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Tourmaline

Page 23

by Joanna Scott


  As sleep reached our ears, I felt, and was ashamed to feel, that I’d always remember this night as one of the best nights of my life.

  And while you all were having such a swell time, I was trying to drag Dad back into the world of the living.

  Sorry, Nat.

  Even if Murray didn’t say outright that he was ready to quit, he was thinking it.

  He’d been thinking it for a long while. He came to Elba in order to allow himself to think it. Came so he could get away. Came to escape. There he was, trapped by the wish to escape from the wish to escape from the wish.

  Whatever. I was just a dumb kid and didn’t put two and two together. Our old man was drunk. Really drunk. It was the first time I’d seen him this way, and I didn’t understand. But at least I could tell he needed help. He’d scraped his knuckles raw, his hands were bloody, his words were slurred, and his eyes had a weird foggy glare. Turns out he hadn’t eaten anything since the evening before, but he’d forgotten he was hungry. I thought if I could get him home, home to the villa first, then home to America, everything would be okay. I did my best to convince him.

  What did he say to you?

  I’ve told you what I remember, Ollie.

  Nothing else?

  No.

  And so we’re left to imagine.

  That’s your job.

  You telling Dad what it was like to be a small boy on an island in the Tyrrhenian Sea.

  Whatever.

  Dad telling you about Balthazar and Erasmus and Pico. Whatever.

  You telling Dad about quartz and pyrite, calcite and tour-tour-tourmaline, Dad telling you about the Guelphs and the Ghibellines, Garibaldi and Galileo, you telling Dad that the first thing you were going to do when you got back home to America was set up your trains.

  Maybe.

  Dad explaining that there are things a father can say only to his son, you telling Dad about an old episode of Popeye, Dad telling you something about the something he’d been wanting to explain, something having to do with the Nardi girl, you telling Dad about the time Popeye went overboard with his anchor, Dad warning you about the explosion of nothing into something, all you have to do is look at a girl for the fun of it, you reminding Dad about the BB gun you’d been promised, Dad reminding you that there are confidences a father can share with his son, his wife never needs to know, no one else needs to know what the father says to his son on this balmy moonlit night on the island of Elba after too many days of rain, you telling Dad you were kind of tired, asking, Can’t we go home now and if we can’t go home, do you want to play Ants? Dad asking, Why the hell did we come here anyway? but you weren’t sure whether he was asking why did we come here to this place in the woods or to this island, Dad pointing out that we could have gone to Mexico or Alaska or Louisiana while you tried not to yawn and to keep yourself awake you decided to explain what a periscope is, Dad cursing his Averil uncles, you reminding Dad that your birthday was in ten-and-a-half months, Dad reminding you that you were an innocent child, you telling Dad that unlike your brothers you don’t actually fall asleep, you just lie in bed thinking about sleep, Dad saying that even if you didn’t understand what he was saying, it sure felt good to talk, what a relief just to talk, father and son, you unable to suppress a great big yawn, Dad giving a sad chuckle of resignation and cuddling you against his chest, you hearing his laugh as a crackle echoing from the cave of his ribs, Dad shifting you a little so he could free his arm, rubbing his face as if he had a towel in his hands and were blotting his wet skin dry, you lying there thinking about sleep, Dad saying, if only, you telling Dad you were cold, though you weren’t cold at all, you just wanted him to put his arm around you again, Dad saying that what he’d like right then was a scotch, you thinking lazily about blowing the fluffy parachutes from the head of a dandelion, Dad repeating, if only, you enjoying the vibrations of his voice against your ear, Dad telling himself, if only he hadn’t come to Elba, getting only this far in the hypothetical, Elba being the place where his troubles began as far as he could see, and he couldn’t see very far, not in the dark, not with his son asleep across his chest, not with his head aching as the evening’s alcohol dissolved, not with regret fogging his vision, regret an effective cover for the terror of self-knowledge, the story he could tell himself the story of an American guy who fucked up, don’t we all fuck up sooner or later, he’s sorry, Claire, he’s sorry, Adriana, his deception, her deception, his cowardice, Francis Cape, all of which kept him from considering his original purpose in leaving home and thus he was able to make the decision to feel nothing worse than guilt, which manifested itself visibly with the hint of a smirk, a smirk which would never entirely disappear from his face, marking him as the kind of person who, with a shrug, was always ready to acknowledge his potential for fucking up, no matter what he did he kept fucking up, sorry about that, girls, regret lit with the soft glow of virility, that radiant Y chromosome, that sexy X, the story such people could tell always the same story — Sir Winston who loved Lady Jane who loved the Duke who loved Lady Jane’s sister who loved Sir Winston, never more than that, never less, you know the kind of people I’m talking about, the edge of their personality a little dulled, their eyes a little blank, ambition a little muted, and always that smirk to signal to others that they’ll never be registered saints and, guess what, they don’t give a damn, let someone else rise to the challenge, they can have it along with all the trouble, the confusion, the uncertainty, the suffering, the intensity of thought and feeling, no thanks, Malcolm Murdoch is going to ease himself into sleep by thinking about the only thing that really matters to a man who hasn’t eaten for twenty-four hours, the antidote of food, in particular, a bloody steak just off the grill, green-bean casserole, and the well in a mountain of mashed potatoes filled with steaming gravy.

