I picked up the pieces of paper, ripped off the checks and then threw the accompanying statements, which bore the name of the offending novel, into the bin.
“Look—they’re gone now.”
“What were you trying to do? Kill me?”
“I’m sorry, Gordon. I just didn’t think.”
“That’s right, you didn’t, you never do. Do I really have to go through it all again?”
“But I don’t understand. Why do they upset you so much? Even though you don’t write now, I would have thought that you might at least be proud of your past achievements.”
I knew I was pushing Crace further than he really wanted to go. But it was important. I had to know.
“As I said, it’s a different life to me. What I am now and what I was then are two separate entities. I don’t really want to say any more.”
“Of course. I understand,” I said, nodding my head and trying to look as sympathetic as possible.
Could I risk another question? “But do you not miss it? Writing, I mean.”
The weak muscles on the right hand side of his mouth twitched, and for a second I thought that Crace would explode, that he might dismiss me on the spot for trying to probe into a territory that he had told me, many times, was definitely off-limits. But then his face relaxed and he looked at me with sad eyes.
“I made a decision to stop. It was just no good.”
I wanted to pursue the line of inquiry and try to get him talking while he was in the mood.
“Do you mean the writing? That you thought it was no longer up to your usual standard? Is that why?”
“No, that was not it at all. I mean it was no good for me, no good for those around me.”
“Oh, I see,” I said.
He was going to be a difficult subject to crack, but the secrecy with which he surrounded himself made the prospect so much more alluring. And I was determined. I was confident that this could be the making of me.
I wrote back to Lavinia Maddon that afternoon, telling her that Crace was not interested. I thanked her for her inquiry, but informed her that unfortunately Crace was an intensely private man and couldn’t abide the idea of a biography, no matter how literary. He would write to his publishers to tell them not to cooperate in any way, and if she continued to pursue the matter, he would consult his lawyer to see what further steps could be taken to prevent her writing such a book. Of course, he would deny use of his copyright material, and without that he was sure that any such book could not be written. I signed the letter in my own name and added, in parentheses, “personal assistant to Gordon Crace.” I was also careful not to give away the address of the palazzo. I didn’t want my competition to come sniffing around here.
There was no need to tell Crace any of this. After all, he had told me to weed out such inquiries and deal with them as I saw fit. I was just following orders. He would be pleased by my actions.
But what should I do about the other letter, the one from Mrs. Shaw? I searched through the correspondence to find previous letters from her but came up with nothing. I knew I had to be careful. If the situation ever got out of control, if she really was blackmailing Crace and the police became involved, I had to make sure that whatever I wrote could not be used against me. But I needed to find out more and I felt that this woman knew a great deal. Perhaps she was a way to understand Crace better. I decided on a simple, straightforward approach.
Palazzo Pellico
Calle delle Celle
30122 Venezia
Dear Mrs. Shaw,
I am writing to you on behalf of Gordon Crace, to whom you wrote on a couple of occasions. In order for
Mr. Crace to consider your request, could you please supply me with more details? I am confident that if you state your case as fully as possible, you will stand a better chance of gaining what you wish for.
I can understand if you do not want to put all this down in writing. But if you send your telephone number to the above address in Venice, I could ring you and talk through the options. Please be assured that whatever you say will be treated confidentially.
As Mr. Crace’s personal assistant, I am the best person to deal with in this matter. If I talk to you, perhaps we can come to a suitable arrangement.
Yours sincerely,
Adam Woods
I nipped out to post the letter as Crace was having his afternoon nap, making sure I left a note saying I had gone to buy some wine. From the palazzo it was only a ten-minute walk to the Fondaco dei Tedeschi, the former German merchants’ building that was now the central post office. As I approached, I saw the crowds traipsing up and around the Rialto Bridge and wondered if any of them knew the glorious history of the building that faced them, that the simple, plain facade of the Fondaco dei Tedeschi was once covered in elaborate frescoes by Giorgione and the young Titian, faded portraits now in the Ca’ d’Oro. And that the “scourge of princes” Pietro Aretino, every day for the twenty-two years that he had lived in his house on the Grand Canal, had gazed out of his windows at this building, a view he thought was the loveliest in all the world. I doubted it. All anyone seemed interested in was fake designer tat on sale at the canal-side stalls.
