Stone's Fall (66 page)

She fell silent and I said nothing.

“Tell me you will take me from him, forever. Tell me now.”

Another long silence, then I said, “No.”

I remember it well; there was a total silence, broken only by the sound of people, faintly heard, pushing barrows in the street below. She had been lying on the bed, I next to her. Suddenly there was a distance between us; she curled away, and I sat up, and the gap became immense and unbridgeable.

“You are like the others,” she said, softly but coldly. “You want to get rid of me, you’ve found your excuses. I’ve felt it growing in you; I’ve been expecting it, just wondering what reasons you were going to give yourself. Why not just say it directly? Why pretend it is for my good?”

“What others? Drennan, for example?” I asked, still remarkably calm. She laughed.

“Why are you laughing?”

She shrugged.

“Did you give your husband opium the night of the séance? Prepare the Marchesa by giving her information you knew would come out in her trance?”

A little smile of satisfaction, but no answer.

I expected some story I could believe, something that reassured me and made me think I had been foolish ever to doubt her. But she gave me nothing.

“You want to leave me,” she said. “I know you do. Why not just say so? Holiday over, so back to your little wife in England?”

She stopped, looked at me for a second, then said, coyly and softly: “Don’t you think she deserves to know how you’ve been spending your time?”

“What did you say?”

“Dear Mrs. Stone, I was your husband’s mistress until he became bored with me. He seduced me on a beach while you were sitting at home. I’m…”

“Be quiet!”

“You don’t really think you can leave me here and go back to England as if this never happened? Do you really think that? I will never leave you. I will follow you to your dying day. Are you ashamed? I’m not. I don’t care who knows about you, or what they think of me.”

“I said, enough!”

“Why? Whatever’s the matter? Are you upset? Oh!” she said in mock sympathy, “you feel deceived! How sad! I’d forgotten. You’re the only one who can deceive people, and tell lies.”

“I think I should leave. It would be better if I did not see you again.”

“For you, perhaps. Not for me.”

I walked to the door and she began to pull on her clothes.

“Do you know what I’m going to do now?” she said with a smile.

“What?”

“I think it’s time William knew the truth about everything, don’t you? I’m looking forward to telling him about the time we made love while he was waiting outside. How you particularly enjoyed that. It might finish him off for good, don’t you think? And once I’m free of the boy as well, it will be your turn.” She looked at me with such a glance that I felt a shiver run down my spine.

“You will do nothing at all.”

“And you are going to stop me… how exactly?”

I was silent.

“How much?”

She was the one who said it, not me. It was a mistake, a complete miscalculation. She brought everything back into an area I could understand. Until then she had been in charge, I merely responding.

“And what does that mean?”

“A word to my husband, a letter to your wife. How much?”

“And what do you suggest?”

“I think that £100 would be about right.”

“A hundred pounds?”

“A year.”

And then I laughed out loud. “Do you know, until you said that, a little bit of me still felt sorry for you? Do you really think I am going to keep you for the rest of your life? I have done nothing you have not done yourself. I owe you no more than you owe me. Let me tell you how much your silence is worth. Nothing. Not a penny. You will do nothing, and I will give you nothing in return. That is fair payment on both sides. Otherwise you will regret having threatened me. More than anything, you will regret that.”

She smiled. “We shall see.”

I
was shaking when I left, walking fast and trying to get away from that accursed room as quickly as possible. The change, from complicity to antagonism, love to hatred, had been so swift, so unforeseen, that I was trembling with shock. How could it have happened? How could I have been so mistaken? How could I have made such a terrible error? How did I not see more clearly, I, who prided myself on my judgement? It was a lesson for the future, but at that moment I was simply too stunned to think clearly.

What stuck most forcibly in my mind was her lack of emotion. Had she raged and screamed, behaved like some monster or hysteric, had she attacked me, or fallen on the floor sobbing, it would have been more understandable. But she behaved like a man of affairs; she’d done her best, it hadn’t worked, it was time to cut her losses. She behaved like me, in fact; and it was I who was shocked, trembling, overcome with emotion. Only her clumsy attempt at blackmail had saved me. Had she said nothing at all, I might well have offered her something, but I have never liked to be threatened. That changed everything.

