Frankenstein's Monster (7 page)

Blind fury cut short my last words, written with bloodied fingers. Today bids me to take up my pen so I can form a plan.

I do not want to draw attention by staying in St. Mark’s by day, and so I slink through the streets like a furtive rat. All the city searches for me, as the story of what happened in the campanile has been told and embroidered and retold. The Venetians long for the sight of the hideous giant that kidnapped a nobleman’s beautiful daughter on her wedding day, murdered her, and then, being discovered, broke free from the dozen soldiers that her father had sent to rescue her.

Walton has taken up the hunt once more. I can feel it. To him, I am more elusive than the Magnetic Pole he once sought, and perhaps more powerful. Though he searches for me, I must find
him
to have the advantage. He must have no possibility of escape.

Hours before midnight, the rain poured down in such torrents that I returned to St. Mark’s Church earlier than usual. I found this corner and write. Tomorrow I will mingle with the crowd again as a hunchbacked beggar. I need to know what people are saying; more specifically, I need to know where Walton has his lodgings.

The approaching dawn has begun to lighten the stained-glass windows. Usually I find some measure of enjoyment
in the church’s statues, enamelwork, gold, and jewels—today, none. I have unwittingly made my nest beneath the church’s famous mosaic, the story of Adam and Eve illustrated in tiny stones and gilt paint. Where was I when God made man?

This morning the rain let up, although the sky remained a dismal gray, as if the clouds would burst open again at any moment. I left the church and sought out Lucio. Of anyone, the little blind beggar would have the most recent gossip. It has been almost three weeks since he bade me leave. Not knowing if he would speak to me, I thought only to stand close by, listen to his banter, and thus learn something that way.

He had returned to our old spot in the Piazzetta, this time in the shadow of the column that is topped by a statue of a fierce, winged lion, symbol of St. Mark himself. Lucio had a wealthy old woman by the sleeve and was speaking quietly, a shock to me because his voice was often the loudest in the square. Perhaps he was engaged in gross flattery, softly cajoling her into buying a love amulet. Or perhaps he thought the woman to be younger, although he had never made that mistake before. She threw a coin into his bowl and hurried off.

I walked closer. How he had changed! He was thinner, and his blind eyes were sunken and darkly circled. His manner was more subdued as if it, too, was overshadowed by darkness.

“So, my friend,” Lucio said. “You have returned.”

“And you have given up begging for peddling.”

He pulled from his pocket strangely woven knots made from colored yarn. “The crowd finds them a novelty, at least
for now, and have been filling my bowl more quickly. That’s good. These days I hurry home early. My wife is … not well.”

I would not question him about her sickness, knowing its cause.

“But how are you?” he asked. “I have missed you. Where have you been?”

Such a short time ago his affection would have warmed me.

“I worked another corner, as you asked me to do,” I said. Obviously he had regretted his words. I said nothing to soothe him; he had wounded me, and I was glad to see he had been wounded in turn. “Then I fell ill.”

“And when you felt better, no doubt the corner was taken by someone else. The Austrians are right,” he said. “Venice has too many beggars. We fight for the same paltry coin and hurt only ourselves.” He leaned against the column and sighed.

“Tell me what’s been happening,” I encouraged him. “I’ve been shut away for so long, I feel as if the whole world has changed while I’ve been gone.”

“Old man Petrocelli was robbed last night. There are rumors it was the giant.”

“Giant?” I said, feigning surprise. “What giant?”

The delight of gossip did not bring its usual smile; instead, his face tightened. “If you have not heard of the giant, your fever must have made you senseless.”

I listened to the story, which, by now, just days later and in a different part of the city, had been embellished even more. What had been a small, spontaneous attack, instigated by a foreigner who had claimed he discovered the deserter, now encompassed valor, honor, bravery, and such audaciously brilliant tactics that, although they failed, were sure to merit commendations. Lie piled on lie, body on body, until I had
killed half a regiment and, with a strength like Samson’s, brought down the campanile itself.

