The Lying Tongue (10 page)

I nipped out to post the letter as Crace was having his afternoon nap, making sure I left a note saying I had gone to buy some wine. From the palazzo it was only a ten-minute walk to the Fondaco dei Tedeschi, the former German merchants’ building that was now the central post office. As I approached, I saw the crowds traipsing up and around the Rialto Bridge and wondered if any of them knew the glorious history of the building that faced them, that the simple, plain facade of the Fondaco dei Tedeschi was once covered in elaborate frescoes by Giorgione and the young Titian, faded portraits now in the Ca’ d’Oro. And that the “scourge of princes” Pietro Aretino, every day for the twenty-two years that he had lived in his house on the Grand Canal, had gazed out of his windows at this building, a view he thought was the loveliest in all the world. I doubted it. All anyone seemed interested in was fake designer tat on sale at the canal-side stalls.

After being cooped up inside Crace’s palazzo, I was tempted to walk around and explore. Apart from that first day in the city, I hadn’t had the chance to really see and do the things I had always dreamed of—St. Mark’s, the Palazzo Ducale, the Scuola di San Giorgio degli Schiavoni, the Tintorettos in the Scuola Grande di San Rocco and in the churches of San Polo and the Madonna dell’Orto, or even just an afternoon sunbathing at the Lido. I resented the fact that I had to rush back to Crace, but comforted myself with the knowledge that I had embarked on a new project, one that had the potential to transform my life. Around the corner from the palazzo, I bought a couple of cakes and a bottle of Fragolino, and when I entered the drawing room, I found Crace still in the same position in his chair, his head gently tipping forward onto his chest as he slept.

I started to get up earlier and earlier, rising as the weak sun of the dawn filtered through the shuttered windows of my room. As I washed and dressed, I felt driven by a new purpose, an overwhelming curiosity—a desire to know. I used those early mornings to write in my notebook and scour the palazzo for signs of Crace’s past. I took it upon myself to look a little deeper, searching through drawers and cabinets. Their dark, secret spaces looked like they should hold clues to Crace’s character, but they contained nothing but the meaningless detritus of life—receipts, bills and circulars. The only real, tangible object I had found that looked like it might be something of significance was the lock of flaxen hair hidden away in Crace’s desk. I was keen to have another look at it, but as it was cosseted away in the study next to the bedroom, I couldn’t risk Crace finding me.

Each morning, as I heard my subject getting ready and my time alone was about to come to an end, I was left feeling increasingly dissatisfied, frustrated and angry, wondering why Crace’s presence wasn’t more substantial and visible.

Just as I was about to lose confidence in the validity of my project, something happened that boosted my spirits. One Wednesday morning, I was sitting on the top step of the stairs that led down into the courtyard, sipping an espresso, when I heard something fall into the letter box. Crace was already up but not dressed. After drinking a macchiato, he had decided to retire to his bedroom, where he said he would do a spot of reading and then proceed to get ready. He said he would return for breakfast in about a quarter of an hour and that he rather fancied scrambled eggs on toast.

“You do know that I like my eggs hardly cooked at all,” he said. “So you mustn’t put them on until you see me sit down at the table. You won’t forget now, will you?”

The first time I had cooked the dish for him, he had screwed up his face in disgust and made me throw it all away. “Like little coolie clumps of shit,” he had barked at me then. He insisted on standing by me as I whipped up the eggs once more and stirred them in the pan. Just as the yellow mixture began to solidify, he tapped me on the shoulder and told me to turn the heat off. The slimy mass looked like something premature. As he spooned the viscous, formless eggs into his mouth, he made a series of appreciative slurping noises that turned my stomach. I wasn’t going to forget.

The sound of the letter falling into the box reminded me of the time when I had pushed my application through the dragon’s mouth. I remembered the sensation of my fingers brushing against the cold marble.

I ran down the steps, past the Corinthian column with its naked cherub, to the door. Fixed to the back of the wooden door, immediately behind the dragon’s head, was a gray metal box. Using my thumb and forefinger, I tried to flick open its lid, but nothing moved. Thinking it was merely jammed, I pressed harder into the metal rim. A sharp edge cut cleanly into my thumb, leaving an inch-long gash. As I pushed my thumb into my mouth and tasted the metallic tang of blood, I noticed a tiny lock at the side of the box. How could I have been so stupid as not to have seen it?

Crace had told me that all the mail forwarded from his publisher would be hand-delivered by courier and, as a result, I had never needed to open the letter box before. When I had written to Mrs. Shaw asking her to write to me at the palazzo, I had assumed I would be able to intercept the letter before Crace even knew it had arrived. I had never seen him check the letter box. I never thought that it would be locked.

I bent down and studied the tiny lock. I rimmed it with my finger, somehow thinking that feeling its contours and indentations would succeed in teasing it open. I considered smashing it. I looked around the courtyard for a rock and even thought about using the sculpture of the cherub as a weapon, but knew that such an action was impossible as it would raise Crace’s suspicions. The only way was to find the key, a very small key.

I ran back up the courtyard stairs and down the hall. I heard Crace in his bedroom, walking toward me. A couple more seconds and we would be face-to-face.

I slowed down and turned my back on him. I couldn’t let him see the panic in my eyes.

“I’m nearly ready,” I heard him shout. “You can get the eggs on in a minute.”

He wanted breakfast.

“As I was reading, I started to feel hungry.” His voice was coming closer.

