The Lying Tongue

by Andrew Wilson

  “And what happened then?”

  “I told him in no uncertain terms to put it back where it belonged. I pointed the gun at him, told him that I would use it, but, of course, I couldn’t. I was shaking all over. He knocked it out of my hand, and then the little thing got all nasty, started spouting all sorts of horrible language and filthy accusations. Oh, Adam, it was just awful.”

  “What did he want?”

  “It was quite clear I wasn’t going to get rid of him. I didn’t want him to take one of my favorite works—you can understand that, can’t you?—so I offered to give him some money.”

  “Why didn’t you call the carabinieri?”

  “No, I didn’t want them involved. No, that was impossible.”

  “You didn’t give him any money, did you?”

  “It was that or the Francesco de’ Lodovici. So I offered him five hundred euros to go away and never come back.”

  “But did that satisfy him?” I thought of the woodcut on the floor in the portego.

  “Yes, it did seem to. I got the money, gave it to him and felt relieved it was all over. But then as he was on his way out, he suddenly got all violent again and grabbed hold of my jacket. He pushed me against the wall, and I felt myself crash into the glass of the etching. He told me not to go around brandishing guns, that someone could get killed like that. And with that he pushed me down, dashing the etching off the wall as he did so. He threw the key at me and then he left.”

  Crace ended his story and started to sob quietly. As he raised his thin, bony hands to his face to cover his eyes, I noticed that his skin was covered in cuts and his cream jacket had a cluster of small dark stains around the lapel.

  “I’m sorry. Look at me, making a fool of myself,” said Crace, sniffing.

  “Don’t be silly, Gordon. I just feel so awful for not being here.”

  “Yes, that couldn’t be helped. But thank God you’re back. It made me realize just how much I’ve come to depend on you. Please promise you won’t leave me again, Adam. Promise?”

  I nodded.

  “I promise.”

  “But what’s wrong with your forehead?” he said, noticing the bruise. “What happened?”

  “Oh, nothing. Just a silly accident, that’s all.”

  When I walked around the palazzo that day, it looked as though every room in the building had been ransacked by the intruder. Trousers, shirts and vests lay strewn around Crace’s bedroom. The drawing room floor was full of books, their spines sticking out at odd angles, and the kitchen was littered with used food packets, empty tins and half-eaten meals. The only damage Crace’s former employee seemed to have caused was breaking the glass of the etching that hung in the portego; everything else was a manifestation of Gordon’s self-neglect. Crace had told me that Lucia, the girl who had come in to bring him food, often just left without saying a word and, as he didn’t take to her, he didn’t want to encourage her to stay around. No doubt she felt the same.

  It was astonishing to see how far Crace had let himself go in the week that I had been away. Not only had he not shaved, but he had not washed or changed his clothes either. When I asked him why, he told me he thought there was little point in making an effort since he had nobody to make himself decent for. Each morning, he said, he had gone through his clothes, picking out various items he thought he might wear that day, but felt so apathetic and without purpose that he dropped them on the floor, where they had remained. It was as though, in my absence, he had simply lost the will to live. What would have happened, I wondered, if I had stayed away longer. I imagined him lying in bed, the heavy tapestry covers pressing down over his skeletal frame, his body slowly withering away, turning to dust.

  “But why didn’t you tell me how you were feeling on the phone?” I asked, picking up the clothes in the bedroom.

  “I knew you had enough on your mind without worrying about me. I didn’t want to upset you any more than you were already. How was it, by the way?”

  “Sorry?”

  “The funeral.”

  “Oh, it was very sad, of course. But everyone decided to try and think of it more as a celebration of her life.”

  “Very wise,” said Crace, looking at the scratches on the back of his hands.

  “Do you want a plaster for that?”

  “No, my skin is not what it was, but I’m sure it will heal in good time. But my back—” he said, grimacing as he stood up from the bed. “Gosh, that’s another story. Would you mind awfully running a bath for me? I think a good, hot soak is what I need.”