After being cooped up inside Crace’s palazzo, I was tempted to walk around and explore. Apart from that first day in the city, I hadn’t had the chance to really see and do the things I had always dreamed of—St. Mark’s, the Palazzo Ducale, the Scuola di San Giorgio degli Schiavoni, the Tintorettos in the Scuola Grande di San Rocco and in the churches of San Polo and the Madonna dell’Orto, or even just an afternoon sunbathing at the Lido. I resented the fact that I had to rush back to Crace, but comforted myself with the knowledge that I had embarked on a new project, one that had the potential to transform my life. Around the corner from the palazzo, I bought a couple of cakes and a bottle of Fragolino, and when I entered the drawing room, I found Crace still in the same position in his chair, his head gently tipping forward onto his chest as he slept.
I started to get up earlier and earlier, rising as the weak sun of the dawn filtered through the shuttered windows of my room. As I washed and dressed, I felt driven by a new purpose, an overwhelming curiosity—a desire to know. I used those early mornings to write in my notebook and scour the palazzo for signs of Crace’s past. I took it upon myself to look a little deeper, searching through drawers and cabinets. Their dark, secret spaces looked like they should hold clues to Crace’s character, but they contained nothing but the meaningless detritus of life—receipts, bills and circulars. The only real, tangible object I had found that looked like it might be something of significance was the lock of flaxen hair hidden away in Crace’s desk. I was keen to have another look at it, but as it was cosseted away in the study next to the bedroom, I couldn’t risk Crace finding me.
Each morning, as I heard my subject getting ready and my time alone was about to come to an end, I was left feeling increasingly dissatisfied, frustrated and angry, wondering why Crace’s presence wasn’t more substantial and visible.
Just as I was about to lose confidence in the validity of my project, something happened that boosted my spirits. One Wednesday morning, I was sitting on the top step of the stairs that led down into the courtyard, sipping an espresso, when I heard something fall into the letter box. Crace was already up but not dressed. After drinking a macchiato, he had decided to retire to his bedroom, where he said he would do a spot of reading and then proceed to get ready. He said he would return for breakfast in about a quarter of an hour and that he rather fancied scrambled eggs on toast.
“You do know that I like my eggs hardly cooked at all,” he said. “So you mustn’t put them on until you see me sit down at the table. You won’t forget now, will you?”
The first time I had cooked the dish for him, he had screwed up his face in disgust and made me throw it all away. “Like little coolie clumps of shit,” he had barked at me then. He insisted on standing by me as I whipped up the eggs once more and stirred them in the pan.
Just as the yellow mixture began to solidify, he tapped me on the shoulder and told me to turn the heat off. The slimy mass looked like something premature. As he spooned the viscous, formless eggs into his mouth, he made a series of appreciative slurping noises that turned my stomach. I wasn’t going to forget.
The sound of the letter falling into the box reminded me of the time when I had pushed my application through the dragon’s mouth. I remembered the sensation of my fingers brushing against the cold marble.
I ran down the steps, past the Corinthian column with its naked cherub, to the door. Fixed to the back of the wooden door, immediately behind the dragon’s head, was a gray metal box. Using my thumb and forefinger, I tried to flick open its lid, but nothing moved. Thinking it was merely jammed, I pressed harder into the metal rim. A sharp edge cut cleanly into my thumb, leaving an inch-long gash. As I pushed my thumb into my mouth and tasted the metallic tang of blood, I noticed a tiny lock at the side of the box. How could I have been so stupid as not to have seen it?
