Iain Pears - Stone's Fall

Longman and his group ate at Paolino's; not as grand as the establishments in the Piazza San Marco, which already earned their living mainly from visitors, as they had previously from the Austrian soldiers occupying the city. With its simple wooden chairs, cheap cutlery and roughly painted walls, Paolino's was for the poorer bracket of the respectable ranks, and Longman's friends were all of this type. I could dine in style, or I could dine in company; that was the choice that the city presented to me. I liked – have always liked – to eat well, but as there was no refined cooking in the city, or none that I had yet heard of, then I was prepared to compromise. Besides, there is a comradely sense among the genteelly impoverished which is often lacking among the wealthy; it was not a great sacrifice.

When I greeted the Consul, there were only two others sitting at a table prepared for six or more; periodically others drifted in as the evening wore on. There was, in fact, a group of ten or more who came there, but not every night; each evening there was a different combination, some of whom liked each other, others who plainly did not. Cort was one of those present that night, and he greeted me warmly; a quiet, softly spoken American was the other. This man spoke with the gentle, drawling tones of the South of his country, a strange accent and quite foreign until you got used to it. It is a way of speaking well-suited to a dry and lazy-sounding humour, which Mr Arnsley Drennan possessed in fine degree. He was rugged in appearance, and a few years older than I was, and spoke little until he was ready. When he did, he could be an entertaining conversationalist, delivering pithy observations in a voice which sounded as though he was half asleep, feigning a lack of interest in his own words that added greatly to the delivery. He was decidedly difficult to figure out; even Mr Longman, far more adept than I was, had failed to breach his walls of discretion and discover much about him. This, of course, added an air of mystery to his person which made him all the more cultivated by others.

'And is your wife to join us later?' I asked Longman.

'Oh, good heavens no,' he replied. 'She is at home. If you look around, you will see there are no women here. You will find few in any dining place, except for those in San Marco's. Mrs Cort also eats at home.'

'They must find that a little tedious,' I remarked.

Longman nodded. 'Perhaps. But what is to be done?'

Now I might have remarked that he could have eaten at home himself, or that perhaps the company of his wife might be preferable to that of friends, but I did not, and at the time it never occurred to me. A man must eat, and a man must have friends, or what of humanity is left in us? Longman's dilemma I found as insoluble as he did, but nevertheless my thoughts strayed briefly to consider how much his wife must pine for company. Then they paused briefly on the thought of Cort's wife in a similar purdah. They did not, however, then move on to considering how my own wife was faring without me.

'Where do you live, Mr Drennan? Do you have a lonely wife tending the hearth for you?'

It was a light-hearted question, but did not receive an equally facetious reply. 'I am a widower,' he said softly. 'My wife died some years back.'

'I am sorry for you,' I said, genuinely contrite at my faux pas.

'And I live on the Giudecca, some half hour's walk from here.'

'Mr Drennan has found the only inexpensive lodging in Venice,' Longman remarked.

'It is one room only, with no water and no maidservant,' he said with a smile. 'I live like most Venetians.'

'You are a long way from home, then,' I observed.

He regarded me intently. 'That I am, sir.'

He did not seem to find this line of conversation at all interesting, so he switched his gaze to the window and left matters to Longman, who was the impresario of dinner-table conversation.

'Do you intend to continue living in a hotel throughout your stay, Mr Stone?'

'Unless something better offers itself, yes. I would happily move somewhere more commodious and less annoying, but on the other hand I do not intend to spend my time here house-hunting.'

Longman clapped his hands in joy at being so useful. 'Then there is a perfect solution!' he cried. 'You must take rooms with the Marchesa d'Arpagno!'

'Must I?'

'Yes, yes. A delightful woman, desperately in need of cash, with a vast, tumbling-down palazzo begging for occupants. She would never be so coarse as to solicit lodgers, but I can tell she would not be displeased with an enquiry. It would be central and charming. I will happily send a letter around for you, if you like the idea.'

Why not? I thought. I had no plans to stay long, and no plans to leave either. I should have realised this haziness of intention was indicative of a strange state of mind, but no such thought occurred to me. I did not find the cost of the hotel onerous, but the discrepancy between how much you paid, and what you got for it I found offensive. So I said, 'It would be interesting to look. Who is this lady?'

I noticed that the other two did not look so delighted at the mention of her name, but had no chance to pursue the subject as Macintyre the engineer was stumping over towards the table.

He was clearly in something of a social bind as he wished to dine with the company, but manifestly found it quite unreasonable to admit the fact. He resolved the matter by looking exceptionally ill-humoured and growling his greetings in a manner which escaped being impolite only by a whisker. The effect of his sitting down was to stifle all conversation for several minutes. Longman looked faintly displeased, Cort somewhat frightened. Only Drennan nodded in greeting and appeared unperturbed by his appearance.

'Food arrived yet?' Macintyre said after we had sat in uncomfortable silence for a while. He snapped his fingers at the waiter to call for wine and downed two glasses, one after the other, in swift succession. 'What is it this evening?'

'Fish,' Cort said.

Macintyre laughed. 'Of course it's fish. It's fish every bloody night. What sort of fish?'

Cort shrugged. 'Does it matter?'

'I suppose not. It all tastes the same to me anyway.' He scowled ferociously at Cort as he pulled a roll of paper from under his coat.

'There you are. I had my draughtsman do it up properly. Did the costings myself. As I said, Sottini has the proper lengths in stock; good Sheffield bars, won't let you down. I've set him up to give you a fair price. Get in touch with him quickly, though, otherwise he'll forget. Don't give him more than twenty-seven shillings a length. But I think you will have a problem with the foundations. I looked again; the central pillar is buried deep down and must be taken out, if this is to work. It will be expensive.'

'How expensive?'

'Very. You will have to support the entire building, then remove it, to give space to put in the new structure. Best thing to do, frankly, would be to blow it out.'

'What? Are you mad?'

'No, no. It's a very simple. Not dangerous at all, if you know what you're doing. A very small charge placed low down, just to knock a few of the bigger stones out of place. Then the entire pillar will come down, leaving the rest of the building standing – if you have buttressed it properly.'

'I'll think about it,' Cort said uncertainly.

'It's the only way of doing it. I've got the explosives in my workshop. When you see that I'm right, let me know.' Then Macintyre turned to me, a refilled glass in his hand. 'And you. What are you doing here?'

Certainly, no one could accuse Macintyre of an excessive courtesy. His flat, northern accent – I placed him as a native of Lancashire, despite the Scottish name – added to the general impression of rudeness, something which, as Longman noted, northerners deliberately accentuate.