Liberation

by Joanna Scott

  Adriana leaped ahead of her uncle and grabbed the hat, pulling it low over her forehead and cocking it at an angle. “Ciao, bello,” she said. She took a deep suck on the end of the invisible cigarette she held delicately between two fingers. “Come va?”

  “Accidenti,” Mario muttered in despair and delight. His lips twitched into a grin. “Damela!” he ordered. Give it to me.

  He’d have to catch her first! A dopo, Uncle! See you later.

  She was a clever girl. But Luisa’s nephew, Paolo, who had far overstayed his visit to La Chiatta, wanted to prove himself superior, and he sprang from behind a doorway, grabbed the hat from Adriana, and with an obsequious bow returned it to its owner.

  Well, if Paolo wasn’t superior, he was funny, at least. Wasn’t he funny, Adriana?

  She didn’t know the word that would adequately describe how useless she considered him. “Paolo,” she said, “ascolta”—listen, isn’t that your mamma calling you home?

  Of course she knew that Paolo’s home was far away, in a little house on the reedy Bovalico. That’s why he stank of marsh grass—which was just one more reason Adriana wanted nothing to do with him. She’d rather sit at the piano and muddle through the opening measures of a piece she’d never played before than spend time with Paolo. Stupido Paolo.

  Half an hour later, Paolo was sitting on the kitchen table howling while Luisa cleaned the punctures on his leg. By the time Adriana arrived, the kitchen was already crowded with Ulisse’s two boys, Uncle Mario, and Giulia Nardi, who was trying to draw from Paolo an accurate account of what had happened. Paolo could do nothing more than curse the crazy African and sob loudly like a baby when Luisa wiped more liquid onto the wound. Ulisse’s boys kept interrupting, though with both of them speaking at once it was difficult to make sense of their words. They were saying something about the dog—Signor Ambrogi’s dog. Adriana tried to understand. It was Pippa, not Amdu, who had hurt Paolo. And now Pippa was hurt. No, Pippa was dead—“morta” was the word being repeated by one of the boys. La cane è morta! Paolo killed Pippa? The dog was dead, così, like this, the younger boy said, collapsing on the floor and lying there with his eyes closed. Paolo killed Pippa! No, no, no! The African killed the dog. Capito? The African killed the dog!

  Adriana couldn’t have heard correctly because what she heard wasn’t possible. Pippa wasn’t dead and Amdu didn’t have anything to do with the chaos in the kitchen. Amdu was probably sitting outside the boathouse soaking in the sun. He was humming a marching song and waiting for Adriana to return.

  She started to rush from the kitchen, intending to find Amdu and bring him back so he could tell the true story of what had happened. But her uncle caught her as she whirled past, his fingers pressing hard into the flesh of her upper arm, pressing even harder when she tried to pull away.

  “Let me go!” The wicked man! She decided at that moment that even if he was her uncle, she couldn’t stand him. She had always hated him. She had tried to amuse him over the years only because that was the best way to disguise her hatred. She hated Mario even more than she hated Paolo. And if her uncle wouldn’t let her go, then she would demonstrate her strength by giving him a good strong kick in the shin.

  Her uncle winced and released her. She was too shocked by what she’d done to move. Everyone was shocked. A severe, convicting hush immediately fell over the room. The boys stopped yammering. Even Paolo stopped howling. Everyone stared at Adriana in disbelief.

  O Dio. Madonna mia.

  “Adriana.” It was her own name uttered in her mother’s steady voice. Yes, that’s right, that’s her: Adriana the penitent. She hung her head in an exaggerated way to acknowledge her guilt, hoping to raise some feeling of sympathy among her witnesses. She had kicked her uncle in the shin, and under the seersucker a bruise was probably darkening already. She’d done that, amazingly. Forget about the dead dog and a soldier who’d been wrongly accused. Adriana Nardi was the real criminal. She had kicked a man more than twice her size and five times her age. She had kicked him hard.

  “Apologize to your uncle.”

  She apologized.

  “Now go to your room!”

  “But Mamma . . .” Where is Pippa? she wanted to ask. Where is Amdu? Didn’t anyone care?

  “Go to your room.”

