It took another five minutes to haul me in, and by then I could not move; I was shivering so badly I couldn't control my arms or legs; my chest had the beginnings of a bright red weal across it, my spine felt as though it was several inches longer than it had been, and my legs still smelled unspeakably foul.

And Macintyre paid me not the slightest bit of attention. Instead, he was busily clucking over his lump of iron while Bartoli wrapped me in a blanket, and brought me some grappa. I drank it from the bottle, then rolled over in the blanket until I began to recover.

'It's fine,' Macintyre said, as though certain that his torpedo would be uppermost in my mind. 'No damage at all. Although the cowling bent from the way you attached the rope to it.'

I ignored him. He didn't notice.

'But no matter. That can be hammered out. Apart from that, it is in perfect condition. All I have to do now is clean it, dry it and make a few minor adjustments and it will be ready for the big test next week.'

'May I say that I would not have cared had the damnable thing sunk to the bottom of the lagoon, never to be seen again?'

Macintyre looked at me in astonishment. 'But, my dear Stone,' he cried, 'just look at you! I am so sorry, I haven't thanked you enough. What you did just now was generous. Generous and a mark of true kindness. Thank you, from the bottom of my heart.'

I was somewhat mollified by this, but only somewhat. I kept on drinking the grappa, and slowly felt some warmth creep back into my body. Everyone made a fuss over me, said how wonderful I had been. That helped. If one is to behave selflessly and courageously it is pleasing to have it recognised. I wrapped myself in blankets and encomiums all the way home, and lay there dreaming of Louise by my side. I even felt almost content by the time the boat finally docked just by the workshop three hours later. But I did not help unload the torpedo. I had had enough. I left them to it, Macintyre shouting, everyone else working, and walked back to my lodgings. There I demanded a bath with limitless hot water immediately, and would not take no for an answer. I had to wait another hour before it was prepared, by which time everyone in the house had been told that the idiot Englishman had fallen into the lagoon. Well, what do you expect from foreigners?

CHAPTER 14

The next morning, a note was delivered to my room, from Marangoni, of all people. 'I stand corrected,' he wrote, and I could almost see the smile on his face as I read. 'It seems that Mr Cort's Venetian really does exist. Come and meet him, if you wish; he is a fascinating creature.'

I had as leisurely a breakfast as Venetian habits allow and decided that, as I had nothing better to do that morning, I would take up the invitation and go to San Servolo. The island lies between San Marco and the Lido, a handsome-enough place from a distance; you would never know that it was an asylum for the insane – certainly it is very unlike the grim prisons which England was then throwing up all over the country to incarcerate the lunatics which all societies produce in abundance. Marangoni hated the place, and would have preferred a modern, scientific establishment, but I think his real objection stemmed from his determination to detach his profession from any taint of religiosity. Otherwise, the old Benedictine monastery would have been a beautiful place to spend his time. Apart from the inmates: there is something about madness which casts a pall on the loveliest of buildings; the clouds always seem to hover above such places, no matter how brightly the sun shines. And, of course, no one spends much money on lunatics; they get the leftovers, after the more astute and agile have taken what they want. San Servolo was in a pitiable state, crumbling, overgrown and depressing. The sort of place you wish to get away from; the sort of place that might easily send even a perfectly healthy person insane.

Marangoni had colonised the best part for himself, the abbot's lodgings were now his office, with remarkable painted ceilings, and large windows that opened onto the lagoon. It was a room that could make you see the virtues of a contemplative life, though not those of a custodian of the insane. Marangoni was a thief in someone's else's property and looked it. He would never exude the necessary style to seem as though he belonged there. He was a bureaucrat in a dark suit: the room hated him, and he hated it back.

'Pleasant enough now, but you should be here in January,' he said when I admired the frescoes. 'The cold gets into your bones. Damp; no amount of fires make any difference at all. I have learned to write with gloves on. When November comes I start dreaming of applying for jobs in Sicily.'

'But then you would fry in summer.'

'True enough. And there is work that needs to be done here.'

'Tell me about this man.'

He smiled. 'He was arrested by the police a few days ago, and was passed on to me yesterday.'

'What had he done?'

'Nothing, really, but he was stopped for questioning and asked for his name. He was then arrested for insulting a policeman by making frivolous remarks.'

'What sort?'

'He insisted, and keeps on insisting, that his name is Gian Giacamo Casanova.'

I snorted. Marangoni looked serious as he read from his police report.

'He was born, so he says, in Venice in 1725, which makes him now – what? – one hundred and forty-two years old. A good age. I must say he is in a very good state, considering. Personally, I would have guessed him to be no more than seventy. Possibly nearer sixty.'

'I see. And you told him that you did not believe this?'

'Certainly not. That is not a very sensible procedure. If you do that, then the patient insists, and you get into a childish game. Am. Aren't. Am, Aren't. Ten times am. A hundred times aren't. You know the sort of thing. Besides, the trick is to win their confidence, and that can't be done if they feel you do not believe them. What you have to do is institute a healthy regime – proper food, cold showers, exercise – and make them feel regulated and safe. And while that is going on, you listen to them, and pick out holes and contradictions in their stories. Eventually, you present those to them and ask them to explain. With luck, that breaks down their belief.'

'With luck? How often does it work?'

'Sometimes. But it can only be effective with those who are rationally insane. Raving lunatics, or those subject to catatonia, require other methods.'

'And Signor – Casanova?'

'Perfectly coherent. In fact, it will be a pleasure to treat him. I am looking forward to it. He is an excellent storyteller, highly entertaining and, so far, I have not spotted a single flaw in what he has said. He has given us no clues at all about who he really is.'

'Apart from telling you his age and name.'

'Apart from that. But if you grant that, then everything else so far follows perfectly logically.'

'Have you asked him about Cort?'

He shook his head. 'Not yet. You may do so, if you wish. If you want to meet him.'

'Have you asked Cort about him?'

'No. He is too delicate at the moment; but clearly he will benefit from knowing that his hallucinations are nothing of the sort.'

'This man is not dangerous?'

'Not in the slightest. A charming old fellow. And he couldn't hurt you even if he wanted to. He is quite frail.'

'Does he speak anything but Venetian?'

'Oh, yes. Casanova was quite a linguist, and still is, if I may put it like that. He speaks perfect Italian, good French and English.'

'Then I will meet him. I don't know why I want to. But it will be a curious experience.'

'I will take you to him myself. But, please, do not say anything to suggest you do not believe him. That is most important.'