“So that’s why Cassandra didn’t go!” I gasped.
“Yes, it will interest you, especially. The night of that party Sandy refused to put on the dress that had been made for her—because it was white, she said.”
I thought of myself standing in front of the mirror in my bedroom, enveloped by the creamy satin of Cassandra’s debutante dress.
“Sandy told her mother that she would be a hypocrite to wear a white dress,” Madi continued. “When she refused to put it on, Frances became furious with her, screaming at her that she was ungrateful and selfish to ruin this great party being given for her. Then Sandy told her mother everything.”
“What did Frances do?”
Madi sipped his drink and lit another cigarette.
“She refused to believe Sandy. They confronted Holt,” he went on. “But, of course, Holt denied it. What was he going to say? Yes, I have been fucking my own daughter for eight years? Sandy was screaming and crying. She refused to go to the party, and ran away from the house. But the party went on without her, with Holt and Frances greeting their guests as if nothing had happened.”
“Dear God,” I said, shaking my head in disbelief.
“I am told,” Madi said dryly, “that the evening was a great success.”
“How could they?” I wondered aloud. “How could they do that?”
“The show must go on, as you say.” Madi crushed out his cigarette in disgust. “I have the taste of ashes in my mouth.”
“I wonder if Frances knew all along?”
“You think not?” he said, looking at me wide-eyed. “I think she must have known. But, in any case, the daughter chose an inconvenient time to tell her. The most important thing that night was the party, not the past.”
“Didn’t anyone ask about Cassandra that night?” I said. “I mean, didn’t anyone wonder where the hell the guest of honor was?”
“I am sure that they did,” he said. “But I am also sure that Frances and Holt made up some acceptable excuse for her absence. People do not care what is really going on beneath the surface. They are like mosquitos flitting over a pond.”
Now everything made sense—why Cassandra hadn’t come to her own party, why Mrs. Griffin wanted the ballroom done up, why she seemed so anxious to confess something to me, why I’d been given the white dress.
“What happened after that?”
“Sandy ran away for a while. Then she came back.”
“She came back? Jesus, why?”
“It was what she knew. Life goes on. You would be surprised what people can learn to live with,” Madi said, sounding defeated and bitter.
“God almighty,” I said, reflecting on this. “Think how guilty Frances Griffin must feel. It must be intolerable for her.”
“She’ll survive,” Madi said, curling his lip.
“I don’t know. She certainly wants to assuage her guilt now.”
“You think so?” he inquired, without real interest.
“Yes. I was trying to figure out why she wanted that ballroom all done up so she could relive a moment that never actually happened. I think you’re right. I think she did know the truth all along and couldn’t face it. By redoing the ballroom, maybe she’s trying to redo the memory in some way,” I suggested.
“I have no pity for her,” Madi said.
“No? I do.”
“Why? If you know something evil is happening, and you do nothing to stop it, then you become an accomplice, no? You are just as responsible,” he said.
Madi grew more nervous, fidgeting with the objects on the table—the glasses, the salt and pepper shakers, the unlit candle.
“When we got married,” he continued, “I made Sandy promise me she would never spend another night in the same house with her father. He was still madly jealous of her. I could see it because he was doing everything to end our marriage. He told people I had been in prison—which was a lie—that I had married Sandy for her money—which was a lie—that I planned to kill her—which was the biggest lie of all.” Madi held up successive fingers for each item on the list. “I loved Sandy with all my heart and soul!” he cried, banging his hand on the table. “I have never loved another woman like that! And I never will! That is why I was so upset last night. You do forgive me, don’t you?”
I nodded. Madi smiled feebly, took a deep breath, then resumed.
“Holt was trying to have me deported, and thanks to his powerful friends, he might have succeeded. I told Sandy we could move to Italy and have a life away from America, but she wanted to live in the West, out here, in our house. Finally, she convinced me she had to go back and visit her father, to plead with him to stop all the persecution, to let us live in peace. But I would not let her go and see him alone.”
As Madi spoke, I imagined the scene at The Haven that night. All the characters in the drama were clear in my mind, including the elusive Holt Griffin, who now stood out in terrifying relief.
“We went to the house for dinner,” he began. “It was the four of us—Frances, Holt, Sandy and myself. I remember Holt very well that night. He was at his most charming, telling all kinds of stories about the war and his days in the diplomatic service. He was more reasonable with me than he had ever been. But I could not listen to him. I could not stand the sight of him, knowing what he had done to Sandy.” Madi’s intensity fascinated me. He hunched over and lowered his voice.
“After dinner, Sandy took me aside and said it would be better if I left the house so that she and her mother could persuade Holt to stop all the immigration nonsense against me. She knew that if I stayed there, I would do something we would both regret.” Madi bit his lip. “That was the moment when I could have changed her destiny, and my own. I can see myself so clearly in that moment. I did not want to go, but Sandy convinced me it was for the best, that she could not reason with her father if I was there. I was such a fool. I listened to her. I left the house.”
