Tourmaline (19 page)

I remember looking for diamonds on Volterraio. I remember Harry cupping a lizard in his hands. I remember Nat’s sharp reply when I asked him if he was having trouble hearing. He could hear just fine, he said, and I believed him. I remember you, Ollie, running toward the end of the pier in Marciana Marina while I yelled at you to stop. I remember the fisherman who caught you and carried you back to us.

I don’t remember ever threatening again to take you boys and leave Elba. I was ready to stay with Murray as long as he wanted to stay. Only guilty men run from suspicion, he insisted, and though I didn’t entirely agree, I was afraid that if he did leave the island the police would concoct a formal charge against Murray in order to bring him back. We couldn’t leave, no more than we could have unlocked a padlock without the key. There were days when I thought we’d never go home.

I close my eyes and remember the winter wind against my face. The summer wind. The warm green water of the Terranera sulfur baths. The smell of fishing nets drying in the sun in Porto Azzurro. The fresh schiacciata from the bakery in Poggio. The gift of goat cheese from our neighbor. The bundles of fresh thyme and rosemary and mint brought to us by Lidia’s niece. The red poppies in the meadows. Dust rising as we trudged along the path to the beach at Lacona. Riding on the back of Murray’s motorcycle at night after we’d finished off a bottle of wine at a restaurant in Capoliveri. Standing in a doorway, watching you boys fill a box with the toys you wanted to take back to America.

THE TRUTH, FRANCIS CAPE
would have said, is a sequence of names and dates arranged as verifiable facts. The truth is a fingerprint left behind by a thief or a document signed by a king. The truth is something you see with your own eyes and remember forever.

The truth, Francis knew, was that Adriana went to visit our father in Le Foci one autumn night in 1956. She hadn’t stayed long with him — just long enough to let him have his way with her. Wasn’t that so, Adriana? No! Oh yes it was! Francis had been able to tell at a glance that Adriana’s denial was a lie. By coincidence, he’d been out walking near our Le Foci villa that same night…except it hadn’t been a coincidence at all. He’d gone to La Chiatta first, but after learning that Adriana was out for the evening, he’d wandered over to Le Foci, though not necessarily with the expectation of finding Adriana there. Really, he hoped he wouldn’t find her there. No one was supposed to be at Le Foci. Hadn’t our family already moved to another residence? Then why was Murray Murdoch’s Lambretta parked in the drive? Francis Cape waited outside, waited for ten minutes, twenty, a lifetime, long enough for Murray and Adriana to enjoy their liaison, and when Adriana left the house and rushed toward the road, Francis hurried to meet her. Out of sight of the house, he’d grabbed her, said what he needed to say, kissed her, and slapped her when she tried to resist, and she’d fled.

Of course she’d fled. He was an old man and she a young woman in love with someone else. She wanted him to leave her alone. That’s what she’d told him. Leave me alone, Francis Cape! How could he leave her alone after he’d loved her for years? She was like a daughter to him. She’d grown up as he’d grown old. He wanted her to be his wife — was this such a terrible desire?

He disgusted her. He offended her. He’d been the reason she left Elba early the next morning. He was a very very very old man and if he was lucky he’d die in his sleep before the week had ended. But he didn’t die. Instead, he kept moving forward in time, away from the unalterable past. He hadn’t meant to do anything wrong. He was as innocent as any sinner. The devil made him do it. No, worse. You can always find a woman to blame. Remember, Francis, where Plato writes that the worst punishment for a sinful man is to be reborn as a woman? Blame women. Especially young women. Especially young women who make themselves available through the poise of courtesy and then will have nothing to do with you when you need them most.

He blamed himself for causing Adriana to go away, but he blamed Murray for cheating him of the girl’s affection. The American investor had taken advantage of Adriana. He deserved to be punished. Still, Francis was amazed by the plague of dreams. The Elbans were dreaming of Murray’s guilt. How did they know he was guilty? Where were their dreams coming from?

Francis had dreams, too. He dreamed that he was rich, capricious, charismatic, virile, and Adriana Nardi was his willing partner. He dreamed he was Napoleon, and Adriana was his mistress. He was the emperor of paradise, in no hurry to leave his island. The girl would do anything with him, to him, for him. She loved him. He loved her. Why should he go back to France and resume the war when life on Elba was so splendid?

Night after night, Francis Cape fell happily asleep. In his dreams he was youthful but not stupid, handsome but not arrogant, carefree, unburdened by ambition. He was the great Napoleon, and he needed nothing more than a girl in his bed and a flask of wine to share with her.

Then to wake each morning to the reality of his life: there were no frescoes on his crumbling plaster walls, no gold-braided uniforms in his closet, no canopy over his bed, no young girl tucked against him. From bliss to sodden consciousness. He was learning to hate his life. It didn’t help to blame Adriana in her absence, especially as time went on. It felt much better to blame the American investor. So he sought out our father and worked on him the way a doctor will work on a patient he loathes.

