A Man of Genius (18 page)

The open mouth was a cavern stretching down towards the stomach, the lower lip pendulous, quivering slightly with the breath. She could step on that face. But it would not give in to her step. She had no weight for it. It would rise up and knock her down. Then it would mock her as the victim she continued to be.

22

I
t was the time of leisure, of idleness, of heat. No Venetian who could afford to leave for the mountains was still in residence.

But, strangely, Aksel Jakobsen remained on the island. Perhaps he didn't possess quite the means that his hiring of the boat from Padua had indicated. Or perhaps his leanness made the heat less troublesome to him than it was to more ample persons.

Now that she knew who he was and had learned a little of him he seemed to have come out of the shadows. While she waited for her passes and passports and went about her business, she saw him often and acknowledged his presence with a greeting, rarely more, at several places: in San Marco by the basilica, by the shipyards near the Arsenale, and by the few open fish stalls of the Rialto; she spied him looking at prints and copies of paintings in a window in Sant'Anzolo.

On two occasions she even found him staring at clam fishers out in the lagoon near their apartment. She was afraid to invite him in for a glass of wine or water for fear of Robert's brooding presence; it could be felt even through the study door. Out of politeness, however, she pointed at their rooms. Aksel Jakobsen remarked that there, up so many flights of steps, they must have a good view and some breeze. She lamented they had neither.

On the second occasion near the apartment he'd been useful. She'd been arguing with Signora Scorzeri by the canal, promising yet again to begin paying arrears of rent from some imagined store. Signor James expected a bank draft very shortly, she had lied – or so she supposed since she saw no evidence that Robert had arranged for
money to be dispatched – how on earth had he expected to live? She was not good at such blatant deceiving and Signora Scorzeri was letting her anger mount. Then up walked Aksel Jakobsen. His presence curbed the
padrona
's speech: she was forced to restrain her frustration as she acknowledged the gentleman and let herself be introduced.

He appeared more prosperous than her scruffy tenants; perhaps he might be appealed to in future if he really were their friend. Or he might want rooms himself. He must be looking for something, for why else be staring across the water at this shabby end of the islands?

Summer turned into
Ferragosto
, the Assumption of the sinless soul and uncorrupted body of the Blessed Virgin, rising direct to heaven. Napoleon had decreed the Virgin be demoted, that her day be changed to celebrate Saint Napoleon instead. Reasonable enough: the Lord had raised him up in troubled times; as such he demanded reverence. But Napoleon had lost his day and the Virgin was reinstated.

Unexpectedly, Beatrice had sent word to Ann that she and her mother had returned to their palazzo just for a short time; she didn't explain why. She would welcome a lesson with the Signora, welcome it very much. It was hard for Ann to think of parsing the language of ‘The Giaour' at this time but the cool interior of the Palazzo Savelli would ease her head: it now ached almost continuously. To get away from the apartment where the silence between her and Robert was oppressive or interrupted by a snarl when they were forced to meet would be something.

Her passport, she now knew, needed signing by an official who'd left the heat of Venice for the cooler foothills of the Alps. There was nothing to do but wait. She'd written back to the address in Paris to say that she would come as soon as she could. Caroline had so often been dying she doubted it was the emergency the ‘Friend' implied, but she would hurry.

Most often now Robert was in his study sleeping on his chair or moving around nervously. Once she'd said it would be better if he
came to bed. But he did not. Best not contemplate the life they'd lead when she returned to Italy. No point in saying ‘if'. To think of the future was to enter a desert at night.

So the visit to Beatrice was an oasis. She freshened herself as best she could in the morning's oppressive heat. She'd hired a girl to bring up water and was paying her from her small hoard, but she was not always on hand. Signora Scorzeri was unwilling to do anything extra for them now. When the girl was absent and the boy reluctant – she'd always paid him promptly but perhaps Robert had berated him for delivering the letter from the post office – Ann had to carry up water herself; the exertion made the sweat run down her body. In such circumstances it was difficult to make oneself truly clean.

