Stone's Fall (64 page)

“What was it? What happened?”

“A shark,” he replied sagely. “Really big one, travelling fast. I saw it clearly. It must have clipped the end of your boat, bitten the rudder off. Never seen a beast like that in the lagoon before.”

The crew was delighted; this was much better than rotten wood or some ordinary accident. They would dine out on this for weeks. Bartoli, after expressing surprise that they hadn’t noticed the fin sticking out of the water, offered assistance, which made Macintyre fretful. He wanted to go and get his torpedo back; he had no real idea what its range was, and it could be anywhere by now. It was his most treasured possession, and he did not want it to fall into the hands of some spy or rival, for he was convinced that all the governments and companies of the world were desperately trying to steal his secrets.

He need not have worried; Bartoli was too skilled for that. He knew quite well that no Venetian sailor would submit to being towed ignominiously into harbour by a bunch of foreigners. They were duly grateful, but turned the offer down. Then they rigged up a makeshift rudder from an oar, poking over the back rather as on a gondola, and after half an hour of enjoyable conversation, they set off again.

We all—and Macintyre in particular—breathed a sigh of relief when the felucca disappeared into the early morning mist; then we turned to the business of recovering his invention. I thought that the time had come to apologise.

“I think I had better find some way of compensating those sailors as well,” I ended. “I imagine repairing that rudder will cost something.”

But no apologies were really necessary; Macintyre was transformed. From the anxiety-ridden fusspot of an hour or so ago, he was like a man who had just been told he had inherited a fortune. He positively beamed at me, his eyes sparkling with excitement.

“Did you see it?” he exclaimed. “Did you see it? Straight as an arrow. It works, Stone! It works! Exactly as I said. If there’d only been some explosives in the nose I could have blown that boat to kingdom come. I could have sunk a battleship.”

“It would have been difficult to blame that on a shark,” I pointed out. But Macintyre waved my objections aside and ran up to the prow of the boat with a pair of field glasses.

We searched for about an hour for, although Macintyre was convinced it had gone as straight as an arrow, in fact it had a tendency to veer to the left a little. Not by much, but over several hundred yards, this made quite a difference. Also it had settled low in the water, only just visible on the surface, and that also made the search more difficult.

But we tracked it down eventually, embedded in a mudbank in water too shallow for us to approach in the boat.

“Now what do we do?” I asked as we gazed at it, some twenty yards away from us off our starboard bow, not daring to go any closer lest our boat also got wedged in the mud.

We spent half an hour throwing a hook tied to a rope towards it, hoping to hook the thing and then drag it towards us, but with no luck whatsoever. There was no point waiting for the tide to change, as there was none.

“Can anyone swim?” I asked.

A general shaking of heads, which I found extraordinary. It didn’t surprise me that Macintyre couldn’t, but I was amazed that none of his employees—brought up surrounded by water as they were—could either. I wondered how many Venetians drowned every year if this was normal amongst them.

“Why?”

“Well,” I said, now suddenly reluctant, “I thought—just an idea, you know—that one of us could try to swim over to it. The water might be deep enough.”

“If you got stuck in the mud you’d never get out again,” Bartoli said. I didn’t like that “you.”

“Good point,” I said.

But Macintyre thought my untimely death would be a worthwhile price to pay. “Take two ropes,” he said. “One for the torpedo and another for you. Then we could pull both out. You can swim, can’t you?”

“Me?” I said, wondering whether my father would have considered lying justifiable in these particular circumstances. On the whole he disapproved strongly of the practise. “Well, a little.”

“Excellent,” Macintyre said, his worries all over. “And I am deeply grateful to you, my dear sir. Deeply grateful. Although as it’s your fault that the torpedo is there in the first place…”

Point taken. Very reluctantly I began to take off my clothes and peered over the side. I would have to let myself into the water very slowly, for fear of sinking down and becoming embedded in mud before I even started. It was cold and the water looked even colder.

Bartoli tied two ropes around my waist and grinned at me. “Don’t worry,” he said. “We will not leave you there.”

