An Equal Music

by Vikram Seth

  "Could be the man at the Schiavoni."

  "True."

  "In which case it'll be in Italian. How will we handle it?" I ask.

  "If you listerf to it after dinner and just write down w|iat it sounds like, I'll try and make sense of it."

  I get up to turn on the light. "There . . . but is it really very much of a strain? I mean, just being here."

  "I'm happy I'm here with you."

  "Well, but I meant, being away from - from London?"

  "I miss them," says Julia. "But that would be true even if I'd stayed on in Vienna. But it's not just that. Today I withdrew some money with my credit card, and I thought, the records will show this took place in Venice. I'm not used to thinking in that way. It's a horrible sort of subterfuge."

  She is silent for a while.

  "Has James ever-" •? < . . - • &• .-.. :

  "Guessed?" t-i:: „. :. ,. -

  "No. Slept with anyone else?"

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  r

  Julia weighs up how to - or perhaps whether to respond to this question. Does she think it crass? But I didn't want to phrase it in terms of faithfulness.

  "Only once that I know of," she says at last. "Several years ago. And it was when we seemed to be closest. But that was different. He was travelling - and lonely - and it was just for one night. I don't believe he'd sleep with another woman now."

  "And how did you find out?"

  "I didn't. He told me. I thought it odd at the time. I still do ... But that doesn't excuse what I'm doing. It's far worse because I love you; how can I ever tell him that? The moment I think about things my head begins to spin. There's been a kind of clanging in my ears all day . . . I've just bought you a birthday present. Belated, I know."

  "Really? Let me see it."

  "You'll get it soon. I need to do something to it before I give it to you."

  I refill our wineglasses. "It seems a bit unfair that you can change subjects abruptly and I can't," I say.

  "It's a small compensation," says Julia. "I used to be a mouse, as you probably remember, but you can't be a mouse if you're deaf. Now if I don't understand something, or don't want to understand something, I change the subject, and everyone else has to follow suit."

  "You were never a mouse!"

  "Wasn't I? ... You know, perhaps I should fax James from here. Jenny has a fax, and I'm meeting her for lunch tomorrow."

  "Why can't you simply tell him that you're in Venice? Especially since he could find out anyway."

  "Yes, you're right, why can't I?"

  "Unless, of course, Maria has spoken to him and told him you're with her."

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  "I think it was the putti on the ceiling of that room where you rehearsed that really upset me," says Julia.

  "What do you mean?"

  "It's been more than a week now," she says.

  "Doesn't he have his grandmother fussing over him?" I ask.

  "Yes. I'm sure he's not missing me at all. I can't bear it. My poor baby."

  I feel a sudden surge of resentment against this poor baby. How can I ever compete with him? How could I even think of drawing them apart? ,

  ,'-*;. ••"•/• -£,«••:.- 6-9 *--•••*" ••'• : - •--,.-•'' ' ' .

  After dinner we go out for a coffee, but only to the local square, treed with ginkgo, loquat and lime; then back home under the wistaria, careful not to bang the front door.

  She holds me through the night, and from time to time says my name. She has taught me the alphabet of touch, so that in the darkness she can read from my fingers a word or two of love, enough to laugh at my misspellings. I find it difficult to sleep, being held. Finally, we settle into a position where her head rests on my shoulder and arm, and I sleep well.

  In the morning I lazily watch her make up, my chin resting on my hand. She looks so beautiful - even more lovely here, in the light of this city by day. She asks me, a little annoyed, if I have nothing better to do. Why don't I read up on Venice? Why don't I study the "Art of Fugue", which I've brought with me? Why don't I shave? Why don't I do anything other than watch her at her toilette. She doesn't watch me shaving, and she can't understand my fascination.

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  But how can I not be fascinated? We make love so

  easily, here at the end of Venice. We walk hand in hand:

  here, there, and everywhere. We are a couple: the English

  couple, friends of Signora Fortichiari. There is no history

  for me in all of Venice, except that of a promise. For her

  x there is the memory of a visit without me, but Sant'Elena,

  »j' being unfraught, unweighted, almost unvisited, has

  escaped even that.

