Stone's Fall (59 page)

CHAPTER
9

The next day was a dream of such perfection that I have never approached the like again. It was, of course, all illusion, but I like to think of it still in isolation from what came after, as a moment of bliss, one of those days when one is no longer oneself, but becomes bigger, and better, able to overcome the normal preoccupations of life and breathe more freely.

Should anyone read this who knows me only from my reputation, I have no doubt that this narrative of idleness and dreaminess will occasion nothing but incredulity. If business and romance do not mix, how very much more incompatible are finance and passion? One requires a personality that is purely cold and rational, the other must give way to the impetuous. Such feelings cannot coexist in the same individual.

To which I must reply that anyone who thinks this knows nothing of money. Finance is every bit as much an art as painting or music. It is very similar to musical performance, for while much does depend on skill—a musician who cannot play is not a musician; a financier who cannot understand a balance sheet will soon be a beggar—skill can only take you so far. Beyond that point lies poetry. Many find this difficult to believe, but it is true. Some people are so much in tune with the markets that they do not need to manipulate a stock price or break a law to profit. They can feel the ebbs and flows of capital in the way a horse rider understands his steed, and can make it obey him without use of whip or stirrup.

Money is merely another term for people, a representation of their desires and personalities. If you do not understand one, you cannot hope to understand the other. Take the matter of giving an inducement to win a contract. This is frowned on, called bribery and in some cases is even considered criminal. But it is an area in which rational calculation and emotional empathy are the most perfectly fused. It is an art form; a Russian expects an envelope full of money; an English civil servant would be outraged at the idea, but is no less corrupt or greedy. He desires employment for his nephew—which is often a more generous gift. It is diplomacy carried over to the world of affairs, and both require delicacy and judgement. I acknowledge no equal in the art—not even Mr. Xanthos, for he is too cynical, too ready to hold the person he persuades in contempt. As I write, I have before me a sheet of paper listing the shares in my companies owned by some of the greatest politicians in England. I arranged it all some six years ago as a precaution and have never asked for anything in return. Nor will I; but these people will, in due course, do what is necessary in their own interests, and mine. Not that anyone else knows of this; it is why my managers are becoming nervous and are unable to understand my calm belief that all will be well. They fear I have lost my touch.

My Venice that day was a city full of tremulous anticipation. I wished to spend the day with Mrs. Cort even more than I wished to travel in a gondola around the canals. We met by a landing stage not far from the Rialto, where gondola, gondolier, and a hamper of food already awaited. It was eight in the morning, and brilliantly clear. Warm already, with the promise of more to come. The city itself was sparkling and Mrs. Cort—I hope I do not give away too much if at this point I begin to call her Louise—was standing waiting for me, and smiled as I approached, a smile of such warmth and promise that my heart skipped a beat.

Gondolas are not a place for any sort of intimate conversation, although we sat side by side rather than opposite each other. The boats are arranged (for those who do not know) with the gondolier standing at the back, so he had a clear view, not only of the waters ahead, but also of his passengers. They miss nothing, and a flimsy construction over our heads provided only limited privacy. A brushing of hand against hand; the faint pressure of bodies touching in the cramped confines of the hull. It was almost unbearable and I could sense she was under a similar pressure. I could feel the tension within her, longing for some outlet.

And so the morning passed in delicious frustration, the conversation edging towards intimacy, then pulling back before moving closer once more.

“How long have you lived in Venice?” I asked, this being an example of a conversation that proceeded in fits and starts, punctuated by long silences as we were both calmed by the soft splashing of the water against the side of the boat.

“About five months,” she replied.

“You met Mr. Cort in England?”

“Yes. In London. Where I was working. As a governess.”

She said this with a slight defiance, as if to see whether my attitude to her would change as a result of learning of her situation.

“How did you come to that position?”

