Tourmaline (11 page)

She hesitated, privately struggling to enact whatever scene she’d rehearsed in her mind. All at once he felt sorry for her; he understood why she was there. It’s not easy to find the words in any language, Signorina, when you know you shouldn’t say what you want to say. Come into the living room, Adriana, come and sit beside Murray on the sofa, talk, if you want, don’t talk if you can’t, let the two of you enjoy the sense of existing far away from everything that is familiar, let him hold you, Signorina, just this once, and feel you in his arms, the softness of your skin, the surprising strength of your limbs, this strange island creature making him feel at home in this distant place, bringing to mind the shadows of mountains in the mist, the color of the sea, the beach at Le Ghiaie, the brightness of the moon, the deep folds of a skirt, the tenderness of touch, her coyness, his desire, her resistance, his insistence, her building rage.

She snapped her thighs closed, jerked away from him, growled, “Let me go!”

Why, of course he’d let her go. And she was gone, disappearing into the darkness of the hall. But wait, Signorina, he’d thought…what? He’d assumed…wrongly. Was there ever a man as foolish as Murray Murdoch! All he had to do was open a door and he’d make a stupid mistake.

He hadn’t meant any harm. He was a happily married man. He even found himself resenting Adriana Nardi for leading him on. At the same time, he wondered if what he’d accepted as a deliciously mysterious air about the girl could be attributed to a waywardness of mind. Maybe she seemed mysterious because she was insane. The prospect made satisfying sense. He thought of the engineer from Ohio. He considered how confusion can harden into desperate intention. He felt some real sympathy for Adriana but at the same time wished that he had kept his distance.

He returned to the window in hopes of catching sight of the girl leaving along the terrace path. But either she had taken a different path or she was still somewhere inside the house. He strained to hear a floorboard creak, a door close. Outside, a rooster’s restless night cry sounded like a voice raised in brief protest. Or a shout sounded like a rooster’s cry. He decided he’d heard a rooster. He brushed a bug from his arm, an ant — no, a spider, one of the harmless little spiders that had driven Claire from the house.

He waited by the window for what seemed like hours but would add up to less than half an hour in real time. Eventually he decided that she must have left the house through the front door and headed down the road to San Giovanni. He’d have to follow the same road west, toward Procchio. His Lambretta was low on gas. How low? Could he make it to Marciana Marina?

He decided he would wait for the length of time it took him to smoke a cigarette. He sat on the sofa, watching the smoke spread and disperse into the darkness, and was reminded of watching the
Casparia
’s wake at night. The smoke felt more than pleasant every time it filled his lungs — it felt like a much-needed affirmation of logic after the frustration of an unsolvable puzzle, a round peg in a round hole. And he was glad to find that the Sambuca had been left behind in the credenza. He sipped the liquor straight from the bottle. He smoked a second cigarette and watched the shadows of the curtains on the carpet, shapes undulating like the long hair of a woman swimming underwater. He caught a white bar of moonlight on his open palm, closed his fist, and studied the stripe of light across his knuckles.

As the hours passed he thought about tourmaline. He thought about the satisfaction he’d feel if he could only succeed in proving that all he needed to thrive was freedom from scrutiny. He wondered if there was anyone left in the world who would lend him money.

BEFORE YOU CONTINUE
, Ollie, you might consider the influence of Francis Cape. Remember that Francis introduced Adriana Nardi to your father. Remember that Francis wanted to serve as translator. Remember that Francis didn’t want Murray to do anything without first asking Francis for advice.

Francis Cape plays an important part in this story, so let me take the time now to tell you about him. He was a tall man, the skin of his face pitted above his beard, his white hair thinning evenly over his scalp, his flesh collapsing into every joint, making him look comically knobby. He had a lovely voice — slightly hoarse, precise in its elocution yet surprisingly gentle, without any pretension suggested in the speech. At first I liked to have Francis around because I liked to hear him talk. Sometimes I’d even let my mind wander and listen to the music of his voice without bothering to follow his meanings. But as I came to know him better, I began listening more carefully for hints that might have revealed something he wasn’t ready to say directly.

