Forgery

by Sabina Murray

  The next day, Olivia wasn’t feeling well and was in bed all day. I was able to wear my sandals again and so had ended my brief captivity. I went to a small museum in the old town, a couple of miles away. The walk was good for me, and the solitude, and looking through the glass cases gave me focus. There was the hand of a statue rescued from the water, which, despite its pocked appearance, asserted an affecting beauty in the gentle bend of its fingers and the relaxed yet questioning poise of the musculature. It reminded me that some things were still valuable.

  I swam some more and tried the various beaches. Nikos and I took the Vespa into the harbor town and bought drinks for some Swedish girls; then waved them off as they boarded the ferry. When we returned, Clive was wading through the underbrush that surrounded the east wall of the house, holding a lighted candle. Nikos asked him to stop. It was very dry, and the risk of fire was quite real. And there wasn’t much water on the island this time of year. What was he looking for? We learned that Clive had been playing the Al Jolson record, and Jack had yelled something about “Don’t you know what’s happening in Alabama?” to which Clive had responded, “I make it a point never to know what’s going on in Alabama.” And then Jack, very angry and alive with sanctimonious verve, had snatched the record off the Victrola and Frisbied it over the wall.

  “He’s rather strong and the thing flew,” said Clive. “It might still be in the air.”

  So we took his candle from him, blew it out, and promised to help him look for the record in the morning. But there was no sign of it the next day, until we saw two children rolling it down the steps, and before we could recover it, the disk was smashed into a thousand pieces.

  I got up late the next day, around eleven. People were awake and Clive was setting up croquet on the lawn. There was an Ink Spots song playing on the Victrola, and I wondered how long it would last with Jack stalking around. Nathan came to stand at the window beside me. He handed me a cup of coffee.

  “Thanks very much,” I said. “Do you know how to play croquet?”

  Nathan laughed. Clive seemed very serious about setting up a proper course. “What would we all do without Clive?” he said.

  “It wouldn’t be as much fun,” I agreed.

  “No,” said Nathan, “it would be tedious. As it is, I sometimes feel I’m trapped in an Agatha Christie novel. There’s a part of me that keeps waiting for someone to die. There’s a tangle of motives here, a lot of desire.”

  “That’s the publisher in you talking,” I said.

  “Drink your coffee,” said Nathan. “Olivia is looking for you. She’s in the kitchen. She wants to make everyone omelets, but she doesn’t know how to cook.”

  After lunch, Nikos, Clive, and I went to the beach. Amanda showed up after an hour and she and Nikos set off for a walk together. Amanda had taken to calling me “Rupie,” rather like the Indian currency, and seemed to resent the fact that I wasn’t flirting with her. I was beginning to wonder if she wasn’t that smart. Amanda was actually a great manipulator, but because of her natural beauty and unkempt appearance—Nathan called her “Amandirt”—no one really thought of her as being that clever.

  Clive and I, apparently equally concerned that we might find ourselves stranded on the beach with no wine, had brought two bottles and a bottle opener apiece. We kept thinking that Amanda and Nikos might come back to join us, so we kept opening bottles, and by the time we got back on the Vespa—it was somehow decided that Clive should drive—we were zigzagging dangerously and at one point nearly collided with a truck full of watermelons. Shortly after this, a possibly suicidal goat wandered onto the road.

  “Did you see that?” yelled Clive. He was outraged, as if the goat had intentionally cut him off.

  By some miracle we got home safely, and as I wove my way up the stairs trying to avoid Olivia, whose voice was floating out from the kitchen, I nearly collided with Jack.

  “Where’s Amanda?” he said.

  I looked over my shoulder drunkenly. “She was at the beach with us.”

  “That’s why I’m asking you where she is,” he said, angry.

  Clive was standing at the foot of the stairs. He said, “Let me make you a drink, Jack.”

  Jack shook his head. He looked like he was ready for a fight, but then I heard Amanda’s voice outside. “Jackie?” she called.

  I wanted to find out what Nikos was up to, but instead managed the last few feet to my room. Neftali was passing by in the upstairs corridor, and I made her promise to wake me in half an hour. It was already six and I wanted time to shower and put myself together before we wandered in to Stavri for dinner.