And then I lowered myself gently into the water. It was even colder than I had feared, and I began shivering immediately. But, nothing to be done now; using a gentle breast stroke, I set off for the torpedo, trying to keep my legs as high in the water as possible.

The only danger came when I got close to the torpedo and had to stop. Then the water was only about three feet deep and my feet had slid across the mud several times; as I manoeuvred into position, I had to push down and I felt them slip into the mud properly. When I tried to hang on to the torpedo and drag them out, I realised they were stuck hard.

“I can’t move,” I shouted to the boat.

“Tie the rope onto the torpedo! Stop pushing it further into the mud,” Macintyre shouted back.

“What about me?”

“We’ll pull you out afterwards.”

Well, thank you, I thought bitterly. Still, he was right. That was what I was there for. I was so cold now that I could barely untie the knot, let alone push the rope through the propeller casing and tie it securely. My teeth were chattering uncontrollably by the time I was finally done.

“Excellent,” Macintyre shouted. “Pull away.”

It took some effort by the people on the boat, but eventually the torpedo began to move, and once the suction was broken it slipped rapidly past me and into deeper water. Macintyre was all but dancing up and down in joy.

“Now get me out of here!” I shouted.

“Oh, very well,” came the reply, and I felt the rope tighten around my chest as they began to tug. Nothing happened. I moved a few inches, but the moment the pressure was relaxed, I sank back down even deeper than before. I was now getting frightened.

“Don’t stop!” I shouted. “I’m going lower. Get me out of here!”

Nothing happened. I glanced round and saw Macintyre staring at me and stroking his chin. Then he talked to Bartoli. For a fraction of a second I was convinced he was going to abandon me there.

But no. Although what he planned was nearly worse. As he explained afterwards, the suction from the mud was too strong for them. All they were doing was pulling the boat itself into danger. They needed more power.

I saw Bartoli pulling up the sails, and Macintyre pulling up the anchor, and one of his men manning the oar to turn the ship. I realised with horror what they had in mind. They were setting sail, and were going to use the full power of the boat and the wind to try and dislodge me.

“You’ll pull me apart!” I yelled.

“Don’t do that.”

But Macintyre just waved cheerfully. The boat began to move, and I felt the rope tighten once more, until it was as taut as a bowstring and the pressure on my chest, the rubbing of the rough cord, unbearably painful. It was all I could do not to scream. I certainly remember thinking that if I was still in one piece at the end of this experiment I would thump Macintyre on the nose.

It got more and more painful; I could feel my body stretching as the mud refused to let me go, and that seemed to go on forever. Then, with the most disgusting slurping sound, it gave me up; my legs and feet were belched out of the mud in a huge cloud of foul-smelling water, and I floated free, trailing behind the boat as it headed towards Venice.

It took another five minutes to haul me in, and by then I could not move; I was shivering so badly I couldn’t control my arms or legs; my chest had the beginnings of a bright red weal across it, my spine felt as though it was several inches longer than it had been, and my legs still smelled unspeakably foul.

And Macintyre paid me not the slightest bit of attention. Instead, he was busily clucking over his lump of iron while Bartoli wrapped me in a blanket, and brought me some grappa. I drank it from the bottle, then rolled over in the blanket until I began to recover.

“It’s fine,” Macintyre said, as though certain that his torpedo would be uppermost in my mind. “No damage at all. Although the cowling bent from the way you attached the rope to it.”

I ignored him. He didn’t notice.

“But no matter. That can be hammered out. Apart from that, it is in perfect condition. All I have to do now is clean it, dry it and make a few minor adjustments and it will be ready for the big test next week.”

“May I say that I would not have cared had the damnable thing sunk to the bottom of the lagoon, never to be seen again?”

Macintyre looked at me in astonishment. “But, my dear Stone,” he cried, “just look at you! I am so sorry, I haven’t thanked you enough. What you did just now was generous. Generous and a mark of true kindness. Thank you, from the bottom of my heart.”