  There were many activities to occupy her in her room. She could read the book her mother had given her about Marie-Antoinette. She could sit at her desk and draw. She could braid and unbraid her hair. There was even a skein of scarlet wool and needles her mother had left in a basket under her bed in case Adriana ever wanted to practice knitting. But Adriana hated knitting almost as much as she hated her uncle.

  She could unlatch the window, at least, and search the fields for some evidence of what had really happened. Pippa was dead, the boys had said. The African had killed the dog, they’d lied. Boys lied as readily as they complained about their hunger. Boys were always hungry. Except the soldier named Amdu. Although he ate whatever was brought to him, he never asked for anything. He was a courteous boy—un ragazzo gentile. Courteous boys didn’t kill dogs. If Pippa was truly dead, then Paolo had killed her, and Ulisse’s sons were trying to protect him by blaming Amdu, who couldn’t come forward to defend himself.

  She saw the speck of a ship in the distance heading into the Rada di Portoferraio, perhaps the coffin ship from France. The water was calm, the sky clear. The young green leaves of the vines glistened as if coated with oil. She saw no sign of Pippa—either Pippa alive or Pippa dead.

  She’d have to ask Amdu for an accurate account of what had happened out in the vineyard when he returned home. Home—her home—it seemed natural to think of it as his home as well. She practiced the conversation she would have with him in her mind, in French. Monsieur Amdu, peut-tu racconter la vérité? Was that the best way to ask? La vérité sur la chien, la belle chien qui s’appelle Pippa?

  Pippa had always liked La Chiatta better than her master’s home of La Lampara. Almost every day she came next door to bark at the Nardis’ rooster and fetch the sticks that Adriana and Ulisse’s boys would throw for her. Adriana liked to call her la migliore—the best. Without a doubt, she was the best dog in the whole world and more than an adequate substitute for the pet that Adriana wasn’t allowed to keep for herself.

  The boys had said that Amdu had beaten Pippa with a stick and she’d fallen dead to the ground, così. As the hour passed, the possibility of Pippa’s death began to sharpen into a likelihood in Adriana’s mind. Somewhere in the grass lay Pippa’s corpse. Adriana’s eyes scanned the fields until her head ached. There was no way to fill the emptiness. Only this morning she’d felt as buoyant and carefree as she did when she swam in the sea, as though invisible particles in the air were shifting and swirling around her, lifting her off the ground. But as she went on waiting and her mood became drearier, the nothingness of the space outside her window seemed to thicken and become oppressive. Gravity itself exhausted hope. She would be confined to this ugly, desolate island for eternity, with nothing to do, nothing to notice that she hadn’t noticed before, nothing to break the monotony now that Pippa was dead and the soldier named Amdu had gone away.

  She didn’t have to be told that he’d gone away. She sensed his absence in the sluggish air and the glassy sea. He was gone for good. As soon as she realized this, she found herself wondering whether he’d ever existed at all. She could remember him as a real being in real time, but the memory itself seemed no more than a kind of deceit—the same sort of trick her mind played on her in her dreams. She couldn’t completely describe how she’d persuaded herself that the emptiness she couldn’t stand to feel was inhabited by the perfect occupant. But she did know that she had never really known him. She didn’t have to be older than ten to understand that she’d fooled herself into believing what she wanted to believe and had seen what she wanted to see. She didn’t even have to be eleven years old to have some idea that she’d concocted for the foreign soldier the identity she thought bes
t suited him.

  He was gone forever. For the first time in her short life, Adriana felt the full impact of the notion—per sempre, for always—words describing the oblivion beyond the end of any possible correction. This was what it must feel like to turn into stone, she thought. He had gone away and wouldn’t return. It was too late to acknowledge him as the stranger he was and experience the reality of him, to come to know him all at once and then in the incremental way she came to know anyone else. She could only imagine what it would have been like to really know him and in knowing him to become aware of the inaccessible parts of his identity, to know him and not know him at the same time, the way she knew and didn’t know the whims and contradictions of the people she was closest to—her mother and Luisa and even her uncle.

