“Thank you.”
“And he doesn’t want to leave Venice?”
“Not yet.”
“And if he decides to go back to England?”
“Then it will be my job to stop him.”
“How?”
Drennan shrugged. “I will worry about that when it happens. At the moment, he seems perfectly happy here. Which is a pleasant change from the Corts.”
“A disturbed man,” I observed.
“Yes. But if I was married to a woman like that, so would I be.”
“I beg your pardon?” It was offensive, gratuitously so. But I looked at him and he stared evenly back. He knew exactly what he was saying; was saying it deliberately.
“I went on a boat ride with her; she invited me. We went to the Lido, although I wanted to tour the inner lagoon. I found her behaviour unfortunate.”
“Did you?”
“I did. And now it is time for me to leave. As you know, I have a half-hour walk back to my lodging. Good evening to you.”
When I left him I walked over to Macintyre’s workshop; I could have got there much faster had I hurried, but I had much to think about. Drennan had very carefully given me a warning. From someone like Longman or Marangoni, I would have dismissed it out of hand as the remarks of a vulgarian, but Drennan I took seriously. He was not a man to gossip or to invent stories. What he said could not possibly be true, I was sure of that, but I wondered what his reasoning was. There was no obvious answer. But there were other questions now welling up in my mind as well.
I found Bartoli alone in the workshed, and greeted him. We talked for a while, and I expressed an entirely false disappointment that Macintyre wasn’t there.
“He’s gone to feed his daughter,” Bartoli said, speaking English in a thick accent.
“You speak well,” I replied. “When did you learn?”
“Here and there,” he said. “I lived in England for a while, and then met Mr. Macintyre in Toulon. I learned much from him.”
“It is unusual, isn’t it? To travel like that? Why did you do it?”
He shrugged. “I wanted to learn,” he said. “And there is not much chance of that here.”
“You are Venetian?”
“No,” he said scornfully. “I come from Padua. I hate it here.”
“Why is that?”
“They are lazy. All they want to do is live, and die.”
He spoke in short, sharp sentences; he said what he wanted to, then stopped. There was no ornament about his words, which was refreshing although slightly disconcerting.
“Is this second test going to work as well as the first?” I asked abruptly.
“Of course. Why do you ask?”
“Because Mr. Macintyre has asked me to look at his books. The money. And they are in a bad state. I am worried for him.”
He nodded. “I, also,” he said. “Very worried. He is a good man. A fine engineer. But he is not very sensible. You know what I mean?”
“I do. And he is in a very dangerous position. You too, I suppose, as your job depends on this.”
He shrugged. “There are other jobs. But I want Mr. Macintyre to be successful. He would die of disappointment. It will be a success. It will work as well at the next test as it did at the first. I am sure of it.”
“That’s unfortunate,” I said quietly.
Bartoli looked at me. “Why do you say that?”
I took a deep breath. “I will tell you,” I said. “But you must give me your word you will say nothing to anyone else.”
“I do.”
“Good. Then listen carefully. Mr. Macintyre has borrowed money foolishly. If this machine of his fails next week, then he will get no more. He will be bankrupt. He will not be able to continue his work here. You understand?”
“I know this.”
“But it will be even worse if it succeeds. He sold the patent for the machine as part of the loan agreement. I don’t know if he was aware of what he was doing, but that is the truth. He is busy trying to build something which no longer belongs to him. If the machine works, he will not see a penny of profit. Do you understand?”
Bartoli nodded slowly.
“If the machine fails, it will be unfortunate. If it succeeds, it will be a disaster.”
Bartoli shook his head. “Ah, Mr. Stone, what foolishness this is! We must help him. Poor man, he is too innocent for such people.”
“I agree. Unfortunately, he is also too straightforward to get out of this mess. He would never stoop to anything underhand or deceitful, however justified it may be.”
Bartoli looked quizzically at me. “What do you mean?”
“The situation can be retrieved,” I said quietly.
“How?”
“I am prepared to pay off his loans and buy the patent. But if the test succeeds there is not a chance they will wish to sell. Mr. Macintyre’s only hope is that it fail. Then I can approach the creditors and safeguard his invention. But, I repeat, only if the test fails, and I imagine Mr. Macintyre is determined it should succeed. He is a proud and foolish man.”