  The Inconstant

  MORE THAN ONE HUNDRED ELBANS CAME TO FRANCIS Cape’s funeral, though not because they’d ever cared about the Englishman while he was living. They came because they were curious. They wanted to see for themselves the body that was said to have turned miraculously into wax. Francis Cape had died of heart failure a full five days earlier, the coroner had confirmed. But instead of deteriorating with the usual rapidity, his body had remained unchanged, emitting no trace of fluids, no blood or excretions, and no foul smell, according to those who’d helped transfer the corpse to the little morgue behind the customs station in Porto-ferraio.

  Signora Nardi paid for the service and burial. She ignored the rumors about the mummified body of il professore and went about the ordinary business of arranging a funeral. First she sent cables to Francis’s relatives in London, which went unanswered. Then she contacted an Anglican minister, the Reverend Nigel Fink, who lived in Livorno. And she managed to convince the parish priest of the Chiesa della Misericordia to allow a Protestant service to be conducted in his church.

  The coffin was high-quality cherry wood, but the mourners were disappointed when they arrived to find the coffin closed and Francis Cape’s uncorrupted body hidden from view. Some of the guests snuck out through the side door and went home. Among the mourners who remained were Lorenzo Ambrogio and his wife, Carlo the mine surveyor, Ninanina of the enoteca and her husband, Massimo, our cook, Lidia, Adriana Nardi, our mother, our father, and of course Signora Nardi herself, who sat in the front pew beside her daughter, both of them wearing black Burano lace veils that were said to have belonged to Napoleon’s sister.

  The maestrale had blown in cool, bright weather for the day. White chrysanthemums lined the aisles and the base of the altar and filled the Chiesa della Misericordia with their sweet dusty fragrance. Candles cast flickering shadows on the nave columns. People blew their noses frequently, not because of strong emotion but because the winter’s respiratory viruses were beginning to spread. Reverend Fink said the Evensong and read the Absolutions of the Dead in English. “He cometh up and is cut down like a flower, he flieth as it were a shadow, and never continueth in one stay.” Lorenzo deli
vered a short eulogy in Italian in which he praised Francis for his dedication to history. He quoted Aristotle, St. Augustine, and, of course, Napoleon — “Do not be surprised at the attention that I devote to details: I must pay attention to everything so as never to leave myself unprovided.”

  Francis Cape had been a man of detail. In recording a small segment of history, he’d wanted to include everything that could be known. Elbans would remember him for his noble effort, if not for his accomplishments.

  Too bad he was Protestant, people whispered. If he’d been Catholic, they might have let themselves believe that his body truly had been the location where God chose to work a miracle. But in fact, they pointed out, refrigeration will keep meat fresh. Taking into account the cool weather…

  Mamma mia, what disrespect. Shhhh.

