by Iain Pears
Most of the money had gone on machinery (part of which was recover able if necessary), wages and materials for building his machine. His net position was in fact not as bad as it looked at first sight—if all the machinery had been sold at a reasonable price, he would be able to pay off most of his debts. But not all; he would be left with nothing at all for his efforts, except for his invention.
At this point, we entered the land of fantasy. Macintyre had essayed a guess about bringing his torpedo into production, but it was so devoid of any common sense or knowledge that it was almost laughable. I swiftly enough made my own calculations. Purchase of a suitable premises would cost around £700, the necessary machine tools about £6,000, a workforce of about forty to begin with would mean running costs of about £7,000 a year, which would have to be borne out of initial investment as it was unlikely to produce any revenue for at least that time. Plus the cost of material, which would be about £30 for each machine. Say another £3,000 for the first year. A required initial investment, therefore of £16,700 before a single torpedo was carried onto its first ship, or the first request for payment sent out.
And Macintyre could not even manage a debt of £300 without sinking into near bankruptcy. What was worse, he had been obliged to offer security for the loan and had nothing to give. Instead, he had in effect handed over the patent. Not outright for cash, but merely for permission to borrow. Possibly the most foolish, thoughtless bargain any man has ever made. He no longer owned his own invention.
This part of the paperwork took me some time to get through, as it involved a considerable amount of legal jargon with which I was unfamiliar. Besides, I could not initially believe it, even when I had managed to make it out. But it was all too true. If the torpedo failed, Macintyre would suffer, as his debt would be called in. If it succeeded, he would not benefit, as the machine was not his.
I could only conclude that he did not care: that he was so unworldly that all he wanted was to perfect his invention, to show the world his ability. Macintyre did not want to manufacture his torpedo or make money out of it. Once it was finished, he would probably lose interest. Judging by how he had talked about ending war, it was quite possible he would be almost pleased not to have anything more to do with it. He wanted to show it could be done. That was all.
But why? Why so obsessed, why so careless? Here the limitations of accounts come into play. They can tell of the movements of men, of their money, but rarely give much of an insight into their motives—although Macintyre’s fanaticism was written into every column of payments. He bought the best of everything: the highest quality steel; the most expensive German precision instruments. Materials he had imported from Sweden or England, when I was sure perfectly reasonable local substitutes were available at a fraction of the price he had paid. Bills were settled promptly when he had the money. He could not be bothered with the minor savings a delay of a week or a month might bring.
I sat on a chair on my balcony, looking down at the quiet of the canal below, dreaming peacefully. I was calculating fast, something I can do without the need for actual thought. Numbers, money, take shape in my head, and flow into new forms without the need to consider it at all actively. A woman was slowly propelling a barge down the canal, talking loudly to a little girl perched in the front of the boat. They were cheerful, even though it was the end of what had probably been for them a day of long labour. She was in no hurry; would give the oar a twitch, enough to make the boat spurt forward, then rest as it slid along and almost stopped, before twitching it again. By the time she had rounded the corner halfway down, into a tiny side canal I had not noticed before, I had the entire plan laid out in my head.
Macintyre needed to be rescued from himself. In effect, his foolishness had done me a great favour. I would have never even considered trying to wrest control of his invention from him, of forcing my assistance on him against his will or without his knowledge. But it was no longer his; he had sold it. And I had no qualms about taking on his bankers. They were opponents for whom one needed to feel little sympathy, if I could triumph over them.
Cardano would help, I felt sure. He would be able to back a private loan, so that I would retain absolute control and be able to pay off the debt when profits began to rise. I knew exactly the man who could help me set up the enterprise, could put me in touch with land agents to find a site. I would put in six—perhaps five—thousand of my own money, depending on the terms that Cardano could get. A limited company to protect myself. By carefully not paying any bills unless forced to do so, it would be a simple matter to make the suppliers in effect pay for the loan itself. They would get their money eventually, or we would all sink with the torpedo.
I found it all very relaxing, although I knew I would have to revisit my figures the next day, to see whether they were still realistic, or whether I had constructed too optimistic an outlook—underestimated costs, overestimated possible revenues. And I would wander down to the foreign library near San Marco, to see what, if any, information could be had on the world’s navies.
I emerged from the library the next day feeling even more cheerful. The main navies of the world were the Royal Navy (everyone knew that) with the French next. After these two came Austria, Italy, the United States, Russia. After them a few South American countries had ideas and ambition, as did Japan. All in all, the world could boast, if that is the right word, some 700 capital ships, 1,400 medium-sized vessels which could be used for fighting, and another 4,000 used for coastal protection and so on. Say fifteen torpedoes for the first category, five for the second, one for the third. A possible world market of more than twenty thousand torpedoes, and I reckoned I could charge £300 each. Possible revenues of more than six million pounds. Assume only half of the potential was turned into orders over a period of ten years, and replacement orders of 1/20th part of the total per year. That would suggest recurrent orders of about a thousand a year, and revenue when properly under way of more than £300,000. Possible profits per year of about £100,000, for an initial investment of £5,000. Assuming the business would be valued at fifteen years’ purchase, then that would create an enterprise of about one and a half million pounds.
