turning over soil. Soon they nosed in at the pier on the other bank, where another cluster of passengers stood waiting to cross. Zen set off along the alley leading back from the water, walking on the boards which had been laid down to cover a trench for a new gas main.
When he neared the Ponte Guglie, he went into a grocer’s shop which was still open. The shop was dim and vaulted, so densely crowded with goods that it was almost impossible to move. As Zen’s eyes adjusted to the gloom, he made out the owner lurking at the counter like a spider in its web. He bought some coffee, mineral water and a packet of biscuits for breakfast. The grocer rang up his purchases on one of the huge state-of-the-art electronic registers required by the tax authorities, which looked as out of place in these troglodytic surroundings as a computer in a cave.
Hefting his green plastic bag of purchases, Zen continued along the Cannaregio canal, his feet aching at the unaccustomed exercise, and turned off into the alley which gradually widened into the triangular campo with the circular stone well-head, its carvings obliterated by time and touch. He noted the strip of whitened paving, caused by droppings from the birds which perched on the power and phone cables crossing the street at this point. How often had he come this way? How many times had he followed this route home? The thought inspired a sort of vertigo. He recoiled from contact with all those other selves, each of which had seemed so absolute at the time, but were now revealed as just another in a restless, flickering series of imposters. I’m getting as bad as Ada Zulian and that fisherman from Burano, he thought. I should never have come. I should have stayed in Rome, where you can drive everywhere and no one believes in ghosts.
The house felt cold and empty. As Zen opened the door to the living room, the telephone started to ring. He stood, staring at it but making no attempt to answer. It rang eleven times before cutting off with a brief peep. Eyeing the instrument warily, Zen set down his shopping and circled round the room to the window, and threw open the casements. The cool evening air flowed in over the sill, setting up currents and eddies in the whole room. He had the sensation that the floor was rocking gently back and forth, like a boat at its mooring. It was some time before he became aware that he was not the only one enjoying the dusk. From one of the bedrooms on the top floor of the house opposite, a young woman stood looking down at him.
Zen waved to her.
‘Good evening.’
Cristiana Morosini smiled vaguely and nodded. She seemed to be about to say something when the phone in the room behind him began to ring again. With an impatient shrug, Zen turned away to answer it.
‘Hello? Who? Tania! Oh, I was just going to call you! Did you ring a moment ago? No? I just got home and it was ringing as I came in, but I couldn’t reach it in time. I thought it might have been you.’
He dug out his cigarettes.
‘Oh, all right. It doesn’t look as though there’s much to be done, but I’ll stretch it out as long as I can …’
He paused to light up.
‘Of course I’m missing you, sweetheart, but it’s a question of the money, isn’t it? I mean that’s why I’m here. The family are paying by the day, so the longer I take over it the better, no?’
He clasped the receiver to his ear for some time.
‘Of course I appreciate your situation, Tania. I just hope you appreciate mine. It would be nice to get a little appreciation, once in a while. It’s not that much fun camping out in this house like a squatter.’
Whorls of smoke from his cigarette drifted like weed about the room, delineating its tidal currents and stagnant pools.
‘Because this is not my real work. That’s what’s different about it. I don’t have to run errands for Americans. I’d be much happier to stay in Rome, go through the motions at the office and then come round and see you in
When he neared the Ponte Guglie, he went into a grocer’s shop which was still open. The shop was dim and vaulted, so densely crowded with goods that it was almost impossible to move. As Zen’s eyes adjusted to the gloom, he made out the owner lurking at the counter like a spider in its web. He bought some coffee, mineral water and a packet of biscuits for breakfast. The grocer rang up his purchases on one of the huge state-of-the-art electronic registers required by the tax authorities, which looked as out of place in these troglodytic surroundings as a computer in a cave.
Hefting his green plastic bag of purchases, Zen continued along the Cannaregio canal, his feet aching at the unaccustomed exercise, and turned off into the alley which gradually widened into the triangular campo with the circular stone well-head, its carvings obliterated by time and touch. He noted the strip of whitened paving, caused by droppings from the birds which perched on the power and phone cables crossing the street at this point. How often had he come this way? How many times had he followed this route home? The thought inspired a sort of vertigo. He recoiled from contact with all those other selves, each of which had seemed so absolute at the time, but were now revealed as just another in a restless, flickering series of imposters. I’m getting as bad as Ada Zulian and that fisherman from Burano, he thought. I should never have come. I should have stayed in Rome, where you can drive everywhere and no one believes in ghosts.
The house felt cold and empty. As Zen opened the door to the living room, the telephone started to ring. He stood, staring at it but making no attempt to answer. It rang eleven times before cutting off with a brief peep. Eyeing the instrument warily, Zen set down his shopping and circled round the room to the window, and threw open the casements. The cool evening air flowed in over the sill, setting up currents and eddies in the whole room. He had the sensation that the floor was rocking gently back and forth, like a boat at its mooring. It was some time before he became aware that he was not the only one enjoying the dusk. From one of the bedrooms on the top floor of the house opposite, a young woman stood looking down at him.
Zen waved to her.
‘Good evening.’
Cristiana Morosini smiled vaguely and nodded. She seemed to be about to say something when the phone in the room behind him began to ring again. With an impatient shrug, Zen turned away to answer it.
‘Hello? Who? Tania! Oh, I was just going to call you! Did you ring a moment ago? No? I just got home and it was ringing as I came in, but I couldn’t reach it in time. I thought it might have been you.’
He dug out his cigarettes.
‘Oh, all right. It doesn’t look as though there’s much to be done, but I’ll stretch it out as long as I can …’
He paused to light up.
‘Of course I’m missing you, sweetheart, but it’s a question of the money, isn’t it? I mean that’s why I’m here. The family are paying by the day, so the longer I take over it the better, no?’
He clasped the receiver to his ear for some time.
‘Of course I appreciate your situation, Tania. I just hope you appreciate mine. It would be nice to get a little appreciation, once in a while. It’s not that much fun camping out in this house like a squatter.’
Whorls of smoke from his cigarette drifted like weed about the room, delineating its tidal currents and stagnant pools.
‘Because this is not my real work. That’s what’s different about it. I don’t have to run errands for Americans. I’d be much happier to stay in Rome, go through the motions at the office and then come round and see you in
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