The footsteps were on his right now. Spinning, he hurried down a mist-choked alleyway, coming out onto a wider street just in time to see the figure vanish again. Gasping for breath, he set off in pursuit. A sharp, stitching pain flared up in his side, making him bend almost double. Gritting his teeth, he pressed on. His legs were like lead, and his head was swimming.
‘Fran.. .cesca ... Per grazia di Dio!... fermati!’
His breath was coming now in harsh, laboured gasps as his lungs struggled in the damp air. A broken paving-stone caught his foot, sending him sprawling on his face. Winded, he lay for half a minute, his head spinning, fighting for each breath.
Closing his eyes against the pain, he pushed himself up and took a step forward. A pang of pure agony stabbed through his gut. Lights exploded in his head. His legs buckled and gave way. He felt himself falling, his body out of control, then all feeling left him and he was plunging, disembodied, through the deepest blackness he had ever known.
He opened his eyes. It was still dark, but the mist had cleared. His head ached intolerably, and his eyes were painful. Blinking, he thought he could make out stars in a black sky. He was lying on his back against something hard. With an effort, he pulled himself to a sitting position.
On either side, dark buildings slipped by as though in a dream. There were no lights anywhere, but as his eyes accustomed themselves to the dark, he could make out the pattern of the Grand Canal. He was in
the mysterious gondola again, being rowed alone by a nameless and faceless gondolier. They were further down the Canal this time, heading for St Mark’s. The torches and candles of his previous dream had been extinguished, and the water was empty of other craft. All was silent as before.
It disturbed him that he could remember everything of his earlier dream, that he knew it had been a dream, and that he was certain, as he had been before, that he was not at this moment dreaming. And yet he could neither hear nor speak.
The gondola began to veer towards the left bank. As they drew close, he thought he recognized the twin- arched windows and ornamented upper storey of the Palazzo Corner-Spinelli. The boat slipped into a narrow side canal and made its way slowly through a labyrinth of channels, some only wide enough to permit the passage of a single craft. Unseen, they passed the backs and facades of tall houses. Here and there, Patrick could see a taper in a high window. Once, he caught sight of a woman watching them from a low balcony, her blonde hair combed loose in long, weeping tresses, and pale breasts cupped in tired hands, like offerings.
They slid beneath low bridges, the gondolier stooping down to get through. Once, in the distance, he could see through a gap between tall houses part of a wide campo. A bonfire had been lit, and in the centre of the square, a group of blind men wielding long knives chased a frightened pig in ever-decreasing circles. Then the scene was blotted out by a high wall covered in ivy. The gondola slipped deeper into the maze.
They passed near an embankment on which a crippled dog dragged itself painfully along. Patrick was sure the dog reminded him of something, but he had forgotten what it was. He realized that, although he could neither hear nor speak, he was not wholly cocooned from his surroundings. He could feel the chilly air against his skin, and, if he dipped a hand into the water, it would come out wet and cold. And yet he sensed some sort of barrier between himself and this world. He had been brought here as a spectator, not a participant. But what was it he had been brought to see?
The boat slowed suddenly, and Patrick noticed that they were turning in towards the bank. Out of the darkness loomed the canal gate of a large palazzo. Two torches flared on either side, held fast by iron brackets, and a third was held by a servant dressed in a bauta, waiting just inside the open gate. Above the gate, a large moulding represented a lamb carrying a cross.
They swung in to a low flight of stone steps, and the gondolier tied up skilfully at the nearest mooring post. The gondola twisted round and scraped against the steps. The servant stepped forward, holding his torch high.
At that moment, something happened to Patrick’s ears, as though an invisible blockage had been removed. He could hear the sound of water lapping around him, and the wooden hull of the gondola scraping the steps. Like the dog he had seen earlier, the scraping sound reminded him of something. He stepped out of the gondola onto the first step. The servant bowed from the waist, then straightened. Patrick noticed his eyes, gazing at him from behind the mask: the lids were heavy, the pupils glazed and flecked with tiny specks of gold.
‘Abbiate la grazia di seguirmi. Isignori vi attendono. Please accompany me, sir. Their lordships are awaiting you.’
THIRTY-TWO
‘Can you hear me, Signor Canavan? Please nod if you can hear me.’
The voice sounded muffled and remote, but the words were English. Why were they speaking English?
‘Please try to answer, Signor Canavan.’
He tried to open his eyes, but they felt as though someone had stuck them together with glue. His lips would not move.
‘Is all right, Signor Canavan. Just let me know if you can hear me.’
He nodded, and, as he did so, experienced a wave of intense nausea. The nausea gave way to blackness. Then out of the blackness the face of the servant in the bauta came towards him. The mouth opened as though in speech, but Patrick could hear nothing. The face was swallowed up by blackness.
‘Can you hear me now, Signor Canavan?’
This time his eyes opened. He saw a blurred face staring down at him, a man’s face, wearing a look of concern. The words were English, but the accent Italian.
‘Yes. Who ...?’
‘My name is Doctor Luciani. You are in the Ospedale Civile. Capisce? Do you understand?’
Patrick nodded feebly.
‘You were brought here last night. Una signora ... a lady brought you here after she find you in the street. You were unconscious. Can you remember anything? Did you have an accident?’
Patrick shook his head. He felt as though last
night’s fog had been concentrated and decanted into his skull. His stomach was nauseous. It was like a migraine, only worse.
‘You mean - not have an accident ... or not remember?’
‘Mi ricordo ... la nebbia ... I remember ... mist... running ... a gondola.’
Patrick had replied in Italian; strangely, he found it easier, as though English had become foreign to him.
‘Ah, parla Italiano. Benissimo.’ The doctor paused. ‘Signor Canavan, I want to carry out some tests. They are merely to establish whether or not you have suffered some injury to your brain. You may have fallen or been struck. Do you understand?’
‘Yes.’
‘Later, I would like you to have an X-ray. And possibly an EEG. Just to be sure. But at this stage, I only wish to test your reactions to stimuli. There’s nothing to be worried about.’
Patrick’s sight was clearing. His head still throbbed, but his thoughts were less confused. Memories of the night before were beginning to flood back: Contarini in his kingdom of rats, a lame dog whining among shadows, the fresco on the wall of the palazzo.
A nurse came forward to assist the doctor. Patrick was in no condition to argue as she and Luciani began to prick and prod various parts of his anatomy. They flashed lights in his eyes, took his temperature and blood pressure, examined his ears for signs of blood, and tested his reflexes.
He remembered getting lost in the mist, then chasing someone who had been tailing him. What then? Had someone attacked him? Without warning, the image of a bridge formed in his mind, and on it a shadowy figure, half-hidden in mist.
‘Doctor!...’
‘Please, Signor Canavan, relax. We’ll soon be finished.’
‘No, please ... You said ... a woman brought me here. Una signora ... What was she like? What did she look like? Per piacere ... e importante ... molto importante.’
The doctor shrugged.
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t get a very good look at her. You were my first concern. When I went back to reception, she had gone.’
