Iain Pears - Stone's Fall

'You are not wandering the streets now,' I said with some savage satisfaction, deeply disturbed and shocked by what he was saying.

'No. For the time being I rest. And why should I wish to escape?' He smiled, and looked around him with amusement flickering on his face. 'The good doctor, it seems, is fully wedded to the best notions of gentleness for his poor inmates. I am fed well, and have to do little in return for my board and lodging, save allow myself to be measured and photographed, and to answer questions about my life. Which I have not yet decided how to do.'

'What does that mean?'

'They are most interesting questions,' he continued by way of explanation. 'They are trying to discover contradictions, impossibilities in what I say. It is excellent fun, for they go off to read my memoirs, then come back to quiz me about them. But I wrote them! Of course I know the answers better than they do. Every truth and every little fib I put in. The question is, do I tell the truth, or do I give them what they want? They so greatly desire to prove I am insane, and not who I am, that I am dreadfully sorry to disappoint them. Perhaps I should drop a few hints and contradictions into my conversation so they can conclude I am someone else entirely? It would make them so happy and grateful, and I have always desired to please. What do you think?'

'I think you should tell the truth at all times.'

'Pish, sir, you are a bore. I suppose you say your prayers every night, and ask God to make you virtuous. And you are a hypocrite. You lie all the time, except you do not even realise you are doing it. Goodness! This is a dull time to be living.'

He leaned forward, so that his face was close to mine.

'What are you in your dreams, when no one is there? What do you do in this city, which you have persuaded yourself is just a dream? How many people are you lying to now?'

I glared at him, and he chuckled. 'You forget, my friend, that I am in your dreams as well.'

'I don't know what you mean,' I said stiffly. I found that I could not answer him properly.

'Standing by a window? You don't understand it. Why didn't you turn and ask me? I could have answered, you know. I was there, you know I was. I could have told you everything.'

'How do you know about that?'

'I told you, I see everything.'

'That was just a dream.'

He shook his head. 'There are no such things as dreams. Do you want to know more? Ask, if you wish. I can save you, but you must ask. Otherwise you will cause terrible hurt to others.'

'No,' I said, abruptly enough for my fear to shine through all too obviously.

He nodded his head and smiled gently. 'You may change your mind,' he replied softly. 'And thanks to the good doctor, you will know where to find me, for the time being. But you must hurry; I will not be here for long.'

I rose and left without another word. He, meanwhile, sat on his little chair and picked up a book. When I closed the door I leaned with my back against it and closed my eyes.

'Not in a talking mood? Or did you think better of it?' It was Marangoni, standing exactly where I had left him.

'What? No; we talked for a long time.'

'But you have only been in there a minute or two.'

I stared at him.

He pointed at the clock. It was two minutes past three. I had been in that room for slightly more than a minute.

That evening I had my first proper conversation with Arnsley Drennan. I had talked to him before, of course, but never alone, and he never said very much. He was a strange man; he seemed to need no one, but would frequently dine with us. Perhaps even his self-sufficiency needed a rest, on occasion. He was the obvious choice for me at that moment; I needed quite badly to talk to someone normal, rational and calm, who could point out that my afternoon with Signor Casanova had been all complete nonsense. Drennan, who gave off an air of solid good sense, could be relied on not to gossip about it afterwards.

I hadn't planned a conversation with him; it came about by chance, as he and I were the only two people to show up for dinner that night. Longman had one of his rare reports to write as Consul; Cort, fortunately, hardly ever came nowadays, Macintyre and Marangoni were also absent. We ate our fish – Macintyre was correct there, it always was fish and I was starting to get a little tired of it – more or less in silence, then he suggested a coffee down the road in more salubrious surroundings.

'Have you seen Cort recently?' I asked. 'I haven't seen him for some time . . .'

'I ran into him yesterday, poor man. He's in a bad way; he really should go back to England. It would be quite easy for him to do so. But I am afraid he is quite obsessed now. He sees it as a matter of honour to finish this job of his.'

Then bit by bit, as we drank more brandy, I told him about Signor Casanova. He was interested; or at least, I think he was. Drennan was one of those men whose expression never changed very much. But he listened quietly and attentively.

'I can't say I know much about madness,' he said. 'I have come across men driven mad by fear, or by horror, but that is a different sort of insanity.'

'How so?'

'Modern warfare,' he said. 'As you may have guessed already, I was a soldier. I saw many things I did not wish to see, and which will be hard to forget.'

'You fought for the Confederates?'

'Yes. And we lost.' He shrugged to dismiss the subject from his mind.

'So you are an exile? A strange place to choose, if I may say so.'

He glanced at me, then smiled slightly. 'So it would be, if that was why I was here. Well,' he continued, 'maybe I should tell you. Why not? It is all history now. Have you heard of the Alabama ?'

I looked at him. 'The warship? Of course I've heard of it . . . Does this have anything to do with Macintyre?'

It was his turn to look surprised. 'How do you know that?'

'I made enquiries.'

'I'm impressed. Truly I am. What else do you know about Mr Macintyre?'

'That he is not wanted back in England at the moment.'

He stared at me in astonishment, the first time I had ever seen any sort of strong emotion pass on his face. I felt quite pleased with myself.

'And who else knows of this?'

'In Venice, you mean? No one. Signor Ambrosian of the Banca di Santo Spirito seems to think he is here because he stole a lot of money. Why do you ask?'

'Because it is my job to protect him.'

'From whom?'

'Yankee lawyers, mainly. He is the living proof of Laird's culpability. Great Britain maintains that the conversion of the Alabama was entirely out of its control. Everyone knows this is a fiction, but it will hold as long as there is no proof. Macintyre is that proof, and there are many people who would dearly like a conversation with him. And, I suspect, would pay high for the opportunity. He was paid off and told to lie low until the matter was settled. And I was hired to make sure that he does. Which is why I am here.'

'Who hired you?'

'Well, that I cannot say. Your Government, Laird's, Lloyd's of London. Should this lawsuit go badly it would cost a great deal in money and reputation. So as I was out of a job at the time . . .'

'What do you mean?'

He shrugged. 'I have no country, and do not wish to live amongst my conquerors. And I am – or was – a soldier. What should I do? Herd cows in Texas for the rest of my life? No; when all was lost, I came to England to seek work. This is what I found. It is not the best of jobs, but it will do for the moment.'

'I see. You are a most interesting man, Mr Drennan.'

'No. But I have had an interesting life. If you can call it that.'

'And Macintyre cannot go back to England?'

'Not until this is settled. I wanted him to go to Greece, change his name, but this is as far as he would travel.'