Tourmaline

by Joanna Scott

  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.

  One thousand. Murray would always counter by upping the stakes. It was one of his certain habits, like always putting his right shoe on first.

  Two A.M. Three A.M. The moon disappeared, and the sky brightened subtly to the hollow gray-blue that precedes dawn. I saw a shadow moving on the terrace. The dark body of an animal. A wild animal. A rat. A ferret. A cat — Meena.

  I called to her, clicked my tongue, watched her freeze. She tipped her head, then decided to ignore me. Away she slunk, toward the sound of a barking dog.

  A prowling cat. A barking dog. Hercules fading into dawn. Where was your father?

  Morning came, and with it arrived Murray, his excuse cast as self-mocking explanation — he’d forgotten about the move, forgotten to head to Marciana after work, forgotten to put gas in his motorcycle, and on top of that he’d fallen asleep on the sofa of the other villa, slept straight through to 5 A.M., hadn’t even taken off his shoes. Then he’d set off on his Lambretta, run out of gas, and ended up walking three miles into Marciana Marina, where he had to wait another hour for a gas station to open.

  He needed a shave, a bath, breakfast. He looked awful, not just physically awful but dispirited. Yesterday’s explorations must have disappointed him, I thought. His hopes for investment were ridiculous, and he’d already wasted too much money. It was all he could do to drag himself to the bedroom to change his clothes and get ready for another day of work.

  But by the time he came to the table for breakfast he’d regained his optimism, so much so that he reminded me of Francis, giddy with denial. There was something he couldn’t tell me. What? I’m not sure I wanted to know. I was grateful to have Murray home. He whistled while he cracked the shell of a soft-boiled egg with the edge of his spoon, tap tap tapping to the tune of “Home on the Range,” until my worry turned to annoyance, and annoyance melted into amusement.

  As I told you during our last dinner, Murray remained alone at Le Foci after Adriana had left. I believe this to be the truth, though it took many months for your father to explain.

  OF THE THREE QUALITIES WHICH determine the market value of a gemstone — beauty, rarity, and durability — the last quality is the easiest to measure. Durability determines the rank of mineral specimens. Durability is a stone’s defense against the wear of weather. Durability transforms certain stones into treasures and turns treasures into legends. If heroes were to find defunct paper bills instead of gold and gems when they unearthed a buried treasure, there wouldn’t be much of a story to tell.

  While rarity is a more elusive quality, the connection between rarity and worth is simple. If new sources increased the world’s quantity of available diamonds tenfold, diamonds would lose value. If synthetic production of a particular type of gem rivals the natural process, miners lose their jobs.

  Beauty is the quality most difficult to measure, as well as the most important. To some extent, a stone’s beauty is contingent. One year garnets may be in fashion, the next year, pearls. But the intrinsic beauty of a gemstone is determined by one factor independent of human whim: light. Light creates luster, and luster is what gives a stone its character. Without luster, a diamond would be no more beautiful than quartz, and gold would be pyrite’s equal. Without luster, topaz and ruby, amethyst and sapphire would be as dull as granite.

  The greater the amount of light reflected instead of absorbed, the more lustrous the stone. The most remarkable version of this property is found in hexagonal crystals, such as diamonds, calcite, and tourmaline, which double an image by splitting the light.

  Tourmaline’s alkali tints range from black to transparent, rubellite to brown. Black schorl was the most common form of tourmaline found on Elba. Other specimens tended to be pink, yellow, and green, and frequently parti-colored. From the 1930s through the 1950s, the crystals were increasingly coveted. Pink and green watermelon crystals were highly valued, and blue tourmaline was the most valuable of all.

  With the money his uncles finally sent, Murray purchased five hectares of terraced land on a wooded slope in the Mezza Luna zone between Sant’Andrea and Monte Giove. Stone walls hidden among the chestnuts suggested that centuries earlier this had been cultivated land. But when Murray purchased the title from a family that had owned the land for generations, only a footpath connected the property to the coastal road.

  What Murray’s land had, though, was tourmaline. Little black sticks of schorl, which Murray broke from the granite rock face when he was surveying the land. Because of tourmaline, our father agreed to buy the land for a price he knew was inflated.