As I mentioned earlier, Francis Cape lived in a hovel in Porto-ferraio, in the shadow of Fort Stella. He had a single room, a third-floor walk-up with two grimy windows looking up toward the south wall of the fort. He slept on a mattress on the floor, used the communal bathroom in the hall, and had no kitchen facilities other than a gas bombola. The room stank of his pipe smoke. The blankets were threadbare, the walls crumbling, the shutters warped. The knickknacks he’d collected were jumbled on top of his bureau. And there were piles of books everywhere — books of poetry in French and Italian, travel guides, history books, Shakespeare’s plays, an incomplete set of the 1928 edition of the
Encyclopedia Britannica,
and too many books to count about Napoleon.

Francis had come to Elba to write a biographical account of Napoleon’s year of exile and dramatic escape. Ten years later Francis was still on the island and had written no more than fragments, some closer to fiction than fact, all of it handwritten on pages their author didn’t even bother to number. He wanted to write the definitive book about Napoleon on Elba. He would begin writing, judge his effort inadequate, and try again, writing and rewriting for years in an attempt to do justice to a history that was of mythic proportion.

His frustration with his work first led him to Adriana Nardi. He’d been on Elba three years before learning about the Nardi collection. Three long years he’d spent, or wasted, wandering the island, prowling the passageways of Napoleon’s villas and scouring documents in the local library, before an Elban acquaintance finally told him about the Nardi collection. The man, a schoolteacher, spoke the name of
Nardi
with obvious reluctance. Although every native Elban knew about the collection, they also respected the family’s privacy. But the schoolteacher was a poor man and could think of no other way to return Francis’s generosity after Francis had paid for his dinner.

You might visit Signora Nardi, the teacher had said with a shrug, and Francis had shrugged back. Signora who? Nardi, Nardi, in the villa called La Chiatta, on the road to Magazzini.

Signora Nardi received him graciously, even if her manner was cautious, as Francis would later report. Adriana was still a young sprite, not yet fifteen years old, and she was the one who showed Francis the collection — a collection that would have thrilled any historian and that overwhelmed Francis so completely that he had to cut short his visit and ask to come another day.

Was the collection made more exciting because of the presence of Adriana Nardi? The easy conclusion would be that Francis fell in love with Adriana, though Francis wouldn’t have put it that way, I’m sure. He’d have admitted, if pressed, to no more than paternal affection. But whatever the tenor of the experience within those walls, La Chiatta became both the source of inspiration for him and the impediment. After every visit Francis would begin writing furiously, desperate to do justice to the history. And every attempt would end within an hour, the historian’s passion exhausted.

This went on for years. By the time we met Francis on Elba, he had a dazed look in his eyes, which I attributed to eccentricity. He didn’t strike me as a defeated man. Rather, he seemed barely able to subdue his giddiness. Whenever he spent an evening with us, he would become the center and catalyst for conversation. And at some point he’d inevitably pause, lean back in his chair, and declare loudly,
I love this island!

I suppose I became suspicious of his happiness when he invited us to his home. A happy man might have tolerated the disorder of that room, but not the squalor. I remember noticing crumbs of food suspended in cobwebs along the window ledge. I glanced at Francis, who looked away from me in what I interpreted as embarrassment.

Afterward, walking through Portoferraio with Murray, I expressed some concern for Francis; Murray looked puzzled. Such a hovel for a home, I said. He’s a bachelor — Murray offered only this as explanation. But it couldn’t be good for his health to live in such a place. No, Murray insisted, Francis was doing fine.

I didn’t understand Murray’s indifference. He liked Francis, but it seemed he didn’t care what became of him, and he didn’t want to know more than Francis was willing to tell. Francis Cape was one of the few men Murray was inclined to keep at a distance, though not because he didn’t trust him. He trusted Francis more than I did and didn’t feel it necessary to press him to reveal his secrets or even to offer him a room in our house. Which was all for the best, I suppose, since Francis wanted us to believe in his happiness.