Lucio’s words cut the most sharply when he ended:

“The worst of all of this …” His voice, now beyond his power to control it, began to tremble. “The girl was really not a rich man’s daughter, as they are saying. She was just a girl he’d dragged in from the streets, as poor and helpless as we are. The giant raped her in the vilest of ways and strangled her. The soldiers broke in, but it was too late. The girl was hanging lifeless from his enormous hands.”

Shame and hatred jerked my body so fiercely I knocked over Lucio’s bowl and sent the coins spinning.

“My friend?”

I backed away before he touched my vile, enormous hands, still stained with blood.

His stories had said enough that I now knew where I might find Walton. I would have gone at once but for the silent sadness that had returned to the beggar’s face. His words would be like broken glass in my ears, but I asked how he himself had been.

He tried to command his emotions before he spoke:

“Right before the girl’s murder, my wife was brutally attacked. I’m certain it was the giant. He invaded our home, but I didn’t even know till he had grabbed her!” he cried in anguish. “He choked my wife while I held her in my arms!”

Lucio’s voice failed him and he turned away.

“Till that night I never thought I was less of a man for being blind.”

Remorse is too pallid a word for what I felt.

“He did not kill her,” Lucio continued. “But the shock … They tell me her hair has gone entirely white. She won’t stay alone, yet won’t come with me to the Piazzetta. She does
not eat, she does not sleep. She just stands by the window and keeps watch. She must be reminded to nurse the baby, though it cries and cries and her dress is wet from leaking milk. She no longer hears the baby, my friend. She no longer hears me.”

“I’m sorry for your troubles,” I said, touching his shoulder. I could not bear to listen to him another moment. “Goodbye, Lucio. You have always been kind to me.”

“No, I’ve been harsh. I’m glad you came back. Will you be back tomorrow?” He grabbed at the air to try to find me.

I fingered the little chain of charms that encircled my wrist.

“It depends on my luck,” I said, and quickly walked away.

I write now from a quiet place, whose silent peace mocks me.

After I spoke to Lucio, I returned to St. Mark’s and impatiently waited for night. I could not go out until it was late enough that Walton would have returned to his room. Outside, people gathered on every side of the church and created an unexpected air of merriment that crazed me with anticipation. Through this door, prostitutes sold themselves on the steps. Through that one, soldiers patrolled by fours. Here was a couple arguing over infidelities. There was a drunk singing arias from
Così Fan Tutte
. The hours stretched till I imagined it close to dawn, but a bell pronounced it two.

Late enough.

A hush as thick as cotton wadding had settled over the night as I stealthily made my way to the quays at the Fondamente Nuove. According to Lucio, it was near there that the foreigner lived, in a house owned by the elderly Signora
Giordani, in the corner room on the second story: such was the precision of the gossip. When the foreigner was not wandering the streets, he stood in his corner room and stared out at the lagoon, madness burning in his eyes.

Separating the house from the one next to it was a narrow alley. I braced myself between the two buildings and by force steadily inched my way up. When I had gained enough height, I hung on to the ledge and reached around until I caught the sill and was able to climb up. I squeezed through the open window and into the room.

It was empty.

Cursing, I shredded the bedsheets in rage.

Had I come too soon? Had I entered the wrong room? Had he already left Venice?

The room held a desk, chair, book, and candle. After slipping the book into my pocket—for even now I could not ignore a gift from Chance—I saw that beneath it was a letter written in English. “My dearest brother,” the letter began. Dated a month ago, it was signed, “Margaret.” Was it Walton’s? Surely he was not the only Englishman in Venice.

At last, on the floor I saw the large folded sheet that had enveloped it. The letter had come from a Mrs. Gregory Winterbourne in Tarkenville, England, and was addressed, I read with satisfaction, to Robert Walton, in care of an address in Rome. That had been scratched out and an address in Venice written to one side. The letter had taken this long to catch up with him.

I let the sheet drop to the floor, snuffed out the candle, and stood in the darkness, thinking. Should I wait for his return? Where could he be at this late hour?

The door cracked open and candlelight streamed in.

“Signor?”

I moved farther into the shadows.