  The message on the answerphone was indeed from the Scuola di San Giorgio degli Schiavoni. The caretaker had fallen ill, and had not been able to arrange a substitute at short notice, which is why we could not get in; but someone has now been found, and the building will be open again from about half past nine.

  We walk over to the Scuola. It is not crowded. Julia tells me the name of the artist whose work she has brought me to see: Carpaccio. My eyes get used to the dimness, and as they do, my mouth opens in astonishment. The paintings against the dark woodwork of the wall are the most striking I have ever seen. We stand together at the first one: a repellent dragon, attacked by St George, squirms balefully, the point of the spear breaking through its mouth and skull. A plantless wasteland of decay stretches all around. It is filled with loathsome objects - snakes, toads, lizards, heads, limbs, bones, skulls, cadavers. The foreshortened torso of a man, who looks a bit like the curly-headed St George himself might have looked had he been a victim of the dragon, stares out of the picture, one arm and one leg consumed. A maiden, half eaten from below, contrives somehow to continue to look virtuous. Everything is pallid and grotesque; yet far behind this withered tree and this fatal desert is a zone of serene beauty: a scene of ships and water, tall trees, opulent buildings.

  We move from scene to scene along the wall, not

  AN EQUAL MUSIC | 357

  speaking, one pair,,. frojT1 each other. I trail

  behind with the gui,,ebook The taltied, shrunken dragon awaits the final s,roke of Jts yjctor's sword; pagan monarchs are spect^j, converted, while a small red parrot looks out of the inting wjth a cynical, speculative gaze as he nibb|eg ^ lgaf of a small plant; a child is exorcised of a biza u-jiisk- across the altar on the

  i ni -i lie UdMliaJN-j afc" -il- -il

  other wall, the milc| §t jerome travels about with his still milder lion, sending timorous moliks fleeing like cloned bats across the canv^ the jittle m| parrot appears again as St Jerome piousl 'dies. an£j tht,n, most wondrous of all, the news of his deatn'appears to St Augustine in his rich, calm study, lined wkh boQ^ adorned with open music, where he sift alone with hig gorgeous, impeccable, polite, adoring, curl haired white dog, than which there is nothing more peix,fect Qr more necessary in this room,

  or in Venice, or tht , •

  .... .. ; world.

  A little scroll ne^ ^ nQ mQ{£ remarkable than the

  open music books, states' that vittOre Carpaccio made him. But is it poss^ble? Did he vVho made the dragon make thee? The per^ [s ' [se^ in yaur master's hand, the light of prescient kr^^^ {s on his face, and long late shadows jag the wh^olg kin floor; empty except for you, O glorious mutt. H^ moist your nose is, how shiny and attentive your eye. "'The inting is unimaginable without you. Christ could jjsapDear from his niche and not be missed.

  A sudden small m , c ry y0ung French schoolboys in yellow caps are^ discussing the paintings under the supervision of a Socv .£ teacrler- T^ey sit on the benches, they look around, t| , ^J around particular scenes.

  "Chrétien ...une k ^ C™e . . Jeune fille ..." In my mind's ear I hear ^ , "fou. "Non, soûl." "Non,

  fou." "Non, soûl." sV an '' ^jtateJ, thencalm. We stand

  A 2fOW &•<$ • U 1
1"

  to the right, unobst^ . Tuli^ is Aiding my hand. One ^rucLiVc. j

  A.M -ETH

  35; 58 | VIK'!A

  It

  little boy, in answer to a question, shyly says: "Le chien sait." And he is right, the dog does know, though he is not knowing like the red parrot, whose motives I doubt. He is calm in his knowledge. He has faith in the way things are, and dignity, and devotion.

  When we go upstairs, we are alone. I kiss her. She kisses me with tenderness and abandon. There is a bench by the window. A pigeon coos, the breeze ruffles the red curtain, and from across the canal comes the sound of work: they are exposing the brick of a plastered wall. We

  - I, rather - would be able to hear anyone on the stairs. We kiss for a long time. I sit on the bench, she sits astride me, I move my hands over her, and under her dress.

  I whisper into her ear what I'd like to do, knowing she can't hear.

  "Oh God -" she says. "Let's stop at once! Let's stop!"

  I can hear someone on the stairs. We spring apart, and involve ourselves in the guidebook and the panels on the ceiling, where various holy figures are going about their holy tasks.