I was somewhat mollified by this, but only somewhat. I kept on drinking the grappa, and slowly felt some warmth creep back into my body. Everyone made a fuss over me, said how wonderful I had been. That helped. If one is to behave selflessly and courageously it is pleasing to have it recognised. I wrapped myself in blankets and encomiums all the way home, and lay there dreaming of Louise by my side. I even felt almost content by the time the boat finally docked just by the workship three hours later. But I did not help unload the torpedo. I had had enough. I left them to it, Macintyre shouting, everyone else working, and walked back to my lodgings. There I demanded a bath with limitless hot water immediately, and would not take no for an answer. I had to wait another hour before it was prepared, by which time everyone in the house had been told that the idiot Englishman had fallen into the lagoon. Well, what do you expect from foreigners?

CHAPTER
14

The next morning, a note was delivered to my room, from Marangoni, of all people. “I stand corrected,” he wrote, and I could almost see the smile on his face as I read. “It seems that Mr. Cort’s Venetian really does exist. Come and meet him, if you wish; he is a fascinating creature.”

I had as leisurely a breakfast as Venetian habits allow and decided that, as I had nothing better to do that morning, I would take up the invitation and go to San Servolo. The island lies between San Marco and the Lido, a handsome-enough place from a distance; you would never know that it was an asylum for the insane—certainly it is very unlike the grim prisons which England was then throwing up all over the country to incarcerate the lunatics which all societies produce in abundance. Marangoni hated the place, and would have preferred a modern, scientific establishment, but I think his real objection stemmed from his determination to detach his profession from any taint of religiosity. Otherwise, the old Benedictine monastery would have been a beautiful place to spend his time. Apart from the inmates: there is something about madness which casts a pall on the loveliest of buildings; the clouds always seem to hover above such places, no matter how brightly the sun shines. And, of course, no one spends much money on lunatics; they get the leftovers, after the more astute and agile have taken what they want. San Servolo was in a pitiable state, crumbling, overgrown and depressing. The sort of place you wish to get away from; the sort of place that might easily send even a perfectly healthy person insane.

Marangoni had colonised the best part for himself, the abbot’s lodgings were now his office, with remarkable painted ceilings, and large windows that opened onto the lagoon. It was a room that could make you see the virtues of a contemplative life, though not those of a custodian of the insane. Marangoni was a thief in someone else’s property and looked it. He would never exude the necessary style to seem as though he belonged there. He was a bureaucrat in a dark suit: the room hated him, and he hated it back.

“Pleasant enough now, but you should be here in January,” he said when I admired the frescoes. “The cold gets into your bones. Damp; no amount of fires make any difference at all. I have learned to write with gloves on. When November comes I start dreaming of applying for jobs in Sicily.”

“But then you would fry in summer.”

“True enough. And there is work that needs to be done here.”

“Tell me about this man.”

He smiled. “He was arrested by the police a few days ago, and was passed on to me yesterday.”

“What had he done?”

“Nothing, really, but he was stopped for questioning and asked for his name. He was then arrested for insulting a policeman by making frivolous remarks.”

“What sort?”

“He insisted, and keeps on insisting, that his name is Gian Giacamo Casanova.”

I snorted. Marangoni looked serious as he read from his police report.

“He was born, so he says, in Venice in 1725, which makes him now—what?—one hundred and forty-two years old. A good age. I must say he is in a very good state, considering. Personally, I would have guessed him to be no more than seventy. Possibly nearer sixty.”

“I see. And you told him that you did not believe this?”

“Certainly not. That is not a very sensible procedure. If you do that, then the patient insists, and you get into a childish game. Am. Aren’t. Am. Aren’t. Ten times am. A hundred times aren’t. You know the sort of thing. Besides, the trick is to win their confidence, and that can’t be done if they feel you do not believe them. What you have to do is institute a healthy regime—proper food, cold showers, exercise—and make them feel regulated and safe. And while that is going on, you listen to them, and pick out holes and contradictions in their stories. Eventually, you present those to them and ask them to explain. With luck, that breaks down their belief.”

“With luck? How often does it work?”

“Sometimes. But it can only be effective with those who are rationally insane. Raving lunatics, or those subject to catatonia, require other methods.”

“And Signor—Casanova?”