“Signor? You are restless again. Would you like wine? I know you said you never drink. For tonight only, it would help you sleep.…”

An old woman stepped over the threshold. I pressed myself against the wall and whispered, “Yes, thank you, wine.”

She stopped. Hesitation, then fear, crossed her broad, innocent face. She backed out of the room, slammed the door, and ran down the hall.

A moment later I left the way I had entered.

A wild shriek came from directly below me as a face showed in a first-floor window.

“Help! Thief, thief!” I dropped to the ground, and the old woman saw me clearly. Her next words were choked. “It’s the giant!” she cried, leaning out of the window.

Shutters along the street flew open. A man took up the cry.

“The giant! Don’t let it escape! Kill it!”

The cry was echoed by some while others hissed. Shoes flew at me. A boot struck me sharply in the head. With unnameable emotion, I shook back my hood. I had not stood undisguised before so many people in ten years. I had often wondered what might happen if I did, and here was my answer: hatred pouring from every open window.

I stretched my hands out to the night sky. Under the eyes of the crowd I felt tall enough to wipe away the clouds and reveal the stars beyond.

“Look at me!” I demanded of my audience.

What was it that suddenly silenced them? In that brief moment of quiet, my arms still flung upward, I turned to each face, one after another, searching its expression for a clue as to what each person saw, what I was. I was hoping for the thinnest thread of connection. Instead, a wave of movement swept along the street: people making the sign of the cross and dropping their eyes. No one would meet my gaze.

“What do you see? Tell me!”

Would no one answer? Then—

“I see a murderer!”

“Murderer!”

Someone threw a rotten cabbage. With that, every voice started up again, united in one obscene yell like a dissonant chord struck and pedaled and held. The loudest voice belonged to the old woman, who leaned out perilously far.

“Murderer!”

A chamber pot flew at my head. I saw it too late. It was a glancing blow, but it overturned, dumping its cold filth on my face. In it I tasted the heart of Venice.

I seized the old woman by the scruff of her withered neck, dragged her out of the window, and held her up to the crowd, her tiny bare feet dangling like a hanged man’s.

“Is it murder you want to see?”

How quickly they had opened their windows to shout at me. Would they just as quickly come to the woman’s assistance? No one had come to help Lucio when his wife had been attacked. In that forsaken part of the city, no one had answered their cries.

Again the crowd fell silent. I lowered my arm till the old woman’s body rested against mine and I could feel the frail drumming of her heart. Her eyes were closed; her lips murmured silent prayers. Between my thumb and forefinger her skull was as thin as an eggshell.

Whistles blew from a distance, footsteps clattered, and the crowd yelled, “Here! The giant is here!”

I threw the old woman to the ground and ran. At the end of the street appeared the patrol, the men’s faces set in boredom despite the double-time of their march. No doubt this was not the first cry of “giant!” they had investigated this evening. At the sight of me, their expressions caught fire
and they charged, spreading out and cutting off my escape. I dashed down the nearest alley. It twisted like a tortured snake, dank ruined walls on either side. There was enough pitting and scarring to provide handholds, but my pursuers were close: they would have time to shoot me down if I tried to go straight up.

The alley ended at a canal, wide enough to let two gondolas pass each other easily. I climbed over the wrought-iron railing, teetered on the edge of the brickwork, and leapt to the other side. Footsteps echoed down the streets here as well.

Even the freaks of Venice had been aroused against me. Hunchbacks stoned me, and cripples created a gauntlet of crutches as I ran through the beggars’ quarters. Gleeful virulence united them. As long as I existed, there was someone beneath them they could despise.

Through the last hours of the night I was chased in one long mad frenzy, up and down streets, along and over canals, from shadow to shadow. My mind drifted back to those final months when my father had chased me over the ice near the pole, the quintessential description of our relationship. I goaded him ever onward. I would never let him catch me, but I would never let him rest.

Venice was avenging him.

When I made my way back to the Fondamente Nuove, dawn had begun to lighten the overcast sky from black to dishwater. The dreariness gave the water the opaque milky blue of a cataract eye. I immediately thought of Lucio, then of what I had done to him. Fate had robbed me of possibility, but I had robbed Lucio of happiness he already had.