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CHAPTER 8
He did not buy me lunch, or even share a meal with me, but I was quite content as I walked back to my apartment, taking diversions here and there, so that it was early evening by the time I finally returned. It had been a most interesting day, and my spirits were further buoyed by three messages that awaited my return. One from the Marchesa, saying that I should dine with her the following week, as she had a delightful entertainment for me; the next from Mr Macintyre, containing a bundle of papers and a curt note, saying that here were his accounts, if I wished to look at them. And the last was from Mrs Cort, saying that her husband had given his permission for her to guide me around the city. We could begin tomorrow, if I wished.
My stay in Venice was settling down to being remarkably enjoyable, and no small part of it was due to the surroundings. The quiet of the place has a wonderful appeal if you are receptive to it, the more so because it is so u
I became a Venetian that afternoon, walking to a spot on the Riva with a book. I had intended to view something, but I do not even remember what, as I never got there. I sat down on the steps of a bridge, and watched the boats go by. A pretty girl was selling pears fresh from the tree. I wanted one, but had no money on me. But they were so luscious, so fat and juicy looking, some bruised already and oozing sweet sticky liquid in the basket. And eventually, I leaned over, and took one, biting into it before she even noticed what I had done. Then she turned, and I shook my head. I couldn't help it, my glance said. The girl, dark haired and bright eyed, smiled at my pleasure, then laughed and offered me another. Take, take, she said. Take what you want. And I did; I took another, bowing in acknowledgement, and not feeling in the slightest bit embarrassed about offering nothing in return. She waved her hand anyway. Don't worry, you will pay later, was the sense of her smile. Everything is paid for, eventually.
That evening, I settled down to read Mr Macintyre's accounts. Some may consider this a dull way of spending time, even an anti-climax after a day such as I had just enjoyed. I know that it is an unusual pleasure and that account books are a byword for spiritless, mechanical drabness, but that is said by those who do not understand them. In truth, a set of accounts can be as full of drama and passion as any novel. A whole year, more than that, of human endeavour is abbreviated, compressed down into a page of hieroglyphics. Add understanding, and the story bursts forth, rather as dried fruit expands when water is added to it.
Macintyre's accounts were a particular challenge because they were so sloppy, and did not conform to any rules of accountancy that I had ever come across. What Italians consider expenditure or income is very different. For some items there seemed to be no fixed definitions at all; had they been deliberately designed to confuse, then they could not have been better constructed.
But eventually I teased out their secrets. Macintyre had run out of money about a year previously, and had had to prepare approximate accounts of the previous few years' endeavours to back his application for a loan. These showed that he had started with £1,300; and he had spent it at about £500 a year. Since taking the loan, he had spent a further £300, which, with accumulated (and unpaid) interest, meant he was now £427 in debt. That is, he was paying interest at about 37 per cent a year, which was quite enough to sink any project.
Most of the money had gone on machinery (part of which was recoverable if necessary), wages and materials for building his machine. His net position was in fact not as bad as it looked at first sight – if all the machinery had been sold at a reasonable price, he would be able to pay off most of his debts. But not all; he would be left with nothing at all for his efforts, except for his invention.
At this point, we entered the land of fantasy. Macintyre had essayed a guess about bringing his torpedo into production, but it was so devoid of any common-sense or knowledge that it was almost laughable. I swiftly enough made my own calculations. Purchase of a suitable premises would cost around £700, the necessary machine tools about £6,000, a workforce of about forty to begin with would mean ru
And Macintyre could not even manage a debt of £300 without sinking into near bankruptcy. What was worse, he had been obliged to offer security for the loan and had nothing to give. Instead, he had in effect handed over the patent. Not outright for cash, but merely for permission to borrow. Possibly the most foolish, thoughtless bargain any man has ever made. He no longer owned his own invention.
This part of the paperwork took me some time to get through, as it involved a considerable amount of legal jargon with which I was unfamiliar. Besides, I could not initially believe it, even when I had managed to make it out. But it was all too true. If the torpedo failed, Macintyre would suffer, as his debt would be called in. If it succeeded, he would not benefit, as the machine was not his.
I could only conclude that he did not care: that he was so unworldly that all he wanted was to perfect his invention, to show the world his ability. Macintyre did not want to manufacture his torpedo or make money out of it. Once it was finished, he would probably lose interest. Judging by how he had talked about ending war, it was quite possible he would be almost pleased not to have anything more to do with it. He wanted to show it could be done. That was all.
But why? Why so obsessed, why so careless? Here the limitations of accounts come into play. They can tell of the movements of men, of their money, but rarely give much of an insight into their motives – although Macintyre's fanaticism was written into every column of payments. He bought the best of everything: the highest quality steel; the most expensive German precision instruments. Materials he had imported from Sweden or England, when I was sure perfectly reasonable local substitutes were available at a fraction of the price he had paid. Bills were settled promptly when he had the money. He could not be bothered with the minor savings a delay of a week or a month might bring.