  An old man comes stiffly and slowly up the stairs, surveys us coldly, then walks downstairs again without saying a word. Even though he could not know what we've been doing, it is enough to chasten us.

  Downstairs, we take a final look at the paintings. The pews are now full, with at least a hundred schoolboys chattering uncontrollably away.

  We enter a side room, a sort of sacristy containing chalices, vestments, three Madonna-and-childs, and a closed circuit television in blue-and-white - which is focused on the empty bench upstairs where we were seated a minute ago.

  "Let's get out of here," says Julia, her face filled with horror, her cheeks red with shame. The old man is nowhere to be seen.

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  r

  We leave quickly, walk across the bridge, and are deep in a warren of alleys before she speaks: "It's horrible, horrible-" , <

  "Now, Julia-" ! ,,'•

  "It's so tawdry-" "• "Look, it's just one old man doing his job."

  "I'm sick of all this -" She begins to weep.

  "Julia, please, please don't cry."

  "Oh, Michael -"

  I hold her to me: she doesn't, as I feared she might, resist.

  "Why did you leave me? - this can't go on - I hate it and now the Cipriani - James stayed there once -" I make out incoherent words, and I speak words incoherent to her, but mostly just wait for her sobs to diminish.

  We walk to the riva.

  "How do I look?" she says, before getting onto the launch that will take her to the hotel.

  "Awful." ,;• " r"I thought so:"

  •**"You don't. You look as lovely as ever," I say, tucking a stray hair behind her ear. "I'll be standing here at three thirty, waiting for you. Don't be so sad. We're both tense, that's all."

  But this is a pathetic understatement. I know it is more. Something has come undone. The little brown boat chugs off across the basin. A huge white ship moves into view. Clear blue sky, busy blue lagoon: to take my mind off what has happened, I attempt to paint the scene into my memory, taking in each element like some latter-day Canaletto: cruise-ship, car ferry, water-taxi, police launch, gondola, a couple of vaporetti, a small flat boat like a barge. But it is no use; these thoughts will not be warded off. I try to imagine myself without her. I turn

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  away, and move onto the piazza, then the thin, twisting streets.

  I stand on a little bridge over a side-canal, and view a landing-stage, its blue poles tipped with gold. Here is the Watergate to the opera house: on it lie scraps of twisted metal, a wooden pallet, charred doors, a rusted bird. On the black walls graffiti proclaims: "Ti amo. Patrizia". This is the phoenix which burned down once before and this time has not risen. Surely what was lost so stupidly, so swiftly and in so short a time can be retrieved, redone, brought to life once more.

  6.10

  I see a small blue porcelain frog, and buy it for her. At half past three we meet where we parted. Julia seems calmer. We go to the island of Murano, where we have a disgusting apricot ice cream and visit a shop full of nightmarish glassware. She tells me that measles is called morbillo: a pleasing fact. I suggest that she buy an Invicta backpack for Luke. Then, out of the blue, she tells me that her friend has said that I can stay on in the apartment even after she herself has left - which she is going to do on Tuesday.

  "Tuesday?" I say, the blood leaving my face. "Why so soon?"

  Nothing I say can dissuade her. And now she says she cannot come for this evening's concert either. Why not? I ask. Is it the palazzo itself ? the putty putti? my colleagues in the quartet? She shakes her head - it is difficult to get an answer. She needs to send a fax, and will do so on the way back home. She will go to bed early.

  Cruelly, I tell her about the sounds of Venice, and now her face goes white, though she says nothing. I describe

  AN EQUAL MUSIC | 361

  them lovingly. How can she leave me on Tuesday? How? How? Will it be only four full days we spend together here? And today is the second of these.