“My father died when I was young, leaving my mother to look after us, two boys and two girls. I was the eldest. When I was fourteen my mother fell ill. So I had to work. Eventually, I was engaged by a family in Chelsea, not rich by many standards, but well enough off to afford me. I cared for their two children until I left to marry. They were delightful children. I miss them still.”

“True love?”

“No. He desired a wife to look after him and I craved the certainty of marriage. It was an arrangement suitable to us both.”

She sighed and broke off to look over the lagoon towards the Lido, which was slowly coming closer. I did not wish to intrude, so asked no further, but I understood all too well that she lived in a loveless marriage, deprived of that affection that all human beings must have. It is the situation of many, perhaps it is the normal circumstance of most, and she did not complain of a contract freely entered into. But it is not in our nature to remember how much worse things might have been; we only dream of the better that slips through our fingers.

“And he brought you here.”

“Yes. But I find this dreary conversation for such a day. Tell me about yourself instead. You must have had a more interesting life than I have so far enjoyed.”

“I doubt that. What can I say?”

“Are you married?”

“Yes.”

“Happily?”

Which is the moment I stepped closer to the edge. Yes, happily. My adored wife. I miss her so much. Words acting like an impregnable fortress, able to keep her out, me inside, both separated forever. I said nothing, and she understood my meaning.

“But your wife is not here. Why is that?”

“She does not like to travel.”

“Does she have a name?”

She was probing, teasing me. Betrayal mounted on betrayal as I turned aside and did not answer once more, then turned back and met her eyes as they looked calmly straight into mine, communicating endlessly, whole volumes about us both.

“And what do you do?”

“I spend my time investing money for gain. It takes up much of my life.”

She looked curious. “I understand nothing about money,” she said.

“This is not the time to start learning,” I said. “I find it fascinating and can discuss it for hours, but I also think there must be other topics to talk about when one is in a gondola on a fine morning in the company of a beautiful woman.”

She smiled faintly and looked away. I wondered how long it had been since anyone had spoken thus to her, if anyone ever had.

“I like that,” she said softly.

There then followed the longest silence of the day; our closeness had already grown too great to require words. Instead we both sat quietly, watching the flat strip of land growing closer, I so aware of her it was almost painful.

The Lido has changed greatly since then; now the hotels I once imagined in my mind’s eye have sprung up along its length. Then it was all but deserted; the main road was little more than a track that led out of the tiny settlement on the city side of the strip; within a few hundred yards all habitation ceased, and there were instead only cows and a few sheep occupying an island near fifteen miles long and a mile wide.

At the time I was somewhat disappointed; I had anticipated a voyage in the inner lagoon, seeing the sights I thought every visitor should see—Murano, Torcello and all of those. I had not yet seen much even of the main city, let alone its outlying regions, so coming to a place which was virtually deserted, and which had no features of note, was not what I desired at all.

“Why have you brought me here?” I asked, somewhat petulantly.

“Wait and see,” she said. “I love this place. It is the only place where you can be alone. Come.”

She directed the gondolier to pick up the hamper of food and carry it over the island to the other side. She later told me she had discovered this spot many weeks before, and had kept it secret from everyone, treasuring it as a place she alone in the world knew about. To show it to me was the greatest compliment.

The other side was not far; although a mile or more wide at its tip, the Lido narrows down along its length until it is only a few hundred yards across. It is not one island; rather it is a whole string of them, artificially joined over the centuries to form a barrier protecting the city from the Adriatic. It was all but deserted, offering nothing to the population except uncertain weather in winter and a place to walk in summer.

And to swim; I had learned to swim as a boy when I stayed for the summers at the house of a relative in Hampshire. This family possessed a large garden with a fine pond, surrounded by reeds. Once you waded through them, you had the finest swimming place imaginable, with clear fresh water that warmed pleasantly in the sun. There my cousins had taught me to swim and, although I was not expert, I had learned also to love the feel of water. To see the rolling waves of the Adriatic basking in the sunshine of late summer gave me one thought only, which was to wade into the water as quickly as possible.