Life on Elba was good — so good that Francis thought Napoleon a fool for leaving. Yes, life on Elba was very good, Murray would agree. They spoke with the condescension of men who considered themselves worldly. Their knowingness irritated me. I remember one evening when Adriana had joined us for dinner. I stepped into the kitchen to fill a pitcher with water, and I paused to listen through an open window while Murray and Francis praised the island. Didn’t the mountains look like cardboard stencils against the blue sky? And what amazing sunsets. The flowers. The iron ore. The precious minerals. Heaven stored its jewels here, Francis said — porphyry and serpentine, beryls and aquamarines. And tour-maline, of course. And who knows but diamonds, why not diamonds! Carlo had told Murray that a small diamond had been found on the slope of Volterraio by German soldiers during the war. I said it sounded like a rumor to me, but Adriana insisted it was true.

Where there’s one diamond, there are always more, said Francis. He yawned, stretched his arms toward the night sky. Isn’t that right, Murray?

The Germans made themselves sick digging for diamonds on Volterraio, Adriana said. When they weren’t training, they were digging. Day and night, digging, digging, digging. They were sick and weak when the Allies attacked. I think many Germans were killed because of the Volterraio diamond.

She spoke slowly, more in the manner of one who chooses to linger over words rather than as someone who isn’t fluent in the language. I used the opportunity to watch Murray watching her. It was clear that she intrigued him, yet even then I was not suspicious. The fact is, I’d already come to the conclusion that Adriana belonged to Francis Cape, his possessiveness being of the mystical kind, the way God belongs to priests, and Murray could only adore the girl through Francis, in Francis’s company.

Call me innocent. Or foolish. Or blame the distractions of the sea. In those days all I wanted to do was watch the sunlight dancing on the surface of the water.

I told you at dinner about what happened to Murray when we moved to the villa in the valley below Marciana. On the first day at our second home, I didn’t even finish unpacking one suitcase. Most of the afternoon I spent lounging on the terrace, taking in the magnificent view of the sea. Right from the start of our stay in that beautiful villa I became — how should I put it? I wasn’t exactly neglectful — I would never forget my mistake on the
Casparia,
the way I let myself ignore obvious dangers. But if Lidia and Francesca were the opposite poles, then I was letting myself become more like Francesca by the minute.

Only after sunset, when the sea was hidden by darkness, did I begin to grow anxious. Night has always been my time for worry. It was at night when Murray’s ambitions would seem ridiculous. It was at night when I would let myself get drunk and Murray would get drunker.

That first night in our new villa I did not get drunk. I ate dinner alone after putting you boys to bed, and I stayed awake waiting for Murray to come home. I was reading
The Count of Monte Cristo
—I’d picked up the novel at an English bookstore in Florence — and I remember reading the chapter about Franz’s hashish dream while I listened for the sound of Murray’s motorcycle. Eventually I felt too tired to read, too anxious to sleep. I made tea and sat wrapped in a blanket out on the terrace. As the night wore on, the full moon seemed to shrink, the stars became brighter, the constellations more clearly defined, with Hercules stretching toward the west as though attempting to seize the jewel of Vega in his hand. A nightingale sang briefly but was silenced by a barking dog. Occasionally a car would rattle by on the Marciana road, and I would listen for the sound of it pulling up our dirt drive to deliver Murray, whose Lambretta might have broken down — one possibility out of many. I would try to compose myself, to disguise my worry with fatigue so I could greet him calmly, but the car would continue down the road, and I would go on waiting for my husband to come home.

This is what I reasoned that night: if Murray’s motorcycle had broken down, he’d have to hitch a ride. If he didn’t arrive by midnight it meant he was lost. He might have misplaced our address. Then he’d have to go to Lorenzo’s house and find out where we’d gone. If he did this, then Lorenzo would surely give him a ride — which meant Murray should be back sooner. But Lorenzo might have offered him a drink. This would have delayed Murray’s return for a couple of hours. We had no phone, so Murray had no way to contact me. He would assume that I’d gone to sleep. Lorenzo would open another bottle of wine and interrogate Murray about his plans. With the Rio and Calamita mines failing steadily, Elbans could only welcome investment. The Nardi family owned the lease to the land mined on Monte Calamita — what would they do when the mine closed down? What would anyone do? By the end of the decade there’d be no iron-ore mining on Elba at all, Lorenzo had already predicted for us, and he’d offer this prediction again as a wager, a five-hundred-lire bet, if Murray dared.