  Though she was too young and inexperienced to understand what she had missed in these exact terms, she was aware of having made a terrible mistake. She had pretended that the soldier named Amdu was someone he wasn’t, and now he was gone. If she revised her perception of him, it would only be in hindsight. Her mistake was as permanent as his absence.

  Whether the dog had been killed accidentally or intentionally, Amdu was responsible, and he couldn’t return to La Chiatta after what he’d done. Adriana reminded herself that he would have gone away sooner or later. The French Colonials would be leaving any day now, and Amdu would accompany his comrades. It was inevitable. He couldn’t have stayed on Elba, even if he’d wanted to. He was probably making his way to Portoferraio already, or to Marina di Campo, or to wherever he expected he’d find the ship that had brought him to the island.

  She pictured him striding along the side of the road in his white shirt and undersized trousers, his brown shins shining above the tops of his boots. If he was lucky, a military jeep would stop, and the driver would offer him a ride. She pictured him sitting in the passenger seat like a colonel, resting his arm on the door and trailing his fingers in the wind.

  He who once kept a dove’s egg from smashing on the stones. Monsieur Amdu, in his radiant body. Adriana would always credit him with saving her life. But was he really afraid of eels? Was he afraid of cats? He came from Senegal. He came from the other side of the wall. He spoke a beautiful, musical French. Wolof was his second language. He was a soldier. At the military base in Saint-Louis he’d sworn an oath of loyalty. He had plans to save humanity. He had a mother and a father and two sisters in Dakar. He was a guest at La Chiatta. He had the confident manner of someone who considered himself trustworthy. He wanted to study to be a doctor. He stayed for a while. Then he went away and left behind the impression that he was no more than a fanciful invention, proving with his example that no one like Amdu Diop could ever really exist.

  HE WAS A GOOD BOY, but he left without saying good-bye. When a good boy left without saying good-bye, there were only two possible explanations: either he was suddenly called away, or he didn’t want to take responsibility for something he’d done wrong. Giulia was certain that the young soldier hadn’t received any urgent message. Then what had he done wrong? He had killed Lorenzo’s dog, the boys alleged. Giulia didn’t believe it, and neither did her daughter. Adriana had immediately wanted to run off to search for him, but her uncle held her back. In a rage, she had kicked him in the shin. Secretly, Giulia thought Mario deserved it.

  Everything was so confusing. And everything became even more confusing. Shortly after Adriana had gone to her room, Ulisse entered the kitchen. His sons repeated their story. But Ulisse reported with a shrug that though he hadn’t seen any sign of the soldier, he’d just seen Lorenzo’s dog heading across the grassy border beyond the vines and through an opening in the hedge that separated the Nardi land from the Ambrogi estate.

  Of course Amdu hadn’t killed Pippa. Giulia was convinced that the boy who had been her guest for nearly a week would never willingly cause harm. She had confidence in her ability to judge human nature, and she believed that Amdu Diop was fundamentally good. But a good boy doesn’t just run away without warning . . . unless—now here was a third possibility—he was running away from danger. Something had happened out in the vineyard. Why had the dog attacked Paolo in the first place? Paolo must have been taunting the animal. Did Amdu strike the dog in order to save Paolo? Giulia didn’t bother to speak this proposition aloud because she knew that her brother-in-law would scoff. He believed that all African men were rapists and murderers. That’s why Amdu had run away—because he refused to be held accountable. As far as Mario was concerned, everything came down to accountability, with each sin the equivalent of an entry in a debit column, to be balanced with sufficient retribution. Amdu, Mario would say, knew exactly what he’d done. Or else he sensed what others thought he’d done. Wasn’t this more likely? Amdu was running from the punishment Mario and the boys were planning for him.

  Amdu’s absence was Mario’s fault. Of course it was his fault. Giulia was used to blaming everything that went wrong on her brother-in-law. And to think that long ago she’d fancied herself in love with him. What a foolish girl she’d been. But aren’t all girls foolish? Adriana was foolish for kicking her uncle in the shin, and she had to suffer the consequences alone in her room.