But I remembered the look in her eyes, her threats. Was she capable of carrying them out? I thought she was. In fact, I was certain of it. That did not bother me personally. At the most it would cause a temporary embarrassment—tiresome, no doubt, but nothing that could not be shrugged off soon enough. I had no fear of anything she might do to me.

Cort was another matter; and there I did not know what to do. I had justified my behaviour with the thought that his mistreatment of her had been so monstrous that his punishment was deserved. I had now seen another, dark side of her, one I did not wish to be close to. But those marks, those weals and bruises, had been real. Merely because I now recoiled from Louise did not mean I felt so much more sympathetic to her husband. Perhaps they deserved each other?

So I did nothing, and constructed good reasons for my passivity. I did not excuse myself, though; please do not think that. I did not blame anyone, say that it was the influence of Venice or of strange madmen, or the light or the sea which had forced me to behave in such a reckless fashion. It was I, and I alone, who was responsible, and I was very lucky to have escaped so lightly. Had it not been for the hints and warnings of Marangoni and Drennan—and of Signor Casanova, whose words had, perhaps, the greatest effect of all—I could easily have been swept away by the elation of passion, sworn to love her forever, taken her for my own. Had I done so, I would have lived with my error, which soon enough would have become clear, of that I was sure.

It took a long time to calm myself, walking through the back streets, staring out over the lagoon, all sights which once pleased me, and I now began to find humiliating. I was waking up from my reverie fast. It was time to move; I wanted to leave Venice quickly. My dream world with Louise—what I had thought she was, at least—and of Venice were the same thing, and it was time to shake free of both. Neither had any more power over my mind. This decision came over me quickly and unconsciously. From a state where I was not even considering the question a short while previously, I began to think of packing my bags, making arrangements to travel. It was time to be off.

Bartoli found me in a quiet, determined mood when he walked into the café where we had agreed to meet, and it took an effort on my part to pay proper attention to his story. But it did me good to do so; the more we talked, the more Louise faded from my mind, became a problem to be contained and managed, nothing more. He also needed attention, for he was having very severe second thoughts about what he had just done. Macintyre was distraught, half-crazed with disappointment, inconsolable.

As he told it, all had been as before; the boat had sailed slowly out to the northern part of the lagoon, where they could be fairly sure there would be no prying eyes. The torpedo had been prepared and lowered over the side once more. The only difference this time was that Macintyre had very carefully removed a pin from the front end of the torpedo and held it up for all to see.

“The safety pin,” he had announced. “The torpedo is now armed, with fifty-four pounds of guncotton ready to explode the moment this projecting bolt is depressed by impact. The sort of impact you would get if it hit the side of a ship.”

Macintyre had tugged gently on a rope to line it up with the outline of an old hulk, a fishing boat that had run ashore many years before and been abandoned. He thought it would be a nice demonstration of his invention’s power if this could be reduced to matchwood. When all was ready he took a deep breath, and pulled out the pin, which allowed the air from the pressurised tank to flow down the pipes into the small turbine which turned the propeller.

This is where Bartoli’s interventions came into play. At first, all went well; the propeller whirred, the machine began to move. But it quickly became apparent that, instead of heading in a dead straight line towards the hulk, it was veering very sharply off to the right, and only at about two miles an hour, rising and falling in the water like a demented porpoise. Already, the bankers were exchanging glances, and Macintyre was looking distressed.

Worse was to come. For it became obvious—something Bartoli had not intended at all—that the machine was describing an erratic circle in the water, so that its course would bring it back, more or less, to where it had started. That it was going to hit the boat, with that much-advertised fifty-four pounds of guncotton ready to explode on impact.

Something like panic had set in, everyone trying to figure out where the machine would hit and get as far away from it as possible. Only Macintyre stood there, immediately above the likely spot, as it lurched towards them.