Their rooms had high beamed ceilings but heat lingered throughout and insects swarmed in through the open windows when she tried to lure in a little breeze by flinging wide the shutters. There was usually a wind blowing on the island but it hardly penetrated their apartment even on these occasions. When the wind strengthened it was a hot dusty one that brought no coolness.

Sometimes the heat was interrupted by great electric storms that washed over everything. But when the rain and wind and lightning had swept through, the oppressive heat settled back again and a smell of broiling earth and sludgy water rose into the air. It was rumoured that the Patriarch of Venice was able to allay storms by pouring holy water on to the waves. But he was out of town; like most of the officials, civil and clerical, he too disliked the hot months and spent them in the mountains.

She could only do her best. Having washed as well as possible, she changed into clean clothes, wiped the sweat off her face once more, and pinched her cheeks to try to hide the strain and pallor. She hoped she didn't look as dreadful as she felt. There was little point in saying goodbye to Robert. He would stay in or go out in his own particular way. If he'd felt it unnecessary to mention his visits to the palazzo, she could emulate him.

She went down the stairs and let herself out of the building. She passed Signora Scorzeri, who was just leaving to see relatives with
her pretty grandchild Rosa and a bunch of flowers in her arms. She huffed when she saw Ann but, with the child in her hand and her festive intent, it was not the moment to raise again the matter of unpaid rent.

Ann was glad she had a reason to cross the canal. The struggle presented by travel in Venice along the liquid roads was all that could momentarily dampen her uneasy mind. The difficulties of life and the heat, with the expectation of more of both, were, she felt, all that stood between her and accepted despair.

At the Palazzo Savelli she was let in by the black-clad servant, more silent than ever, her face tight against any greeting beyond the obligatory
prego
. Even that was just a mutter. The footman and the other servants were nowhere to be seen; perhaps some had remained in Friuli. The house was unusually still, chilled despite the mounting heat outside. Ann luxuriated in the sudden coolness. She felt the sweat between her breasts begin to evaporate. It was a welcome change.

Feeling a little more comfortable but aware that she might none the less appear more hot and bothered than she wished, she walked slowly through the cavernous hall and towards the stairs that rose to the room where she and Beatrice usually delighted to take their lessons. She was surprised and a little hurt that the girl didn't come out to greet her. She'd made a special effort to travel from La Giudecca in a time of holiday and on a day that promised at its meridian to be as sultry as any they'd suffered.

Then Beatrice burst through the opposite door from the room where the Contessa usually presided over the card or tea-table. She ran down the marble steps and along the hall towards Ann, holding up her skirt, yet nearly tripping in her haste. As she came close, Ann saw that her face was swollen and blotched by crying, her dress disordered.

‘My dear Beatrice, what – ?' Ann began. The girl stopped her by coming up and whispering in her ear, ‘Oh, Signora, I cannot after all have lesson today. Excuse, excuse.'

‘Of course,' said Ann, ‘of course, do not worry. But what has happened?'

Beatrice moved away slightly but went on whispering, now in a high tone that made her words quite audible beyond themselves if anyone had been by to listen. ‘There has been a terrible thing. Francesco has hit our mother.' She added quickly, ‘It was his sickness, not Francesco, who did it. But Mama is distraught.'

She took Ann's arm and held it tightly, ‘I can tell nobody else but you – for I know that you will understand. Your husband, Signora, and my brother. It is no good.'

The girl looked at her with such appeal it lessened the pain of what she said. She, Ann, would understand: Beatrice and she both knew why it was no good . . .

Beatrice squeezed, then lightly embraced her. She slipped back up the stairs and into the room, leaving Ann alone.

She would like to have helped this girl for whom she'd come to feel so much affection, but there was nothing she could do. She had no solution to provide and no energy to use for anyone beyond herself. She was as helpless in the palazzo as in the depressing apartment on La Giudecca.

She turned round and walked slowly back along the hall towards the door. She was let out silently by the servant who'd so recently let her in. At first the woman kept her eyes fixed downwards, then, as Ann moved outside and on to the stone steps, caught her eye and gave her a sad, toothless smile.