  When I awoke to a knocking on the door, it was pitch dark and I had no idea where I was. Someone was calling Rupert through the door in a voice I didn’t recognize.

  “Come in,” I said. “Just a minute.”

  “Well, which is it?” came the voice.

  “Come in,” I said.

  The door swung open and standing there, backlit by the hall light, was Nathan. “Wakey, wakey,” he said. “It’s nine o’clock.”

  “Nine,” I said. I sat up and put my feet on the floor. “Neftali was supposed to get me at seven.”

  “Well, she didn’t,” said Nathan. “Everyone’s gone into town for a pre-dinner drink, but you and I will join them as soon as you’re dressed for dinner.”

  “Do I have time to shower?”

  “Of course,” said Nathan. “I’ll meet you downstairs.”

  I took about twenty minutes to get ready. The night had cooled things off a bit, but it was still warm. Nathan was on the couch downstairs reading a manuscript—loose white pages—and had a pair of glasses on. I snuck up on him, but even in his solitude he was completely poised.

  “Hello, Nathan,” I said.

  “There you are,” he said.

  We began walking to Stavri. The moon was full and lit the path with a natural brilliance. Jasmine grew over the walls, and the scent and beauty of the walk seemed almost studied.

  “Neftali didn’t want to wake you,” said Nathan. “We figured you needed your rest, and I wanted some time alone. That house is like an asylum half the time. Between Clive and Jack and Amanda, it’s impossible to read anything. Clive takes it personally. Neftali sees it as a sign that she’s being a bad host, and Jack and Amanda are always fighting.”

  “Jack’s a lot older than Amanda, isn’t he?”

  “Amanda was his student. He was teaching in Florence, and she was there on her junior year abroad—from Smith, I think. She still paints, on occasion.” He gave me a cold smile to let me know that this was not a talent of hers.

  “She’s attractive,” I said.

  “Your friend Nikos thinks so.” Nathan stopped to admire a wall overflowing with jasmine. He picked a sprig and smelled it. “But you,” he said, “prefer Olivia.”

  “She’s nice,” I said, in a pointedly bland way. I realized this was the first time that Nathan and I had really conversed.

  “Olivia’s second husband and I were good friends. He was Scottish, a dealer in rare books. I spent many pleasant hours in the offices of his shop in London. When he died, five years ago, she was completely alone. I wanted her to move to New York. She’s originally from Boston, but she hadn’t bothered to keep a life in America, so she stayed in London.”

  “They had no children?”

  Nathan gave me a penetrating, questioning look. “No,” he said.

  “And what about her first husband?”

  “He was a fighter pilot. She was eighteen.” Nathan seemed mildly disgusted by the whole affair, as if its romantic tint made it a little tasteless. “I think she was married for almost two years, but she never lived with him and they spent a total of eleven nights together. Something like that.” Nathan grew suddenly introspective. “You should get Olivia drunk and ask her these questions. When she’s talking about her life, it’s terribly funny. When I’m telling it, it sounds like some horrible Greer Garson vehicle.”

  “I
find Olivia very entertaining,” I said. “Neftali too.” I was being noncommittal.

  “Neftali defines generosity,” said Nathan. He said this with such conviction that it seemed the first time those words had been used on anyone. “She invited Olivia at my request and has treated her with real warmth and tenderness.”

  We were both quiet. I found it odd that Nathan would have such compassion for his friend just because she’d been widowed. Hadn’t that been five years earlier? We walked for about five minutes in silence. I’d been waiting for Nathan to ask me about Hester, not that I liked talking about her, but this state of expectancy was excruciating.

  “You’re a very polite man, Nathan,” I said.

  “Yes, I am.” We had reached the foot of the pathway and were across from the park with its cannon, and the pharmacy. Nathan rested his hand on my forearm with a studied even pressure.

  “You see, I know about your tragedy.” He looked me straight in the eye. “I know from Hester. I just didn’t know that your marriage had ended.”