Again, the thought occurred to me; I had been sent to school at a boarding establishment in Brighton until I was thirteen, and had seen the bathing houses and the women ponderously wading into the icy water—for their health, I imagine, as it is difficult to see how it could have been for their pleasure—dressed in voluminous costumes so heavy they could not possibly have swum without sinking. I remembered also the habitually leaden skies, and the chill that hit you as you emerged from the water dripping wet, only to be frozen by the frigid winds of an English summer.

And here was something close to paradise on earth. Men now go to the South Seas to search for such an unspoiled landscape; back in 1867 it could be found much closer to home, only a short boat ride from San Marco.

“It’s beautiful,” I said as we walked down a little path that led to a copse of trees.

She smiled.

“Listen,” she said, pausing for a moment and holding up a finger. I listened.

“What?”

“Nothing,” she replied. “Nothing at all. There is only the sound of the sea and the birds. That is why I like it.”

We had arrived at her special place, a clearing inside the copse surrounded on three sides by thick foliage that prevented any passerby from seeing us, and open on the other to the sea, like the most glorious theatre set in the world. It was dark and cool in the shade, and I spread out our blanket on the ground, while Louise opened the hamper and took out the simple food she had prepared—a cold chicken, some bread, and a bottle of water.

“How do you like the architecture of Palladio?” she asked coyly as we finished our meal—which, for all its simplicity, was delicious.

“I like it very much. Or would do, no doubt, if I had seen any. Why?”

“Because that is what you are admiring at the moment.”

“Really?”

“Yes. Mr. Cort gave me permission spend the day showing you the city. I believe he felt that it was improper for me to be alone with you otherwise. In the middle of Venice there could be little scandal.”

“And you disobeyed his orders.”

She nodded. “Are you shocked?”

“Dreadfully.”

And then I leaned over and kissed her. Very clumsily, even aggressively, but I could stand the tension no more. I was well aware that she might pull back, that the moment might be ruined by my behaviour, but I did not care. I was a Venetian; I could take what I wanted. I had to know and had to show my intentions, however dishonourable and however much I might risk losing her esteem had I made a mistake. It was appalling behaviour, to try and take advantage of a married woman in an isolated spot when she had trusted me. I can only say that I was overtaken by a sort of madness, the impetuousity that comes from being in a foreign land where the usual demands of behaviour are relaxed, combined with the special magic of a place which encourages emotional display normally kept hidden from view.

She did not pull back. Instead, she responded to my advance with a ferocity that encouraged still more from me, and we lay back on the ground, bodies entwined, groans being the only communication between us apart from the eloquent conversation of our bodies.

How it happened I do not know; I cannot recall whose initiative it was, but I felt her hands exploring my body so firmly that I was roused to a pitch of excitement greater than anything I had ever experienced before, and I scrabbled vainly at her clothes—oh, the clothes of that period, like medieval castles they were, designed to repel all assault—until she pulled back.

Again I was surprised, for I expected her to come to her senses then, and realise the peril of her situation, but she did not. All she said was, “Not like that,” and slowly began unbuttoning her blouse, then her skirts, until she was revealed to me in all her beauty, and lay back on the blanket, and held out her arms for me, an expression of desperation and longing on her face.

It was not good, that first time, perhaps it never is between two people so uncertain of each other, so unknowing of the other’s needs and desires, but she cried out, almost in pain, towards the end and I could feel the tension seeping from her body as it ebbed slowly from mine. Then we lay together, I slowly caressing her belly, still unable truly to believe that such a thing had happened. What was this woman? What sort of person gives herself up in such a fashion? But again I did not care. I had had such thoughts before, with others, and in each case the result had been a sort of disgust, a separation of lust from respect and an inability to reconcile the two feelings. There was no such difficulty now; I was merely content, blissful, and desired nothing more than to hold her close forever. I felt whole for the first time in my life.