reminder.”
Crace’s eyes misted over. Silence.
“Of what?” I asked quietly.
He pursed his lips, was about to speak and then decided against it.
“Oh, nothing, nothing,” he said, trying to smile. “A reminder of my previous foolishness, that’s all.”
“I’ll start on these right away,” I said, gesturing toward the letters
. “Don’t worry, I’ll soon have it sorted out.”
Before disappearing to read, Crace had given me a paper knife and, slowly, I started on the mass of correspondence. I began at the top of the pile, working my way downward, looking for both checks and requests of a biographical nature. I was also curious to find out more about Crace.
I sliced into the letters, scanning them quickly to see whether they contained anything of importance. Although they were mostly the usual, predictable dross that Crace had suggested, one of the letters, in an expensive buttermilk-colored vellum envelope, stood out. The handwritten note was written on headed notepaper, and the name—Lavinia Maddon—and the address and telephone number were embossed in black ink at the top.
47a Eaton Square
London
SWI
Dear Gordon Crace,
I am so sorry to have to write to you once again, but perhaps you didn’t receive my letter of 12 February. In case that letter went astray, let me outline what I had written.
First of all, I must apologize for having to write to you without an introduction. I realize that you may dislike such an effrontery—I can hardly blame you—but it is important that I get in touch with you.
I am sure that you have been approached many times before, but I am extremely keen to write your biography. Well, not so much a straightforward biography, but a book looking at the phenomenon of literary success and literary silence, using you as a central figure, an organizing metaphor, if you like. Obviously as this would make use of biographical material—for example, letters and interviews and such like—I would like to come to an understanding with you about this.
I realize, from what I have heard, that you may not be keen on such an enterprise. But please let me assure you that the book—commissioned by Pieria Publishing, which, as you know, is one of the top literary houses in Britain—will not be sensational in any way. Of course, I would have to refer to the incident back in 1967, but perhaps in the book you would be able to put forward your side of the story. That is only a suggestion, so please do not take offense if you would rather not. I totally understand how sensitive a subject it is.
For your reference, my previous books have included biographies of Jean Stafford, Constance Fenimore Wool-son, J. M. Barrie and Virginia Woolf, and my work has been published in many respected journals, including the London Review of Books and the New Yorker.
I do beg you to get in touch so that we can talk about this further and put to rest any anxieties you may have. I can easily travel to Venice to meet you at your convenience.
Yours sincerely,
Lavinia Maddon
I read through it once more. A letter from an aspiring biographer, one of the so-called vultures that Crace had described. I felt pleased with myself at having found it and hoped that Crace would be appreciative of my work. But this incident in 1967 intrigued me. What was Lavinia Maddon referring to? She seemed serious and respectable, so I set the letter aside, intending to show it to Crace at the end of the day. I continued to rip open the envelopes, tossing most of the letters into the bin, but I still couldn’t find any checks. They were probably at the bottom of the pile, knowing my luck. I pushed my hand deep into the pile’s papery heart, fished around with my fingers, and pulled out a clutch of letters. One, a request for Crace to appear at a literary festival, was postmarked 12 April 1998—four years ago.
I stood up and stretched, yawning. The small study was hot and airless. I couldn’t breathe. I needed a drink. I’d do a few more and then I’d have a break. I took another one from the pile and was immediately struck by the messy, almost indecipherable scrawl on the envelope. You could hardly make out Crace’s name, let alone the address of his publisher. It was amazing it ever got to them. The short note was written in blue Biro, the ink smudged in places, and spelling mistakes littered the page.
23 Church View
Winterborne
Dorset
DT11 0GF
Dear Mr. Crace,
I have written to you before, but I did not get no anser. Have you forgetten him? You couldn’t have. He was so special to you. Is his memory not worth the money? You know were we live. Please send it. We need it, you don’t.
Mrs. M. Shaw
How odd. Crace would have to see this. Perhaps it was blackmail. There was no date on the letter itself, but it was postmarked Dorset, 17 May—two months ago.
I grabbed the two letters—Lavinia Maddon’s and the one from the mysterious Mrs. M. Shaw—and walked through the palazzo to find Crace.
“Mr. Crace? Mr. Crace?”
