Iain Pears - Stone's Fall

Cort surveyed the mess sadly, I looked astonished, Macintyre paid it no attention whatsoever. He marched straight over to the scaffolding, scooping up a ladder as he went, and began climbing. Cort reluctantly followed, and I watched from the ground.

Macintyre was remarkably agile and fearless, some sixty or seventy feet in the air, skipping over crumbling masonry, occasionally bending down or kicking a lump of brickwork with his boot, sending fragments cascading down to the ground. I was about to go up and join them when he returned back to earth, looking only a little less grumpy than when he started. Cort followed a few moments later, somewhat more gingerly.

'Well?' asked Cort.

'Knock it down.'

'What?'

'The whole thing. Flatten it. Start again. Never seen such rubbish in my life. I'm surprised it's still standing.'

Cort looked alarmed. 'I'm commissioned to restore it, not demolish it,' he said. 'The owners bought a sixteenth-century palazzo, and that is what they want when I am finished.'

'They're idiots, then.'

'Maybe so. But the customer is always right.'

Macintyre snorted. 'The customer is never right. Ignore them, give them what they need, not what they think they want.'

'Nobody needs a palazzo in Venice,' Cort said a little pettishly, 'and when I am well-enough established, I might take your advice. For the moment, I have one client only and cannot afford to lose him by demolishing his house.'

'Wait then. And it will fall down anyway. Or if you prefer I could come back this evening.' He paused and surveyed the scene carefully. 'One small charge, in that corner where the two central load-bearing walls meet,' he pointed 'and there would be nothing left in the morning at all. Then you could show what sort of architect you really are.'

Cort blanched at the idea, then looked at him carefully. 'I never realised you had a sense of humour.'

'I don't. It's the most sensible course of action,' Macintyre said gruffly, as though offended at the very idea of whimsy. 'But if you are resolved to waste your clients' money for them . . .'

'I am quite determined.'

'Then what you need is a supporting framework of girders. Three by six should do it. Inches, I mean. Tapering to two and a half by four on the upper floors. Perhaps less; I'll have to do the calculations. Extending up the back and side walls to form a framework inside the structure. That will take the weight of the roof, not the walls, which are too weak to support it. You'll have to build down to dissipate the weight under the level of the foundations . . .'

He paused and looked thoughtful. 'I suppose it does have foundations?'

Cort shook his head. 'Doubt it,' he replied. 'For the most part these buildings rest on wooden piles and mud. That's why the walls are so thin. If they were too heavy they'd sink.'

Macintyre pursed his lips and rocked forwards and backwards in thought. He was enjoying himself, I observed. 'In that case, you'll need to sink some, but at an angle to the vertical, to take the weight of the girders and roof and spread it outwards. Otherwise you'll just push the walls out instead. What you need, y'see, is an internal frame, so that the walls can be little more than a curtain covering the real business.'

'Will it be strong enough?'

'Of course it will be strong enough. I could balance a battleship on top of a properly strutted framework.'

'That won't be necessary.'

Macintyre grunted once more and drifted off into his own train of thought, muttering periodically as he whipped a pad of paper from his pocket and began jotting down hieroglyphics.

'Look,' he said eventually, thrusting the notes under Cort's nose. 'What do you think?'

The architect studied it carefully, desperate to understand what the older man was proposing. Eventually his face cleared and he smiled. 'That's very clever,' he said appreciatively. 'You want me to build another building inside the existing one.'

'Precisely. Lightweight, efficient and fifty times as strong. You won't knock down the old one, but you do get to build a new one. Best of both worlds.'

'Expensive?'

'Iron's not expensive, even here. Sottini's in Mestre will supply it. Putting it up won't be cheap. And you won't be able to rely on the halfwits you employ at the moment. Best get rid of them and find a new team. Again, I can make suggestions, if you wish . . .'

Cort's look of gratitude was overwhelming. Macintyre pretended not to notice. 'Thought I'd suggest it. That's the trouble with architects. Know everything about the right sort of Gothic window, nothing about load-bearing walls. Pathetic. Good day to you.'

And he marched off, not responding to our farewells.

'Goodness,' I said. 'Something of a force of nature there.'

Cort wasn't listening. He was glancing up at the crumbling walls, and back down to the notes Macintyre had thrust into his hand before leaving. Back and forth went his eyes, which narrowed as he calculated.

'This is clever,' he said. 'Really clever. It'll be cheaper, stronger and quicker. In principle. Oh dear.'

'What?'

'I wish I could claim it was my own idea. That would really make my uncle take notice of me.'

I noted the remark, the wistfulness of it. 'In my experience,' I commented, 'it is finding the best advice and using it which counts. Not coming up with the ideas yourself.'

'Not in architecture,' he replied. 'Or with my uncle.' He sighed. 'I just hope Macintyre can keep his mind on it. Once he's solved a problem in his head he tends to lose interest. Besides, he does tend to drink a little.'

He was rapidly adopting the air of someone who wanted to be left alone, although what he had to do was unclear. Not wanting to impose myself any further, I thanked him for his company, and the unusual introduction to Venice he had afforded. After requesting directions I left him standing in the rubble and made my way back to my hotel.

I slept for many hours, a dreamless sleep, although it was far from my habit to be so idle during the day. I put my head on my pillow at around ten in the morning and did not awake until early evening, which annoyed me greatly. I had missed an entire day, and now faced a bad night's sleep into the bargain.

I forgot completely Cort's invitation to join him and his friends for dinner, which didn't matter too much. I had neglected to discover where the event was to take place and, in any case, had no desire that evening for company. Rather, I wanted to view the place I had travelled so far to visit, as so far I had seen little except the railway station, a few streets and a pile of rubble pretending to be a house.

So I walked. And was captivated, as never before or since in my life. I am not, by nature, a romantic person – considering my small reputation in the world it is surprising I even bother to say this. I do not skip a heartbeat over a sunset, however striking it may be; rather I see the light of a star refracting in particular ways through the atmosphere and giving off predictable, if pleasing, light effects. Cities have even less impact. They are machines for generating money; that is their entire function. Created for the exchange of goods and labour, they either work or do not work well. London was, and still is, the most perfect city the world has ever seen, efficient and directed to this one aim, not diverting unnecessary energy or resources into public finery as Paris does. Even London, though, may soon surrender its crown to one even more single-minded and ruthless in its pursuit of wealth, if my impressions of New York are accurate.

Venice, in contrast, is without purpose. There is no exchange of goods there, no generation of capital. What remains is a shell of a past manufactory which has long since become obsolete. It too was created by trade; it is nothing more than capital petrified. But the capital had fled, leaving only a corpse whose soul has departed. It should have been abandoned, left to rot into picturesque ruin, as the Venetians themselves abandoned Torcello, cathedral and all, once they had no further use for it.