Stone's Fall

by Iain Pears

  Again, the thought occurred to me; I had been sent to school at a boarding establishment in Brighton until I was thirteen, and had seen the bathing houses and the women ponderously wading into the icy water—for their health, I imagine, as it is difficult to see how it could have been for their pleasure—dressed in voluminous costumes so heavy they could not possibly have swum without sinking. I remembered also the habitually leaden skies, and the chill that hit you as you emerged from the water dripping wet, only to be frozen by the frigid winds of an English summer.

  And here was something close to paradise on earth. Men now go to the South Seas to search for such an unspoiled landscape; back in 1867 it could be found much closer to home, only a short boat ride from San Marco.

  “It’s beautiful,” I said as we walked down a little path that led to a copse of trees.

  She smiled.

  “Listen,” she said, pausing for a moment and holding up a finger. I listened.

  “What?”

  “Nothing,” she replied. “Nothing at all. There is only the sound of the sea and the birds. That is why I like it.”

  We had arrived at her special place, a clearing inside the copse surrounded on three sides by thick foliage that prevented any passerby from seeing us, and open on the other to the sea, like the most glorious theatre set in the world. It was dark and cool in the shade, and I spread out our blanket on the ground, while Louise opened the hamper and took out the simple food she had prepared—a cold chicken, some bread, and a bottle of water.

  “How do you like the architecture of Palladio?” she asked coyly as we finished our meal—which, for all its simplicity, was delicious.

  “I like it very much. Or would do, no doubt, if I had seen any. Why?”

  “Because that is what you are admiring at the moment.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. Mr. Cort gave me permission spend the day showing you the city. I believe he felt that it was improper for me to be alone with you otherwise. In the middle of Venice there could be little scandal.”

  “And you disobeyed his orders.”

  She nodded. “Are you shocked?”

  “Dreadfully.”

  And then I leaned over and kissed her. Very clumsily, even aggressively, but I could stand the tension no more. I was well aware that she might pull back, that the moment might be ruined by my behaviour, but I did not care. I was a Venetian; I could take what I wanted. I had to know and had to show my intentions, however dishonourable and however much I might risk losing her esteem had I made a mistake. It was appalling behaviour, to try and take advantage of a married woman in an isolated spot when she had trusted me. I can only say that I was overtaken by a sort of madness, the impetuousity that comes from being in a foreign land where the usual demands of behaviour are relaxed, combined with the special magic of a place which encourages emotional display normally kept hidden from view.

  She did not pull back. Instead, she responded to my advance with a ferocity that encouraged still more from me, and we lay back on the ground, bodies entwined, groans being the only communication between us apart from the eloquent conversation of our bodies.

  How it happened I do not know; I cannot recall whose initiative it was, but I felt her hands exploring my body so firmly that I was roused to a pitch of excitement greater than anything I had ever experienced before, and I scrabbled vainly at her clothes—oh, the clothes of that period, like medieval castles they were, designed to repel all assault—until she pulled back.

  Again I was surprised, for I expected her to come to her senses then, and realise the peril of her situation, but she did not. All she said was, “Not like that,” and slowly began unbuttoning her blouse, then her skirts, until she was revealed to me in all her beauty, and lay back on the blanket, and held out her arms for me, an expression of desperation and longing on her face.

  It was not good, that first time, perhaps it never is between two people so uncertain of each other, so unknowing of the other’s needs and desires, but she cried out, almost in pain, towards the end and I could feel the tension seeping from her body as it ebbed slowly from mine. Then we lay together, I slowly caressing her belly, still unable truly to believe that such a thing had happened. What was this woman? What sort of person gives herself up in such a fashion? But again I did not care. I had had such thoughts before, with others, and in each case the result had been a sort of disgust, a separation of lust from respect and an inability to reconcile the two feelings. There was no such difficulty now; I was merely content, blissful, and desired nothing more than to hold her close forever. I felt whole for the first time in my life.

  But as I turned to look on her face, I saw tears trickling slowly down her cheek and was startled into sitting up.

  “Oh my dear, I am so sorry, so very sorry,” I said genuinely, convinced that she had, at last, realised the folly of her actions.

  She laughed through her tears, and shook her head. “No, I am not crying for that,” she said.

  “What then?”

  She said nothing, but reached across and found her blouse, which she put, without any underclothes, across her shoulders.

  “Tell me,” I insisted.

  “I don’t know if I can,” she said. “It is not easy to say it.”

  “Try.”

  She looked out to sea for a long while, gathering her thoughts.

  “I was twenty-seven when I married Mr. Cort,” she began softly. “An old maid. I had all but given up thought of marrying, and believed I would have to make shift as best I could on my own. Then he appeared and proposed. I accepted, even though I knew there would never be any love between us. He made me no promises, nor I him. He wanted a housekeeper; he has no notion of love or romance. Besides, I was giving nothing up, and I thought we would make do together. I would have children, and they would provide affection enough.

  “I learned soon enough that was simply a dream as well. He cannot… do what you do.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “We do not have the intimacy of the sort that is usual between man and wife,” she continued stiffly. “Nor has he any interest in women in that way. I thought to begin with it was just the shyness of a habitual bachelor, but I soon realised that it was more than that. No! I must say no more!”

