Stone's Fall

'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.'

He led me out into the courtyard, and past a group of buildings that contained the inmates. 'This is for the non-violent ones,' he said as we strolled in the warmth. 'The more difficult characters we keep in the block you can see over there. Alas, they get much less generous treatment; we don't have the money to do much for hopeless cases. There's no point, either. We can merely stop them harming themselves and others. In here.'

It was quite a pleasant surprise; I had imagined something like a Piranesi print, or Hogarth at his most despondent, but the room was light and airy, simply furnished and comfortable. Only the shadow of a large cross on the wall, where a crucifix had once hung, hinted at the building's previous purpose. There was one solitary person in it.

Signor Casanova – there was no other name to give him and in fact Marangoni never did find out who he was – was sitting in a corner, by a large window that looked out towards the Lido. He was reading a book, his head bowed, but was undoubtedly the man I had seen singing on the canal on my first night in Venice. Only the clothes were different; the hospital had taken away his old-fashioned costume, and clothed him in its drab, colourless uniform. It diminished him, that garb, made him seem less of a person. Certainly less disconcerting.

'Signor Casanova,' Marangoni called. 'A visitor for you.'

'Please be seated, sir,' he said, as though about to offer me a drink in his salon. 'As you see, I am well able to pass some time with you.'

'I'm glad of that,' I replied, as courteously as he. Already I had entered a sort of dream world; only later did it seem strange that I talked with such respect to a man who was insane, penniless, without even a name of his own. He set the tone of the conversation; I followed him.

He waited for me to begin, smiling benignly at me as I sat down opposite him. 'And how are you?' I asked.

'Very well, considering my circumstances,' he replied. 'I do not like being locked up, but it is hardly the first time. I was locked in the Doge's dungeons once and I escaped from there. I have no doubt I will leave here soon enough as well.'

'Really? And this was?'