At the conclusion of her story, my friend began to prepare herself for the main purpose of her visit, but I stopped her, then reassured her that she would nevertheless be paid in full. She seemed confused and somewhat hurt, so I let it be known that I would have to explain my situation with her to my attendant, and, having done so, I imagined that all would be as before. This seemed to reassure her and she began to repair her clothing. However, upon her departure I immediately sensed a new tone to my dealings with my attendant. I gave this matter some thought and decided that, in order to protect my new and undoubtedly more important relationship, I could happily forgo the pleasures of the flesh, particularly as I held no real affection for the woman. However, it soon became clear that in my attendant's eyes I had seriously transgressed, and it would be difficult, if not impossible, for me to amend the damage of this woman's unannounced visit. I had no doubt that, had I been a foreigner of his own complexion, he would have had little difficulty in accepting my desire to engage a courtesan. I suspected the problem was that he objected to one such as I coupling with one of his own, even though she who entertained me was merely acting out the rank and station of her life.
My daily routine developed and involved much exploration on water and foot, and then private study, as I grew to master this new language. My tutor, a scholarly Venetian of advanced years, undertook the task of working with me for purely financial motives. He lived in a particularly desolate part of the city, in an area whose sluggish canals were choked with refuse and whose many wharves were busy with boats that were repaired daily in thick clouds of black smoke. His crumbling house, like those all around, seemed to have been idly passed from one generation to the next without regard to maintenance. The grey plaster barely clung to the outside walls, its shutters were made of ancient rotten wood, and balcony railings had come adrift and now hung over the canal. In fact, not just this house, but the whole district gave the impression of having been eaten away by time and inclement weather. To reach this man's house, I had to carefully cross many tottering bridges, the flimsy structures of which were carefully balanced on piles of loose stone. From these edifices, one could clearly see the green line that the stagnant water of the canal had painted along the side of all the buildings. However, once I entered this man's book-lined study and began to follow his instructions carefully, I left behind the mournful atmosphere of his quarter and attended to the pleasures of the new world which this language opened up for me. He paid me compliments and claimed that I was a fine pupil, and I believe he was correct for, after some few weeks, I came to the conclusion that there was little more that this man could teach me.
Each week, my solitary migrations through the streets and along the canals of Venice would suddenly achieve a focus as I would journey to the Doge's Palace and present myself to the senators. My weekly visits to the palace generally involved my stalking the waiting rooms and ante-chambers until the grand men were ready to receive me. Once I had been ushered into their presence, they would again remind me that, as a revered leader of military men, I was to serve only in a time of crisis, and that I would not be troubled with the petty affairs of the state. In the meantime, I was to reconcile myself to the fact that I was a man of leisure, occupying the same status as a cannon or a breastplate of armour during a time of peace. There was, however, much rumour abroad which referred to impending conflict with the ever-vengeful Turk, and although none of the senators ever spoke directly to me of this matter, I knew that, should this situation deteriorate, I would be immediately pressed into service.
Spring gave way to summer, and summer, in turn, to a strangely melancholic autumn, and many times I wondered if I had not chosen gold and self-advancement above the more important consideration of my own happiness. The great majority of my days passed off without incident, and a large portion of my time was taken up observing the customs of these Venetians who, perhaps owing to the unique isolation of their state, seemed to obey their own special code. My former language teacher had explained to me how Venice was controlled by a small hereditary aristocracy, and how, because of the republic's power and achievements, most foreigners respected her but none would ever choose to love her. Flamboyant and lavish displays of her wealth stirred hostility and envy in the hearts of visiting dignitaries, but the Most Serene Republic was skilled at protecting herself from problems both within and without. My own position in Venice could be explained by the fact that the republic preferred to employ the services of great foreign commanders in order that they might prevent the development of Venetian-born military dictatorships. In fact, it was common practice to humiliate and break outstanding Venetian soldiers so they did not rise above their station. When the lion of Venice roared, all – outside the small circle of the doge and his immediate advisers – knew that they must bow and acknowledge her power.
After a long summer of isolation, I found it difficult to reconcile myself to this new emotion of loneliness, and, for the first time in my life, I found myself battling bouts of despondency that could persist for weeks. One late autumn afternoon, I was forced to confront my fears and insecurities in a most dramatic fashion. I engaged a gondola and rode, with a light and pleasant breeze born of the vessel's progress stirring my face, down towards the cluster of islands that populated the lagoon. It was my intention to find some location in the mouth of the lagoon from which I might observe the passing sails of the ships of the world, and, in this manner, while away the afternoon hours in a pleasant reverie. At first all was bright sunshine, and my colourfully clad gondolier posed gracefully against the blue sky and rowed with easy strokes. However, we had passed only a small part of our journey into the heart of the lagoon before the wind turned against us and we laboured to a jetty, where our boat was so violently rocked that it made it difficult to land. The rains began to fall, at first only a delicate lace curtain, and then the noisy whirring of seagulls overhead signalled the imminent opening of the heavens. The sky blackened and shrugged off the day, and suddenly there was an ominous silence. Moments later, the silence was broken by a distant roar, then a shrill whine of wind stung my ears, and soon after the inevitable lashing and blinding rain began to cascade, and presently the lagoon was a tempest of sound and movement. My gondolier, a frail-looking fellow with the prematurely puckered throat of an old man, took some comfort in the shadows of the monastery upon whose steps we had alighted. I drew into my lungs the faintly rotten smell of swamp that rose from the lagoon and watched as, before my eyes, nature quickly erased vain beauty.
