The Lying Tongue

by Andrew Wilson

  He grimaced as if steeling himself against some kind of inner pain.

  “I don’t write, Mr. Woods, in fact, I wish I had never done so,” he said. “If you were to take on this position, it is something I would expect you never to refer to. And I mean that most sincerely. It is a part of my life I wish I had never lived. Of course, you would be able to talk about your writing—to deny that would be cruel—but I really could not abide you discussing mine—with me or anyone else. Do you understand, Mr. Woods?”

  I didn’t understand at all, but nevertheless I said that I did.

  “There is also one other thing you should know about me,” he continued. “I never set foot outside this palazzo and I never expect to do so. You may think it odd—people have called me worse things, I imagine—but although I have lived in Venice for thirty or so years now, I have never desired to see it.”

  “You mean you’ve never been outside?”

  “There really is no need, no need at all. As we all know, it is the easiest city to visit without ever going there. Anyway, the Venice in here,” he said, tapping his head, “is so much richer and stranger than anything I could ever experience out there. The so-called real world is vastly overestimated, don’t you think?”

  I answered with another question. “How have you managed, I mean, in the past?”

  “Previously, when I was in much better health, I relied on local women to do my shopping and various errands,” he said. “The last one, Maria, she was all very well, but somewhat prone to nervous hysteria. Made me feel on edge—no good, no good for my constitution at all. And the girl I used to organize sending those letters to you is not particularly reliable. Now I realize that in order to carry on, I need to employ someone such as you. As I had said in my letter, the boy I recently employed did not work out, and that’s why you are here today.”

  I nodded and waited. Crace took a sip of sherry and seemed to compose himself.

  “Mr. Woods, I am an intensely private person. What I’m sure you have already gathered is that whatever you witness within these walls is for you and for you alone. It’s not as if I have anything to hide, but you must guarantee total confidentiality. If I found out that you had so much as whispered something as trivial as, I don’t know, what I had for breakfast or how much milk I like in my morning coffee, you would have to go. And go straightaway. I really could not abide that.” He paused. “Do you have any questions, Mr. Woods?”

  “Could I just ask about the conditions? Hours and—”

  “Of course. Sorry not to have brought that up sooner,” he said. “Your duties would include making my breakfast, doing the shopping, and buying food and wine; I have a few good bottles set aside, but I like to keep them for special occasions. You would also be responsible for making a light lunch and supper—don’t worry; I don’t eat very much, so that shouldn’t be too difficult—and any other little jobs that might crop up. You would have your own room, which I’ll show you, and as much free time, as is reasonable, for you to pursue whatever you want. But only here—only within this palazzo. This is important. I cannot abide being left alone. Of course, you need to be able to get the shopping, but if it’s done every day, then that shouldn’t take you long. And in any case, I should imagine you want to get on with your book.”

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  “Of course, many young men would reject such a notion straightaway. I’m sure you’re about to tell me you couldn’t live under such a draconian system. Don’t worry—it won’t offend me. In fact, I would totally understand if—”

  “No.”

  “Sorry?”

  “I mean, that would not bother me in the least. I’m sure it would help me focus my mind, get on with the book. So that’s not a problem.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, a little self-discipline is exactly what I need.”

  “Oh, good. And as for money—one always has to talk of it even though it’s terribly vulgar—I could pay you something like…let’s see…how does five hundred euros a month sound? That would be just for you, of course. You would stay here free, and I would provide your food and such like. Is that sum what you would have expected?”

  To be honest, it was much more than I had thought would be offered, and I said that it would be a very generous amount indeed.

  “And if you were to take up the position, when could you conceivably start?”

  “More or less straightaway,” I replied. I thought of my hotel bill stacking up. “In fact, probably the sooner the better.”

  Crace smiled for an instant, his thin lips stretching back to reveal a row of surprisingly white teeth.

  “Would you like to see the room in which you might sleep?”

