by Iain Pears
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.
“I have no idea,” he replied. “It seems Macintyre does not like the lady.”
“He tried to get rooms there once. She wouldn’t have him and he was offended,” Cort said.
“That explains it,” Longman said cheerfully. “I wondered how he might have come across her. Not through me, at any rate. I didn’t think he took enough time off to sleep. He works on that machine of his from dawn to dusk.”
“Machine?” I asked. “What machine is this?”
“Nobody knows,” said Drennan with a smile. “It is Macintyre’s secret obsession. He has, so he says, been working on it for years, and has poured his entire fortune into it.”
“He has a fortune?”
“Not anymore. He is—or was, until he settled here a few years back—a travelling engineer. Hiring himself to the highest bidder. A shipyard in France, railway project in Turin, a bridge in Switzerland. A very skilled man.”
“Personally, I prefer the life of the mind, of study and reflection. And, as you may have noticed, he is not best suited for getting on with others. He never stays anywhere long,” Longman commented.
“Is he married?”
“His wife died in childbirth, poor man. So he is left with a daughter, who is about eight. A most unfeminine creature,” Longman continued, even though I had asked for no elaboration. “Utterly uneducated, with the looks of her father. He can just about get away with it, but what is almost tolerable in a man…”
He did not finish. He had successfully painted a picture of what was to come: a lonely old spinster, fending for herself, cut off from any good or proper company. He shook his head slowly to indicate his distress
.
“I think she’s a sweet kid,” Drennan said. “Nice smile. Not much to smile about, though.”
And so the conversation proceeded. It improved in tone and temper once the effects of Macintyre faded, and Cort, to my surprise, proved the most entertaining. He was, perhaps, the person most like myself in temperament if not in character, and I found his wit congenial. I had known many like him at school; he blossomed under my appreciation and was in a rare good humour by the time the meal was finished and the small party began to break up. Longman and Drennan decided to head to Florian’s for brandy, Cort and I declined the idea, and were left standing by the doorway as the others disappeared.
I turned to thank him for his company, and as I did so, a most remarkable change came over him. He grew tense and pale, his jaw clenched tightly in distress, and he gripped me by the elbow as we shook hands in farewell. He seemed to be looking aghast at something behind me, so I turned round swiftly to see what had so grabbed his attention.
There was nothing. The street which contained the restaurant was dark but entirely empty. At the end a broader street crossed over it, and this was lit by the faint flicker of torch flame, but that, too was deserted.
“Cort? What is it?” I asked.
“It’s him. He’s there again.”
I looked at him blankly, but Cort did not respond. He continued staring, as though frightened out of his wits.
I touched him gently on the arm to stir him; he did not react immediately, but eventually his eyes moved away from the blank point they were staring at, and he looked at me. He seemed dazed and confused.
“Whatever is the matter?” I asked, feeling a quite genuine concern as much as a very real curiosity. My mind went back to what Longman had said about Cort having a breakdown from the strain of his task at the palazzo. Was this a manifestation of his troubles? I had little enough experience of such things.
“I do beg your pardon,” he said eventually in a faltering voice. “Quite absurd of me. Please forget it. I must go now.”
“Certainly not,” I replied. “I have no idea what is distressing you, but I could not possibly leave you alone just yet. Come! I will walk with you. It is no trouble, and I feel like a stroll in any case. If you do not wish to talk, we will pace the streets together in solemn silence and enjoy the night air. Have no fear that I wish to pry into your affairs. Although I do, of course.”
He smiled at that, and allowed me to lead him towards the alley’s end. Then he pointed to the left, away from San Marco, and indicated that we should head in that direction. He said nothing for a long while. We had passed the Rialto before he groaned loudly and scratched his head furiously with both hands. “You must forgive that performance,” he said with an effort to return to normal. “I must have seemed absurd.”
“Not at all,” I replied in what I hoped was a reassuring manner, “but you did alarm me. Do you wish to tell me what it was that so distressed you?”
“I would, were I not afraid that Longman would hear of it. He is a terrible gossip, and I do not wish to become an object of ridicule.”
“Have no fear of that,” I replied. “I would not tell Mr. Longman anything of importance. Should you come to know me better you will realise that any confidence consigned to my care is perfectly safe.”
Which was true. A natural tendency on my part had been confirmed by my experiences in the City, where knowledge is all. Exclusive possession of a fact is worth far more than money. Money you can borrow; knowledge has a higher price. Say (for example) that you hear a company has struck gold in South Africa. It is easy enough to borrow some money to buy shares in it before they rise, and make a profit. All the money in the world will not help you if you do not discover this fact before everyone else. I have never in my life traded without advance knowledge, and I do not know of anyone with sense who has done so either.
“Well, then. I would like to relate my experiences, if you are prepared to listen, and also promise to stop me should you find my story ridiculous or dull.”
“I promise.”
He took a deep breath and began.