She returned to the apartment, her mind brimful of dread. It was a dread so obvious, so palpable that anyone on the boat or
calli
on her route back could have seen and smelled it. Fortunately so few people were out in this heat; the rest kept themselves for the night. Her dread enveloped her as she dragged her weary feet upstairs.

By now it was the hottest time of the day. Few with pale skins and a memory of cold and mist could bear it easily. She knew how provocative it must be for Robert, the heat and his choler agitating each other. She knew all this so well.

Had she left him alone he might have gone on melting through these sultry days, getting thinner, more listless but disintegrating
slowly – like a large vegetable growing over-ripe, mottled and loose, finally decaying.

But she didn't leave him to go on his own way, to his own particular destruction. She simply could not bear it.

So, instead of letting well – and bad – alone, she went into his study, not waiting for an answer when, after several small, then increasingly louder knocks, no answer came. Not accepting that the lack of response was a blank and utter rejection of her.

She knew that what he'd recently written was nonsense – she'd read those crumpled pages with their repetitive inanities. Yet on
this
day she went right up to him, leaned over his shoulder and reached for one of the leaves he'd pushed aside. At that moment he was making no pretence to write.

She meant to look and soothe. So she said to herself. She meant to touch his shoulder and stroke the back of his head where the hair was too long and a little matted with sweat. She might have done all this, but did none of it.

Instead she put her hand on his arm as she leaned forward to his desk.

How could he want this, any of it, what she was doing or had planned to do? Want it from any woman? How could he respond? Violence was all he had, all that was left of his power. He was no vegetable rotting beyond movement, he never would be. What he did on this and on any occasion was reactive, intuitive and inevitable.

It was afternoon when she limped down the many steps, dragging the palm of her hand against the uneven wall. The young Frenchmen had unexpectedly returned to claim their rooms but they were out now for she'd heard them earlier tramping down the stairs, laughing together as usual. So the building was empty. She could have no fear of being accosted by Signora Scorzeri.

She had to be outside, to gulp the heavy air. A
temporale
, a giant storm, was about to break through the oppression, to counter a
tension that made the whole sky and earth and water into one large, complicated knot of anger.

Let it burst and rain down water and stones and pitch to wet them all and wipe out this filth and horror.

Drama or melodrama? Did her predicament translate too easily into hackneyed words? She'd once thought Sarah naive to associate her stories with her life. But the reverse?

She stood looking towards the pictured Venice. Not her Venice.

Against the odds she'd become fond of it, the tawdry glamour, its gaiety, its insouciance about its failure of nerve. An Englishman would have cringed for years. Venetians never did.

She liked the decaying buildings, their roots deep in the slime that was kinder than water to the wooden stakes. She liked the great high decorated palazzi – called palaces by the awestruck English though in reality nothing more than big terraced houses quaintly painted. She approved the laconic acceptance of the secular in the religious, the churches adorned with figures of those who'd paid for them as often as the saints they honoured. All wonderful.

She wished she'd been born of this city, been one of the gay painted people who did as they pleased and were pleased with what they did. They kept the outside embroidered with ceremony and tact and exclusion. For her it would never be homey, homely, never home. With all her heart she wished it could have been.

‘It's a charnel house,' Robert had said. He dismissed it with a theatrical wave.

‘There are no more dead here than anywhere else.'

‘There's a whole damned island of them. They don't all fit in there, Signor Balbi said so. Corpses float about in their own boats or are tipped out in the lagoon. Look down, you'll see skulls through the water. It's a place with no future.'

‘A great past,' she'd said, mistress of banality as she was.

‘A past with no future is nothing.'

She waited for his words to leave her mind as she struggled
through the rising wind, stumbling while she held tight to the scarf she'd tied round her head to cover her face and its darkening bruises.

The voice subsided but she couldn't rid herself of one special word: you will not
muzzle
me. You will not. She would not. No, indeed. She would not try. Dangerous dogs that have tasted human blood are greedy for more.