  “Good idea,” I said.

  In the bathroom, I quickly cleaned the sink and the loo while the bath was running. Steam filled the space with a thick mist, frosting over the mirror, and when Crace stepped into the room a few minutes later, he reminded me of one of the ghostly figures I had seen earlier emerging from the fog.

  “I’m such a pathetic creature,” he said. “Look—my fingers are shaking so much I can’t even take my own clothes off. I hate to ask you, Adam, but would you mind.”

  His fingers danced up and down his shirt, ineffectually pulling at the buttons, but it seemed he couldn’t get his hands to stay still long enough.

  “Of course. Here, let me,” I said.

  Starting at his collar, I slowly undid each of the buttons, un-fastening the shirt down to his waist. As I did so, Crace lowered his eyes as if he was enduring a necessary humiliation. Using me to balance against, Crace unzipped his trousers and I guided him toward the loo. I flipped down the seat, eased him down to a sitting position and gently removed his trousers. I felt for him, sitting there in his pants, vest and socks looking like the sad, tired, elderly man he was. Although I knew he had, no doubt, done some awful things in the past, it was clear now that he was incapable of doing anything more than simply existing, biding his time until the moment his life was snuffed out.

  I picked up his clothes and set them to one side to be cleaned. Considering that he had not washed for some days, he did not smell that bad; the aroma that emanated from him was not so much body odor as that of musty books. He smelt like an old, airless library.

  “Thank you, Adam. It’s so very kind of you,” he said, still looking down. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.” Stretching out his thin arm, now without any muscle definition whatsoever, he held on to the sink and tried to lift himself upward, but he winced in pain as he moved.

  “Here, let me help,” I said, cupping my hands underneath his armpits.

  “It’s so humiliating. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

  “You’ll regain your strength in a few days. You’ve had a terrible shock and just need a bit of looking after, that’s all.”

  “You are kind, Adam. So kind.”

  Making sure I had him fully supported, I used my weight to lift his light body toward me. As I did so, I felt his cold hands slide around the back of my neck, his fingers caressing the base of my hairline. I winced as I felt our skin touching, and as I brought him nearer, I tasted his metallic breath.

  “Thank you, thank you,” he whispered as I steadied him against me.

  “There you are…good,” I said, making sure that he found his footing before gently unclasping his arms from behind my neck. “That’s right. Now, do you think you’ll be okay if I leave you? Can you manage in the bath by yourself?”

  “You know I wouldn’t normally ask you, Adam, but would you mind terribly if you helped me in? I realize I do sound rather pathetic, but my back feels like it’s gone into some kind of spasm.”

  As he tried to reach around to feel his spine, his face creased with pain.

  “I don’t know what that boy did to me, but it bloody well hurts.”

  “Come on then; let’s get you into that bath.”

  I bent down to check the temperature—it was as hot as it could be without being scalding—and added some citrus-smelling salts, mixing the crystals in by swirling the water with my hands. I dried my fingers and then, trying not to thi
nk about what I was about to do, I took hold of the bottom of Crace’s vest and gradually eased it upward, past his concave chest and sharp shoulder bones and over his head. Then I helped him sit on the rim of the bath and knelt down to remove his socks. His gnarled, crooked toes looked like the knotted roots of an old tree. I stood him up again and, from behind, gently pulled down his white cotton underpants, supporting him as he stepped out of them. His buttocks were hollow, and as he turned around I caught a glimpse of his long, thin penis surrounded by a patch of gray pubic hair. After helping him into the bath, I held him as he lowered himself down.

  “Gosh, that’s hot,” he said, sucking in air through his teeth as he came in contact with the water.

  “It should help, though,” I said, taking hold of his shoulders and easing them backward.

  “Yes, it is feeling a little better already,” he said.