  During the concert my hand moves competently over •;

  the fingerboard. Haydn and Mendelssohn are duly j

  conjured up. The performance is applauded; as an encore |

  we play a movement from the Verdi quartet, earlier :'|

  requested by Mrs Wessen. Il Conte Tradonico and his Contessa act as co-hosts, exquisite in their attentions to everyone, strangers and acquaintances alike; their charm is serene, professional. A bitter brother of the count, a sculptor, wanders about morosely among the guests. I want to speak to him, but suddenly cease to want to. I cannot connect the gossip in the Giudecca bar with anything I see here, or reconcile anything with anything. ;

  The fifteen-year-old Teresa smiles at us, especially at J ;

  her favourite, Billy. It is drizzling, so no one ventures U

  across the little bridge into the garden. Prosecco and ||

  canapés are ingested in the room with the suspended **

  grey-and-gold babies; a successful hubbub is generated. Mrs,Wessen is loud in her effusions. It is a relief to know no one, to belong to no skein of society. I do not talk much with my fellows in the Maggiore beyond fixing rehearsal times for the other two Venetian concerts. I leave for Sant'Elena.

  I have drunk too much prosecco; no doubt she will smell it on my skin. On the way to the vaporetto I stop by a bar to sober up, and drink a little more - strong grappa this time. I grow fraternal, voluble outside the language. I find that it is past midnight. ;

  At night the vaporetti creep up on you on the black J«

  waters; you must not miss them. &

  No light slits out from behind the shutters. I can make l

  noise in the apartment, but not light, for she is asleep, ]1

  and her dreams could stall. I strip and lie down by her

  362. | VIKRAM SETH

  side. As the night progresses, for all the fractures of the day, we edge absently into each other's arms. Or so I assume, for that is how we awake. ;>

  •-..-••;-. • - : : . 6.11 .-••• ..-•>*••

  The alarm goes off. It seems I have hardly slept.

  I look at the luminous digits of the clock, which say

  05:00.

  She, of course, is still asleep. But if she set the alarm for such a mad hour, she must want to be woken.

  I wake her gently, kissing her eyelids. She complains a little. I tickle her feet lightly.

  "Let me sleep," she says. ^

  I turn on the light. She opens her eyes. ^

  "Do you know what the time is?" I ask.

  "No - oh, I'm so sleepy."

  "Why did you set the alarm for five?"

  "Oh, yes" - she yawns - "I didn't want us to miss the dawn."

  "The dawn?" I say stupidly. "I think I have a hangover." />
  "Put on some warm clothes, Michael."

  "Why?"

  "Vaporetto to San Marco, by land to the Fondamenta Nuove, and the six o'clock boat to Torcello."

  "Oh no."

  "Oh yes."

  "The six o'clock boat?"

  "Six o'clock."

  "Coffee first then. I'll put it on. I won't be able to move without coffee."

  "We might miss the dawn."

  "What time is dawn?"

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  "I'm not sure."

  "Well, let's weigh a sure thing against a doubtful one, and have a cup of coffee." But she looks so disappointed that I quickly capitulate.

  There's a rustling in the pines. The sky is heavy, touched here and there with gold. The birds are making an absolute racket at the landing-stage. It creaks and rocks as we gaze out towards the Lido. There is the sound of something approaching; a boat, almost empty, for it is Sunday morning, and barely 5:30.

  Golden lights shine across the wide lagoon; the noise of the engine rises and falls in pitch. We are soon at San Marco.

  "And now?" I ask.

  "Now we cross the piazza, and savour its emptiness."

  "Cross piazza. Savour emptiness. Got it."

  There is no one in the piazza except a multitude of pigeons and a man with a broom. I savour it as best I can.

  A grey cat join£ the pigeons; it makes no attempt at assault, and they'show no sign of alarm.

  "What is this lemony perfume you keep using? It's amazing."

  "It's not lemony, Michael," says Julia irritably. "It's floral. And it's not a proper perfume. It's just an eau de toilette."

  "Sorry, sorry, sorry. Anyway, it is gorgeous. Almost as gorgeous as you."

  "Oh, do shut up, Michael, or I'll start calling you gorgeous."

  "Before the pigeons, you mean? Well, aren't I?"

  "Yes. If you like."

  "What you really mean is, be quiet."

  "Yes." .„.;-. . .-.-/

  "But I can hum?" »•,,-.y.«i ;-r;.->.

  "Yes." , • ~, -»r- ...... -. •-.. ...

  364 | VIKRAM Ð

  A Japanese couple, who must be as mad as we are, are out strolling. They emerge from the colonnade, and the woman persuades the sweeper to let her pose for a photograph with his broom. He hands it over. She is photographed clutching the broom with a backdrop of San Marco and a foreground of pigeons.