being the only sane one of the two,’ La Dame
retorted.
‘At any rate,’ Rahn ignored him, ‘I think
Deodat will shed more light on it, considering his library has practically
every heretical text known to mankind.’ Rahn looked at his pocket watch. ‘Time
to go.’
He wanted to be away and was glad when they
found the appropriate platform and a porter to take his bags.
‘Give my regards to Deodat,’ La Dame said,
following the train’s slow shuffle. ‘Keep me posted and if you need anything,
just call . . . and remember: a clear escape is better than a good man’s
prayers!’
Rahn watched his friend until he had
disappeared from sight. A sense of freedom swept over him. Hopefully he had
left the ordinary man behind, or for that matter anyone else who may have been
following him. He nodded at this thought and went to find his carriage.
ISLAND OF THE DEAD
10
One Man’s Grave is Another Man’s Bed
‘You have probably never heard of Professor Moriarty?’said he.
‘Never.’
‘Aye, there’s the genius and the wonder of the thing!’ he cried.
Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, ‘The Final Problem’
Venice, 2012
The Writer of Letters paused and I realised that it was late. He
insisted that I stay the night and soon I was being led to a frugal but not
uncomfortable guestroom. I didn’t sleep well and woke early, just before dawn,
lying awake for some time thinking. It was quite ludicrous that I didn’t know
anything about my host – a man with no name who lived in a cemetery in
the middle of a lagoon. Moreover, I had no clue why he’d asked me here or what
he wanted with me. I fancied that he was an admirer of Otto Rahn, perhaps even
a distant relative, who needed a ghost writer to tell the adventurer’s side of
the story – as a form of literary redemption. But all this didn’t explain
the uncanny help he had given me over the years or the strange game he was playing
with me now.
I dressed and ventured out to look at the
cemetery in the daylight. It was cold and eerie at this early hour, with the
sun rising and the fog lifting between the shadowed cypresses. As the light
melted the night away it fell on monuments of astonishing variety: classical
marble statues and headstones pointing the way Heavenward for the souls of the
dead to follow. To my surprise, many plots were decorated with fresh bouquets
of daisies and roses, carnations, gladiolus or chrysanthemums. On quite a few
headstones there were even coloured photographs of the deceased behind glass or
Perspex – strange disembodied pictures of life on dead stone. I stopped
to read a few: a young dancer; a father of six; and a young man who died in a
motorcycle accident. Every inscription a summary of a life lived all too
briefly.
I followed the grassy track without aim. The
cemetery was a labyrinth, divided into many parts, each with its own
nationality and religion and character. The most humble section included long
rows of tombs set into drawers stacked one on top of the other that were
accessed by rolling ladders; a library of bones! What looked like the wealthier
section was filled with large, stately, unattached family chapels adorned with
neoclassical ornamentation. I saw some that were good examples of modernist
architecture, and here and there caught a glimpse of freestanding sculptures by
well-known artists. I passed into a section that housed a number of nineteenth
century–style Gothic ruins hidden by a tangle of shrubs and trees.
Overgrown paths almost indiscernible in the long grass led to cracked, fallen
stones of famous residents. Among the neglected, the poet Ezra Pound was still
lovingly remembered.
I paused to take in the wistful sadness of the
place – after all, was there a happy way to die? It was cold and so I
kept walking, the leaves crackling under my feet and the trees rustling in a
stiff breeze. Without noticing it, I found myself in the French section, where
I came upon an old monk sweeping a grave. It was hard to say
retorted.
‘At any rate,’ Rahn ignored him, ‘I think
Deodat will shed more light on it, considering his library has practically
every heretical text known to mankind.’ Rahn looked at his pocket watch. ‘Time
to go.’
He wanted to be away and was glad when they
found the appropriate platform and a porter to take his bags.
‘Give my regards to Deodat,’ La Dame said,
following the train’s slow shuffle. ‘Keep me posted and if you need anything,
just call . . . and remember: a clear escape is better than a good man’s
prayers!’
Rahn watched his friend until he had
disappeared from sight. A sense of freedom swept over him. Hopefully he had
left the ordinary man behind, or for that matter anyone else who may have been
following him. He nodded at this thought and went to find his carriage.
ISLAND OF THE DEAD
10
One Man’s Grave is Another Man’s Bed
‘You have probably never heard of Professor Moriarty?’said he.
‘Never.’
‘Aye, there’s the genius and the wonder of the thing!’ he cried.
Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, ‘The Final Problem’
Venice, 2012
The Writer of Letters paused and I realised that it was late. He
insisted that I stay the night and soon I was being led to a frugal but not
uncomfortable guestroom. I didn’t sleep well and woke early, just before dawn,
lying awake for some time thinking. It was quite ludicrous that I didn’t know
anything about my host – a man with no name who lived in a cemetery in
the middle of a lagoon. Moreover, I had no clue why he’d asked me here or what
he wanted with me. I fancied that he was an admirer of Otto Rahn, perhaps even
a distant relative, who needed a ghost writer to tell the adventurer’s side of
the story – as a form of literary redemption. But all this didn’t explain
the uncanny help he had given me over the years or the strange game he was playing
with me now.
I dressed and ventured out to look at the
cemetery in the daylight. It was cold and eerie at this early hour, with the
sun rising and the fog lifting between the shadowed cypresses. As the light
melted the night away it fell on monuments of astonishing variety: classical
marble statues and headstones pointing the way Heavenward for the souls of the
dead to follow. To my surprise, many plots were decorated with fresh bouquets
of daisies and roses, carnations, gladiolus or chrysanthemums. On quite a few
headstones there were even coloured photographs of the deceased behind glass or
Perspex – strange disembodied pictures of life on dead stone. I stopped
to read a few: a young dancer; a father of six; and a young man who died in a
motorcycle accident. Every inscription a summary of a life lived all too
briefly.
I followed the grassy track without aim. The
cemetery was a labyrinth, divided into many parts, each with its own
nationality and religion and character. The most humble section included long
rows of tombs set into drawers stacked one on top of the other that were
accessed by rolling ladders; a library of bones! What looked like the wealthier
section was filled with large, stately, unattached family chapels adorned with
neoclassical ornamentation. I saw some that were good examples of modernist
architecture, and here and there caught a glimpse of freestanding sculptures by
well-known artists. I passed into a section that housed a number of nineteenth
century–style Gothic ruins hidden by a tangle of shrubs and trees.
Overgrown paths almost indiscernible in the long grass led to cracked, fallen
stones of famous residents. Among the neglected, the poet Ezra Pound was still
lovingly remembered.
I paused to take in the wistful sadness of the
place – after all, was there a happy way to die? It was cold and so I
kept walking, the leaves crackling under my feet and the trees rustling in a
stiff breeze. Without noticing it, I found myself in the French section, where
I came upon an old monk sweeping a grave. It was hard to say
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