“Perfectly coherent. In fact, it will be a pleasure to treat him. I am looking forward to it. He is an excellent storyteller, highly entertaining and, so far, I have not spotted a single flaw in what he has said. He has given us no clues at all about who he really is.”

“Apart from telling you his age and name.”

“Apart from that. But if you grant that, then everything else so far follows perfectly logically.”

“Have you asked him about Cort?”

He shook his head. “Not yet. You may do so, if you wish. If you want to meet him.”

“Have you asked Cort about him?”

“No. He is too delicate at the moment; but clearly he will benefit from knowing that his hallucinations are nothing of the sort.”

“This man is not dangerous?”

“Not in the slightest. A charming old fellow. And he couldn’t hurt you even if he wanted to. He is quite frail.”

“Does he speak anything but Venetian?”

“Oh, yes. Casanova was quite a linguist, and still is, if I may put it like that. He speaks perfect Italian, good French and English.”

“Then I will meet him. I don’t know why I want to. But it will be a curious experience.”

“I will take you to him myself. But, please, do not say anything to suggest you do not believe him. That is most important.”

He led me out into the courtyard, and past a group of buildings that contained the inmates. “This is for the nonviolent ones,” he said as we strolled in the warmth. “The more difficult characters we keep in the block you can see over there. Alas, they get much less generous treatment; we don’t have the money to do much for hopeless cases. There’s no point, either. We can merely stop them harming themselves and others. In here.”

It was quite a pleasant surprise; I had imagined something like a Piranesi print, or Hogarth at his most despondent, but the room was light and airy, simply furnished and comfortable. Only the shadow of a large cross on the wall, where a crucifix had once hung, hinted at the building’s previous purpose. There was one solitary person in it.

Signor Casanova—there was no other name to give him and in fact Marangoni never did find out who he was—was sitting in a corner, by a large window that looked out towards the Lido. He was reading a book, his head bowed, but was undoubtedly the man I had seen singing on the canal on my first night in Venice. Only the clothes were different; the hospital had taken away his old-fashioned costume, and clothed him in its drab, colourless uniform. It diminished him, that garb, made him seem less of a person. Certainly less disconcerting.

“Signor Casanova,” Marangoni called. “A visitor for you.”

“Please be seated, sir,” he said, as though about to offer me a drink in his salon. “As you see, I am well able to pass some time with you.”

“I’m glad of that,” I replied, as courteously as he. Already I had entered a sort of dream world; only later did it seem strange that I talked with such respect to a man who was insane, penniless, without even a name of his own. He set the tone of the conversation; I followed him.

He waited for me to begin, smiling benignly at me as I sat down opposite him. “And how are you?” I asked.

“Very well, considering my circumstances,” he replied. “I do not like being locked up, but it is hardly the first time. I was locked in the Doge’s

dungeons once and I escaped from there. I have no doubt I will leave here soon enough as well.”

“Really? And this was?”

“In 1756,” he said. “I was accused of occult knowledge and of spying. A strange combination, I thought. But then authorities have never liked things to be hidden from them. The only good knowledge is that which they, not other people, possess.” He smiled sweetly at me.

“And were you guilty?”

“Oh, good heavens, yes! Of course. I had many contacts with foreigners, some of them in the highest positions. And my explorations into the world of the occult were well advanced, even then. It is why I am here now.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I am over one hundred and forty years old. And, as you see, still in remarkably good health. I only wish that I had finished my studies earlier; then I might have presented myself as a younger man. But still, all creatures prefer some sort of life to none at all. Nobody wishes to die. Do you?”

A strange remark, half statement, half query. “Why do you ask that?”

“Because you will. But you are still too young to realise it. One day, you will wake up and you will know. Then the rest of your life will be merely preparing for that moment. And you will spend your time trying to rectify your mistakes. The mistakes you are making now.”

“What mistakes are those?”

He smiled elliptically. “The mistakes that will kill you, of course. I do not need to tell you what those are. You know them well enough yourself.”

“I’m quite sure I do not.”

He shrugged, uninterested.

“Why do you follow Mr. Cort?”

“Who is Mr. Cort?” he asked, puzzled.

“You know very well, I think. The young English architect. The palazzo.”

