Stone Virgin by Barry Unsworth Page B

occasionally their oar gashed mud, releasing dark liquid to stain the surface.
    ‘The water’s rising, I think,’ Wiseman said. ‘All this is covered at high tide of course.’
    They were coming again into what seemed deeper water, with little tufts of islands here and there, some with ruined walls on them or the remains of what might have been gardens, still precariously clear of the surface, though half drowned already as was evidenced by the tidal detritus caught high in bushes and trees, a tangle of seaweed and bleached sticks.
    ‘ San Pietro ,’ the boatman said suddenly, looking back towards them. His tone was one of doubt rather than affirmation. ‘ È un’ isola abbandonata ,’ he said. He rested on the oar for a few moments, smiling and shrugging slightly. It was as if it had suddenly occurred to him to doubt the whole enterprise. ‘ Nessuno qui ,’ he said. ‘There is nobody there.’
    ‘Somebody lives there,’ Wiseman said. ‘ Uno straniero. Uno scultore .’
    ‘ Ah, sì .’ The boatman appeared suddenly to remember. ‘ Americano, inglese? ’
    ‘ Inglese .’
    The boatman nodded. ‘ La moglie è italiana ,’ he said. Apparently quite satisfied now, he returned to his rowing.
    ‘He knew all along,’ Wiseman said to Raikes. ‘I’ve noticed the same thing before. It is as if they were testing one.’
    ‘It’s not an English name,’ Raikes said.
    ‘Litsov? No, his parents were Polish, or perhaps only his father, but he was born in England, I think. He’s beginning to do very well now, as I told you. He seems to have taken off in the last three years or so. Before that they were very poor, I believe. Now a Litsov bronze can fetch four or five thousand pounds. I know that for a fact. He’s a rising star, no doubt about it. Not that it seems to make much difference to him. He hardly ever goes off the island. She’s the one who looks after things, well, you’ll see when you meet her …’
    As Wiseman continued Raikes allowed his mind to drift from full attention. That sense of the fabulous descended on him which always lies in enclosed waters that have been intimate with man for long centuries yet still guard their remoteness. These shallows and salt marshes had provided a refuge for the people of the mainland fleeing from barbarian invaders something like fifteen centuries ago. They had been continuously inhabited ever since. It was possible because of this to imagine more willing collusions here than elsewhere between water and sky, more complex blends of light and reflection, more melting and fusion of forms. And yet the waters were no tamer than they had ever been, still responding to the elemental movements of the tide …
    ‘That’s it now, on the left,’ Wiseman said.
    Raikes turned to look in the direction indicated, saw the low shape of the island, with ragged thickets of trees, quite dense, on the left, the western side, and a ruined bell tower standing isolated against the bright haze of the sky. As they drew nearer he made out ruined walls, an arch hung with ivy, two or three tumbledown casone – low wattle huts made by local fishermen. On the other side, the side they were approaching, it was barer, without trees. A cluster of black stakes marked the moorings.
    ‘You can’t see the house from here,’ Wiseman said.
    The boat moved forward towards the landing boards. In the shallow water dark weeds slowly waved their fronds.
    ‘No sea wall here, either.’ Wiseman nodded to where the water moved among the rocks of the narrow shore.
    They stepped out on to the tarred planks. Wiseman, extracting bank notes from his wallet, asked the boatman what time he was intending to return from his fishing. ‘Perhaps you could give us a shout?’ he said. ‘ Può passare da qui? ’
    The man nodded, pocketing the money.
    ‘Litsov will bring us back, I expect, as far as Burano,’ Wiseman said to Raikes. ‘But it’s as well to make sure. There are others today by the look of