Navies would order, if it worked. But would it? Macintyre was confident, and I was sure his acumen as an engineer was greater than his skill as a businessman, but even so obsession—and he was surely a man obsessed—leads to cloudy judgement.
Then there was the issue of wresting control from his creditors who, I was sure, had a better notion of his machine’s financial potential than he did. They would not give it up for a paltry sum, and I did not wish to pay high. The whole point of the game is to get a bargain. Anyone can pay a full price.
How was this to be done? First, know your opponent, and here, much to my surprise, my landlady proved to be a fount of useful information. Ambrosian, the head of the bank that had made the loan, was, she told me, highly respected as a man who had stayed in Venice during the Austrian occupation, but who had refused to have many dealings with Vienna. He had done most of his business with Venetians, and forged contacts with banking families in Italy, France—anywhere but Austria. Like most patriotic citizens, he had refused all invitations to official functions, refused to go to the theatre or opera, refused to sit in a café where an Austrian was sitting and (so it was said) subsidised forbidden groups of nationalists to annoy the foreign oppressors. He was something of a hero; whether he was any good as a banker was another matter entirely. Such information as I could gather from newspapers suggested a well-bottomed, but somewhat unimaginative, operation, which was good. Such people do not like risks. But newspapers are often wrong.
I did wish communications were better. I had sent off a letter to Cardano shortly after I arrived, and had mentioned Macintyre and also Cort, but had received no reply—even going by express mail, it would take a week for a letter to arrive in London, a week for the reply to come back. Better than it had been only a few years previously, no doubt, but in London I coul
d have found all the information I needed in a morning. Now the telegraph crisscrosses the world, telephones are becoming common, and people take instantaneous communication for granted. They should try to imagine a world where a letter—to California, or Australia or India—could take up to a month, even at speed.
CHAPTER 9
The next day was a dream of such perfection that I have never approached the like again. It was, of course, all illusion, but I like to think of it still in isolation from what came after, as a moment of bliss, one of those days when one is no longer oneself, but becomes bigger, and better, able to overcome the normal preoccupations of life and breathe more freely.
Should anyone read this who knows me only from my reputation, I have no doubt that this narrative of idleness and dreaminess will occasion nothing but incredulity. If business and romance do not mix, how very much more incompatible are finance and passion? One requires a personality that is purely cold and rational, the other must give way to the impetuous. Such feelings cannot coexist in the same individual.
To which I must reply that anyone who thinks this knows nothing of money. Finance is every bit as much an art as painting or music. It is very similar to musical performance, for while much does depend on skill—a musician who cannot play is not a musician; a financier who cannot understand a balance sheet will soon be a beggar—skill can only take you so far. Beyond that point lies poetry. Many find this difficult to believe, but it is true. Some people are so much in tune with the markets that they do not need to manipulate a stock price or break a law to profit. They can feel the ebbs and flows of capital in the way a horse rider understands his steed, and can make it obey him without use of whip or stirrup.
Money is merely another term for people, a representation of their desires and personalities. If you do not understand one, you cannot hope to understand the other. Take the matter of giving an inducement to win a contract. This is frowned on, called bribery and in some cases is even considered criminal. But it is an area in which rational calculation and emotional empathy are the most perfectly fused. It is an art form; a Russian expects an envelope full of money; an English civil servant would be outraged at the idea, but is no less corrupt or greedy. He desires employment for his nephew—which is often a more generous gift. It is diplomacy carried over to the world of affairs, and both require delicacy and judgement. I acknowledge no equal in the art—not even Mr. Xanthos, for he is too cynical, too ready to hold the person he persuades in contempt. As I write, I have before me a sheet of paper listing the shares in my companies owned by some of the greatest politicians in England. I arranged it all some six years ago as a precaution and have never asked for anything in return. Nor will I; but these people will, in due course, do what is necessary in their own interests, and mine. Not that anyone else knows of this; it is why my managers are becoming nervous and are unable to understand my calm belief that all will be well. They fear I have lost my touch.
My Venice that day was a city full of tremulous anticipation. I wished to spend the day with Mrs. Cort even more than I wished to travel in a gondola around the canals. We met by a landing stage not far from the Rialto, where gondola, gondolier, and a hamper of food already awaited. It was eight in the morning, and brilliantly clear. Warm already, with the promise of more to come. The city itself was sparkling and Mrs. Cort—I hope I do not give away too much if at this point I begin to call her Louise—was standing waiting for me, and smiled as I approached, a smile of such warmth and promise that my heart skipped a beat.
