Pietra

by Mari Biella

  “They were strange months, that November and December. Venice was in something of a feverish mood. There had been a rash of disappearances: an old man, a young mother, a child from one of the poorer districts of the city. These people had, seemingly, vanished – quite as if they had walked out of this world and into another. There were several possible explanations put about. They had simply left of their own accord, some said, while others insisted that they had fallen into one of the city’s canals and drowned, or that they had killed themselves. But no bodies ever surfaced, and no evidence or indications as to what had happened to them were ever forthcoming.

  “Nor was that all. A visiting Russian noblewoman was found dead in her bed one day, having apparently lost a great deal of blood – but there was no obvious wound or injury to account for her state. A man was found one morning in a doorway, in much the same condition. There were tales of still more deaths, and those tales spread in breathless whispers until the city was in a frenzy. There was talk of murderers, of mobs and secret societies, and more fanciful stories of witchcraft and the Evil Eye. People huddled indoors after dark, and those who had to go out kept to the busiest and most well-lit streets. Such official investigations as took place revealed nothing, which did not surprise me much. Few cities in the world conceal quite as many secrets as Venice.

  “In a city ruled by terror, I was one of the few who felt no fear at all. I felt a little like Cain in those days, as if I was marked out from my fellow men, a being separate and invulnerable. I was going to die, come what may. A few months more or less, whether I died in my bed or in the street ... such things made little difference to me. I continued to walk the streets after dark, just as I always had, despite my landlady’s warnings. I continued to stare out of my window into the darkness, and never feared what the night might bring.

  “One evening I went out for a walk, and made my way along the narrow street that ran between the palazzo and the canal. The moon was full that night, and the water reflected and splintered its silvery light. The beauty and tranquillity of the scene pleased me, and I stopped to appreciate it better.

  “I thought myself alone – but no sooner had this thought crossed my mind than a gondola came into sight, rising and falling upon the water in a rhythm that was almost hypnotic. I watched as it drew closer, and as the gondolier stopped by the landing stage just in front of the palazzo. He helped his passenger to disembark, and I saw that she was a woman – a woman who wore a long cloak against the winter chill, and whose features were hidden by a hood. As she climbed the steps she turned her head slightly to look at me, and the moonlight fell over her face.

  “Hers was a curious countenance. It was beautiful, and yet so distinctive and individual that ‘beauty’ seems too pale and lifeless a word to describe what she possessed. As I looked at her I was reminded that Venice had once been one of the crossroads of the world, for she seemed to have been born of several different lineages. There was something of Asia in her almond-shaped eyes, though the pupils were that peculiar shade of pale blue often seen in Italy. The pallor of her skin reminded me of the cold North, yet her hair was as dark as ebony. I saw all of these things in an instant – a wonderful yet bitter instant, in which I was reminded that, before long, I would not even be able to gaze upon such beauty.

  “The woman inclined her head slightly, very slightly, as if to acknowledge my presence, and smiled. It was the polite, restrained and ultimately cold smile of a stranger, and lasted barely a second before it was gone. She turned her head, and walked to the door beneath the carved, decaying serpent. I heard a key turn in a lock, and then she appeared to be swallowed by the shadows. The door closed behind her, and I was left alone with the night.

  “No, not entirely alone. I remembered the gondolier, and turned to look at him. He was still standing below, gazing after his passenger, his fair hair burnished by the lamplight.

  “ ‘La contessa?’ I asked gently.

  “He turned to me, almost reluctantly, as if I had awoken him from a dream. ‘Sì,’ he murmured. ‘L’ultima della famiglia Caresini. Si chiama Pietra, credo. Che bellezza!’

  “Pietra, the last of the Caresini line. I had imagined the countess as being elderly and frail, a human embodiment of the city’s decline, and that she was young and lovely surprised me. Not that it made much difference, of course. Very soon, my appreciation of beauty would die with the rest of me. I bade the gondolier good night, and made my way back to the boarding house.

  “I did not sleep well that night. I lay awake for many hours before I finally drifted into a sleep so thin that it seemed almost indistinguishable from wakefulness. I remained partially aware of my environment, even through the fabric of my dreams, and was dimly conscious of my simple room, of the wardrobe and chair and the dusty mirror that reflected the light of the moon. And yet, along with these undeniable realities, there were things that were not real – or not real, at least, in the accepted sense of the word. I felt that someone was with me, in that room; I felt that person touch me, run soft fingers along the length of my jaw. I felt the bed creak and the mattress sink, as if someone lay down beside me. Soft breath tickled the skin of my neck, and long hair brushed against my chest. Sweet lips met mine, yet there was something bitter and offensive in their kiss. It seemed as cold as the grave, that kiss, as black as midnight. It spoke of tombs and decay, and years that had unravelled into centuries.

  “I tried to open my eyes, but my eyelids seemed leaden; and just then I felt a sudden, piercing pain in my throat, and cried out. I struggled to sit up, but my attacker was lying on top of me, holding me down. The pain intensified and then, gradually, began to diminish. I felt the world receding, my senses growing dim, as if I had been drugged. Then I sank down into the blackness of true sleep or unconsciousness, and knew no more until morning.

  “The face that looked back at me from the mirror the next day was ashen, with great dark shadows under the eyes. I attributed these things to the restless night I had spent, or to the advancement of my sickness. My curious dreams I dismissed as the erotic yet troubled imaginings that might so readily affect a man in my state. I washed and dressed hurriedly, not wishing to remain in my stale room, and went for a walk to clear my head.

  “As I turned into the street that ran alongside the palazzo, I saw a small knot of people standing near the edge of the canal. They were talking excitedly, gesturing at the water beneath. One, an elderly woman, crossed herself and looked around fearfully, as if she dreaded what the surrounding streets might hold.

  “ ‘What has happened here?’ I asked, but nobody heard or paid any attention. I pushed through the crowd and looked down into the murky water – and for a moment I was so horrified that I could barely understand what I was looking upon. A body drifted there just beneath the surface, and I caught a swift, nightmarish glimpse of a bloodless face and fair hair. It was the gondolier I had talked to the night before.”