Madi rubbed his hands over his face, kneading it hard. He raked his fingers through his hair like he was trying to pull it out. I watched him squirm as he seemed to relive the terrible memory.
“I left her with the monster that night—as I had vowed I never would do,” he continued. “The next morning I came back . . .” He paused for a long time, then whispered, “She was dead.”
He stopped speaking and wiped his eyes with the napkin. I waited for him to compose himself.
“How did it happen?” I said, after a time.
“I believe that Holt came to her room in the middle of the night, to attack her again. When she tried to defend herself, he . . .” His voice trailed off. “Frances told me,” he said, resuming a second later, “Frances swore to me that he did not kill her on purpose. She swore it was an accident, that the knife had been on a plate of fruit by Sandy’s bed and that somehow, in the struggle . . .”
“Do you believe it was an accident?”
He shook his head.
“No.”
“What do you believe?” I asked.
“I believe he did it on purpose,” Madi said gravely. “He did not want anyone else to have her.”
I thought about this for a moment.
“Roberto, why do you suppose Frances told you he did it? You weren’t there. Why didn’t they lie to you like they did to the police?”
“Because I knew too much,” he said, as if it were obvious.
“I see. And when did Frances finally tell you the truth?”
“Two days later. When the police were beginning to suspect something.”
“Were they beginning to suspect Holt?” I asked.
“I think so,” Madi nodded. “But it was difficult for them. You must understand, Holt Griffin was a formidable figure, a friend of presidents and judges. Do you arrest such a man for the murder of his own daughter? What motive could he possibly have for such a crime? There was
no motive—unless I told them what I knew.”
“Right. And where was Holt during all this?”
“In his room, under sedation. I never saw him,” Madi said.
“And Frances?”
“She was handling everything, as usual,” he said bitterly. “At that moment, the most important thing was protecting the position of the family. She would have sacrificed everything for that, including justice for her daughter. And she did.”
I sat across the table, staring at Madi as he finished his drink. I could see he was a beaten man.
“Roberto,” I began gently, “you loved her. Why didn’t you go to the police yourself? Why didn’t you turn Holt in if you loathed him so much?”
Madi sighed and looked away. “Frances offered me money,” he said. “The income for my life on five million dollars.”
“What about Cassandra’s money? You were entitled to that. Wasn’t it enough?” I asked, trying not to be accusatory.
“Sandy’s money was all in trust until she was thirty. On her death it went back into the estate. There was almost nothing for me,” he replied frankly.
“So you sold her out.”
“Yes,” he said. “You know the thirty pieces of silver? Well . . . there you have it.” He blinked back a tear.
There was something so pathetic about Roberto Madi in that moment that I didn’t want to press him. Yet I was curious how he’d managed to reconcile the depth of his emotions with the tawdriness of his actions.
“And through the years, you never wanted to come forward?”
“Of course,” he said, looking at me as if I were mad. “But I did not.”
“Why not?”
“Because, I told myself that nothing I said could bring Sandy back to me. I told myself no one would believe me anyway. But the truth is . . . the truth is I had grown used to the money. I liked being rich.”
“But you don’t live like a rich man,” I observed.
“No,” he grimaced. “That is the joke.”
“So you never told anyone the truth? In all this time? Not a single soul?”
“No one,” he said solemnly. “You are the first.”
“Why me?”
He hesitated. His voice changed to a more matter-of-fact tone.
“Because of my behavior last night. I feel badly. I don’t know. You are so much like Sandy, and I realize my emotions are still very strong. Perhaps I thought a confession would make me feel better,” he said.
“And do you feel better?”
“No.” He smiled and shook his head.
We sat in silence for a long time. Gradually, I became more aware of the sounds of the restaurant—the other diners talking, the clinking of plates and glasses. A jukebox in the corner was playing a jangly country-western tune. My eggs finally came, but I wasn’t hungry anymore. I took a couple of bites and pushed the plate away. I lit a cigarette.
“Imagine if people really knew the truth,” I said.
“They would not believe it,” he shrugged. “And if they did, they probably would not care.”
We both smiled sadly.
“How did Holt Griffin die, I forget? A heart attack, wasn’t it?”
“A heart attack?” Madi snickered. “Holt had no heart to attack.”
“Isn’t that what it said in the paper? Now I vaguely remember.”
“Holt Griffin died of an overdose of drugs.”
“You’re kidding.”
“The only thing I am not clear about is whether or not he did it on purpose.” Madi said.
“You mean, he may have killed himself?” I said, stunned.
“Possibly. I suspect so. But you cannot tell with drugs.”
Roberto Madi looked at me with a kind, but somewhat pitying expression.
“My dear Faith,” he said, “when will you understand that nothing—nothing—is what they say?”
“Poor old Frances,” I said. “What a life.”
