The Venetian (32 page)

Rethymno was built like a half moon hugging the water and although he had run in the opposite direction from the harbor, the water soon came into view once again. A long row of small warehouses on his right led back down to the harbor. Paolo ran to each one in turn, throwing his body against the doors. If he could only find a place to stop for a moment and think. They were all locked.

Paolo stopped, tried to slow his breathing. He was swallowing with deep draughts, gorging himself on air. He listened, hearing nothing save the plaintive cry of a gull. He peered down toward the harbor. He could try and reach it now, but to what end? The man knew that was where he would go. And once he got there, then what? Even if he could get aboard the ship, it was the only one in the harbor and, whoever this thing was, he looked capable of tearing a ship apart plank by plank. His decision was made for him, the unmistakable form of his pursuer turning a corner two warehouses down. He turned and raced back toward the center of town.

Another series of aimless turns down blind alleys and narrow lanes and Paolo found himself in the town’s main square. He stopped again, listening intently, but hearing nothing aside from his own breathing which, he had to concede, could mask a thunderclap at the moment. He headed toward the northwest corner and the fountain where he had washed his face and neck that first day, taking a closer look at it now. It was about thirty feet square, jutting out from a larger stone wall behind. Four fluted columns with acanthus-leaf capitals stretched across the face of the fountain, the columns topped by a long stone beam. Something had been carved into the beam but it was too dark for Paolo to read. Three large lion heads jutted from between the columns, fangs bared, with a long stone basin below where water flowing from their open mouths could collect. The basin was filled with water now, but none was running from the mouths of the lions. The jaws were spread nearly wide enough to accommodate a man’s head, the two fangs the size of a large man’s finger. No doubt the town’s children had great fun putting their heads into the jaws of the ferocious beasts. The fountain wall connected to a low archway that led out of the square and around a two-story white stone building with wooden shutters faded by the sun.

Paolo heard footsteps now. There was little attempt to conceal them. Either it was not the man seeking him, or it was but he didn’t know Paolo was there. Paolo surveyed the square. There was no place to hide. The footsteps were louder now, coming from the same direction he had. The only other way out of the square was through the archway. Paolo went through it quickly, careful to make as little noise as possible. He turned the corner and stopped abruptly, staring at a stone wall in front of him. A rickety wooden table leaning to one side stood against the wall with two squat chairs on either side. He rushed back to the square, looked the fountain up and down, and started to climb. He put a foot on the head of the center lion, testing its strength, and clambered up. He reached up, grabbed a protruding acanthus leaf, found a small foothold where a piece of the stone had cracked away, and pulled himself up.

Now he was halfway up the face of the fountain, frozen. Whoever was coming was almost there. Paolo searched for something else to grab on to. Between the top of the columns and the stone beam there was more decorative stonework. Paolo reached for it, praying it wouldn’t crumble under his weight. The fountain was old, its stone façade littered with cracks. He found another foothold, this one smaller though, large enough only for the big toe of his right foot. He crammed his toe into the space, kicked at the stone, hoping to dislodge more of it, but nothing happened. He reached up, grabbed what looked to be a carved olive branch, held his breath, and pulled. It held his weight.

He reached for the beam, his only chance to get on top. It was more than wide enough for a man to lay flat upon and too high for someone down in the square to see anything that may be on top. The stone was slick with moisture from the heavy mist. He moved to grasp the beam with his left hand, his right suddenly slipping from the stone olive branch. He was falling backward. He lunged, pushing off from his toehold with all his strength. He grasped the top of the beam with his right hand, but he was swinging wildly now, knew the momentum would pull him off and send him crashing down to the square below. He closed his eyes, trying to slow the swing of his lower body, his right arm on fire, the footsteps pounding now in his ears. He finally came to a stop, the seconds it took seeming much longer, and was hanging freely now. He found his foothold again, grasped the top of the bean with his free hand, and pulled himself up. He swung over the lip of the beam on his stomach just as the man entered the square. It was him.