  Crace pushed himself out of the chair, took a few moments to steady himself and then walked not toward the double doors that opened out into the portego, but another door that led into a dark corridor.

  “There’s the kitchen,” he said, pointing to the room opposite. I noticed that dishes were piled high in the sink and a rotten smell lingered in the air. “Nothing special, but adequate, I’m sure.” At the end of the corridor, he stopped. “And this would be your room, here.”

  He opened the door into a sparse, simply furnished room with a white-painted wooden floor, a single iron-frame bed, a built-in wardrobe and a desk by a shuttered window that looked out over the canal. The starkness suited me perfectly, and in contrast to the rest of the palazzo, this room looked relatively clean, as if its last occupier had made an effort to wipe out all evidence of his own existence. I wondered about the boy who had slept here before me and why he had been forced to leave.

  “That’s fine. It’s all I need, or would need,” I said, remembering that I still had not been offered the job.

  Crace must have sensed my eagerness because as he led me out of the room and back down the corridor toward the portego, he stopped and turned to me.

  “So, Mr. Woods, if you are happy with the situation, I don’t see why you can’t start immediately.”

  “You mean you’re offering me the job?” I felt infused by happiness.

  “Yes, if you would like it,” he said.

  “Thank you. That’s wonderful,” I said. “I’m sure I won’t let you down.”

  As we walked down the portego, I noticed that off the other side of the central hall there was another corridor that presumably led to his quarters. Intuiting my interest, he nodded in that direction and told me that yes, his bedroom and study were located off that corridor.

  “As well as the bathroom—a shared bathroom,” he added. “I hope that’s all right with you?”

  “Yes, yes, that’s completely fine,” I said.

  “I would show you the rest of the palazzo now, but—”

  “No, don’t worry; that’s fine. There’s no rush,” I said.

  Passing one of the many etchings, prints and drawings that lined the walls of the portego, I said the first thing that came into my head. “I hope you don’t mind me saying, but you’ve got a wonderful art collection, Mr. Crace.”

  He smiled, obviously pleased that I had congratulated him on his fine aesthetic taste.

  “Oh, do you think so? I’ve had these works for years. A mix of originals and copies, but I’m rather fond of them, yes.”

  We stopped by a pair of elaborately decorated but dusty cassoni, each chest located on either side of the double doors that led into the drawing room. On the wall facing me, in a simple ebony frame, there was what looked like the frontispiece of an old book. Printed on thick ochered paper, the woodcut showed an elderly man named “Il Griti” wearing flowing robes and a curiously shaped hat sitting on an impressive throne, holding out his left hand to receive a book from a younger man who was kneeling before him. Above the younger man, who was bearded and named as Il Lodovici, there was a symbol of a sun, inside of which was the face of a woman, her rays shining directly down on him.

  “Yes, quite a sweet piece,” said Crace, noting my interest. “From Tri
omphi di Carlo by Francesco de’ Lodovici. It shows the writer presenting a copy of his book, his romance on Charlemagne, to his patron, the Doge Andrea Gritti. It’s thought that as the portrait of Il Griti is definitely that of the Doge, then the bearded chap must be Lodovici and the lady in the sun there, giving him inspiration—ugly little thing that she is—must be Lodovici’s muse. Not sure where I picked that up from, but quite charming in its own way.”

  Next to this was a small sketch of a boy with curly hair wearing a loose tunic, raising his hands in alarm, his eyes stretched wide with terror. The drawing of black chalk on quite discolored paper was very fine indeed and looked like a fragment of a cartoon done in preparation for a larger work.

  “Do you know what this is a study for?” I asked.

  “Yes, as a matter of fact, I do,” he said. “It’s one that Battista Franco did for The Martyrdom of St. Lawrence. Do you know it?”

  “No, I don’t, I’m afraid.”

  “Oh, it’s wonderful, wonderful. Look here,” he said, directing me to the opposite wall. “I’ve got a rather fuller version of it done by Cornelis Cort.”