  I nodded, not sure of what to say. “Of course Hester would tell you,” I finally said. I found it strange that she had been able to speak to Nathan about our son but not our marriage, and then reasoned that she found the divorce more embarrassing than tragic.

  The silence was not awkward, but heavy on us both. Nathan patted my forearm quickly as a way to remove his hand. “The restaurant is just past the pharmacy,” he said. He knew he was rescuing me. “There’s a lovely view of the mountains, and on a night like this, with the moon full, it’s really quite stunning.”

  Of course Nathan knew, and once again I was Rupert Brigg, resident of New York City, expert in decorative arts, divorced man, once a father. And that’s why he hadn’t said anything to me for the last couple of days, because Nathan was an expert in motive and desire—all the books he’d read had taught him that—and he could see I wanted to escape. I looked over at him and knew I didn’t need to ask him not to mention the death of my son to the others, to let me lie on the beach, and drink too much, and chase after the occasional woman. I knew he understood and, in his own way, was sympathetic.

  There was a large table set for our party at the back of the terrace. The moon hung like a huge gaudy bauble and the mountains seemed falsely cut out, as if it were all for a school play. Clive, Neftali, Olivia, and Nikos were sitting, clustered together at the end of the table. They seemed a little subdued, and only Clive had wine in his glass.

  “What’s wrong?” asked Nathan. “Where are Jack and Amanda?”

  “They walked off,” said Neftali. She took one of Nikos’s cigarettes and he lit it for her.

  “You slept through it,” said Clive. “Jack wants to take the eleven o’clock ferry tonight, but Amanda doesn’t want to leave. They’ve been bickering all day, and just now they had a huge fight. Amanda took off running, and Jack followed her.”

  I looked over at Nikos.

  “She’s crazy,” said Nikos. “She says these things … it has nothing to do with me. I told her she should go with her husband.”

  “I asked him to say that,” said Neftali.

  “And it made her crazy,” said Nikos.

  “I’m so sorry,” said Nathan, addressing Neftali.

  “I have to go to Mýkonos. My husband is waiting, but I’m too scared to leave them. They could burn the house down.”

  And then Jack and Amanda walked back into the restaurant. Amanda had her arms wrapped around Jack and her chin rested on his shoulder. A shorter woman would have needed to be piggy-backed in order to do this, but they were actually walking that way. They separated and sat in their chairs. Clive poured out a couple of glasses of wine, and we slid the glasses down to them.

  “Jackie has to go. He has to get back to work. It’s that way for artists. But he’s going to let me stay another couple of days, and then I have to go too,” she said.

  “I have an idea for a project,” Jack said, in a scratchy whisper. I caught Clive rolling his eyes. “The ferry leaves in forty-five minutes,” Jack added.

  There was a moment of silence, and I realized that Jack was waiting for someone to offer to take him. Apparently, real men didn’t ask for favors.

  “I’m sure,” said Neftali, “that someone would be willing to take you on the Vespa.”

  She was desperate for him to leave, and he was already cutting the trip to the harbor kind of close. I regarded Neftali, who was looking at a cold plate of chickpea croquettes, upset at the prospect of appearing inhospitable.

  “I’ll take you,” I said, “if everyone promises to save me a lamb chop.”

  “We’ll save you more than that,” said Olivia.

  “All the tender bits are yours,” added Clive.

  Jack was only taking what he could fit in his knapsack; Amanda would bring the rest when she followed him to Hydra. The trip down to the harbor was serene. A light breeze was blowing and, despite the steps, which were like relentless curbstones, the act of driving was clearing my head. The sprinkle of lights let me know that it wasn’t far, and if Jack hadn’t started singing some strange blues song I could have forgotten that he was on the bike. We parked by a café, where we had a good view of the harbor, and Jack asked the one local policeman, who was drinking a coffee at the next table, when the ferry was coming in. Jack’s Greek was very good—Nikos even thought so—and a part of me had to respect this in him.

  “Ferry won’t be here for another half hour,” said Jack.

  “Well, they’re always late,” I said.

  “That’s not late, not here,” said Jack.

