by Mari Biella
“I spent my final days in Venice as quietly as I could. I walked, read a little, and slept a great deal. I stared out of my window at the palazzo, and thought that I would probably never see Pietra again. I wondered why this woman, whom I had seen only once and briefly, should affect me so, especially now. Even if we were to meet again, a dying man surely had nothing to offer her. Still, I thought, if I could see her one more time – just once – and have that small light to carry with me into the oncoming darkness...
“Sometimes our desires carry within them the seeds of our own destruction. I believe that she felt the longing in me, the loneliness. It attracted her, drew her like a moth. Oh, if ever a man invited his own downfall, it was I!
“One evening, when I felt a little stronger, I ventured out for a walk. It was a raw night, and a cold fog crept across the lagoon and wreathed through the streets. The city seemed muted and still; even the constant lap of the water seemed quieter than usual. I walked without paying much attention to where I was going, and eventually found myself in one of those labyrinths for which Venice is famous. I walked along several narrow streets, none of which seemed to lead anywhere in particular, and many of which came to sudden dead ends.
“At last I found myself in a small piazza, surrounded by quiet, shuttered houses. Everything was silent and still at this hour, and there was no one to give me directions. I stopped at the corner and looked around, trying to get my bearings – a hopeless task, in such thick fog. I was standing thus, considering my options, when I heard a soft footfall behind me. I turned, feeling my heart stutter beneath my ribs, and saw a dark, hooded figure emerging from the fog.
“ ‘Mi scusi,’ I called. ‘Mi sono perso. Potrebbe darmi un’informazione, per favore?’
“The figure came closer, and a pale hand drew back the hood; and I found myself looking into the eyes of Pietra. She did not appear surprised to see me, but gave the same polite, secretive smile as before. I felt my heart constrict in the chasm of my chest – not with apprehension now, but with longing.
“ ‘Good evening,’ she said. Her voice was low, slightly hoarse.
“ ‘Good evening, Countess,’ I murmured.
“ ‘You know who I am?’ she asked, sounding slightly taken aback.
“ ‘I learned of your identity from the – forgive me – from the gondolier who was found dead in the canal near your house, some time ago.’
“ ‘Did you and he speak about me?’ she asked, and I felt slightly ashamed.
“ ‘I asked him who you were.’ I hesitated, wondering how much to say. ‘I have been staying in a pensione very close to your home, and I was curious as to who lived there. I was told that it belonged to a countess, but I imagined—’
“ ‘That I was old and ugly?’ She sounded amused.
“ ‘I imagined that you were abroad, Countess,’ I said uncomfortably.
“ ‘Do you know what became of that poor man? The gondolier?’
“ ‘No. I exchanged a few words with him, and then I went back to my room. I have no idea why or how he died; I don’t think anyone does.’
“ ‘Venice is a dangerous place in these days,’ she murmured. Her blue eyes strayed over me, their expression questioning. ‘Perhaps you should not be walking the streets after dark.’
“For a moment, I felt the urge to tell her everything: that for a man who stood on the brink of the grave, danger was only ever relative, and that the assassin’s blade might prove a mercy to one such as me. I could not understand this desire, for I rarely spoke to anyone about my condition.
“But instead of this, I simply said, ‘Forgive me, Countess, but perhaps you should not be out alone either.’
“She smiled. ‘You are right, no doubt. If I lead you away from this place, perhaps you will escort me to my home.’
“ ‘If you will permit me.’
“She nodded, laid her hand on my arm, and began to lead me away from the square. Now that I saw her so close and so clearly, she was even more beautiful than I remembered; and yet her hand, when it brushed against mine, was cold – a cold that made me think of the depths of winter, of dead trees and grey skies. A curious scent clung to her. It was not offensive, quite, but odd. It reminded me of dry leaves and old stone, and had a strange metallic undertone that I could not quite place. I imagined that it was simply the scent of the palazzo, a building so old that the very walls had soaked up the passing centuries.
“ ‘You are not of this city,’ she said as we walked.
“ ‘I am from England.’
“ ‘And why are you visiting Venice on your own? Shouldn’t you be accompanied by a bride?’
“ ‘I am not married, Countess.’
“ ‘Neither am I.’ She turned her head and smiled, a little sadly. ‘I am one of those people who seem to carry solitude within. I think perhaps you are the same.’
“I could not think of anything to say to that, so I remained silent.
“ ‘It is all right,’ she said, turning away. ‘Perhaps only two such lonely people can ever truly understand each other.’
“It was not long before we arrived at the palazzo, and I prepared to bid her goodnight. To my surprise, though, she did not let go of my arm, but instead led me to the door, where she drew a large brass key from her pocket.
“ ‘Won’t you come inside for some wine?’ she asked. ‘It is the least I can offer you, after your kindness to me.’
“Part of me, I found, was reluctant to step over the threshold. Now that I stood so close to the palazzo, I sensed something leprous and eerie in its very structure. The walls were cracked, the paint peeling; cobwebs covered the windows, and a beetle scurried out of the stonework as I looked on. How could a countess live in such conditions? I felt that something was moving within, something sly and furtive; and then I cursed myself for my overactive imagination. I nodded, and followed her inside.
