Iain Pears - Stone's Fall

'So, what do we do now? We cannot come all the way to the Lido every afternoon. And we cannot meet either in your lodging or mine.'

'I have had no experience in arranging secret meetings with a lover,' she said, and I could hear in her voice a faint tremor of excitement, as though the very idea was bringing her spirits back to life.

'Nor I,' I replied truthfully. 'But I believe it is usual in such circumstances to rent a room, generally in some poor part of the city. It would not be elegant, and would offer few conveniences except privacy. Such things are normally for women of low quality, though, and I would hesitate . . .'

'No! Let us do that! That is what I am. Nothing more than that, and I will be that for you with pleasure.'

I looked closely at her. She was serious.

It was settled, and in the most businesslike terms. There was no need for delicacy of language, for in our acts we had already passed beyond the point of dissimulation. Secrecy was of the essence. I would acquire a room for our meetings. We would be conspicuous to some, no doubt, but not to anyone who might care. As long as we were safe from the prying eyes of other foreigners, we could be safe. The Venetians see all and say nothing.

And so we made our way back, as the evening light was beginning to settle over the city. The gondolier rowed methodically, making us feel safe by his knowing silence. We sat together, side by side, until we were close in, and said not a word to each other. The evening shadows were our conversation, the softness of the light and the calm of the water were our emotions made tangible. Venice is quiet in comparison to most cities, yet it seemed noisy and raucous to my ears as we came in to land. The people walked too fast, had too many reasons for what they did and said, unlike me, as I no longer had any reason or desire to do anything.

I touched her only as I helped her out of the gondola, and our eyes met briefly before the collusion and dissimulation that was to be our life from now on intervened. It was an electric moment, as we both realised how much we were now bound to each other, conspirators together, living a secret life of lies and deceit.

I consider myself a moral man, who upholds the laws of God and man as best as he is able. I was married and, in all the time since I wed my wife, I had never deceived or betrayed her in any way. I hold to my contracts and keep my word. I considered that Louise had been absolved from whatever vows she had sworn by the treatment she had received. She had said too much, and regretted her words, but I now had some idea of the hellish life she endured with her husband. No one owes loyalty to such a person.

I had no such excuse and I try to make none. Except to say that excitement is a drug, and Venice is a treacherous place, which sucks people down. I wanted her, and for the first time in my life all the arguments and reasons which would have stopped me were of no effect. I didn't even consider what I was doing; did not feel guilty for a single moment. All objections I brushed aside. Venice had taken hold of me, and I had rushed into its embrace as willingly as I had rushed into hers.

The rest of the world would not have viewed it with such indulgence, of course; I had seduced another man's wife, and what had begun in hot blood I intended to continue in a spirit of calculation. The life of deception started that moment. 'I must thank you, Mrs Cort, for your assistance today. I trust you did not find it too dull.'

'On the contrary,' she replied. 'And if you wish me to accompany you again, then please do not hesitate to say so. I am sure Mr Cort will not object.'

And then we bade each other farewell in a stiff and formal fashion, and I turned to leave, my heart pounding with excitement.

My liaison demanded secrecy, and what better way of ensuring that than to act entirely normally? I might have wandered the streets, soaking up the atmosphere of the place which was already coiling itself around my being. Venice is the most dangerous place on earth, or was then, until the tourists came and swamped the air of threat, which existed in its very stones, with the futile frivolity of the sightseer, and converted the inhabitants into supplicants of the transient.

'Why so moody?' Such might have been the question had any acquaintance encountered me, and it was far too soon to run such risks. So I resolved to shut off that part of my thoughts and switch my attention to other things. There was a part of me – an ever-diminishing, weakening part, it is true – which fought against the seductions of the city, although only half-heartedly.

I walked to the offices of the Banca di Santo Spirito and left my card for Signor Ambrosian. I wished to meet a man who knew about the city – knew how it worked, that is, rather than knew about its buildings, which is always the easiest thing to discover, and who also knew about Macintyre. I have always found it strange that people are willing to travel to a place, and devote some considerable energy to doing so, yet leave with not the slightest knowledge or interest in the lives of the inhabitants.

An old friend of mine travelled through the Balkans a few years ago and spent months in those countries, yet came back knowledgeable only about landscapes and the architecture of Orthodox monasteries. How was capital accumulated? How were the cities run? Was the system of taxation efficient or no? What levels of literacy and discipline could you count on among the population? What, in other words, about the stuff of their lives? Not only did he have no knowledge of these things, he had no interest in them, seeming to think that monasteries merely pop out of the ground like mushrooms without any application of either money or labour, and that cities are simply wished into existence for no reason other than to delight the eye of the visitor.

The same applies to Venice, but on a grander scale. What were these people doing living in the middle of the sea like that? Why, in their days of greatness, did they not migrate to the land? How, now that those days of grandeur were past, did they intend to adapt themselves to a new world? Signor Ambrosian seemed the best fitted to answer such questions. No one else I had yet met was likely to do so.

I wrote a note on the back of my calling card, asking him to send a message to my accommodation, and then returned there for a rest before dinner. I was hungry; the day had been long, and the food not plentiful, and the excitement had worked up a fine appetite in me. I was looking forward to dinner and my own company, for I resolved that that evening I would eat alone. It was natural, even necessary, to place myself in the way of English society, but I was not, that evening, willing to converse with the likes of Longman in a fashion of easy conviviality – and I knew that such a manner was utterly vital if my deception was to be successful. Besides, I was not yet ready to meet Cort again.

For the next few days a certain watchful peace descended on me. All thoughts of leaving and moving on to new sights and places fell away so softly I did not even realise they had departed. I could not even keep myself fixed on reality through business, as I received a letter from Signor Ambrosian's secretary to say the banker was away for a few days, but that he would be happy to make my acquaintance on his return.

I was in love; for the first time in my life, so I thought. When I had taken her, I had abandoned all my caution and any doubts; she was irresistible, and I did not want to resist. Her vulnerability, which hid so well a terrible animality, fascinated me. I could see nothing but perfection. I wanted her more than anything else in my entire life. I was not a passionate man in my habits, not romantic in my behaviour: I imagine this is obvious already. I had disciplined myself carefully and thoroughly, but nature will out; Venice, and Louise Cort broke the dam, and a torrent of emotion burst through. The more I possessed her, the more I was prepared to lose myself in that glorious, unmatched feeling and prove it through recklessness.