Crace had told me that all the mail forwarded from his publisher would be hand-delivered by courier and, as a result, I had never needed to open the letter box before. When I had written to Mrs. Shaw asking her to write to me at the palazzo, I had assumed I would be able to intercept the letter before Crace even knew it had arrived. I had never seen him check the letter box. I never thought that it would be locked.
I bent down and studied the tiny lock. I rimmed it with my finger, somehow thinking that feeling its contours and indentations would succeed in teasing it open. I considered smashing it. I looked around the courtyard for a rock and even thought about using the sculpture of the cherub as a weapon, but knew that such an action was impossible as it would raise Crace’s suspicions. The only way was to find the key, a very small key.
I ran back up the courtyard stairs and down the hall. I heard Crace in his bedroom, walking toward me. A couple more seconds and we would be face-to-face.
I slowed down and turned my back on him. I couldn’t let him see the panic in my eyes.
“I’m nearly ready,” I heard him shout. “You can get the eggs on in a minute.”
He wanted breakfast.
“As I was reading, I started to feel hungry.” His voice was coming closer.
I walked into the kitchen and started to crack open the eggs. As I poured a dash of milk into the mixing bowl and began to whisk up the mixture, I noticed that my hands were shaking.
“You can put the pan on now.”
Crace was outside the door.
“And the toast.”
I looked up.
“What’s wrong with you?”
As I dropped a spoonful of butter into the pan and placed it on the gas, I felt his eyes on me. “What do you mean?” I said, pretending to concentrate on the breakfast so as not to meet his gaze.
“You’re not your usual cheery self, that’s all. Has something happened?” I noticed a slight note of panic in his voice. I had to keep him calm.
“Oh, just a little preoccupied. The novel isn’t going so well, that’s all.”
“You know I can’t give you any advice on that front, I’m afraid,” he said as he eased himself into his chair.
I stirred the eggs, buttered the toast, served the dish on a plate and took it over to Crace.
“What happened to your thumb?”
“I cut it on that knife over there,” I said, pointing to the counter. “The one I used to crack open the eggs. I must have been miles away. But I was careful to wipe my hands before making your breakfast.”
“Even if a few drops of blood did fall into the eggs, who cares?” he said, shoveling the amorphous mixture into his mouth and smacking his lips. “They would taste delicious with a little of you in them.”
His voice was flirtatious, creepily so. But perhaps now was a good time to try and ask about the key.
I sat down next to him and moved my chair a little closer. The proximity brought a slight flush to his cheeks and his little eyes glinted mischievously.
“Gordon?”
“Yes?”
“I think someone pushed something into the letter box this morning. I’m sure it’s just rubbish—a flyer or something like that—but I thought I should probably try and clean it out for you. After all, when was the last time you looked inside it?”
Crace put down his knife and fork as he thought.
“It must have been a few weeks. Why, not since you dropped off your last letter. But what’s the point? And as you say, there’ll be nothing of any great import inside.”
“But if I don’t clear it out, surely all the letters will start spilling out of the dragon’s mouth onto the street.”
“So?” Crace said, resuming his breakfast. “Who cares? It will teach the little fuckers a lesson, don’t you think? Show them we don’t even read their crap they shove into the box.”
I had to try again, this time another tack. I took a deep breath. “I’m afraid I’ve got a confession to make.”
Crace stopped eating again and looked at me. I licked my lips and swallowed nervously.
“I know you told me not to give out this address”—as Crace’s face contorted with anger, little globs of half-eaten egg flew out of his mouth—“but I’m afraid I had to write to my girlfriend back in London—Eliza. We split up just before I came out here, and there were lots of things we hadn’t sorted out. She started sleeping with one of our lecturers, and I suppose I still had feelings for her. I said some awful things before I left, did some things I regret. And so I just had to write to her to tell her how I feel. I was desperate for some contact, the kind that only letters can bring, when you can express emotions that are impossible to communicate over the telephone.”