  “As you wish, but do not keep silent for my sake.”

  I could see what she meant by this being difficult; it was hard to listen to. But once she had started she could not stop; it was as though all her words had been blocked in her for years and took the first opportunity to come bursting out into the open, to the first sympathetic listener. I said nothing at all, merely listening cemented our intimacy and drew our lives closer together, made us lovers in the soul as well as the body.

  “He has other tastes. Terrible, perverted, disgusting ones. He did his duty, and we had our son, but that was all. When I discovered… what he was, I could no longer go near him. I will not have him touch me, if I have the choice. Do you understand?”

  I nodded, but only hesitantly.

  “That is why he likes Venice. There is opportunity, for people like him. You think of him as a mild, gentle man, do you not? Foolish, ineffectual but good-natured.”

  “I suppose that is my general impression, yes.”

  “You do not know him. You do not know what he is like.”

  “I find this all difficult to believe.”

  “I know. Much of the time he is as you know him. But then the madness comes on him and he changes. He is violent, cruel. Do you want me to tell you the things he does? The things he makes me do, when I don’t run away, or lock myself in a room so he cannot come to me, him and the people he finds? He likes pain, you see. It excites him. It is the only thing which does. He is not manly in the world and he takes his revenge on me.”

  I shook my head. “Don’t tell me.”

  I reached out and took her had, horrified by what she was saying. How could anyone treat such a woman—any woman—in the fashion she hinted
at? It was beyond all understanding.

  “You do not seem like someone who has been so abused,” I said.

  “I do not have bruises or cuts, at the moment,” she said. “Do you doubt me? Wait a little and soon enough I will have marks to satisfy you.”

  “I did not mean that,” I replied quickly. “I meant that you do not have the air of a woman mistreated. Neglected, unloved, perhaps.”

  “I have grown used to it,” she said. “It was not always so. In the beginning I rebelled, but how could I do so successfully? I have no money of my own, no position, he is my husband. If I ran away, where would I run? He would find me again, or I would starve. I tried, once, but I was discovered before I could leave.

  “So I have learned. I think to myself that perhaps not all men are like that. I tell myself that it will pass. Once the madness passes, he is perfectly agreeable for weeks before it starts again. He has allowed me to show you around; is that the decision of a monster? The man you have met, is he cruel and violent? No. To the outside world he is meek and mild. Only I know the truth of what he is like. But who would ever believe me? If I said anything it is I who would be called mad, not him.”

  Here she broke down completely, her head in her hands, sobbing silently. She could not go on, and even turned her back on me when I tried to comfort her. I insisted, and eventually she gave way, throwing herself into my arms and crying without restraint.

  I could not yet see my course of action; all I knew was that I would eventually have one. “You must leave,” I said. “Leave Venice and your husband.”

  “I cannot,” she said scornfully. “How could I do such a thing? Where would I go?”

  “I could…”

  “No!” she said, really frightened now. “No, you must say nothing. Do nothing. You must promise me.”

  “But I must do something.”

  “You must not! Do you think of yourself as a knight in shining armour, rescuing the damsel in distress? We do not live in an age when such things happen. He has rights. I am his property. What would happen? He would deny it all, of course. He would say I was inventing things. He would get someone like Marangoni to say that I was a habitual liar, that I was mad. Do you think that if I told the truth, said that he beats me to become excited…”

  She broke off, horrified at what she had said, that she had let out more than she wished about her hellish existence.

  “Please,” she said, pleading with me, “please do not take matters into your own hands. Do not intervene. There is nothing you can do for me. Except to love me a little, show me that there are men who are not monsters, that there is more to love than pain and tears.”

  I shook my head in confusion. “What do you want?”

  “I need to think, to clear my head. Meeting you was—I cannot describe it. The moment I saw you I felt something I have never known before. I do not ask you for help; there is nothing you can do for me. I ask you simply for your presence, a little. That is more soothing and comforting than anything you can say or do.”

  “You ask for too little.”

  “I ask for more than any person has ever given me,” she replied, stroking my cheek. “And if I asked for more, I might not get it.”

  “You doubt me?”

  She did not reply, but threw herself on me once more. “No more words,” she said. “Not for a while.”

  She was ferocious; it was as though, having unburdened herself to me, shown me her secrets, she had no need left of any modesty or caution. She was violent with me, just as others had been violent in their hatred of her; it was her defence, I thought, to respond to her tormentors in such a way. Afterwards she lay once more on the ground, stretched out with a total lack of caution or care.

  “I wish I could die now,” she said as she ran her fingers through my hair. “Do you not agree? To end your life in this place, with the sound of the sea and the trees, the light twinkling through the branches. Will you kill me? It would make me happy, you know. Please, kill me now. I would like to die at your hands.”

  I laughed, but her face was serious. “Then I would never see you again, or talk to you or hold you,” I said. “And I am a selfish man. Now I have you, I will not let you go so easily, whatever your wishes.”

  “Oh, if only I had known men such as you existed! I might have made different choices.”