  People whispered about many things. Gathering outside on the steps after the service, they whispered about the solitary professor who had been dead for days before anyone bothered to check on him. They whispered about the consequences of loneliness. They whispered about the stealth of heart disease. They whispered about our father as he and our mother walked past them, holding hands. They whispered about Americans and their love of drink, for by then everyone had heard about Signor Americano’s four-day spree that had taken him across the island from Marciana to Porto-ferraio to La Pila to Sant’Andrea. They whispered about American foolishness and American greed. The rumor passed among them that Malcolm Murdoch had paid five times for his patch of Elban earth what they knew it to be worth. They speculated about when he would take his family and go home.

  And they whispered about Adriana Nardi. Though she mingled among them out in the piazza, she said little about her year abroad, despite the direct, probing questions put to her. And when she was out of range the Elbans made up stories to explain her absence.

  They said that she’d run away to Paris with a lover, but the man had abandoned her, as men will abandon all women who are too willing, and she’d gone on to England alone, to London, where she’d worked as a servant for a wealthy family. A Nardi working as a servant! Impossible! As a lady-in-waiting, then, yes, who knows but that she worked for the queen herself! Absurd, though it was fun to pretend. And listen to this: the lover had left her pregnant. She’d had a child — delivered it right there in the royal palace and then had given the infant up for adoption. No! Yes! You can tell from the hips of a woman if she’s birthed a child, and you can tell from the look in her eyes if she’s had to give the child up.

  Where was the child? In an orphanage in London. Sleeping in a gilded cradle in a palace. Wrapped in a threadbare blanket in a basket left to be claimed at a train station. Adriana, what happened to the child? What did you do with the child?

  Another pressing question was the identity of the lover. If not the American investor, then who? Who took Signorina Nardi to Paris? Who lured her away from Elba? Who, Adriana? Tell us his name.

  People watched Adriana carefully. They watched her when she shook hands with our father and mother on the steps of the church. They eavesdropped but failed to make sense of the English words our parents and Adriana quietly exchanged. The conversation seemed cordial, though of course they all knew that courtesy could be even more effective than silence as a cover for turmoil.

  The funeral procession wound down to Via del Paradiso toward the quay of Portoferraio, where Francis Cape’s coffin would be loaded onto a boat bound for Livorno. Reverend Fink led the way. The coffin, blanketed with chrysanthemums, rested on a carriage pulled by Claudio Baldi’s sturdy dappled pony. The mourners followed, and behind them a little boy scoured the street for coins that with any luck would fall out of purses and pockets.

  Adriana was flanked by Lorenzo and her mother. Our parents joined the rear of the procession. The mourners had to walk quickly to keep up with the bright-stepping pony. Shutters flew open and women leaned on windowsills to watch. Men repairing a lamppost stopped working and took off their caps. A dog chained inside a yard lunged at the gate and barked.

  One of the mourners — Massimo, the husband of Ninanina — broke off from the group and wandered up the steps of Via della Lampana. Ninanina caught him and pulled him back into the procession.

  Our father and mother walked arm in arm. Although it was difficult to see in the shadow beneath his hat, Murray’s eye was still discolored, though less swollen. He rested against Claire in an effort to disguise a slight limp.

  He’d been home for two full days and nights and had shaved, bathed, and put on a clean suit, but still he looked haggard, with new strands of white salting his hair. Claire, in contrast, looked serene, as if she were confident that the troubles were behind her. Or in front — in the cherry-wood coffin of Francis Cape.

  Clippa clop clippa clop went the hooves of the pony on the paving stones.

  The story Murray told Claire when he came home was that he’d visited Francis Cape early in the morning, they’d argued, and Murray had struck him down and left him for dead. The story Claire told Murray was that Adriana Nardi had visited Francis that evening and found him still alive enough to tell her to leave him alone. Murray couldn’t have killed Francis. Nor could he have done anything to harm Adriana. He was exonerated. But he felt no relief. He needed the guilt, Claire sensed. Guilt provided useful comfort. All right, Murray Murdoch, everything is your fault, if that’s what you want to believe.

  There went Ninanina’s husband again, up through an open doorway to see what was going on inside the courtyard. There went Ninanina after him, muttering, Merde, merde, merde.