Suddenly the world was muffled in mist, and from many different towers, both distant and near, came the various notes of the bells: alarmed, angry and finally arrogant city bells. I realized that this city was betraying me, and I was betraying myself. Only so much strength slept in the arms of a warrior, and I had wasted near two-thirds of a year in the rapture of foolish enchantment. I pulled my General's cloak tight about my shoulders and watched as grey fog began to march in from the sea. And then my attention was seized by the loud slapping of water against my moored gondola, and I noticed that small waves were now breaking over the sides and filling the vessel with water. I looked around in search of my gondolier, but my eyes were greeted by the wet masonry of the monastery's outer walls, and the sight of a miserable dog slinking away from me and around the corner. I had made no friends among these people, and my standing in society rested solely upon my reputation in the field. My reputation. It was to be hoped that this one small word might lay to rest any hostility that my natural appearance might provoke. My reputation. Some among these people, both high and low, were teaching me to think of myself as a man less worthy than the person I knew myself to be. My own people, although degraded and without the sophistication and manners of these Venetians, at least regarded me with respect and dignity, and among them I had many friends, and some few enemies, all of whom were easily identifiable. Among the Venetians, all was confusion as I attempted to distinguish those who beheld my person with scorn and contempt, from th
ose who simply looked upon me with the curiosity that one would associate with a child. The storm raged for many hours until, watered to the bone and distraught in mind, I finally decided to join my oarsman and seek shelter among the smoking candles and soft light of the monastery. Thereafter, all memory was lost to fatigue until I awoke some hours later as the faint light of morning touched a distant wall and the Venetian bells began a silver chant. Through the high windows I was able to see a bright and clear sky, by which I judged the peril to have passed and a new day to be spread before me.
And then, only some few weeks past, one among the doge's most trusted senators eventually rescued me from this dull routine of isolation. He was a senior man who was rumoured to be held in high esteem by his peers, and I imagined that he must have often observed me on the many occasions when I visited the Doge's Palace in search of an audience. I suspect that, on this particular occasion, the trusted senator must have taken pity on me because, before I was able to engage a boat for my return journey, his messenger sought me out and delivered his master's request that I might, that same afternoon, visit his residence. This would be my début inside a grand Venetian home and I immediately determined to present my person with a dignity and charm which might befit the occasion. Sadly, I judged myself to have failed, for, although I endeavoured to behave in a manner which might endear me to my generous host, the look of boredom which marked his face, from the moment I crossed his threshold to the moment I left, caused me to feel certain that this invitation was one that would never again be repeated. When, a few days later, his messenger called upon me with another invitation, this time to dine and meet his good lady wife and children, my first thought was to wonder whether some prank was being played at my expense.
I had taken care of how to dress and hold myself on my first visit, but clearly this second visit would require special attention to every detail. I therefore decided to spend a good portion of what money I had accrued on acquiring a new costume in order that I might dress myself according to the Venetian fashion, as opposed to that of my native country. A great number of strangers from various exotic corners of the known world had, over the years, chosen to reside in Venice. However, the Venetian aristocrat remained confident about the superiority of his traditions over those of any other, and, while exterior display of a different culture was tolerated, I was learning that such stubbornness was unlikely to aid one's passage through society. This second invitation from the senator afforded me the opportunity to make a larger statement about the manner in which I might henceforth conduct myself in this great republic. In my quieter moments, I had often wondered if a marriage of the finest of my own customs with their Venetian refinement might not, in due course, produce a more sophisticated man. Or, if not this, perhaps such a conjunction of traditions might at least subdue a portion of the ill-feeling to which my natural state seemed to give rise.
I woke early on the morning of my second invitation to the senator's home with my mind in a state of disarray. I soon found myself paring the floor of my chamber, but I remained unable to locate the source of my anxiety. There were many reasons why I might feel concerned about the uncomfortable predicament that ensnared my present life, but I found this particular visitation of melancholy intensely troubling. As I looked out over the moonlit Grand Canal, which lapped pleasingly against my wall, I realized that my best course of action would be to dress and wander the cold, dark streets in an attempt to calm my nerves. It had, after all, long been my custom to explore the strange regions of this enchanted city, often mistaking the way, probing the network of back streets and the complex labyrinths of alleyways in search of both new and familiar landmarks. At night, when abandoned to serenity, her breathing light and regular, Venice presented herself as a sleeping babe upon whom one might spy with proprietorial glee.