  “Listen,” I said, beginning to pull on my clothes. Time was passing far quicker than I wished, and one of us had to remember the outside world continued to exist. “How do you wish to proceed now? I need hardly say that I want to repeat this afternoon. Do you want that also? If you do not, then tell me now because I could not stand to be repulsed.”

  “What would you do if I refused you?”

  “I would leave, and quickly. There is no vital reason to stay here.”

  “Do not leave. I really would die if you did.”

  “So, what do we do now? We cannot come all the way to the Lido every afternoon. And we cannot meet either in your lodging or mine.”

  “I have had no experience in arranging secret meetings with a lover,” she said, and I could hear in her voice a faint tremor of excitement, as though the very idea was bringing her spirits back to life.

  “Nor I,” I replied truthfully. “But I believe it is usual in such circumstances to rent a room, generally in some poor part of the city. It would not be elegant, and would offer few conveniences except privacy. Such things are normally for women of low quality, though, and I would hesitate…”

  “No! Let us do that! That is what I am. Nothing more than that, and I will be that for you with pleasure.”

  I looked closely at her. She was serious.

  It was settled, and in the most businesslike terms. There was no need for delicacy of language, for in our acts we had already passed beyond the point of dissimulation. Secrecy was of the essence. I would acquire a room for our meetings. We would be conspicuous to some, no doubt, but not to anyone who might care. As long as we were safe from the prying eyes of other foreigners, we could be safe. The Venetians see all and say nothing.

  And so we made our way back, as the evening light was beginning to settle over the city. The gondolier rowed methodically, making us feel safe by his knowing silence. We sat together, side by side, until we were close in, and said not a word to each other. The evening shadows were our conversation, the softness of the light and the calm of the water were our emotions made tangible. Venice is quiet in comparison to most cities, yet it seemed noisy and raucous to my ears as we came in to land. The people walked too fast, had too many reasons for what they did and said, unlike me, as I no longer had any reason or desire to do anything.

  I touched her only as I helped her out of the gondola, and our eyes met briefly before the collusion and dissimulation that was to be our life from now on intervened. It was an electric moment, as we both realised how much we were now bound to each other, conspirators together, living a secret life of lies and deceit.

  I consider myself a moral man, who upholds the laws of God and man as best as he is able. I was married and, in all the time since I wed my wife, I had never deceived or betrayed her in any way. I hold to my contracts and keep my word. I considered that Louise had been absolved from whatever vows she had sworn by the treatment she had received. She had said too much, and regretted her words, but I now had some idea of the hellish life she endured with her husband. No one owes loyalty to such a person.

  I had no such excuse and I try to make none. Except to say that excitement is a drug, and Venice is a treacherous place, which sucks people down. I wanted her, and for the first time in my life all the arguments and reasons which would have stopped me were of no effect. I didn’t even consider what I was doing; did not feel guilty for a single moment. All objections I brushed aside. Venice had taken hold of me, and I had rushed into its embrace as willingly as I had rushed into hers.

  The rest of the world would not have viewed it with such indulgence, of course; I had seduced another man’s wife, and
what had begun in hot blood I intended to continue in a spirit of calculation. The life of deception started that moment. “I must thank you, Mrs. Cort, for your assistance today. I trust you did not find it too dull.”

  “On the contrary,” she replied. “And if you wish me to accompany you again, then please do not hesitate to say so. I am sure Mr. Cort will not object.”

  And then we bade each other farewell in a stiff and formal fashion, and I turned to leave, my heart pounding with excitement.

  My liaison demanded secrecy, and what better way of ensuring that than to act entirely normally? I might have wandered the streets, soaking up the atmosphere of the place which was already coiling itself around my being. Venice is the most dangerous place on earth, or was then, until the tourists came and swamped the air of threat, which existed in its very stones, with the futile frivolity of the sightseer, and converted the inhabitants into supplicants of the transient.

  “Why so moody?” Such might have been the question had any acquaintance encountered me, and it was far too soon to run such risks. So I resolved to shut off that part of my thoughts and switch my attention to other things. There was a part of me—an ever-diminishing, weakening part, it is true—which fought against the seductions of the city, although only halfheartedly.

  I walked to the offices of the Banca di Santo Spirito and left my card for Signor Ambrosian. I wished to meet a man who knew about the city—knew how it worked, that is, rather than knew about its buildings, which is always the easiest thing to discover, and who also knew about Macintyre. I have always found it strange that people are willing to travel to a place, and devote some considerable energy to doing so, yet leave with not the slightest knowledge or interest in the lives of the inhabitants.

  An old friend of mine travelled through the Balkans a few years ago and spent months in those countries, yet came back knowledgeable only about landscapes and the architecture of Orthodox monasteries. How was capital accumulated? How were the cities run? Was the system of taxation efficient or no? What levels of literacy and discipline could you count on amongst the population? What, in other words, about the stuff of their lives? Not only did he have no knowledge of these things, he had no interest in them, seeming to think that monasteries merely pop out of the ground like mushrooms without any application of either money or labour, and that cities are simply wished into existence for no reason other than to delight the eye of the visitor.