“She chose it,” Madi snapped.
“Maybe. But she wants to confess everything now and absolve herself. I know she does.”
“Confess what?” Madi said irritably. “That her husband was a monster? That her child was doomed from the beginning? That her whole life is nothing but ashes? She will never tell a soul the truth. She will never bring down the great name of Griffin. She has dedicated her life to being Mrs. Holt Griffin. It is the only thing she has. Her immortality depends on it, on him—even now.”
“She wants me to know,” I objected. “I know she does.”
“Then you must ask yourself why,” Madi said mysteriously.
“What do you mean?”
“Why would she want you to know? You do not find it strange?” he probed.
I thought for a moment. “She wants the release of a confession, like you,” I offered. “She’s old and sick. She doesn’t want to die with it on her conscience. She needs to talk about it with someone.”
“But why you?” Madi said. “She could confess it to a psychiatrist, or a priest.”
“What are you getting at?”
“This Mr. Pitt,” he went on, “you are close to him?”
“Yes, very,” I replied. “Why?”
“Ask him then.”
“Ask him what?”
“Talk with him,” Madi urged.
“I fully intend to. But what do you mean, Roberto? What are you trying to tell me?”
He leaned back and folded his arms.
“I do not know,” he said thoughtfully. “But there is something, I promise you.”
He reached out for his pack of cigarettes, but none were left. He crumpled up the empty package into a little ball, tossing it on the table where it began to crackle open.
“Why did she pick you for this bizarre project of hers?” Madi continued. “Have you ever really thought about it?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact, I have. Look, I’m roughly the same age Cassandra would have been, a little younger. I’m an artist, which means that even though I’m outside Mrs. Griffin’s world, I can understand and appreciate it. I think I remind her of Cassandra—”
Madi was shaking his head as I spoke.
“I doubt it,” he said.
“Why? You said yourself I remind you of Cassandra.”
“That is not the point.” He waved his hand dismissively.
“What is?”
“I will tell you what I think,” he said.
“Please do.”
“I think there is a hidden reason for you to be in that house, and that you must find out that reason. You forget, Frances is very suspicious of people,” Madi said. “She does not let them come into her life so easily.”
I thought back to the early days when she’d had me followed and when I suspected she was spying on me.
“What reason could there be?” I asked, genuinely perplexed.
“I do not know,” he replied. “As I said, it is strange. Tell me, how did she find you in the first place?”
“Well, she said she read an article I wrote on Veronese.”
Madi let out a hoot. “Come now!”
“But she had read it,” I protested. “We discussed it.
“That is no reason for her to take you into her life, believe me,” Madi said.
“Oh, and I’d also done some work for a couple of people she knows,” I recollected.
“So she had her secretary call you up?”
“No. I’ve never met her secretary. She just dropped by my studio one day, out of the blue.”
“Herself?” Madi asked, narrowing his eyes.
“Yes.”
“Unannounced?”
“Why, yes.”
Madi began to laugh.
“You find that amusing?”
“I find it astonish
ing,” he replied. “It is not like Frances to go anywhere without being announced. She is too insecure to do anything by herself. She is not a real aristocrat, you know. She married her position. She was not born into it. The ones who are not born into it are always too frightened to do anything by themselves. They need an army of secretaries and servants to deal with the world for them. They think by being removed from people, it makes them more grand.”
“She’s not like that,” I said, defending her.
“I know her better than you do,” Madi pointed out. “And besides, after Sandy died, Frances never left the house at all, for any reason.”
“You don’t know that,” I said. “You haven’t been in touch with her for years, have you?”
Once again, he hesitated.
“No.”
“So, you see. Maybe she’s changed,” I said, wanting to prove my point.
“No one changes. Circumstances change, and then people appear to have changed,” Madi observed. “Faith, believe me, I know Frances. She never does anything without a reason, an interior motive.”
“Ulterior motive,” I corrected him.
“Whatever.”
“Roberto, what do you think she’s up to?”
“I have no idea, but I suspect you will find out,” Madi said ominously.
“But if it’s not about Cassandra, what on earth could it be?”
“Faith, I like you very much.” He reached across the table. I let him take my hand. “Whatever it is, I urge you to be careful.”
“What about you, Roberto? If she finds out you told me about all this, you’ll lose the money, won’t you?”
“The money was never really mine because I never enjoyed it,” he sighed. “I do not care who knows the truth now. Nothing matters to me anymore. Nothing at all. I am going away in a couple of days, and I do not know when I will be back.”
“Where will you go?”
“Wherever,” he said, gently tracing the tendons on the back of my hand with his finger. “It does not matter. I will try to find a place that feels different from all other places. But I do not think that will be easy. For me, everything is the same.”
We sat in silence for a while, listening to the laughter of the nearby diners underscored by a lively jukebox tune. What an incongruous setting this was.
A Trick of the Eye Page 23