  He pointed out an engraving that documented the whole terrible scene of St. Lawrence being roasted alive on a gridiron, a torturer skewering his skin with a pitched fork, another assailant stoking the fire beneath him, the martyr raising his hand toward two angels in the heavens, the sky full of fire and smoke.

  “As you can see, inscribed on the gridiron, ‘Titian, the imperial knight, invented this,’” he said, pointing toward the writing beneath the martyr’s body. “And, of course, one would really like to own one of his two paintings of the scene. But as one is in the church of the Gesuiti here in Venice and the other in the Escorial, it’s impossible.”

  I knew from my first impressions that Crace’s collection was a fine one, but until that moment I had not quite realized its importance. He owned some serious—and very valuable—works of art. As I looked around the portego, its walls covered by prints and engravings, remembered the paintings that I had seen earlier in the drawing room, and imagined the undoubtedly exquisite pieces that hung in the rooms I had not yet entered, I tried to estimate how much it all must be worth.

  “Yes, a really wonderful collection,” I said, gazing around me.

  “Oh, nothing more than the vain collection of a silly old fool,” said Crace, waving his hand in the air in a dismissive gesture.

  We carried on walking down the hall toward the stairs, where I stopped and turned to him.

  “Do you have a record of your artwork? I mean, an inventory?”

  “No, I don’t think I do. Why?”

  “I just wondered if you would let me—after I’ve done all the cleaning and tidying and what needs to be done—make a record of everything you’ve got. It’s just that your collection is really one of the best in private hands I’ve ever seen. Of course, I’m no expert, but I think it might be useful for you, perhaps for insurance purposes.”

  “Would you not find that a terrible bore?”

  “No, not at all. Rather the opposite. It would give me a great deal of pleasure.”

  “Very well, if you like.”

  “Thank you.”

  He accompanied me back down the stairs and into the shady courtyard.

  “So, see you tomorrow then,” he said, lifting up his hand.

  “Yes, and thank you again,” I said. “Is there anything you want me to bring? Anything you need?”

  “Maybe just a few groceries—bread, milk, some fruit—and,” he said, looking around him, “what about a pair of secateurs? I’m convinced these dreadful vines are about to choke me to death.”

  I woke early, impatient to start my new life. I didn’t have to think about the past. Everything was going to be different now. I packed my things into my rucksack, paid my hotel bill, and enjoyed an espresso and a croissant in a little café by a side canal. I did some shopping for Crace and arrived at his palazzo a little after ten. When he opened the door, I noticed that he had an amused glint in his rheumy eyes and that his thin skin stretched across his sharp cheekbones as he laughed. It took him a few moments before he could speak.

  “Sorry, Mr. Woods,” he said. “I’ve just read the funniest thing. Come in, come in.”

  We traced the same route as the day before, past the mass of vines, up the staircase, down the portego and into what he called the red room. He continued to laugh to himself.

  “Something has obviously amused you,” I said.

  “Oh yes, it has…indeed, indeed,” he said, sitting in his chair.

  He took a series of deep breaths and composed himself. A couple of books lay on the table beside him. I squinted to see the titles of the two musty-looking volumes covered in red leather with gold writing embossed on their spines.

  “As you can see,” he said, picking up one of the books, “I’ve been reading Thomas Coryat.”

  I looked blankly at him.

  “Coryat? You know, he wrote this most splendid book, Coryat’s Crudities,” he said. “He was born in Somerset, came to Venice in the early seventeenth century and was by all accounts a bit of a buffoon. Said to have brought the fork to England. Anyway, in this book, he talks about the wonderfully gory goings on in the Sala del Tormento, the torture room in the Ducal Palace.”

  “Oh, I see,” I said, wanting to hear more.