“Oh, him. I do not follow him. He summons me. And is a very great nuisance, I must say. I do have better things to do than dance attendance on him.”

“That is ridiculous,” I said, a little angrily. “Of course he doesn’t summon you.”

“But he does,” Casanova replied calmly. “He really does. He is a man with many conflicts. He wishes to know about this city, and impose himself on it. He wishes to be here and away. He loves a woman who is cruel and heartless, and who dreams of his ruin. All these things call me to him, as they called his mother to me when she lay on her deathbed. I know about love and cruelty, you see, in all their forms. And I am Venice. He wants to know me. And his desire summons me to him.”

I could scarcely restrain myself from reacting to this nonsense, which he spoke so calmly. Casanova—you see, I call him that—sighed a little.

“I know about women, you know,” he said. “Their natures. I can peer into their souls, see what lies beneath the professions of love, the lies, the demure sweetness. No other man in history has studied them as I have. I can see her thoughts. She thinks of hunting or being hunted. There is no kindness in her, and she sees only herself, never others.”

“Be quiet,” I ordered. “I order you to keep silent. You are mad.”

“It is of no moment to me whether you believe me or not, you know,” he said. “You will find out for yourself soon enough. I did not ask you to come here. My explorations into the occult caused me to drink in the soul of Venice, to become the city. Her spirit has extended my life. As long as Venice exists, so shall I, wandering her streets, remembering her glory. We will die together, she and I. And I see everything that happens here, even in small rooms rented for a month, or in a copse on the Lido.”

“You are not wandering the streets now,” I said with some savage satisfaction, deeply disturbed and shocked by what he was saying.

“No. For the time being I rest. And why should I wish to escape?” He smiled, and looked around him with amusement flickering on his face. “The good doctor, it seems, is fully wedded to the best notions of gentleness for his poor inmates. I am fed well, and have to do little in return for my board and lodging, save allow myself to be measured and photographed, and to answer questions about my life. Which I have not yet decided how to do.”

“What does that mean?”

“They are most interesting questions,” he continued by way of explanation. “They are trying to discover contradictions, impossibilities in what I say. It is excellent fun, for they go off to read my memoirs, then come back to quiz me about them. But I wrote them! Of course I know the answers better than they do. Every truth and every little fib I put in. The question is, do I tell the truth, or do I give them what they want? They so greatly desire to prove I am insane, and not who I am, that I am dreadfully sorry to disappoint them. Perhaps I should drop a few hints and contradictions into my conversation so they can conclude I am someone else entirely? It would make them so happy and grateful, and I have always desired to please. What do you think?”

“I think you should tell the truth at all times.”

“Pish, sir, you are a bore. I suppose you say your prayers every night, and ask God to make you virtuous. And you are a hypocrite. You lie all the time, except you do not even realise you are doing it. Goodness! This is a dull time to be living.”

He leaned forward, so that his face was close to mine.

“What are you in your dreams, when no one is there? What do you do in this city, which you have persuaded yourself is just a dream? How many people are you lying to now?”

I glared at him, and he chuckled. “You forget, my friend, that I am in your dreams as well.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” I said stiffly. I found that I could not answer him properly.

“Standing by a window? You don’t understand it. Why didn’t you turn and ask me? I could have answered, you know. I was there, you know I was. I could have told you everything.”

“How do you know about that?”

“I told you, I see everything.”

“That was just a dream.”

He shook his head. “There are no such things as dreams. Do you want to know more? Ask, if you wish. I can save you, but you must ask. Otherwise you will cause terrible hurt to others.”

“No,” I said, abruptly enough for my fear to shine through all too obviously.

He nodded his head and smiled gently. “You may change your mind,” he replied softly. “And thanks to the good doctor, you will know where to find me, for the time being. But you must hurry; I will not be here for long.”

I rose and left without another word. He, meanwhile, sat on his little chair and picked up a book. When I closed the door I leaned with my back against it and closed my eyes.

“Not in a talking mood? Or did you think better of it?” It was Marangoni, standing exactly where I had left him.

“What? No; we talked for a long time.”

“But you have only been in there a minute or two.”