Bartoli nodded, evidently thinking hard. “Are you sure of all this?”
I nodded.
“The question is how to save him.”
“That’s simple,” I said bluntly.
“How?”
“The torpedo must fail the test.”
Bartoli looked at me in total silence.
“I am going to visit the bankers tomorrow about another matter. I will repeat my offer to buy his debts, but make it seem that I know nothing of the test. They will refuse to sell, of course. But if it fails, they will contact me swiftly, hoping to get their money back from a foolish Englishman who does not know he is buying a heap of scrap metal.”
“And you will look after Mr. Macintyre? Do you promise me that?”
“I could hardly build the machines myself. I know nothing about engineering. He will make the machines, I will look after the money. He might not choose such a solution, but I’m afraid he must be saved from himself.”
Bartoli nodded. “I must get back to work,” he said quietly.
I left him. I had won, I thought. But only time would tell.
The procedure was exactly the same as the previous week; except that this time, the torpedo was handled as though it was made of the purest and most expensive porcelain. It was important that I was nowhere around, but I went down to the workshop to see the preliminaries from a distance, and to assure myself that all the arrangements were made.
There was no need to have done so; Bartoli nodded at me as I approached, as if to say—don’t worry; all will be well. So I retreated rapidly when I saw Ambrosian and two others—presumably people from the bank—walk up and view the scene for themselves. As the boat pulled away from the side of the canal, I could see Macintyre, in a high state of excitement, stroking the sleek side of the torpedo lovingly, pointing at this part or that. Very faintly I heard his voice, unusually animated, as he described in great detail how his torpedo worked, what it would do, its revolutionary potential. I knew that, once in such a mood, he could probably carry on without a break for hours, and I rather pitied the Venetians’ ears.
Then they were gone, and there was nothing for me to do except go to my rendezvous with Louise, which I had fixed for eleven o’clock that morning. I was in a state of some nervous excitement myself, and she picked up my mood; we said hardly a word for the next hour, but devoured each other as though it was to be our last meal. At the end we lay on the bed intertwined, until I remembered Macintyre.
“Don’t go,” she said. “Stay with me.”
“Very important business,” I said. “I need to go and see Macintyre. It’s a big day. But tell me, before I go, tell me some news.”
She shook her head. “There is nothing good I can say that will please you.”
“Why? What’s the matter?”
“It is my husband. He is worse and worse. Even more violent than you, but not to give me pleas
ure, as you do.”
“He doesn’t seem like that at all.”
“Do you doubt me? Think I am a liar?”
“Of course not. I was only saying…”
“You’ve seen the marks, the wounds? If he broke my leg, blackened my eye, would you feel happier? It’s only a matter of time, you know. I’m sure you’ll be satisfied eventually.”
“That is not what I meant.”
“You do not know him,” she said, furious now. “I am afraid, terribly afraid what he might do when one of his attacks comes on him. If only I could run away somewhere! But that will never be. I know that now. There will be no escape for me.”
I sat down on the bed once more and took her in my arms. She nestled her head against my neck, and stroked my hair. “Just being with you gives me courage,” she said softly. “But it fades when you’re not there. I dream of being with you all the time, you know. The moment I met you I knew you were all I wanted; all I ever wanted in the world. But you don’t feel the same for me, I know.”
“I do,” I replied. “I do.”
“Then we must be!” she cried, looking me in the eyes. “Somehow, we must be! It is our fate, I know it. Please tell me you will do this! Tell me now!”
“I cannot. You know I cannot.”
“You will not.”
“You will leave your husband, your life…?”
“It is no life,” she said scornfully. “What sort of life is it, do you think, living in a hovel with a screaming child and a man like that? What sort of life is that, in comparison to what we could have together, just you and me, alone?”
“It is easy to suggest when you are here, in Venice, away from the judgment of society,” I said. “You might think you had made a poor bargain once you returned to England.”
“You are thinking of yourself,” she said bitterly. “You are happy to meet me here, in this little room, as long as no one knows. But I am not worth a single disapproving glance from society. You take everything you want, and I give it. I am happy to give it; I would die for you. Very well; I will be only your whore, to give you your pleasure as you want, when you want. That is enough for me; it gives me the only pleasure I have in the world. I want nothing you will not give me.”
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, t
hose 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.