  Clippa clop clippa clop.

  The story we told Claire was that we’d gone looking for our father and had found him on the property in Mezza Luna. Since by then it had been too late to make our way home, we’d stayed the night in an old military redoubt we knew of on the road to Sant’Andrea. And we were back home in time for breakfast, unharmed, though shoeless.

  The rest of the story Murray told Claire was basically true — how he’d wandered around for a while, made his way to La Pila, and for two nights and three days had earned his keep chopping vegetables in a bar. He’d left La Pila after losing at cards. He’d wandered around some more. Of the night and the day after La Pila and before Nat found him, our father remembered nothing.

  Clippa clop clippa clop. Ninanina’s marito had stopped to talk with Gastone of Bivio Boni, who was on his way home.

  “Gastone! Come va?”

  Clippa clop clippa clop clop clop cloppa! The pony shied when a small raggedy terrier ran across the road in front of the procession. Reverend Fink helped Claudio Baldi steady the pony.

  Clippa clop clippa clop.

  Now where had Ninanina’s marito gone this time? Massimo! Had anyone seen him?

  The story Signora Nardi told others was that her daughter had fallen in love. Nothing worse. Her daughter had fallen in love. Wasn’t this a sufficient explanation? What else could Signora Nardi tell her curious friends? Yes, she knew the boy’s name. No, he was not Italian. Yes, they would be married soon.

  Clippa clop clippa clop.

  Massimo?

  There he was — in Armando Scarlatti’s garden in a cloud of hen feathers. Why were Armando’s hens plumper than everyone else’s? Massimo was going to find out while Armando was inside listening to his radio.

  That Massimo!

  One of the mourners called, “Salve, Armando!” to alert him. But Ninanina led her husband back to the procession and planted him beside the reverend before Armando arrived outside.

  Hurry up, good neighbors. Attenzione! There’s a dead man in a coffin. The sacred vessel turned to wax, the contents emptied, the soul gone…where? A soul that through the body’s senses would have taken pleasure in the shreds of clouds pasted to the blue canvas of sky, doves cooing in a garden, the two little girls swinging in a string bed. A dead man who loved this island as only a foreigner can love it. Its beauty endlessly strange to him. As strange as Adriana Nardi.

  Did you ever consider, Franc
is Cape, that someday Adriana would be the escort for your coffin? Even if she never learned to love you, she forgave you. Is that enough?

  Waxworks. The bronchial tree shriveled, the aortas crusty, the intestines hard, the veins collapsed, his skin without elasticity or temperature.

  Not waxworks. Just an ordinary dead man to remind us that it’s good to be alive.

  Clippa clop clippa clop.

  You’re leaving Elba, Francis.

  Ninanina’s husband whispered something to the reverend. Everyone walking nearby could see that the reverend was trying not to laugh.

  That Massimo!

  Our father leaned on our mother’s arm. He couldn’t see the coffin through the crowd of mourners but he could hear the pony’s hooves. He imagined himself in place of Francis Cape. He imagined waking up from a dreamless sleep to find himself nailed shut in a box. Hello, hello, is anybody there, help me, please, let me out! His voice so muffled that only Adriana, walking directly behind the coffin, would be able to hear. She’d hear him calling, and she’d ignore him. She had every right to ignore him.

  Claire imagined Francis Cape alone in his hovel of a room at the moment when he knew he was dying. The pitiable man. How terribly alone he must have felt. Yet he never admitted he was lonely. Not to Claire, at least.

  Clippa clop clop clop. The pony bounced awkwardly down the steep sloping road. This was the same pony that led the baldachin at the Festa di Santa Chiara every year. He was a strong little gelding, still spry at the age of seventeen, though, who knows, perhaps he felt an increasing need to prove himself capable. Clop clop clop…

  Down through the streets of Portoferraio wound the funeral procession. Processions didn’t usually come through the Medeceo quarter. The cemetery was in the opposite direction. Who was in the coffin? people wanted to know. Francis Cape. Who was Francis Cape? An Englishman.

 

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