  “Why don’t you have a soak,” I said, drying my hands, “and then give me a shout when you’re ready to be washed?”

  “I know I’m being a terrible bore, but would you just mind sitting with me for a while? I’m still not feeling quite myself.”

  “Of course. No problem,” I said.

  I watched as Crace’s body began to relax. He eased himself down a little deeper in the bath so that his head nearly disappeared underwater. As he closed his eyes, he crossed his arms across his chest and exhaled.

  “How are you getting on with your story?” he said, still with his eyes closed.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Your novel. I just wondered how it was going.”

  “I haven’t made much progress on it recently, what with the funeral and everything.”

  “Yes, I can quite imagine,” he said, opening his eyes and sitting up in the bath. “But before you went away, you did promise me you’d read me something from it.”

  “I’m afraid it’s still in rather a rough form. I’m not sure whether it’s suitable for public consumption.”

  “That is a shame,” he said. “I was looking forward to it, I must say. I would have thought your notebook must be quite full of scribbles by now. Could you pass me the soap?”

  I reached over to the tray at the bottom end of bath and handed him the bar of olive oil soap, his fingers lingering a little too long on mine.

  “But it’s only me, Adam. You wouldn’t be reading in front of an audience.”

  “Well—”

  “Please. And it would help take my mind off all this awful business.”

  I had not much to show him apart from a few scenes, but nevertheless I agreed.

  “But I warn you, don’t have high expectations.”

  “Don’t worry,” he said, smiling. “I won’t.”

  After bathing, drying and dressing Crace, I finally managed to find the time to unpack. My room was the same as I had left it—sparse, bare and functional. I noticed, as I stepped into it, that it was devoid of any of those little touches—pictures on the wall, mementos on shelves, books, cards—things that make a room personal. Perhaps I had always known that I wouldn’t stay long in the palazzo, that I would move on. Or was I afraid of giving Crace any insights into my character?

  Out of my rucksack I took my wash bag, placing it on the floor near the door as a reminder to take it into the bathroom later, and some clothes that needed cleaning. I’d tackle the rest of the jobs that needed to be done—the washing of clothes, the tidying of the kitchen, the restoration of order—the next day. I felt exhausted, not only by my early start and my flight, but also, I think, by the stress of arriving back at the palazzo to find Crace in such a state. I tried not to think of the proximity of his reptilian body next to mine in the bathroom, the feel of his skin, the sight of his nakedness.

  The incident with his former employee, who did seem like a thoroughly unpleasant character, had unsettled him. I was sure that his injuries were not serious; the cuts on his hands would heal in a few days and his back strain would ease off too.

  In the bath I had asked him again if he was certain about his decision not to involve the police, but he repeated that he wanted no further action taken. In fact, he was so insistent that I began to suspect whether Crace was telling me the whole truth. Why had the boy before me left so suddenly? What had Crace done to him? Now that I knew about his past, it was highly likely that he had tried to seduce him, the boy had taken umbrage, a dispute had arisen, and the employee had obviously felt he had no choice but to leave. It was no wonder the boy, feeling angry and hurt, had come back seeking some kind of revenge.

  I took out my notebook from my rucksack, sat down at the desk under the window and flicked through it, a feeling of pride surging within me as I looked at all the evidence I had amassed on Crace. Although certain aspects of Crace’s life were still opaque and, so far at least, unknowable, I almost had enough information to start sketching out a rough draft of a biography. On a page at the back of my book, I started to make a list of possible titles, but none of them seemed as apposite as Lavinia’s The Silent Man, which I toyed with taking as my own.

  Turning around to make sure the door was closed and that Crace wasn’t about to walk into the room, I thought about the best place to hide the journal. Before going away I had kept it at the bottom of my luggage, under an old T-shirt, but now, as the material it contained was so much more detailed, I knew I would have to find a better location if I wanted to keep its contents secret. I walked over to the windows and pulled back the shutters. It was dark outside now, but from the dim lights of a balcony opposite, I could see that the canal below was still sheathed in fog. Occasionally a gondola would emerge from the mist, remaining visible only for a matter of seconds before it disappeared once again. In the distance I heard a woman singing, practicing her scales in series of minor keys, and the barking of a dog.

