The Sixth Key(2)

‘Will you be staying the night?’ he asked.

‘Actually, I’m not certain,’ I said, feeling ridiculous.

‘Well, it’s good you’ve come before the Day of the Dead.’

‘That’s in three days’ time?’ I hadn’t thought about the Day of the Dead, an important holiday for Venetians, and so appropriate – I couldn’t help but smile.

‘Yes, the vaporetto is free all day for those who want to visit the graves of their relatives. The cemetery ends up full of flowers and aswarm with people.’ He leant in. ‘The definition of bedlam if you ask me! For now, it’s serene, thank God!’

I looked around, taking in the size of the island. ‘The cemetery doesn’t seem big enough to service all of Venice.’

‘You’re right: the buried only stay here twelve years. After that, the bones are exhumed and the remains are moved to the Island of Bones, Sant’ Ariano. Venice is built on water, you see, and there can be no catacombs, so, over the centuries a lot of thought has gone into what to do with the dead. One could even say that Venetians are obsessed with death. Did you know they once used the bones of the dead to refine their sugar! I won’t be getting diabetes living here, that’s for certain.’ He gave an easy laugh. It sounded strange, given the present setting.

Beyond the monastery’s cloister now, we entered a dark, labyrinthine corridor that led to what looked like a library. I followed the monk over oriental rugs to two winged chairs set by a great fire and here my breathing paused. After six years the moment had come, and I could hardly believe it.

I had tried many times to imagine the Writer of Letters. Sometimes I conjured an image of a middle-aged hermit with a crooked back, a hooked nose and a lined face. At other times he was the handsome head librarian of some illustrious library, a man of letters who liked to read mystery novels on the sly. I even imagined a beautiful, erudite woman – a modern version of that Alexandrian philosopher Hypatia. Now, when the man stood and offered his hand, I couldn’t have been more surprised.

The Writer of Letters was about my age but his entire manner bespoke another era. He looked at me with deep-set eyes and hair swept back from a face slightly lined but still youthful.

He gave a charming white smile. ‘Thank you for coming! I had hoped you wouldn’t refuse my invitation.’ His English was perfect with only the slightest accent, perhaps Swiss or German.

I told him that it was good to put a face to his letters and thanked him for his invaluable help over the years.

‘Please.’ He gestured to one of the winged chairs. ‘I hope your journey was bearable.’

‘First class is as good as it gets, thank you. Perhaps we should exchange names?’ I ventured to say.

He hesitated and I felt that I’d made a faux pas.

‘Names get in the way,’ was all he said.

There didn’t seem to be room for argument and I decided to let it go for now. ‘Do you live here at the monastery?’

‘I am not sure if you could call it my home,’ was his ambiguous answer.

Before I could say anything in response the Irish monk entered the library again, carrying a tray of coffee and pastries, which he set down before us.

When he was gone, the Writer of Letters poured me a cup and offered the sugar. I declined, smiling to myself.

He settled back in his chair. ‘So, what do you think of my library?’

I glanced about, taking in the many bookshelves. ‘It’s remarkable.’

‘This monastery once housed a famous scriptorium as well as a school for theology and philosophy, but that was before Napoleon. In those days it held as many as forty thousand volumes. After the invasion of course, there was little left, everything was looted . . . War is not a friend of books, you see. At any rate, they say Napoleon was looking for something and when he didn’t find it he punished the monks by converting the whole place into a prison.’

‘And now it’s a cemetery.’

He looked at me with those hooded eyes. ‘It guards corpses. A book is a corpse in a way, wouldn’t you say?’

I sipped at the coffee. ‘That’s an interesting way to look at it.’

He raised one brow. The gesture made me uncomfortable.

‘When the Franciscans became the caretakers of the cemetery,’ he continued, ‘they opened the library again and began making careful acquisitions here and there, slowly filling the shelves again. I’m happy to say that now there are over twenty thousand volumes here, many of them first editions or very rare copies. From reading your books I can tell that you are not only fascinated with libraries and labyrinths but also with puzzles.’