Paolo peered over the edge of the beam. He had never seen a man so large. He was agitated, scanning the square. There was not much to it. It was clear that no one could hide there. He saw the archway and went through it as Paolo had done. Paolo suddenly panicked, trying to remember the dead end on the other side, and if there had been a way to see on top of the beam from that vantage point. The man came back though, frustrated, showing no sign that he had seen anything of interest. He moved back toward the way he had come, satisfied the square was empty.

Paolo moved his right leg. Knowing whoever was approaching was about to enter the square, Paolo had remained frozen in position when he had thrust himself atop the beam, not wanting to risk any further movement. But he had lost feeling in his right leg and moved it now, trying to get the blood circulating.

The taller building behind the fountain was crammed with small apartments, the residents of which apparently disposed of their garbage out the windows. A small animal bone that had been sitting atop the beam fell to the cobblestones of the square when Paolo moved his right leg. It hit once on the bulbous joint, spun in the air before striking the stone again, and came to rest.

The giant had been nearly gone, but only nearly. He spun around at the sound. Paolo raised his head a little too high, peering over the edge of the beam to see if the man had heard. When one is terrified, he is also impatient to know that he is safe. What Paolo saw made his blood run cold. The man traversed the length of the square in three running steps, silent all the while, and launched himself at the fountain. Paolo could not believe his eyes. He had meticulously searched for a way up the face of the fountain, and still had nearly fallen. But this man was literally flying through the air, having not given the fountain more than a passing glance.

He landed three quarters of the way up, his right foot somehow wedged into the face of the fountain, both hands firmly grasping the decorative stonework just beneath the beam. The entire time—all of four seconds—Paolo had been paralyzed. With a shriek of rage the man reached up with his right hand, grabbed a handful of Paolo’s shirt, and pulled him from the top of the beam.

Paolo fell and the world tumbled. He landed on his left shoulder, crying out in pain. Before he could move the man was there, grabbing him by the shirt. He picked him up like a child’s doll and thrust him into the stone basin beneath the three lions. The water was shockingly cold, Paolo closing his mouth only just in time. He was pinned to the bottom of the basin on his back, underwater, the man’s arms like two stone columns pressing down upon his chest. He couldn’t move. He was dying. Paolo grabbed at the arms, but it would have been easier to move a tree. He tried to pry the fingers away but it was no use. He was becoming weaker by the second, the act of holding his breath sapping his strength. He was losing consciousness, the black of oblivion settling on him. His lungs were on fire, his chest on the verge of exploding. He would open his mouth in a few seconds he knew, his lungs so desperate for air that the death of the rest of his body seemed of little consequence. Then it would be over, and in a way, a blessing.

And then he knew. This was also the man that had tortured and murdered his brother. It happened in an instant, in the twilight between living and dying, this connecting of things. Paolo hadn’t seen it before, hadn’t had time, but saw it now. He relaxed his body; stopped fighting. He had precious little time now, and but one chance.

The man’s features were distorted through the churning water, though Paolo could see that his face was impassive, waiting for him to expire as though he were a minor nuisance, something to be dealt with before going about the rest of his day. His grip relaxed. Paolo was no longer a threat. He was simply waiting the few more seconds to be sure. His attacker was no longer looking down into the basin, his head turned away, making sure no one was watching. Paolo knew that whatever he was going to do, he had to do it now, the darkness seconds away from overcoming him.

He shoved both hands between the man’s arms and thrust outward. His arms felt as though they had barely moved, the water as unyielding as his assailant. But they had moved enough. The man’s arms splayed to either side and he pitched forward into the basin. In the same instant Paolo pushed himself up with the last of his strength. He felt his head connect with the man’s nose, felt the bone splinter. The man howled, instinctively turning away, blood pouring from his nose. Paolo screamed, the act of it somehow returning a measure of his strength. He grabbed the man’s head, and thrust upward, fury and hate propelling his arms. They had been beneath the fountain’s center lion and Paolo heard the wet pop from the fang entering the man’s left eye.