  In the mornings our parents would confer in low, growling voices outside, Claire still in her bathrobe and slippers, Murray already mounted on his motorcycle. They would discuss bills, loans, and their increasing expenses. Later in the morning Claire would take a taxi to the bank in Portoferraio in hopes of collecting the last of the loan Murray’s uncles had promised to wire. Murray’s uncles, however, were keeping Claire and Murray waiting, and Murray had to ask Lorenzo for a month’s respite on the rent. Claire explained the situation to Lidia, who kept down costs by cooking her cacciucco with grouper instead of swordfish. Francesca was given the month of December off. And our mother began calling agents for information about ships heading back to New York.

  The weather grew colder. The clouds overhead were dark gray with ragged edges, and rain would fall continuously for three or four days at a time. Patrick and Harry claimed that they were being bullied by the Elban boys at school, so Claire decided to keep them home for a while. She gave them reading lessons that amounted to an hour spent deciphering articles in a week-old Herald Tribune, worked with them briefly on math, and then she’d bundle us in raincoats and boots and send us outside.

  I turned five in the middle of November. Patrick, who turned ten on the ninth of December, was responsible for the safety of the rest of us — which translated into tyranny. He was the king, we were his servants, and if he asked us to pick the spiny balls off a sandbur or collect dried-flower sacs from the sedge, we had to oblige.

  After the disappointment of paltry gifts at our birthdays, we weren’t looking forward to Christmas. Somehow, though, our parents managed to satisfy our greed. The presents were abundant on Christmas morning — toy soldiers and trucks, puzzles, model airplane kits, and even books in English. Lidia had the week off, so Claire mastered the oven and cooked potatoes and green beans and roasted a chicken, which she tried to fool us into believing was turkey.

  After dinner we collapsed on the floor in front of the radio that provided only fuzzy reception on a single channel. We listened to a broadcast of a Christmas mass, not caring that we didn’t understand a word of it. Claire was in the kitchen washing up; Francis Cape — who either had mistaken a casual comment for an invitation or else had somehow invited himself to dinner — lit his pipe, Murray lit a cigarette, and they settled in their chairs for a good long smoke.

  They smoked in silence for a few minutes. Murray said something about work being done on the road to Marciana. Knowing Francis’s resistance to all development on the island, he launched into a defense of the new roads, insisting that not only would they open up the island to tourists, they would ultimately save the El-bans time and labor, giving them the opportunity to concentrate on intensifying production on their farms as well as improving their dilapidated houses. He was describing a house he’d seen in San Piero when Francis interrupted him.

  “That’s all fine, Murray. Bu
t there’s something important I want to discuss with you.”

  Murray’s immediate thought was money: Francis wanted to borrow money from Murray or lend Murray money or else he knew of a secret source for money. But Francis had only to say the name “Adriana Nardi,” and Murray felt a draining presentiment. What about the girl? Adriana had disappeared, Francis said. She’d left a note explaining only that she couldn’t explain why she had to leave. She hadn’t been seen or heard from for more than a month. At first her mother kept secret the fact of her disappearance. She made inquiries with friends in Bologna but failed to find any evidence that her daughter had been there at all. After a few weeks she contacted the local police. They questioned fishermen, sailors, and harbor workers. In the week before Christmas, the police told Signora Nardi that to the best of their knowledge Adriana had never left the island.

  After Francis finished his account, the two men smoked in silence for a long minute. Murray considered what he couldn’t say: Adriana had disappeared because of him. He knew this as surely as he knew that his land would never turn a profit, the knowledge as certain as it was untested, a theory born from common sense. Adriana had disappeared because of Murray. If she never returned, he would be held accountable.

  “Well then, Francis, where is she?” Murray asked abruptly. “Why, for God’s sake, why should I know?” Francis could only sputter in outrage at the accusation implied in Murray’s question.

  “Why should you know. Of course you don’t know. You don’t have any idea where she’s gone off to. Somewhere on the island. She’s hiding out somewhere on the island.” The possibility of this gave rise in Murray to a strange excitement — the scientist’s excitement at the thought of proving his hypothesis. “Have they looked in the caves? The bunkers? Of course they have. Where else? She knew the secret places —” He stopped, blinked in surprise at himself for using the past tense. Knows, he thought. Say, She knows…He couldn’t say it, not with Francis peering at him through the screen of pipe smoke. Knew. Knows. Was. Is.