Gondolas are not a place for any sort of intimate conversation, although we sat side by side rather than opposite each other. The boats are arranged (for those who do not know) with the gondolier standing at the back, so he had a clear view, not only of the waters ahead, but also of his passengers. They miss nothing, and a flimsy construction over our heads provided only limited privacy. A brushing of hand against hand; the faint pressure of bodies touching in the cramped confines of the hull. It was almost unbearable and I could sense she was under a similar pressure. I could feel the tension within her, longing for some outlet.
And so the morning passed in delicious frustration, the conversation edging towards intimacy, then pulling back before moving closer once more.
“How long have you lived in Venice?” I asked, this being an example of a conversation that proceeded in fits and starts, punctuated by long silences as we were both calmed by the soft splashing of the water against the side of the boat.
“About five months,” she replied.
“You met Mr. Cort in England?”
“Yes. In London. Where I was working. As a governess.”
She said this with a slight defiance, as if to see whether my attitude to her would change as a result of learning of her situation.
“How did you come to that position?”
“My father died when I was young, leaving my mother to look after us, two boys and two girls. I was the eldest. When I was fourteen my mother fell ill. So I had to work. Eventually, I was engaged by a family in Chelsea, not rich by many standards, but well enough off to afford me. I cared for their two children until I left to marry. They were delightful children. I miss them still.”
“True love?”
“No. He desired a wife to look after him and I craved the certainty of marriage. It was an arrangement suitable to us both.”
She sighed and broke off to look over the lagoon towards the Lido, which was slowly coming closer. I did not wish to intrude, so asked no further, but I understood all too well that she lived in a loveless marriage, deprived of that affection that all human beings must have. It is the situation of many, perhaps it is the normal circumstance of most, and she did not complain of a contract freely entered into. But it is not in our nature to remember how much worse things might have been; we only dream of the better that slips through our fingers.
“And he brought you here.”
“Yes. But I find this dreary conversation for such a day. Tell me about yourself instead. You must have had a more interesting life than I have so far enjoyed.”
“I doubt that. What can I say?”
“Are you married?”
“Yes.”
“Happily?”
Which is the moment I stepped closer to the edge. Yes, happily. My adored wife. I miss her so much. Words acting like an impregnable fortress, able to keep her out, me inside, both separated forever. I said nothing, and she understood my meaning.
“But your wife is not here. Why is that?”
“She does not like to travel.”
“Does she have a name?”
She was probing, teasing me. Betrayal mounted on betrayal as I turned aside and did not answer once more, then turned back and met her eyes as they looked calmly straight into mine, communicating endlessly, whole volumes about us both.
“And what do you do?”
“I spend my time investing money for gain. It takes up much of my life.”
She looked curious. “I understand nothing about money,” she said.
“This is not the time to start learning,” I said. “I find it fascinating and can discuss it for hours, but I also think there must be other topics to talk about when one is in a gondola on a fine morning in the company of a beautiful woman.”
She smiled faintly and looked away. I wondered how long it had been since anyone had spoken thus to her, if anyone ever had.
“I like that,” she said softly.
There then followed the longest silence of the day; our closeness had already grown too great to require words. Instead we both sat quietly, watching the flat strip of land growing closer, I so aware of her it was almost painful.
The Lido has changed greatly since then; now the hotels I once imagined in my mind’s eye have sprung up along its length. Then it was all but deserted; the main road was little more than a track that led out of the tiny settlement on the city side of the strip; within a few hundred yards all habitation ceased, and there were instead only co
ws and a few sheep occupying an island near fifteen miles long and a mile wide.
At the time I was somewhat disappointed; I had anticipated a voyage in the inner lagoon, seeing the sights I thought every visitor should see—Murano, Torcello and all of those. I had not yet seen much even of the main city, let alone its outlying regions, so coming to a place which was virtually deserted, and which had no features of note, was not what I desired at all.
“Why have you brought me here?” I asked, somewhat petulantly.
“Wait and see,” she said. “I love this place. It is the only place where you can be alone. Come.”
She directed the gondolier to pick up the hamper of food and carry it over the island to the other side. She later told me she had discovered this spot many weeks before, and had kept it secret from everyone, treasuring it as a place she alone in the world knew about. To show it to me was the greatest compliment.
The other side was not far; although a mile or more wide at its tip, the Lido narrows down along its length until it is only a few hundred yards across. It is not one island; rather it is a whole string of them, artificially joined over the centuries to form a barrier protecting the city from the Adriatic. It was all but deserted, offering nothing to the population except uncertain weather in winter and a place to walk in summer.
And to swim; I had learned to swim as a boy when I stayed for the summers at the house of a relative in Hampshire. This family possessed a large garden with a fine pond, surrounded by reeds. Once you waded through them, you had the finest swimming place imaginable, with clear fresh water that warmed pleasantly in the sun. There my cousins had taught me to swim and, although I was not expert, I had learned also to love the feel of water. To see the rolling waves of the Adriatic basking in the sunshine of late summer gave me one thought only, which was to wade into the water as quickly as possible.
