fifteen minutes later and took them back to the pensione. The fare was at least double the going rate.
Upstairs, Patrick headed straight for the copy of Corradini, which Assefa had left on the room’s rickety table. He handed it to Assefa.
‘Here,’ he said, ‘look up the chapter on the
Contarinis. See if there’s anything there about Pietro Contarini. He died somewhere around 870.’
‘Patrick, I...’
‘Just look it up, for God’s sake!’
Five minutes later, Assefa had found the reference.
‘ “Pietro Contarini. This noble-spirited Man was the true Founder of his family’s fortune, and the Fountain- head of their prosperity. Born of noble Parents, he was trained up from youth to take his rightful place among the nobili of his Generation. It is related that, at the age of fourteen, he...’
‘Get to where he dies,’ Patrick interrupted impatiently.
Assefa read on silently, scanning the lines.
‘Here,’ he said. ‘It says a bit about his final illness. Shall I read that?’
‘No, it’s his funeral I want.’
‘All right, I think that’s here. “He died at last on the thirteenth day of September in the year 869, and was accepted to the bosom of a bountiful and loving Saviour, requiescat in pace. And on the day following, his mortal Shell was taken by boat, with hundreds accompanying, to the monastery Church of San Giacomo, that in those days flourished on the island of San Vitale in Palude, which lies in the Paluda Maggiore, and is today in ruins. When, in the twelfth Century, the Church was rebuilt, Pietro’s Tomb was much enlarged by his descendants, at the same time being gilded and faced with marble. I have seen it myself, and deem it a thing of much beauty, though marvellous decayed.”’
That night, Patrick dreamed the last of his dreams, a long and harrowing vision that seemed to have neither beginning nor end. He was alone again, in a square-shaped room draped from end to end in heavy black curtains. All round the room tall candles burned in silver sticks held on heavy tripods. That he was in the house to which the gondola had brought him, he was certain. There was a smell of damp in the air, as though the room was low down, near the level of the canal. And another smell, subtler, unidentifiable, yet somehow disturbing.
He closed his eyes tightly, blotting out the room, telling himself it was all a hallucination brought on by something called focal epilepsy. He only had to ignore it and it would go away. He would wake up and it would have left him. And if it returned, he would have a CT scan and they would give him drugs to make it go for good. But though he sat and thought of other things and told himself he was asleep in a flea-bitten pensione in Mestre, the smell of the canal and the thinner odour it concealed persisted in his nostrils. He opened his eyes at last to see black curtains and candles that had scarcely burned down.
Suddenly, he heard footsteps approaching. A door opened, a section of curtain was pulled aside, and a man in eighteenth-century dress entered the room. He was followed by a second and a third, then others, until the room was full. Each one, as he entered, bowed slightly towards Patrick, then moved to stand along the wall. At the end, four women came into the room, all veiled in black lace, and joined the men.
Someone began to speak in a low voice, then others joined in, until the entire assembly spoke in unison. With mounting horror, Patrick realized that he too was speaking, his voice mingling with the others’, rising and falling in a gentle chant. At first he did not recognize the language, then, without surprise, realized it was Aramaic.
‘l tsbqnn’ ‘lh’ bhswk’
‘I tlsbqnn’ bhswk’ bry’ wbsryqwth
‘l t’lnn’ mr’n’ b’tr’ dy I’ bh nwhr’
Y thsyk ynyn’
Do not leave us, O God, in darkness.
Do not abandon us to the outer darkness and its emptiness.
Do not lead us, O Lord, to the place where there is no light.
Do not close our eyes with its blackness.
The chanting continued for about five minutes in similar vein, a long address to the Deity beseeching salvation from the terrors of the grave. And then the mood began to change. Patrick realized with dismay that he had begun to lead the incantation, speaking short verses to which the others responded. He was fully aware of what was happening, yet powerless to stop himself, as though someone else were speaking in his voice.
Suddenly, the door opened and a man entered, leading a boy of ten or eleven by the hand. The boy was dressed in a white shift. His hair was long and tied back with a red ribbon, and he seemed bewildered. A second man stepped forward from the congregation and took the boy’s other hand. Together, they turned him to face Patrick. The boy was trembling. Patrick stared into his eyes. He looked as though he had been drugged or hypnotized.
The men removed the boy’s robe and set it to one side, leaving him naked and shivering. Patrick tried to protest, but all power of movement or speech had been taken from him. It was as though he was present, but in another’s body, without power over it.
One of the men produced a rope, pulled the boy’s arms roughly behind his back, and tied him firmly by the wrists. The second man took a long silver knife from a leather satchel and handed it to Patrick. Patrick watched as his hands received the knife. For the first time he looked down. In front of him was a high marble slab, a sort of altar.
The men raised the boy to the altar. In the room, the chanting started again. The men stepped back into the congregation, leaving Patrick at the altar with the boy.
‘We offer you this sacrifice,’ he intoned.
‘Accept what we offer in Christ’s name,” the congregation responded.
‘Take the life that you have given this child, and give us life eternal in return.’
‘Grant us eternal life with Jesus, the Everlasting Sacrifice.’
He watched in horror as his hands raised the knife. Beneath him, the terrified child struggled against his bonds. Why did the boy not cry out? Why did the knife feel so light, so insubstantial in his hands?
Something happened to the boy. He began to scream, loudly, in the tones of an animal at the slaughterhouse, that has seen its companions dragged to the knife’s edge. Patrick tried to close his eyes, but they would not shut. He tried to drop the knife, but it was as though it had been glued to his hand. He felt his hand move, felt the knife touch the boy’s naked flesh, felt a shiver of erotic pleasure pass through his loins, felt the appalling silence crush him as the screams cut short and blood flooded across his fingers.
He woke out of blackness into light and looked round for Assefa. But it was still the same room, hung with black curtains, lit with candles that had almost guttered to nothing. He felt sick and dizzy. His hands were sticky. Standing, he caught sight of the altar in front of him, empty now and clean of blood. He could close and open his eyes again, control his
every movement as though once more in possession of his own body.
Swaying slightly, as though still drunk, he took several steps towards the door. Was this hallucination never going to end? He pulled back the curtain, revealing the low wooden door through which the others had come. The handle was iron, cold to his touch. He turned it, sweating.
A narrow hallway led to another door. He walked down it softly, as though frightened that he might waken someone. The floor was a mosaic, with spirals of golden angels. On the face of one angel, he saw a drop of glistening blood, still wet.
He opened the door and stepped inside. It was brightly lit by electric bulbs. On the wall facing him, a spotlight gave brilliance to a painting by Moreau. Near it stood a bookcase, its shelves tightly filled with paperback books. A television set in one corner was tuned to a game show. The volume had been turned off, but from somewhere there came the sound of low music. He recognized it at once as Albinoni’s Oboe Concerto No. 2 in D minor, a favourite from his years in Dublin, when Francesca had introduced him to the splendours of Venetian baroque: Vivaldi, Tartini, Marcello and Galuppi. This had been one of their best-loved pieces, played over and over in a recording by I Solisti Veneti. He looked round, as though expecting to see her come through the door.
Turning back, he caught sight of the television again. The game show had been replaced or interrupted by what looked like a news bulletin of some sort. People milled about in confusion. A SWAT team was tidying up in the background, while police tried to hold back a large and angry crowd. Red and blue lights flashed. Without sound, accompanied only by the ethereal tones of the music, the scene had