“We came into a great, grand entrance hall, and Pietra lit a candle. Even in this dim light I could see how old everything was; the marble floor had been worn to a slippery sheen by the passage of thousands of feet, and the paintings and tarnished silver looked as if they had not been disturbed for years. Cobwebs hung from the ceiling and a film of dust coated every surface. I shivered; yet when I glanced at my companion, I saw that she appeared unashamed, as if she saw nothing unusual in these surroundings and felt no need to make excuses for them. She led me slowly along the hallway, through a room that was bare of furniture, and then into a smaller chamber, which seemed to serve as a sitting-room. Here, at least, there were some concessions to comfort. Two sofas stood facing each other before a cold hearth, and a small table held a candlestick, a carafe of crimson wine, and some books. Pietra lit a lamp, but showed no desire to summon a servant to light the fire. I wondered why no one had done so anyway; the night was cold, and a deeper chill seemed to linger within these ancient walls.
“ ‘I apologise for my poor hospitality,’ she said as she poured some wine, as if she had read my thoughts. ‘I have only recently returned from abroad, and have just one servant as yet – and she is probably asleep at this hour. I would not wake her to perform tasks that I can perform myself. We who have outlived our times must live as best we can.’
“I took the wine that she offered me. It was rich and spicy, with an odd trace of bitterness. Pietra, I noticed, did not pour any for herself. She gestured to me to sit, and then sank down on the other sofa, facing me.
“ ‘May I ask where you went while you were abroad?’ I asked.
“She smiled. ‘I am a wanderer in my heart, as I suspect you are. Venice is my home, but even the most treasured homes must be left behind sometimes. I have been to the eastern part of Europe, far away from cities and industry, to a remote land beyond a great forest. I have a friend there – an old friend, a dear friend. A rather eccentric nobleman from a distinguished, decaying family. A living remnant of history, you might say, like myself.’
“I imagined that she spoke of a lover, and won
dered why the thought brought me as much relief as pain. I could, of course, hardly quiz her on such a personal matter, and so I asked her instead about her family’s history.
“ ‘A dead race,’ she said, a little sadly. ‘My family lie in their tombs, forgotten by everyone. I sometimes wish that I could join them.’
“ ‘But you are young, Countess, and healthy,’ I protested.
“ ‘I am a sick woman. I suffer from a very rare disease – the worst disease, I believe, that can afflict a living being. Death, when it comes, will be something of a relief to me. But,’ she added, looking into my eyes, ‘I believe that you know this species of suffering. I believe you drink from the same cup.’
“For a moment I was bewildered, hardly knowing what to think. How could she know of my disease, when I had avoided talking of it to anyone? Then I thought: Perhaps she sees it in me. Perhaps it is clearer than I think. And if she is sick too, as she says she is, then perhaps she has learned to discern these things in others.
“I wondered whether I should ask her how she could know, or guess, so much; and then I thought, quite suddenly, that the time for asking questions had come to an end. I had reached a point where questions and answers alike dissolved into the darkness and became as nothing. The thought, curiously, did not distress me. A strange, warm, forgetful feeling had come over me, and allowed me to forget the rules I had placed upon my own behaviour.
“I began to speak – hesitantly at first, wondering what right I had to taint another being with my own misery. Yet the words, now unlocked, would not be stopped. I told her of my past, of my illness, and of the grave that awaited me. She listened quietly, making no comment, betraying no reaction.
“When I had finished, we sat together in silence for a long moment; and then she rose from the sofa, and began to pace slowly about the room.
“ ‘We are similar, you and I,’ she said at last. ‘We both live on the margins of our own small worlds. We are outcasts amongst our own species. Not many people understand this; only those who have experienced it can truly know what it means. When you look at me, you see beauty and youth and health; but there is in my soul only age and decay. I am Death’s handmaid; and it is this, perhaps, that brought you to me tonight.’
“I wanted to ask her what she meant: but part of me, I found, already knew. Maybe, in truth, I had always known, and it was this that had drawn me to her. I had seen my own destruction when I looked at her, and had desired it. When I stepped over her threshold, I had become entangled in her web. For a moment, some of the old fear shot through me; but it was weak now, and fading by the instant. If death came at this hour, would it not also bring release?
“A curious languor was spreading over me, over both mind and body. I glanced down at the glass of wine in my hand, and felt its strange, spicy aftertaste on my tongue. A suspicion glimmered in my mind, and quickly solidified into plain certainty. The wine was drugged. She had poisoned me, as perhaps she poisoned all her victims.
“This realisation should have given rise to horror, but it did not. I felt only a quiet resignation, almost a sense of relief. My prayers had been answered, in a sense. Death would come swiftly after all, it seemed.
“My eyelids were heavy now, so much so that I could barely keep them open. I felt the glass slip from my hands, and heard it smash on the stone floor; but the sound seemed to come from miles away, from another world. I sank back against the sofa, with my head spinning and my vision growing dim; and the last thing I saw was Pietra, standing over me and looking down at me with an expression almost of sorrow.”