“I mentioned that I was sent here by my uncle, to fulfil a contract with the Albemarle family. I arrived some five months ago with my family, and took up operations as best I could. It has not been easy, and would have strained even a native speaker with more experience than I possess. The house is in far worse shape than I was led to believe, the workforce is erratic, and finding the right materials difficult and expensive. My wife did not want to come, and is deeply unhappy, poor woman.
“You might not believe it from what you have seen, but I have made progress, although every advance is matched by some setback. Everything is way behind schedule and far above the budget, of course, but that is because the family had no conception whatsoever of the task they had taken on.
“That is not what is giving me such concern, although I am quite prepared to countenance the idea that the strain makes me more susceptible. I have always been of a nervous disposition. I do not imagine for a moment that someone like you—who seem very sound and sensible—let alone a man like Macintyre, would be subject to the torments I have endured in the past few weeks.
“In brief, I have become the victim of hallucinations of the most terrible kind. Except that I cannot fully accept that this is what they are. They are too real to be fictitious, yet too bizarre to be real.
“I should tell you that I am an orphan; my mother died giving birth to me, and my father shortly thereafter. That is why I was brought up by my mother’s sister, and her husband, the architect. My mother died in Venice. They had been travelling Europe on an extended honeymoon and stopped here for a few months while they prepared for my birth.
“I lived; she died. There is nothing else to add, except to say that my father was heartbroken. I was sent back to England to my aunt and he continued his travels to recover. Alas, he caught a fever in Paris while on the verge of returning to England, and died as well. I was two years old at the time. I remember nothing of either of them, and know only what I have been told.
“Please do not think I am talking off the point when I mention this. I was perfectly healthy in mind and body until I came here. I was brought up properly and well; I am not certain I was suited by nature to be an architect, but I may in time turn out to be perfectly competent. There is nothing in my past at all to foreshadow what has been happening to me here, the place of my mother’s death.
“It all began when I was walking along a street, going to a mason’s yard, as I recall, and I saw an old man walking towards me. There was nothing about him to excite any interest, and yet I found myself looking at him in the way you do when you see something that fascinates, yet know you should not look. You look away and find your eyes straying back again, and again.
“As he drew near he bowed, and then we passed, each going on his separate way. I turned round to look at him again, and he was gone.”
“That was it?” I asked in some surprise, as he seemed to think that nothing more needed to be said.
“The first time, yes. As your tone suggests, there was nothing to cause any concern; indeed, it was not even clear why I should have noticed him. Nonetheless, it disturbed me, and I found my mind going back to the moment. Then it happened again.
“I was walking along the Riva this time. It was midafternoon, and the loafers and wastrels were all there, sitting on the ground, cluttering up the steps of the bridges, idling away the hours as is the custom. I was in a hurry; I had an appointment and I was late. I was walking up the steps of a bridge and looked up, and there he was again. I slowed down, just a little, when I saw him, and he reached inside his coat, pulled out a watch and looked at it. Then he smiled at me as if to say, You’re late.
“I hurried past, feeling almost stung by the implied reproach and determinedly kept on my way. This time I didn’t look back. He knew I was late, you see. He knows about me. He must be watching me, finding out about me.”
“But you k
now nothing about him?”
“No.”
“And this person you were going to visit. He couldn’t have said something? Did you ask?”
“Impossible,” he said shortly.
“Describe this man to me.”
We were walking slowly, and as far as I was concerned, aimlessly. I assumed that Cort knew where he was going. Certainly he turned left and right as though he was following some course, rather than wandering lost in thought as he talked. Walking the silent, deserted streets, our footfalls echoing between the buildings, accompanied by the lap of water and the occasional reflection of moonlight in the canals when the clouds cleared, created a strange and wonderful atmosphere that Cort’s tale enhanced rather than dissipated.
“He was quite short, dressed in an old-fashioned manner, slightly stooped. There was nothing particularly remarkable about his gait, although he can travel quickly and silently when he wishes. It is his face that grabs the attention. Old, but nothing in it weakened or enfeebled. Tell me he is as old as the city and I would believe you. It is the face of generations, paper pale, tired beyond belief, and filled with sadness. See it, and you must keep looking at it. Dottore Marangoni practises hypnotism on his patients sometimes. He believes that the personality of the operator is more important than any technique; that what he does is an imposition of his will on the subject. That is what I felt like: that this man was trying to take over my mind.”
I let his words evaporate in the night air for a while as I considered whether Cort was being melodramatic, deliberately trying to create some sort of impression for his own ends. Certainly my inclination was to believe that I was hearing a manifestation of the breakdown that Longman considered imminent. But I was aware of my own vision shortly after I arrived in the city; of the old man and the serenade. That, also, had wrought a strange effect on me. Either we were both mad, or neither of us was, and I held firm to a belief in my own sanity.
“That seems a grand claim to make on the basis of two momentary encounters, when you didn’t even speak,” I said in a reasonable tone.