  I really did dislike him. I felt the need to remind him that, even though I didn’t speak Greek and live in Hydra, I did have experience—bad experience—with the ferries.

  “Let me buy you a drink, Rupert,” he said.

  “I should get it,” I said. “You’re the one who’s going on a trip.”

  “No, no.” Jack yelled something to the waiter. I understood whiskey, and I was relieved that I wouldn’t have to trundle out my patient tourist–waiter English in front of him. When the drinks arrived, Jack looked at me and a sudden glimmer of humor lit up his eyes.

  “You’re in love with Olivia, aren’t you?” he said.

  “Love is a big word,” I replied. “I find her attractive.”

  Jack laughed into his glass. Olivia was beautiful, undeniably so, and I didn’t flinch. “You don’t know, do you?” he said.

  I watched him across the table. He was enjoying himself. “Apparently not,” I said.

  “Olivia,” said Jack, leaning across the table, “is dying. She has cancer. She spent all last year having parts carved out of her. And it’s bought her some time, but there’s no hope for recovery.”

  “How do you know this?”

  “You don’t believe me?”

  I took a drink. I felt a bit light-headed, but there was no reason to feel defensive, although Jack was doing his best to encourage it. I just felt sad. “You’re going to tell me to leave her alone because she’s sick,” I said.

  “No,” said Jack. “The kindest thing you could do is fuck her.” He drained his glass and stood, shouldering his knapsack. “Just don’t wait too long.”

  I stayed at the café and had another drink. Facing Olivia now required some degee of courage, and I’d never been good at courage. I decided to walk down to the little grocer to see if they had any peaches. Clive and Olivia loved peaches and had finished the last two over breakfast. The grocer was closing, but was very pleased that I was buying nearly all his peaches and what was left of his tomatoes. I was just returning my wallet to my pocket when I noticed Jack, quite a distance away on the pier. He was with Thanasi, who was helping him carry a crate or a box. There was some discussion going on and I figured the smaller boat had to be on other side of the pier, out of sight. After the crate was loaded, Thanasi and Jack had some sort of intense discussion and then the two men embraced in a way devoid of affection—a way that made me feel that something wa
s at stake. I remembered the caves and the pebble beach and wondered what Clive and I had been up to for the few days that was so important that we’d never gone back.

  Nikos and I spent the next day on the Vespa chasing down a couple of leads that Neftali had compiled over the last few months in preparation for our visit. One was a small archaic statuette that belonged to a once wealthy family. The man we spoke to was about forty and held a public office. According to Neftali, he’d been mayor of Stavri a few years ago and was hoping to regain that position sometime soon. The more we wanted the statuette, the less he wanted to sell it. He and Nikos argued passionately while I handled the piece. It had been badly damaged, at one point, and restored in a haphazard way. In addition, although the body and arms—reattached—came from the same figure, the head was not only not original but from a later period. When Nikos lifted his hands in frustration, I was almost relieved that we hadn’t been able to purchase it, although Uncle William would have loved it regardless.

  Our next lead took us to fields in the hills surrounding the old town. A farmer who had a few dusty acres of tomatoes and zucchini, but was mostly in sheep, had found a clay lamp while digging up a plot of land behind his house. There had once been a sheep shed on this land, but the shed had collapsed and the farmer had rebuilt it farther from his house. As I walked up to his cottage and passed the new shed, with the scent of sheep and a cacophony of bleating, this seemed to have been a rather good decision. Also, the old shed had been on a nice flat piece of land, perfect for planting, and in the process of readying it for just that, the farmer had dug up the lamp.

  We sat on the steps of his house. I looked down at the old town, which had been built atop and all around a hill, and this hill sat surrounded on three sides by deep ocean that here sparkled a dark sapphire color. This farmer, although he had holes in his roof and the smell of manure, had one of the most beautiful views in the world. He had brought us some water and a plate of pistachios, and after talking to Nikos for a little while he came back out with the lamp. The lamp was plain but well preserved. I wasn’t sure about its value, but it did look old. I set it down a short distance away and regarded it as I ate my pistachios, cracking them between my teeth.