Iain Pears - Stone's Fall

'I can't move,' I shouted to the boat.

'Tie the rope on to the torpedo! Stop pushing it further into the mud,' Macintyre shouted back.

'What about me?'

'We'll pull you out afterwards.'

Well, thank you, I thought bitterly. Still, he was right. That was what I was there for. I was so cold now that I could barely untie the knot, let alone push the rope through the propeller casing and tie it securely. My teeth were chattering uncontrollably by the time I was finally done.

'Excellent,' Macintyre shouted. 'Pull away.'

It took some effort by the people on the boat, but eventually the torpedo began to move, and once the suction was broken it slipped rapidly past me and into deeper water. Macintyre was all but dancing up and down in joy.

'Now get me out of here!' I shouted.

'Oh, very well,' came the reply, and I felt the rope tighten around my chest as they began to tug. Nothing happened. I moved a few inches, but the moment the pressure was relaxed, I sank back down even deeper than before. I was now getting frightened.

'Don't stop!' I shouted. 'I'm going lower. Get me out of here!'

Nothing happened. I glanced round and saw Macintyre, staring at me and stroking his chin. Then he talked to Bartoli. For a fraction of a second I was convinced he was going to abandon me there.

But no. Although what he planned was nearly worse. As he explained afterwards, the suction from the mud was too strong for them. All they were doing was pulling the boat itself into danger. They needed more power.

I saw Bartoli pulling up the sails, and Macintyre pulling up the anchor, and one of his men manning the oar to turn the ship. I realised with horror what they had in mind. They were setting sail, and were going to use the full power of the boat and the wind to try and dislodge me.

'You'll pull me apart!' I yelled. 'Don't do that.'

But Macintyre just waved cheerfully. The boat began to move, and I felt the rope tighten once more, until it was as taut as a bowstring and the pressure on my chest, the rubbing of the rough cord, unbearably painful. It was all I could do not to scream. I certainly remember thinking that if I was still in one piece at the end of this experiment I would thump Macintyre on the nose.

It got more and more painful; I could feel my body stretching as the mud refused to let me go, and that seemed to go on forever. Then, with the most disgusting slurping sound, it gave me up; my legs and feet were belched out of the mud in a huge cloud of foul-smelling water, and I floated free, trailing behind the boat as it headed towards Venice.

It took another five minutes to haul me in, and by then I could not move; I was shivering so badly I couldn't control my arms or legs; my chest had the beginnings of a bright red weal across it, my spine felt as though it was several inches longer than it had been, and my legs still smelled unspeakably foul.

And Macintyre paid me not the slightest bit of attention. Instead, he was busily clucking over his lump of iron while Bartoli wrapped me in a blanket, and brought me some grappa. I drank it from the bottle, then rolled over in the blanket until I began to recover.

'It's fine,' Macintyre said, as though certain that his torpedo would be uppermost in my mind. 'No damage at all. Although the cowling bent from the way you attached the rope to it.'

I ignored him. He didn't notice.

'But no matter. That can be hammered out. Apart from that, it is in perfect condition. All I have to do now is clean it, dry it and make a few minor adjustments and it will be ready for the big test next week.'

'May I say that I would not have cared had the damnable thing sunk to the bottom of the lagoon, never to be seen again?'

Macintyre looked at me in astonishment. 'But, my dear Stone,' he cried, 'just look at you! I am so sorry, I haven't thanked you enough. What you did just now was generous. Generous and a mark of true kindness. Thank you, from the bottom of my heart.'

I was somewhat mollified by this, but only somewhat. I kept on drinking the grappa, and slowly felt some warmth creep back into my body. Everyone made a fuss over me, said how wonderful I had been. That helped. If one is to behave selflessly and courageously it is pleasing to have it recognised. I wrapped myself in blankets and encomiums all the way home, and lay there dreaming of Louise by my side. I even felt almost content by the time the boat finally docked just by the workshop three hours later. But I did not help unload the torpedo. I had had enough. I left them to it, Macintyre shouting, everyone else working, and walked back to my lodgings. There I demanded a bath with limitless hot water immediately, and would not take no for an answer. I had to wait another hour before it was prepared, by which time everyone in the house had been told that the idiot Englishman had fallen into the lagoon. Well, what do you expect from foreigners?

The next morning, a note was delivered to my room, from Marangoni, of all people. 'I stand corrected,' he wrote, and I could almost see the smile on his face as I read. 'It seems that Mr Cort's Venetian really does exist. Come and meet him, if you wish; he is a fascinating creature.'

I had as leisurely a breakfast as Venetian habits allow and decided that, as I had nothing better to do that morning, I would take up the invitation and go to San Servolo. The island lies between San Marco and the Lido, a handsome-enough place from a distance; you would never know that it was an asylum for the insane – certainly it is very unlike the grim prisons which England was then throwing up all over the country to incarcerate the lunatics which all societies produce in abundance. Marangoni hated the place, and would have preferred a modern, scientific establishment, but I think his real objection stemmed from his determination to detach his profession from any taint of religiosity. Otherwise, the old Benedictine monastery would have been a beautiful place to spend his time. Apart from the inmates: there is something about madness which casts a pall on the loveliest of buildings; the clouds always seem to hover above such places, no matter how brightly the sun shines. And, of course, no one spends much money on lunatics; they get the leftovers, after the more astute and agile have taken what they want. San Servolo was in a pitiable state, crumbling, overgrown and depressing. The sort of place you wish to get away from; the sort of place that might easily send even a perfectly healthy person insane.

Marangoni had colonised the best part for himself, the abbot's lodgings were now his office, with remarkable painted ceilings, and large windows that opened onto the lagoon. It was a room that could make you see the virtues of a contemplative life, though not those of a custodian of the insane. Marangoni was a thief in someone's else's property and looked it. He would never exude the necessary style to seem as though he belonged there. He was a bureaucrat in a dark suit: the room hated him, and he hated it back.

'Pleasant enough now, but you should be here in January,' he said when I admired the frescoes. 'The cold gets into your bones. Damp; no amount of fires make any difference at all. I have learned to write with gloves on. When November comes I start dreaming of applying for jobs in Sicily.'

'But then you would fry in summer.'

'True enough. And there is work that needs to be done here.'

'Tell me about this man.'

He smiled. 'He was arrested by the police a few days ago, and was passed on to me yesterday.'

'What had he done?'

'Nothing, really, but he was stopped for questioning and asked for his name. He was then arrested for insulting a policeman by making frivolous remarks.'

'What sort?'

'He insisted, and keeps on insisting, that his name is Gian Giacamo Casanova.'