His attacker staggered back and fell hard onto the cobblestones, his face covered by both hands. Blood flowed from between his fingers, a savage shriek caught in his throat. Paolo rolled out of the basin on hands and knees. He struggled to get up, gulping air, fell back down and was violently sick. He glanced back at the man who was trying to stand and stumbled out of the square.

Thirty Three

H
e ran for the harbor. The dawn was finally breaking and a few people were out, beginning their day. They stared, alarmed by his appearance, some recoiling. Soaking wet, staggering through the streets, his left arm hanging. He barely saw them. He had to get to the ship. He was only now beginning to think more clearly. Who was he? He had never seen a man like that, and he hoped never to again. Paolo stopped, putting out a hand to steady himself against a wall. His legs were trembling. He couldn’t possibly be following him, not after what had happened. The man’s eyeball had been pierced by the stone fang, blood and viscous fluid pouring from the socket.

He tried to compose himself, evening out his breath. He could see the masts of the ship above the jumble of buildings, off to his right. He prayed they would be underway soon. He tried to keep them in sight as he walked, the masts playing tricks, looking closer, farther away, disappearing altogether. He turned, turned again, backtracked, for how long he didn’t know. Rethymno was larger than he had originally thought. He finally emerged from a narrow street onto the wider avenue that ran parallel to the harbor. It was deserted. Paolo was thankful for it and headed toward the ship, gulls crying overhead.

Something large stepped out from the shadows, blocking his path. Paolo knew it could be no one else. He could see him standing there but still couldn’t bring himself to believe it. He retraced his steps in his mind. He wasn’t sure how long he had been winding through the streets searching for the harbor, but still, how could he have gotten here so quickly? And in such a state? There was no point in questions, their answers irrelevant. The man was standing before him now. Paolo had only just escaped death and could not conceive of having to do it again. The shadow moved toward him. Paolo turned, scanning the waterfront, and saw the narrow spit of seawall extending out into the harbor, the lighthouse at the end. He ran for it.

***

THE LIGHTHOUSE WAS
about sixty feet high, the white stone ghostly in the early light. Paolo could see the thick base. The top looked as though it were suspended in midair, casting a faint glow, the middle section lost in the mist. He moved quickly but cautiously down the narrow seawall. He knew the man was following, but he couldn’t risk a glance back, the breakwater too wet and slippery. The door was around the opposite side, facing the channel out to sea. Paolo threw his weight at it, expecting a hard reply. The door swung free and Paolo’s momentum sent him sprawling into the vestibule. Large tapers had been lit casting rounded shadows on the circular wall.
Someone is here
. Paolo called out but heard only his own voice in reply.

A thick rope ran straight up through the center of the structure, disappearing into darkness. Stone steps curled around it, hugging the outer wall, narrowing as they spiraled up. At the bottom was a box of wood. The rope, attached to some sort of pulley Paolo presumed, snaked through two handles on either side of the box.
Fuel for the light
Paolo thought. The light keeper must have only just left after the night watch, setting the wood out for the following evening. There must have been a mirror or some sort of polished metal at the top of the tower acting as a reflective device. Paolo looked back at the door. It had swung back in the other direction and was nearly closed. He couldn’t see any way to lock it but knew there had to be one. Locking himself in the lighthouse wasn’t the best of ideas he knew, but at least it would buy him some time.

He took a step toward the door and leapt back as it crashed open. The man filled the doorway and Paolo turned, taking the stairs two at a time, keeping his right hand on the rough stone wall for balance. The stairs narrowed as they rose, melting into the gloom until he reached the next group of candles set into the wall halfway up. Paolo slowed, taking the steps more carefully. He emerged into the beacon chamber, quickly taking in the space. It was small, maybe a third of the diameter of the tower’s base. There was a stone shelf set into the wall at the top of the stairs where the box of wood could be pulled along the ropes and set down. A single piece of thick wood was lying there, unused. An immense mirror was suspended from the roof of the tower, facing out to sea, and set into large metal brackets on either side just above and behind a wide stone bowl. The bowl contained remnants of the previous night’s fire. There was no longer a flame, only bright red embers burning themselves out. Paolo could see the glow reflected in the glass, a sunrise before the sunrise. He was trapped.