The sagrestano had a small office off the main cloister. The room was virtually bare, devoid of either luxury or grace, a sort of antechamber to the tomb. Grimy windows looked out directly onto the necropolis. The young monk asked Patrick to be seated, then turned and disappeared on sandalled feet. Ten minutes later, the sagrestano appeared in the doorway and introduced himself as Brother Antonio.
Pulling back his rain-soaked cowl, he drew a chair up to the green-painted metal desk that provided the room’s only working surface. He was well advanced in years, with a few pathetic wisps of grey hair adhering to a wrinkled bald head in nervous imitation of a tonsure. There was an almost shocking gravity about him that tended almost to severity. Perhaps a long life among the dead had impressed on him too deeply the blatant horrors of earthly existence. Or perhaps he had simply grown old and crabby by degrees, like anyone else. Small, deep-set eyes scrutinized Patrick a full half-minute before he spoke.
‘Buon giorno. Posso parlare Italiano? he asked. His voice was scratchy and asthmatic.
‘Ma certo.’
‘This is unusual,’ he said. ‘We receive few foreign visitors here on San Michele, especially at this season. The island is not on the tourist itinerary. Each year a few lovers of the Russian ballet come to pay their respects to a man called Diaghilev, who is buried in the Orthodox plot. And even fewer bring flowers to the tomb of an Englishman called Baron Corvo. I suppose they have read his books. I could not tell you. I have not read any of them myself. I am told they are mischievous books. And that he was a man of great depravity. And not even a Baron.’
He paused, sensing Patrick’s impatience.
‘I’m sorry, signore, but you must understand that this is San Michele, not Pere Lachaise or Montmartre. We have no Chopins here, no Prousts, no Delacroixs, no Oscar Wildes. You must go to Paris for that. But our church is very fine. It is the earliest example of Venetian Renaissance architecture. There are three altar pieces by Carona and a bust of Bernini’s. The son, I mean, not the father. One of the younger monks would be happy to show you round.’
Patrick shook his head.
‘I haven’t come here to look for celebrities,’ he said. ‘I came to find the tomb of ... an old friend. But I need your help.’
The old man relaxed a little. Looking for tombs
was something he understood. His breathing grew a little easier.
‘I see,’ he said. ‘My apologies, Signor...’
‘Canavan.’
‘Signor Canavan. From time to time, tourists call at the island. They expect to be entertained, to be shown the sights. They weary me a little. But an old friend - that is different. That is very different. I shall be pleased to help you.’ He folded his wrinkled hands in front of him. ‘Now, your friend - what was his name?’
‘Her name. She was buried here twenty-one years ago. I’ve gone to the family tomb, but there’s no sign of her ever having been there.’
Brother Antonio nodded.
‘And the family - what is their name?’
‘Contarini. Her father was Count Alessandro Contarini.’
A momentary shadow seemed to pass over the monk’s face, then it was gone. He nodded gravely. ‘Contarini, si. La grande tomba romanica. In the south-west sector. You say you have been there.’
‘Yes.’
‘And you found no trace of this friend.’
‘That’s correct.’
‘Perhaps you are mistaken. Perhaps she was never buried in the family vault. That sometimes happens.’
Patrick shook his head.
‘She was buried there. I know -I was at the funeral.’
Brother Antonio shifted uncomfortably in his chair. He looked shrunken inside his ample habit, rather like an apple that long exposure to the air has dried and wrinkled.
‘I take it, Signor Canavan, that you understand something of how this cemetery ... works. It is not like most habitations for the dead. We have very little
space. Of course, we try to do our best to create new land on the east of the island. But space is limited, and in the meantime people most inconveniently insist on dying and being born. We bury them every day, the old and the young, the rich and the poor, and still they keep coming. Praise God, signore, we are not pagans here. We do not burn our dead or leave them out to rot. And we shudder to think of the crabs and lobsters at the bottom of the lagoon.
‘Normally, unless their families are prepared to pay a good deal, the common dead are disinterred at the end of twelve years. We throw away their little headstones and dispose of their bones. In the old days, a barge called here every month to transport them to a little island further out in the lagoon, Sant’ Ariano, near Torcello. Sant’ Ariano was the city’s ossuary until several years ago. Now we have enough room to bury everyone in a common grave to the east of the main cemetery.’
The monk fixed his eyes on Patrick.
‘Does that seem bizarre to you, Signor Canavan? Primitive, perhaps? I know it is not what you Americans would do. You try to keep your dead forever, in lead coffins. But our custom is different. The bones are nothing to us. Not many years ago, we used them to refine our sugar. We Venetians have a sweet tooth, you understand. And we are a little in love with death.’
Patrick broke in.
‘Surely what you have just told me applies only to what you just called the “common dead”. The Contarinis are wealthy, their tomb is one of the biggest on the island. If anyone rests in peace here, surely the Contarinis do.’
Brother Antonio looked uneasily away. Patrick followed his gaze. Through a window of cheap glass, a confusion of tombs barricaded the sea. Above the window, an unpainted crucifix hung on cracked plaster.
‘No one rests in peace on San Michele, Signor Canavan. Least of all the Contarinis. There is sea all around us. There is damnation. There is a resurrection to come.’
The old man’s vehemence surprised and wounded Patrick. More than anything, he was looking for a sign that Francesca was at peace.
‘I’m not speaking of their souls, Father. Just their bones. Surely once they have been interred, no one will remove the bones of a Contarini.’ He did not refer to the possibility that one of them, once buried, might walk again.
The monk paused and returned his gaze to Patrick.
‘No,’ he said. ‘You are quite right. The Contarinis rot in undisturbed splendour.’ There was a note of mockery in his voice. He sighed. ‘What was your friend’s full name?’
‘Francesca. Francesca Contarini. She died in 1971. On January the fifth. She was brought here for burial on the sixth.’
‘Have you evidence of that?’
‘No, of course not. But I thought that you, perhaps, might have a record.’
For just a fraction of a second, Patrick saw the monk hesitate.
‘These are family records, signore. Requests to examine them are normally made through the families concerned. If the Contarinis ...’
‘Please, Father, I don’t have time. Francesca was ... a very dear friend. It’s over twenty years since I visited her grave. I’m only in Venice for a few days.’
The sagrestano seemed about to refuse. Instead he sighed and eased himself slowly to his feet.
‘Very well,’ he said. ‘But perhaps we will find nothing. Or learn that her bones have joined a million others in the heap out there. God knows, there will be a terrible muddle when the resurrection comes. No doubt I shall be in there with the rest of them, trying to sort myself out. I pray God my bones are not mixed with those of an amputee. I might lose an arm or a leg in the confusion.’
As he spoke, going over what was no doubt an old and favourite joke, he creaked across to a row of shelves running the length of one wall. They bore over one hundred leather-bound volumes, arranged in groups of years.