I dressed quickly and soon found myself on the wintry Rialto bridge, from whose vantage-point I was able to watch a lean cat scurry noiselessly into a blind alley. I had grown extremely fond of the city under the moon, for it was at such moments that I truly appreciated the full grandeur of her silent majesty. Only the occasional tolling of bells trespassed upon the night, but their song, together with the sister sound of water swirling and sighing, created the most wondrous accompaniment to the silence. And then, of course, there was the moonlight, which produced spellbinding patterns as it struck the water, illuminating buildings here, and withholding its light there. Some corners of Venice appeared to have been specially chosen to be blessed with this celestial gift of light and shadow. I smiled after the cat, safe in the knowledge that the cat's response to me was not tinged with ambiguity. Fear was a reliable emotion. Constant and undemeaning. And then again, I remembered that it had been nine months now since I had happily entered Venice in that most magnificent manner: by sea. I passed through the lagoon, which enabled me to observe the towers and turrets of the city rising above the distant mist, and all around me, on the low-lying islands, I could discern the outlines of monasteries, forts and small villages. With the sea behind me, I clipped forwards at a good pace, until the city began to show herself. First the mouth of the Grand Canal, then the majestic sweep of the buildings, and then the people: Venetians. I saw them walking slowly, heads bent, going about their business as though thoroughly unaware of the privilege of living among such overwhelming beauty. These people seemed sternly unconcerned with anything beyond the narrow orbit of their own lives. I remembered.
I remembered. I had led the fighting men of my own people for many years, and had also served in battle as a General for several other nations, both Christian and heathen. But now I was confidently arriving in Venice, summoned by the doge and his senators to lead the Venetian army whenever the Turks declared their intent. But where was the party to meet me? The fanfare? The escort of lavishly attired gondoliers that were widely known to welcome dignitaries? It appeared that I would have to make do with the spectacle of the city herself turning out to greet me. I stared down at the waters flowing beneath the Rialto bridge, and I wondered if my new costume might convince some among these Venetians to look upon me with a kinder eye. It was this desire to be accepted that was knotting my stomach and depriving me of sleep, and in my distress I had once more fled to the only person I could rely upon in these circumstances: the city herself, which had remained ever faithful to her enchanted promises. Thin scarves of fog began to drift across the Grand Canal, and then in the distance, through the dank morning mist, I saw a gondola moving slowly towards me and I imagined a passenger propped up in the back, under the canopy, perhaps another victim of a troubled mind. I watched as this black gliding object, lightly powdered with snow, approached as though a heavenly vision, and then it slipped beneath the bridge and out of sight. This was my cue to turn and walk back to my lodgings. It would not be wise to find myself at the senator's dinner fatigued through a lack of sleep.
Later that same day, at a little before five o'clock, a boatman called to me from the canal that was my front highway. My Venetian attendant, without the vaguest hint of a smile or gesture of affection, brushed my new attire in the insolent manner to which I had become accustomed. I turned to him, half-hoping that he might find it possible to wish me good luck on my evening's mission, but, as ever, he chose to remain silent. I descended the half-dozen steps and climbed aboard a particularly large gondola, one that was heavy with ornaments and whose cushions bore the most fantastic embroidery. The gondolier nodded a terse greeting, which I took to indicate his disapproval of having to propel his vessel to my unfashionable lodgings in order to convey a passenger whom he no doubt deemed unworthy of transportation. I nodded back a greeting in his direction, and then settled into the well-upholstered seat. We swung out wide and into the main traffic of the canal, and I noticed that the setting of the winter sun threw a weak light on the water, a light that was held rather than reflected. Despite the heavy traffic, I felt as though I alone, in all of this great city, had an appointment to occupy me this evening. Others seemed to be
idling away what remained of this day.
As we sped along, I turned my mind to the problem of why this senator had been struck with a particular attraction to myself. I had no doubt that my reputation played some large part in his fascination, but I also imagined that there was something about my knowledge of other parts of the world, of foreign adventures and travels, that appealed to his senses. Yet our first meeting had been as dull as it was short. I had simply sat before him and answered his laboured and uninspired questions as though being interviewed. I had spent much of my time looking around his room, enchanted by the huge oil paintings, impressed by the fabrics and chandeliers, and held spellbound by the long mahogany table that was being polished by a servant. I was unable to believe that this was a room in a private house, rather than a public chamber where matters of national importance might be debated. But why meet with me again? Unless, of course, he was doing so out of some misplaced sense of obligation. In the distance I heard the bells of St Mark's begin to mark the hour, and then around me other, less grand bells began to respond to the call, and then, as I looked at the shoreline, I saw a pair of monks, their invisible feet scurrying beneath their billowing robes as they hurried towards their monastery, with the fear of God coursing through their holy bodies.
The Nature of Blood Page 12