Then, the motor stopped. Instead of the supposed fourteen hundred yards range, it gurgled to a halt after little more than three hundred, which was just as well, as another five yards and it would have blown the boat, and all in it, to kingdom come. There was a moment’s silence, then, with a loud and apologetic burp, it sank.

Fortunately, they were in a fairly deep part of the lagoon, as the torpedo went down headfirst and exploded the moment it touched the bottom. I had never witnessed such a thing, but apparently fifty-four pounds of explosive makes a tremendous bang. It must do, if it is enough to sink a battleship. There was a muffled roar, an eruption of water some forty feet high, a small tidal wave which almost turned the boat over, and everyone got soaked. The demonstration had come to its spectacular conclusion.

Macintyre’s backers were unimpressed, to say the least. They had seen the machine fail completely, they had been soaked and frightened out of their wits. The journey back to Venice took place in total silence.

I looked at Bartoli as he finished. “What did you do to it?” I asked.

“Very little, really,” he replied, in a tone which did little to disguise his feelings of guilt. “Just a turn of a screw here and a mismatched connection there. A bit of weighting to put the gyroscope out. Little things, of the sort Macintyre wouldn’t notice.”

“He certainly won’t now,” I said, “as it’s in little pieces. What about the bankers?”

He shrugged. “They didn’t say a word. Not even goodbye. They just marched off the boat when it docked and walked away. Macintyre tried to talk to them, say it worked fine, really. But they didn’t want to hear his excuses. Listen, I have to go back to him. He is really upset and he’s drinking. He could do something very foolish if he’s not watched. Are you sure we did the right thing?”

“Absolutely sure,” I said robustly. “I fully expect a letter from Ambrosian very soon. In their view, the only way to recover their money will be to persuade me to buy the debt before I realise that the machine is useless. News spreads fast in this city, so they will have to move quickly or it will be too late. If I hear something, I will let you know immediately. Meanwhile, go and find Macintyre, tell him not to despair, that all will be well. Tell him whatever you want, but cheer him up.”

I was right. When I returned home, there was a letter awaiting me. In the florid, formal Italian normal for such letters, it informed the illustrious signore—me—that my proposal concerning the Macintyre project had now been put to the board, and had been decided upon favourably. If I wished to pursue the matter, then I should indicate that I wished to purchase the credit note.

There was also a handwritten note from Ambrosian accompanying this formal missive. He had worked hard on this matter on my behalf, he said, and had only persuaded the board to agree because one member was away. He was due to return tomorrow and would undoubtedly try to overturn the decision when he heard about it. If at all possible, then I should come and conclude the deal as quickly as possible, otherwise it would be too late.

I loved the audacity of the man, the smooth and reasonable way he managed to tell such enormous lies. A fine fellow indeed—astute, calculating, ruthless, mendacious; it cheered me up considerably.

I hurried back to the bank as swiftly as I could, then dallied a little, in order to make him a little more nervous. At six-twenty in the evening, just ten minutes before it was about to close, I presented myself and asked to see Signor Ambrosian.

You may think that I should have attended to other matters. Perhaps I should have gone myself to tell Macintyre what was happening; should have gone to see Cort. I agree. I should have done both of these. And if I did not, it was not because I did not consider both of them. But I believed Bartoli could take care of Macintyre and as for Cort—what can I say? I was not yet ready to face him.

“I am so glad we can reach agreement on this matter,” I said once I had sat down and accepted the offer of a glass of cold wine.

“As am I,” he replied with a warm smile. “Although, as I said in my letter, it was not easy to accomplish. But I felt that really we did not want to get involved in the business of setting up factories. However excellent Mr. Macintyre’s machine, any profits that might accrue become greatly postponed. And we Venetians no longer do this sort of thing; we prefer to leave it to the more enterprising English, and pursue lesser, short-term profits ourselves. It is no doubt why England has an empire and Venice has lost hers.”