  Outside my window was a narrow ledge that contained an empty planting box, under which I thought it might be possible to hide the notebook, obviously wrapped inside a number of plastic bags. I surmised that it would be feasible to attach the notebook to the window box by using string or a plastic band, but I couldn’t risk placing the package in such a vulnerable location, as a rainstorm could easily sweep it off the sill and wash it down into the waters below. Also, if Crace happened to stand by the window in the kitchen next door and look toward my bedroom, he would be able to see it nestling by the planting box.

  The shelves of the built-in wardrobe were another possibility, but far too obvious, as was placing it under the mattress of the bed. Also, now that Lavinia had given me all her research notes, the amount of material I had to hide was quite considerable and, as a result, the space would have to be big enough to store it all comfortably. For a moment I considered exploring the empty floor above me, a whole level that remained unknown to me, but as Crace had told me not to bother going up there, he would soon get suspicious if he heard my footsteps through the ceiling. Then the image of Shaw taking out Chris’s diary from underneath the floorboards came into my mind. I remembered the hollow sound of the floor in my room. Of course; it was the perfect idea. All I needed to do was lift up a piece of the wooden paneling and I would have the ideal hiding place, a dark, secret space that I was sure Crace would never dream of. But in order to lift one of the sections, I would need some kind of tool. I recalled the chisel I had used to remove the moss from the Corinthian column in the courtyard. I bent down and crawled underneath the desk, searching for the loose piece of wood I had often felt with my feet as I worked there. If I could just ease it up a little, I could spread all my material into the void, out of sight and away from prying eyes.

  I stood up and walked to the door. Outside in the corridor, I listened for signs of Crace. The palazzo was silent, except for the soporific sound of the water outside. Crace was probably still in his bedroom, putting the finishing touches to his outfit. In the bath he had declared that tonight we were going to have a celebration to mark my return, a special evening to show his appreciation of everything I had done, all my little kindn
esses. He had a bottle of Château-Margaux 1967 that he had set aside, which he wanted to open and share with me. It was the least he could do, he said, for helping him. He had apologized that there wasn’t much food in the kitchen; he’d eaten everything the girl had left for him except for some overripe tomatoes and a piece of hard Parmigiano, so we had settled on a simple supper of spaghetti with a tomato sauce made with a generous amount of butter and sweetened with sugar, which I said I would make for him later. He was looking forward to listening to me read from my novel after supper.

  In the kitchen I washed and dried a heavy pan and placed it on the stove. I opened a tin of tomatoes, emptied the contents into the pan, together with the chopped ripe tomatoes, added the butter and sugar, and gave the mixture a good stir. Then I bent down under the sink and, from among the bottles of bleach, detergent and cleaning fluid, took out the chisel. I gave the sauce another quick stir, turned down the heat and then walked back to my room, closing the door behind me.

  I knelt down by my desk, found the piece of wood that I had selected earlier, tried to loosen it a little and eased the chisel into the cavity. The floor creaked as I pushed the chisel down. Slowly, I raised the panel and peered down into the dark space beneath, a mass of cobwebs, old traces of sawdust and dirt. A damp, deathly smell rose up from beneath. I didn’t like the idea of confining my nice, clean notebook in this rank, filthy space, but knew it had to be done. I stood up, wrapped all my material in two plastic bags and pushed them deep into the cavity. I hurried back into the kitchen, where I continued to stir the sauce.

  “You seem much better,” I said, twisting the last of the spaghetti onto my fork.

  “Oh, yes, I am. A great deal better. My back is not so painful now, and that bath did me the world of good. Your return has really lifted my spirits.”