I walked into the kitchen and started to crack open the eggs. As I poured a dash of milk into the mixing bowl and began to whisk up the mixture, I noticed that my hands were shaking.

“You can put the pan on now.”

Crace was outside the door.

“And the toast.”

I looked up.

“What’s wrong with you?”

As I dropped a spoonful of butter into the pan and placed it on the gas, I felt his eyes on me. “What do you mean?” I said, pretending to concentrate on the breakfast so as not to meet his gaze.

“You’re not your usual cheery self, that’s all. Has something happened?” I noticed a slight note of panic in his voice. I had to keep him calm.

“Oh, just a little preoccupied. The novel isn’t going so well, that’s all.”

“You know I can’t give you any advice on that front, I’m afraid,” he said as he eased himself into his chair.

I stirred the eggs, buttered the toast, served the dish on a plate and took it over to Crace.

“What happened to your thumb?”

“I cut it on that knife over there,” I said, pointing to the counter. “The one I used to crack open the eggs. I must have been miles away. But I was careful to wipe my hands before making your breakfast.”

“Even if a few drops of blood did fall into the eggs, who cares?” he said, shoveling the amorphous mixture into his mouth and smacking his lips. “They would taste delicious with a little of you in them.”

His voice was flirtatious, creepily so. But perhaps now was a good time to try and ask about the key.

I sat down next to him and moved my chair a little closer. The proximity brought a slight flush to his cheeks and his little eyes glinted mischievously.

“Gordon?”

“Yes?”

“I think someone pushed something into the letter box this morning. I’m sure it’s just rubbish—a flyer or something like that—but I thought I should probably try and clean it out for you. After all, when was the last time you looked inside it?”

Crace put down his knife and fork as he thought.

“It must have been a few weeks. Why, not since you dropped off your last letter. But what’s the point? And as you say, there’ll be nothing of any great import inside.”

“But if I don’t clear it out, surely all the letters will start spilling out of the dragon’s mouth onto the street.”

“So?” Crace said, resuming his breakfast. “Who cares? It will teach the little fuckers a lesson, don’t you think? Show them we don’t even read their crap they shove into the box.”

I had to try again, this time another tack. I took a deep breath. “I’m afraid I’ve got a confession to make.”

Crace stopped eating again and looked at me. I licked my lips and swallowed nervously.

“I know you told me not to give out this address”—as Crace’s face contorted with anger, little globs of half-eaten egg flew out of his mouth—“but I’m afraid I had to write to my girlfriend back in London—Eliza. We split up just before I came out here, and there were lots of things we hadn’t sorted out. She started sleeping with one of our lecturers, and I suppose I still had feelings for her. I said some awful things before I left, did some things I regret. And so I just had to write to her to tell her how I feel. I was desperate for some contact, the kind that only letters can bring, when you can express emotions that are impossible to communicate over the telephone.”

“I see, yes,” said Crace, his features softening. I was, after all, speaking the truth. Well, at least my emotions were genuine.

“I know I went against your rules, but if you could just let me retrieve the letter and read it, that’s all I’m asking.”

“You didn’t tell her my name, did you?”

“Yes, I mean, no—I didn’t tell her. Or anyone else. I just said I was staying at this address, trying to write my novel, looking after it while the owner was traveling abroad.”

Crace’s eyes narrowed, squinting as if trying to see inside me. “Very well, very well,” he said. “But just on this occasion.” He paused as he finished off his breakfast. “But what happened between you? Between you and—”

“Eliza.”

“Yes, between you and Eliza.”

He seemed interested, so I told him a little about her, how we’d met and how much I had liked her. After I had finished talking, he pushed himself out of his chair and told me to wait in the kitchen while he went to fetch the key. I tried to map out his route around the palazzo from the sound of his footsteps so as to visualize the location of the key if I needed it again. From what I could make out, it seemed he walked down the portego and through the corridor that led into his bedroom or study. I remembered the keys I had seen in the desk that housed that lock of hair.

“Here we are,” he said, returning to the kitchen and stretching out his right palm to reveal a key so tiny it looked like it would only unlock a dollhouse. “The key to all mythologies—well, of the miniature variety anyway.”

He giggled at his own feeble little joke, and to keep him in good humor, I laughed along with him.

“So, let’s go down and see what’s inside the box, shall we?”

As he turned away from me and started to move toward the door, I realized I had to think of something quick.

“Gordon? Gordon, please wait. There’s something else I need to tell you.”

“Yes?”

“It’s a rather sensitive subject, I’m afraid.”

I made an effort to look worried and somehow slightly ashamed. I dropped my head forward and stared at the floor like a schoolboy caught in the midst of some terrible misdemeanor.

“Adam, what on earth is the matter?” Crace’s voice was soft and gentle. “Come on, let’s sit down.”

As we resumed our positions at the kitchen table, I watched as Crace placed the little key at the side of his empty plate, near the edge of the table.

“It’s terribly embarrassing and very p-personal,” I began, deliberately stumbling over my words, “and I’m not sure how much you might be able to help me. But I can’t keep it to myself any longer.”

Crace looked at me intently, his eyes burning into me. I could tell he was intrigued.

“I’ll try and help in any way I can. Please feel free to tell me anything you like.”

I took a deep breath and started my story. “Well, for as long as I can remember, I always felt a strong connection, a liking for…for…other boys.”