Iain Pears - Stone's Fall

Although perhaps a side of her misses the excitement, the need to live on her wits. She gave something up when she married me, in a way that I did not. I still have the pleasure of taking risks; she put aside a part of her character and it may have been a greater loss than either I, or she, realised. Perhaps that is why she is now disobeying me. I refused absolutely her suggestion that she help me track down where this money was going to, identify the people being paid through these strange disbursements in Newcastle. She pointed out that I could hardly use anyone from inside the company itself. I said no. Absurd idea; and so it was, for the wife of a man like myself. But not for the woman she had been, whom I thought was long since dead. She went ahead anyway, took herself off to Germany and returned to live off her wits, disguising herself as someone else, returning to a way of life I thought was gone for ever.

I was so angry, so furious when she told me, that I completely lost control of myself. And, as often happened when her iron will collided with my equally strong determination, we fought. Why should she not help me? She was my wife. Did I really know anyone who could do it better? Could I think of any better way?

All of which was irrelevant. What troubled me most was the light in her eyes as she confronted me; the light of excitement, of adventure. That old side of her, the one I had always feared, the one which could not possibly be satisfied with the company of an old man. She has never given me the slightest cause to distrust her. She has had the occasional lover, I have no doubt. But she has never hurt me. They were nothing more than passing amusements, moments of distraction. This was different; it appealed to her sense of danger and her need for real excitement. She said it was for me, but it was for herself as much.

Giving way was one of the most difficult things I have ever done, and one of the best. I quelled my jealousy, subdued my fears, and let her do as she wished. I let her help me, although our life together has been built on my helping her. But it was hard; I knew, could distantly feel, the pleasure she had in acting thus because I also had once been free to do anything I wanted, without having to look forward more than a day or backwards more than an hour. And that is why I write about Venice, because by seeing how much I remember those days, I can judge better how powerfully her own past draws her now.

I was sombre and ill-humoured when I finally descended for breakfast after my bizarre night with my apparition, only to discover a great reluctance on the part of the hotel to supply me with anything to eat at all. Eventually they condescended to provide some watery coffee and stale bread, the sight of which reminded me that I had eaten nothing of substance for nearly a day and a half. That, in itself, went a long way towards explaining my bad mood, headache and also the delusional nonsense of a few hours previously. I needed a purpose and had none, so decided I might as well take care of business, registering myself with the British Consul and picking up any mail that he might be holding for me.

That at least was easy enough. Francis Longman lived in a small apartment with an office attached a few streets away from San Marco, and welcomed me in with enthusiasm. He was a short, fat man, with a squeaky voice which gave him an air of perpetual excitement. His chins wobbled dramatically every time he became agitated and, as I learned over the coming weeks, he was agitated quite frequently and on the least pretext. His abode did not embody the gravity I expected of one of Her Majesty's diplomatic representatives, being dark and disordered and covered in books and papers. His situation seemed somewhat sad and, while I was gratified to be received with such warmth, I did find it somewhat peculiar.

'My dear sir!' he exclaimed. 'Come in, come in!'

I thought initially that he must be mistaking me for someone else, but no: Longman was merely bored to tears, and had little enough to do. As he told me at some length, once I had signed the book to confirm my presence and cast myself officially under his, and the Government of Her Britannic Majesty's, care while in the city.

'Nothing to do here, you see,' he explained once I had been settled down – quite against my will – into an elaborately carved chair in his office. 'It's virtually the life of a recluse.'

I enquired about his duties. 'None, to speak of,' he said. 'And a salary commensurate with the responsibility. I keep a fatherly eye on British subjects here and once a quarter compile a report on economic activity for the Board of Trade. But there are few enough visitors and little enough trade.'

'A useful task,' I said drily.

'Indeed. Venice is not as interesting as it was.'

'I've noticed. How many people are there here? British people, that is?'

'Never more than a hundred. At the moment,' he paused to glance at his register, 'I have sixty-three on the books. Most of those are merely passing through; only about twenty have been here more than a couple of months. And that's including women and children.'

'I met a Mr William Cort yesterday,' I ventured. 'And a Mr Macintyre, whom I found quite interesting.'

Longman chuckled. 'Ah, yes. Macintyre is one of our more difficult residents. Northern bluffness, you know. He can be quite overbearing on occasion. Cort, on the other hand, is a very gentle fellow. You must meet his wife; she is in the kitchen talking with Mrs Longman at the moment. I will introduce you before you leave.'

I didn't really want to meet her, but nodded politely. 'And Cort?'

'Mr Cort, yes. He's been here about four months now. From the way he talks, he'll be around for another decade at least. He comes from a good family in Suffolk, I believe, although both his parents died when he was young, and he was brought up by his uncle. Spellman, the architect, you know?'

I shook my head. I did not know.

'He is being trained to take over his uncle's practice, as there are no direct heirs. But I fear it is not a good idea.'

I prompted, as required.

'No business sense at all. It may be his designs are all very well, but the workmen here run rings round him. I found him crying – can you believe it? – crying , a week or so back. They bully him terribly, and he does not possess the strength of character to impose himself. Not entirely his fault, of course. He is much too young to take on such a task. But it's ruining him, poor boy. His wife even asked Marangoni about him, she was so worried.'

'Marangoni? Is he the physician of choice among exiles?'

'Not precisely, but he is willing to lend such expertise as he has and he speaks good English. Delightful man. Delightful. You must meet him. About the only Italian whose society is tolerable. He is an alienist, sent by the Government to reorganise the asylum. He is from Milan and so is in exile, like all of us. Anyway, Mrs Cort asked him about her husband's state of mind.'

'And?'

Longman sighed. 'Alas, no one could understand the answer. These doctors do talk in a peculiar fashion. Nonetheless, it accomplished one purpose. Marangoni is alerted, and Cort is being watched, to make sure no harm comes to him.'

'I'm surprised there are so few people in Venice. English people, I mean.'

Longman shrugged. 'Not so surprising, really. It is ferociously expensive, as you will soon enough discover. And terribly unhealthy. The miasmas arising from the canals are poisonous, and sap the vitality. Few people wish to stay for long. The sensible go to Turin.'

'And you have been here . . . ?'

'Far too long.' He smiled sadly. 'I don't suppose I shall ever leave now.'

There was a note in his voice of disappointment, of hopes frustrated, of someone who had expected more from life.