Iain Pears - Stone's Fall

'And what does your wife think?'

'Oh, I don't want to bother Louise,' he said hesitantly. 'Poor thing, she has so much to concern herself with, what with Henry being so small. Besides . . .'

He didn't finish, but lapsed into a moody silence instead.

'Forgive me for asking,' I said as delicately as I could. 'But are you certain this man is real?'

'You think I am imagining it?' He was not angry at my question. 'Believe me, I have considered it. Am I going mad? Is this man a figment of my imagination? Of course, I wonder. I almost hope he is; then at least I could go to Marangoni and he could do . . . whatever such people do with the insane. But his feet make a distinct sound on the pavements. He speaks and smiles. He smells, a very distinct smell, like an old cupboard that hasn't been opened for years, slightly damp, musty.'

'But you failed to touch him, you said.'

He nodded. 'But I felt his breath on me as he spoke. He was as real to me as you are now.'

He gripped my arm as if to reassure himself on that point.

'I do not know what to say,' I answered. 'If this man exists, we must accost him and make him answer questions. If not . . .'

'Then I am insane.'

'There you go beyond my knowledge. I am a practical man. I will assume for the time being that you are not about to foam at the mouth.'

He laughed for the first time since dinner. 'That is good of you,' he said. 'And can I rely on you . . .'

'Not to say a word to anyone? I give you my word. I assume you have said nothing of this to anyone else?'

'Who could I tell?'

We had reached his lodging, a grim, tumbledown place in what I later learned had been the Ghetto, where the Jews of Venice had been corralled by the city until Napoleon liberated them. Whatever good that new freedom might have done the Jews, it had little benefited that part of town, which was as malodorous and depressing as any grim industrial town of England. Worse, I should say, for the buildings were rank and collapsing, a positive rabbit warren of tiny little rooms where once thousands had been crammed in, exposed to every unhealthy miasma that huge numbers and unsanitary conditions might create. Cort lived here because it was cheap; I could well imagine it. I would have insisted on hefty payment even to enter his building. It seems that his uncle (though dutiful in the matter of his upbringing and training) was known for a certain parsimony that came from the belief that pleasure was offensive to God. Cort was therefore kept on a tight leash, and had barely enough to house his family as well as live and eat, although their conditions were poor. His lodging was a necessary economy to put aside some small surplus for diversion.

He saw my look as we stopped by his doorway. 'I do not live in luxury,' he said apologetically. 'But my neighbours are good people, and even poorer than I. In contrast to them I am nobilissimi .'

It would not have served me. But his remarks reminded me that I had engaged to visit Longman's Marchesa. I asked Cort about her. 'A charming woman,' he said. 'By all means go; she is worth meeting. Louise knows her and speaks highly of her; they have become quite close.'

He gave me the address and then shook my hand. 'My apologies for the display, and my thanks for the company,' he said.

I told him to think nothing of it, and turned to walk back to the hotel. Cort and his troubles were wafted away on the night air almost before he was out of sight.

By six the next evening I was established in my new accommodation, the Palazzo Bollani on the rio di San Trovaso in Dorsoduro, and the property of the Marchesa d'Arpagno. I had sent my card at ten that morning and was instantly ushered in to see her. In my mind's eye I had seen an old lady, decorously dressed with the signs of departed beauty all about her. A little stout, perhaps, but in diminished circumstances, dreaming perpetually of the glitter of youth. A pleasing, if melancholy, vision, which lasted until the moment I entered the salon.

She was quite ugly, but strikingly so. In her late forties, I guessed from the fine lines that could just be seen beneath the thick powder around her eyes and mouth; tall and imperial in manner, with a long nose, black hair which was plainly dyed hanging down her back in a thick plait. She was wearing a dress with an overskirt in white satin trimmed with green, which was far too fashionable for one of her age. Around her neck was a necklace of emeralds that drew attention to her extraordinary eyes, which were of exactly the same hue. On her bony fingers were several excessively large rings, and she wore a perfume so strong and overpowering that even now, more than forty years later, I can still smell it.

It is not often that I am lost for words, but the contrast between expectation and reality in this case was so strong that I couldn't find anything to say at all.

'I hope you do not mind speaking in French,' said the lady as she approached. 'My English is terrible, and I imagine that your Venetian is worse. Unless you prefer German.'

She had a harsh voice, and the slight smile she gave as she spoke was grotesque in its girlishness. I replied that I could manage French, and quietly thanked my mother for having had the wisdom, all those years ago, to engage a French governess for me and my siblings. They could not afford much at the time and, with governesses, you get what you pay for – in this case a lazy, coarse wretch. But she spoke French and, once inside our home, was dislodged only with difficulty. She stayed long enough to teach me the language, although far too much of its nether reaches and not very much of its higher flights. Only with Elizabeth did I ever properly master it; she is one of those annoying people who pick up languages quickly, by merely listening. I have to study hard, but Elizabeth has always preferred French to English. So study I did, to please her.

The Marchesa sat down, indicating that I could do the same, offered coffee, and fell silent, looking at me with a faint smile.

'I understand from Mr Longman that you occasionally consider allowing people to stay in your house,' I began a little hesitatingly. That was why I was there, and the subject would have to come up sooner or later.

'That is true. Maria will take you to see the rooms a little later, if I decide I can bear to have you under my roof.'

'Ah.'

'I do not do this for money, you understand.'

'Quite, quite.'

'But I find it interesting to have people around me. The Venetians are such bores, they drive me to distraction.'

'You are not Venetian yourself?'

'No.'

She offered no more information and, much as I would have liked to, I felt unable to continue the questioning.

She was not an easy conversationalist. Rather, she was one of those who command through silence, contributing little, but looking with a faint smile that affected her mouth more than her eyes, summoning the other on to fill the void.

So I told her of my journey around Italy, my current stay in the Hotel Europa, my decision to stay and my desire for slightly more comfortable accommodation.

'I see. You leave out much in your account, I think.'

I was astonished by the remark. 'I don't believe so.'

No response to that one either. I sipped my coffee, and she sat quietly, watching me.

'And how do you find Venice, Mr Stone?'

I replied that I found it perfectly agreeable, so far, although I had seen little.

'And you have done as everyone does here, and hired a gondola to think sad thoughts in?'

'Not yet.'

'You surprise me. Are you not disappointed in love? Recovering from a broken heart? That is why people come here, for the most part. They find the city a perfect place to indulge in self-pity.'