'Will it be strong enough?'

'Of course it will be strong enough. I could balance a battleship on top of a properly strutted framework.'

'That won't be necessary.'

Macintyre grunted once more and drifted off into his own train of thought, muttering periodically as he whipped a pad of paper from his pocket and began jotting down hieroglyphics.

'Look,' he said eventually, thrusting the notes under Cort's nose. 'What do you think?'

The architect studied it carefully, desperate to understand what the older man was proposing. Eventually his face cleared and he smiled. 'That's very clever,' he said appreciatively. 'You want me to build another building inside the existing one.'

'Precisely. Lightweight, efficient and fifty times as strong. You won't knock down the old one, but you do get to build a new one. Best of both worlds.'

'Expensive?'

'Iron's not expensive, even here. Sottini's in Mestre will supply it. Putting it up won't be cheap. And you won't be able to rely on the halfwits you employ at the moment. Best get rid of them and find a new team. Again, I can make suggestions, if you wish . . .'

Cort's look of gratitude was overwhelming. Macintyre pretended not to notice. 'Thought I'd suggest it. That's the trouble with architects. Know everything about the right sort of Gothic window, nothing about load-bearing walls. Pathetic. Good day to you.'

And he marched off, not responding to our farewells.

'Goodness,' I said. 'Something of a force of nature there.'

Cort wasn't listening. He was glancing up at the crumbling walls, and back down to the notes Macintyre had thrust into his hand before leaving. Back and forth went his eyes, which narrowed as he calculated.

'This is clever,' he said. 'Really clever. It'll be cheaper, stronger and quicker. In principle. Oh dear.'

'What?'

'I wish I could claim it was my own idea. That would really make my uncle take notice of me.'

I noted the remark, the wistfulness of it. 'In my experience,' I commented, 'it is finding the best advice and using it which counts. Not coming up with the ideas yourself.'

'Not in architecture,' he replied. 'Or with my uncle.' He sighed. 'I just hope Macintyre can keep his mind on it. Once he's solved a problem in his head he tends to lose interest. Besides, he does tend to drink a little.'

He was rapidly adopting the air of someone who wanted to be left alone, although what he had to do was unclear. Not wanting to impose myself any further, I thanked him for his company, and the unusual introduction to Venice he had afforded. After requesting directions I left him standing in the rubble and made my way back to my hotel.

CHAPTER 3

I slept for many hours, a dreamless sleep, although it was far from my habit to be so idle during the day. I put my head on my pillow at around ten in the morning and did not awake until early evening, which annoyed me greatly. I had missed an entire day, and now faced a bad night's sleep into the bargain.

I forgot completely Cort's invitation to join him and his friends for dinner, which didn't matter too much. I had neglected to discover where the event was to take place and, in any case, had no desire that evening for company. Rather, I wanted to view the place I had travelled so far to visit, as so far I had seen little except the railway station, a few streets and a pile of rubble pretending to be a house.

So I walked. And was captivated, as never before or since in my life. I am not, by nature, a romantic person – considering my small reputation in the world it is surprising I even bother to say this. I do not skip a heartbeat over a sunset, however striking it may be; rather I see the light of a star refracting in particular ways through the atmosphere and giving off predictable, if pleasing, light effects. Cities have even less impact. They are machines for generating money; that is their entire function. Created for the exchange of goods and labour, they either work or do not work well. London was, and still is, the most perfect city the world has ever seen, efficient and directed to this one aim, not diverting unnecessary energy or resources into public finery as Paris does. Even London, though, may soon surrender its crown to one even more single-minded and ruthless in its pursuit of wealth, if my impressions of New York are accurate.

Venice, in contrast, is without purpose. There is no exchange of goods there, no generation of capital. What remains is a shell of a past manufactory which has long since become obsolete. It too was created by trade; it is nothing more than capital petrified. But the capital had fled, leaving only a corpse whose soul has departed. It should have been abandoned, left to rot into picturesque ruin, as the Venetians themselves abandoned Torcello, cathedral and all, once they had no further use for it.

So I believe, and I have argued my case with many a sentimentalist who waxes eloquent about the glories of the past, and how human life has degenerated under the impact of the modern age. Nonsense. We are living at the highest point human civilisation has ever reached, and it is people like me who are responsible for it.

Yet I still have my Venice problem. Everything I say about it is true, and yet that first evening I walked without a break for food or drink or rest for near seven hours, forgetting my map, not caring where I was or what I was looking at. I was hypnotised, overwhelmed. Nor did I understand why. It was not what most people find attractive, the vistas and palaces, churches and works of art. These I appreciate well enough, but not to the point of passion. I would talk of the spirit of the place, although to do so would risk seeming foolish and, as I have indicated, the most obvious examples of its spirit were degenerate and corrupt. Nor was it the light, as for much of the time I marched in darkness, nor the sound, as it is the quietest habitation I have ever visited. The average English village of a few hundred people is a noisier place. I cannot offer a convincing explanation of my own, although when I told Elizabeth of my reaction she suggested that it was because I did not wish to resist its charms; that, having been disappointed by Florence and Naples and all the other places I visited, I wished to be seduced, that I fell not for what it was but what I needed it to be, at that particular moment. And that having generated such feelings in me, it became associated with that feeling for ever after. I had tried to be dissipated and failed, tried to be an aesthete and failed, and now I was attempting no project at all, and succeeding beyond my expectations. It is as good an explanation as any other, although had I given her a more detailed account, she might have come up with a different interpretation.

I ended back near the Campo San Stin, which contained Cort's palazzo, and there had a most unusual experience. I had what I took to be an hallucination, brought on by tiredness and irregular food. I am minded to mention it – at some risk of arousing amusement in any who might read this – because it has a bearing on the rest of my stay in the city.

I hope it is clear already that I am not of an hysterical disposition; I am not susceptible to delusions, and have never had any time for the mystical or supernatural. Even in this particular case, I was sure, both before and after, that I was witnessing only a phantasm. Nonetheless I could not fault it; could not discover any proof that it was merely an illusion playing out before me.

In brief, it was this: at (I believe) somewhere after midnight, I was on a bridge over what I later discovered to be the rio di Cannaregio. It was handsome enough; the canal curving away to my left, the looming shapes of the buildings rising up and reflected on the still surface of the water. It was very dark, as there was no lighting at all, not even from the windows of the houses which, for the most part, were shuttered. I stopped to admire the scene, and to consider, yet again, whether I was going in the right direction to get back to my hotel – which, in fact, I was not. As I wondered I stared idly back towards the Grand Canal, leaning on the iron balustrade.