“I see, yes,” said Crace, his features softening. I was, after all, speaking the truth. Well, at least my emotions were genuine.
“I know I went against your rules, but if you could just let me retrieve the letter and read it, that’s all I’m asking.”
“You didn’t tell her my name, did you?”
“Yes, I mean, no—I didn’t tell her. Or anyone else. I just said I was staying at this address, trying to write my novel, looking after it while the owner was traveling abroad.”
Crace’s eyes narrowed, squinting as if trying to see inside me. “Very well, very well,” he said. “But just on this occasion.” He paused as he finished off his breakfast. “But what happened between you? Between you and—”
“Eliza.”
“Yes, between you and Eliza.”
He seemed interested, so I told him a little about her, how we’d met and how much I had liked her. After I had finished talking, he pushed himself out of his chair and told me to wait in the kitchen while he went to fetch the key. I tried to map out his route around the palazzo from the sound of his footsteps so as to visualize the location of the key if I needed it again. From what I could make out, it seemed he walked down the portego and through the corridor that led into his bedroom or study. I remembered the keys I had seen in the desk that housed that lock of hair.
“Here we are,” he said, returning to the kitchen and stretching out his right palm to reveal a key so tiny it looked like it would only unlock a dollhouse. “The key to all mythologies—well, of the miniature variety anyway.”
He giggled at his own feeble little joke, and to keep him in good humor, I laughed along with him.
“So, let’s go down and see what’s inside the box, shall we?”
As he turned away from me and started to move toward the door, I realized I had to think of something quick.
“Gordon? Gordon, please wait. There’s something else I need to tell you.”
“Yes?”
“It’s a rather sensitive subject, I’m afraid.”
I made an effort to look worried and somehow slightly ashamed. I dropped my head forward and stared at the floor like a schoolboy caught in the midst of some terrible misdemeanor.
“Adam, what on earth is the matter?
” Crace’s voice was soft and gentle. “Come on, let’s sit down.”
As we resumed our positions at the kitchen table, I watched as Crace placed the little key at the side of his empty plate, near the edge of the table.
“It’s terribly embarrassing and very p-personal,” I began, deliberately stumbling over my words, “and I’m not sure how much you might be able to help me. But I can’t keep it to myself any longer.”
Crace looked at me intently, his eyes burning into me. I could tell he was intrigued.
“I’ll try and help in any way I can. Please feel free to tell me anything you like.”
I took a deep breath and started my story. “Well, for as long as I can remember, I always felt a strong connection, a liking for…for…other boys.”
Crace’s narrow, slit eyes widened, his nostrils flared and he leaned closer toward me.
“At school, I suppose I had terrible crushes on a series of slightly older boys, which everyone says is perfectly natural, but then there was something else. There was a sort of longing. I never did anything, you understand, but it was always there, like a shadow in the background.”
“I see.”
“I remember one lunchtime when I was in the fifth form, I was sitting by myself in a classroom reading a book when one of the boys, one of the boys I liked, came in. I can hardly describe what I felt. He swaggered into the room—he was built like a rugby player—and sat on the desk in front of me. Then, without looking at me, he lay across the neighboring desk and stretched himself out.”
Crace swallowed and ran a moist tongue over his thin lips. His eyelids had started to droop and it looked as though he was slipping into some kind of hypnosis. I continued with my story.
“He raised his arms above his head and then he ran one of his hands across his shirt, so that he exposed his stomach. I couldn’t bear it any longer, I wanted to reach out and touch him, but I felt confused. His head faced the blackboard, turned away from me so I couldn’t look into his eyes and perhaps he was completely unaware of my presence or at least regarded me as so insignificant as to not worry about. I stretched out my hand and”—I reached across the table as if to imitate the action, maintaining eye contact with Crace as I did so. I checked the position of the key, still lying by his plate at the edge of the table and then grabbed Crace’s left hand—“touched him.”
The Lying Tongue Page 7