  “It’s really good stuff. Just listen to this.” He brought the book farther down onto his lap, was about to read and then said, “Let me first tell you the context. A prisoner was brought to the torture chamber where he must have seen this terribly basic equipment, simply a rope and a pulley that were fastened to the ceiling. But then his arms were pushed behind his back and bound, and he was hauled up on the rope until he was left dangling from the ceiling where he—listen—‘sustaineth so great torments that his joints are for the time loosed and pulled asunder.’ That’s what I love about Venice: it may look like a beauty, but its appetite for violence is insatiable, don’t you agree?”

  Crace didn’t give me time to speak.

  “Of course it used to be,” he continued. “I mean, the murders in the old days were just spectacular. All that blood and gore. And what do you reckon we have now? The best it can do, it seems, is the odd stabbing—two men fighting over a woman usually. Yes, that old cliché, I’m afraid. Or, if really pushed, a wife beater a bit hot under the collar who one day hits his missus a trifle too hard. Where’s the entertainment value in that?”

  I laughed at Crace’s impassioned little speech. So this was how he was going to welcome me into his house.

  “Actually, talking about Coryat, have you heard the theory of how the rise of the knife and fork resulted in the reduction of the murder rate?” he said.

  I shook my head, baffled.

  “Oh, it’s quite interesting, if a little simplistic,” Crace continued. “In 1939 a Swiss sociologist published a book that took this as its central argument: that the gradual introduction of ‘courtly’ manners—actions such as wiping one’s nose with a handkerchief and using a knife and fork instead of the fingers—was responsible for the change in society between the medieval and the modern.”

  He enunciated each word with the utmost clarity, and I could tell that he was enjoying his lecturing me.

  “Just after it was published, Germany invaded Poland and these ideas were forgotten. It wasn’t until the late seventies, I think, that the book was republished in America, and recently crime statisticians have started to take this idea a little more seriously. It’s true that in the seventeenth century murder rates dropped, but the question is why? Standard theories about why people commit crime, such as the growth of cities, the gap between rich and poor, did not apply in the seventeenth century. The growth of cities and the rise of industrialization came much later, after the drop in the murder rates.”

  I tried to follow his argument.

  “Could the drop in murders therefore be traced to a psychological transformation, a view of ourselves as
somehow more refined, more civilized? And if this is true, then I blame Coryat himself for the lack of juicy murders today. If history could be repeated, I’d have him stabbed to death with his own fucking fork.”

  Crace looked at me with an intense, serious stare. Was this some kind of test? For a couple of seconds I didn’t know what to say. Then I took a gamble.

  “I think there’s only one answer,” I said, meeting his gaze with an equally earnest demeanor. “We should ban cutlery—it’s the only way.”

  Crace doubled up with laughter, the loose skin of his neck swinging from side to side. I laughed along with him—it was the right answer—but as I did so I suddenly felt the need to go to the bathroom. I tried to think of other things to take my mind off it and looked at some of the wonderful paintings on the walls of the drawing room, but it was no good. I cleared my throat.

  “Excuse me, Mr. Crace, I’m sorry, but could I use your loo?”

  “Oh, of course. How silly and thoughtless of me,” he said, shaking his head. “I haven’t even shown you around properly. Disgraceful. Come on, come.”

  He led the way out of the drawing room into the portego and turned right down another narrow corridor, opposite the one that led past the kitchen and down toward my room.

  “This door here,” he said, pointing to a door on his left, “leads into my bedroom and study, and this door is the one for the bathroom. When you’re finished, come and find me in my room.”

  I pushed open the door and stepped into the large white room, which smelt strongly of the sewers. The floor was covered in hair and what looked like slivers of shredded toilet paper, some of which appeared to be blood-stained. I walked past the bath, which was deeply ringed with grime and ocher-yellow with age, to the toilet, which had its lid down. Tentatively, using my forefinger I lifted up the lid and seat. The bowl was coated in black-brown smears. This would have to be my first job, I told myself, quickly flushing the loo without looking down again. I moved over to the sink to wash my hands, but the soap, once creamy white, looked so encrusted with dirt that I opted to just rinse my fingers instead, bypassing altogether the musty towel that hung from the nearby rail.