  Mario, who liked to pose as a gallant man, offered to pursue Amdu in order to recover whatever the soldier had stolen. Giulia pointed out that there was nothing missing. How did she know that nothing was missing? Mario demanded. She didn’t say that she could count up her most valuable possessions at a glance. Instead, she told him that he could go ahead and search for the soldier if that’s how he wanted to spend his time, but she would wait for Amdu at home. She was confident that either he would soon return or he would send word explaining why he’d gone away.

  Hours after Mario had left to look for him, Amdu was still missing, and no communication from either of them had reached La Chiatta. Luisa pointed out that the vigilanti were beginning to come back out of hiding now that the Allies were preparing to embark, and if they found a solitary French Colonial wandering around the island, they would kill him. Maybe Amdu already was dead and buried in a shallow grave along the side of the road.

  No, he couldn’t be dead. Good boys were ingenious survivors. Amdu Diop could stand in a bullet’s path and come away with nothing worse than a scratch. He timed his sicknesses carefully, waiting until help was guaranteed before he fell seriously ill, and he was as quick to heal as he was quick to learn. After surviving a year of war, he would survive another day on the island of Elba. He still had some growing to do, after all. He was too alert to danger to let himself be caught by those who wanted to hurt him. It was hard to believe that anyone would want to hurt him, but this would explain why he’d run away from La Chiatta. He must have had reason to sense that he wasn’t safe here any longer.

  As the day wore on, Giulia convinced herself that Amdu was a capable boy who knew how to stay alive and who understood that the best way to defeat one’s enemies was to run from them. No, he wasn’t afraid to run. If he ran fast enough, he would never be caught. If he was never caught, he wouldn’t have to explain why he was running away.

  Shortly before sunset, Giulia heard an automobile rattling down the drive toward La Chiatta. At first she feared it might be the lieutenant who’d come looking for Amdu earlier. She was relieved to see Lorenzo Ambrogi step from the car.

  “Lorenzo, buona sera!” Before he could return her greeting she asked about his dog. Had the dog returned home safely? Was it injured?

  He didn’t understand her concern. Why was Giulia Nardi asking about his dog? Pippa, that little scoundrel. “You know,” he said, “this very afternoon she caught a rabbit and left it right on the step for someone to trip over!” Pippa was fine. But Lorenzo hadn’t come to talk about the dog. He had come to tell Giulia about the celebration in Marina di Campo—two of the ships transporting the French Colonials were leaving, but first the soldiers were going to celebrate their victory with a feast and dancing. It will be something to see, Lorenzo promised. He was going there himself, a
nd he offered to drive Giulia and Adriana and anyone else who wanted to come along.

  And his wife? Where was she? Giulia asked. She preferred to stay at home, Lorenzo said, taking off his cap and pressing his fist inside to reshape the form. He shrugged. His wife was afraid of the Africans, he admitted. But what danger could there be at a victory celebration? Come along with me, he urged.

  Giulia thanked Lorenzo for his invitation and declined. But Paolo, who’d been listening to the conversation, begged for a lift to Marina di Campo, showing his bandaged leg to explain why he couldn’t ride his bicycle. Pippa did this, he said. Lorenzo rubbed the bristles on his chin and shook his head skeptically. It wasn’t possible, he said. “It’s the truth!” Paolo insisted, though he was quick to add that Pippa had been agitated by the presence of the soldier. The dog didn’t like the soldier, and now that the soldier was gone, she would stop roaming the fields in search of boys to bite in the leg.

  But Signor Ambrogi mustn’t conclude that Paolo was afraid of Pippa. Paolo wasn’t afraid of anything, and as proof he reminded everyone listening that he’d ridden his bicycle across the island on the second day of the Allied invasion. He’d ride back again if he didn’t have a bandaged leg on account of Signor Ambrogi’s dog.

  Lorenzo nodded, obviously perplexed, but he offered an apology to Paolo on behalf of his dog, and he said he’d happily drive him to Marina di Campo. And yes, he could fit the bicycle into the car if they took off the wheels.

  Luisa filled a sack with onions and focaccia and fruit, as though her nephew were going away for a month. In the courtyard, Lorenzo waited patiently while Paolo struggled with a wrench, trying to loosen the rusty bolts on the bicycle. Ulisse’s boys ran around them whooping, and Ulisse’s wife scolded them from the upper story of the cantina because their noise had woken the baby.