My voice echoed down the portego. There was no answer. I entered the drawing room, where I found Crace in his chair, his chin resting on his shirt collar, snoring. I backed out of the room quietly and tiptoed down the hall and into the kitchen. I’d show him the letters later. I’d use the afternoon, or as long as it would take, to try and find the other letters sent by these two very different women and show him the lot. That way the matter could be settled easily and with the minimum of fuss. He could decide whether to proceed with the project suggested by Lavinia Maddon and what should be done about the suspicious-sounding Mrs. Shaw. I would try to do as much groundwork as possible before talking to him about both subjects. My diligence, I was sure, would please him.
I left Crace dozing and enjoyed a lunch of salami, bread and tomatoes, reading Aretino’s Selected Letters as I ate. Afterward, I went back to the study and worked on the correspondence. I sifted through the pile looking for the telltale handwriting on the envelopes—one style elegant and learned, the other childlike and primitive. As I sorted, placing the letters that I had examined to my left, I thought about Crace and the mysteries of his past.
For all his oddness—well, perhaps, precisely because of it—he was a fascinating man. No wonder there was so much interest in him. Despite what Lavinia Maddon said about using Crace’s story as a metaphor for fame and failure or whatever it was, it was clear she was interested in the story of his life, especially this incident in 1967. And what kind of hold did this half-educated woman from Dorset have over him? Crace had told me that he no longer wrote, but I had no idea why he had decided to stop.
Before I went any further, I thought it was probably worthwhile to try and find out a little more so that when I did take the letters to Crace, I would understand what he told me. I stood up and looked around the room, listening for Crace’s approach. It was all part of my job, it was research. He’d thank me for it once he knew the circumstances. To be on the safe side, I left the study, walked through his bedroom, back down the portego toward the drawing room and peeked around the double doors. Crace was still in his chair, asleep, his eyes fluttering like butterflies on a pair of withered leaves.
Back in the study, I started to check the shelves of his bookcase. Many of the books—dusty volumes with red spines, Dante, Petrarch, Spenser, Donne, Byron—looked as if they had been published a couple of centuries ago. I couldn’t see a single title dated later than the 1920s or 1930s and certainly no copies of Crace’s own novel.
I turned back to the desk and started to search the small drawers situated in its upper section. In one there were a couple of tiny gold keys that looked like they might unlock a suitcase or a valise. In another there was an envelope, held together by string twined around a button fastening. I looked at the door. No one there. I slowly uncurled the string, winding it out in an ever-increasing circle until the envelope opened. Inside was a smaller square, buff-colored envelope, the kind young boys used to keep stamps or coins in. It looked as though it had been sealed, although one of its corners curled back, revealing its underlip. I hesitated for no more than a second before delicately easing it apart. At first I thought there was nothing in it, but then I realized that there was something camouflaged, nestling at the bottom. A crescent-moon-shaped locket of hair, flaxen. I pushed my fingers into the envelope and pulled it out. It felt brittle and old, as if it had been snatched from the head of a porcelain-faced, Victorian do
ll.
Over the course of the next few days, whenever I had a spare moment, I searched the palazzo for a copy of The Debating Society. I scanned the shelves, pulling out volumes hidden two or three deep, but still nothing. It was if he had tried to erase every trace of his past success.
I was forbidden to ask about his writing, yet I needed a little background so as to know how best to respond to those two letters, how best to protect him. If I could just find out a few hard facts that would help fill in the blanks about his life, then I would feel more confident about knowing what to do and what to say. I would then be in a better position to help.
The opportunity came one day when I realized we were running out of coffee. Just after starting the job, I had done an enormous shop, buying, on Crace’s instructions, excessive quantities of food for the store cupboard. Crace hated me leaving him for any length of time—the few minutes it took to nip around the corner to buy our fresh brioche each morning was just about acceptable—yet obviously supplies were down once more. I would have to venture out and stock up. I knew it would be unwise if I missed Crace’s breakfast, and so I set aside the few grains of fresh coffee for him and made do with instant for myself. Then I went through the ritual of preparing breakfast.
I filled the espresso maker with water, spooned in the last of the coffee, screwed on the top and placed it on the gas ring. The flames licked the bottom of the espresso maker, spitting as they came in contact with a glob of tomato sauce spilled on the hob from the previous evening’s supper. I turned down the gas, grabbed my keys, and ran down the portego to the staircase and into the courtyard. I crossed the little bridge that led me to the outside world and snaked my way through the tangle of alleyways to the pasticceria around the corner. Crace, I was sure, knew exactly how long the trip should take me, because whenever I returned, clutching my bagful of brioches, he had taken his position at the breakfast table just as the espresso had started to hiss.
The Lying Tongue Page 5