Soothing him —

“Rumors, that’s all! They have no hard evidence.”

Reassuring him —

“Stick it out, Murray. You’ll be absolved sooner or later.” Pondering —

“They won’t find any evidence against you if there’s no evidence to be found. Unless they make it up. And why would they do that?”

Suggesting to him —

“I’ll be the first to agree that this island is more beautiful than any other place on Earth. But is beauty worth such trouble? Don’t you think you’d have been better off if you’d stayed at home? Aren’t there other ways to get rich? I had hopes for you, Murray, I must say. Shall we open another bottle? Are you all right, Murray? You look a touch bleary. I’ve always found it helpful to imagine how it could be worse. In this case it would be something along the lines of a public accusation. Let yourself imagine it, Murray. You’ll feel better if you imagine it. But then remind yourself that you’re innocent. There can’t be actual evidence against you. You weren’t anywhere near the girl on the night she disappeared.”

“What difference would that make? I mean, if I were —” “Were what, Murray?”

“Were…I don’t know…if I’d seen her. Just seen her at a distance. Caught a glimpse of her that last night.”

“If you’d seen Adriana the night she disappeared? Now that’s a different matter. If you’d seen the girl that night, you’d have some explaining to do. Did you see her, Murray? Did you go to her house?”

“No!”

“So you didn’t see her. When was the last time you saw her?” “I don’t remember.”

“One of our dinners, perhaps?”

“Yes, dinner. Some dinner in October. The last time you brought her along to dinner — when was that?”

“Oh, I don’t recall exactly. A few weeks before she disappeared, to be sure. You didn’t see her afterward? You didn’t go to take another look at one of those old maps in the family’s collection? Tell me, Murray: what was it you were looking for? Buried treasure? Montecristo’s just down the road, you know. You Americans and your optimism. More? Later we’ll try the grappa, sì? Now tell me, how are the boys? They feeling better? Are you all in good health? That’s what counts, remember. Forget about suspicion. You and your family have your health. At my age, I know what it means to be healthy. I walk five miles a day. Every morning I walk out to the Rada lighthouse and watch the sky brighten with dawn. I haven’t had to call for a doctor since I came to the island. A decade of good health. This following a decade during which I gave up hope of surviving. That’s the way it was. Those grim days in London when we all thought the world was ending. And then to come here and sit for long hours listening to the little silver leaves of the olive trees crinkling in the breeze. It’s a glorious place, isn’t it? Not a place where you’d expect trouble. I’m told the island hasn’t had a murder since the nineteenth century. To be sure, there have been casualties of war. Our Allied friends came to Portoferraio in ’44 and blew apart a few stout vessels in the German fleet, I’m proud to say. And still I feel welcome here. If only I could press on with my book. First, though, I want to help you find a way out of this fix you’re in. Tell me what I can do for you, my friend. I’d like to help, you know. I’d like to find a way to convince the Elbans that you are innocent. If only Adriana would come back. Where do you think she’s gone off to? Why did she go away?”

Francis probed Murray, roused and reassured him. He offered more wine, grappa, gin. He kept Murray out late. As long as Francis was with Murray, Claire stayed away. She couldn’t stand Francis Cape. She didn’t trust him. But it was Francis who had come to warn them about the dreams, and for this reason alone Murray felt indebted to him. Besides, Francis knew the Elbans and could provide Murray with a daily report on their gossip.

Claire was scared. The fever had scared her. The darkness scared her. The soft, dry scirocco scared her when it puffed the curtains at night. She would have preferred Murray to stay at home in the evening and told him so, but he felt an increasing need to meet with Francis and hear what was being said about him. And in the midst of summer, they could enjoy a degree of anonymity. There were more tourists on Elba than ever before. Two new hotels had opened up in Portoferraio. Builders from Piombino came by boat each day to put up more concrete bungalows. With all the strangers on the island, Francis and Murray could sit together in a café in Porto Azzurro, and no one would recognize them.

Sometimes Murray would only half listen to what Francis was saying. Sometimes he wouldn’t listen at all. Instead, he’d look around at the group of German tourists and wonder what they’d been doing during the war. Francis Cape had been hiding in a basement in London. Murray had been playing football on Elba. What were you doing? Murray wanted to ask the Germans around him. You, sir. Where were you?

Only a little more than a decade had passed since the end of the war, and already the nations of western Europe had united in an economic partnership. If a world war could be forgotten after a decade, Murray’s involvement with Adriana Nardi could be forgotten after a year. She had been missing for nine months. When would her absence be explained?

What Murray feared most: Adriana had left his house that night back in November, walked to the cliffs above Cavo, and thrown herself off.

What Claire feared most: there was something crucial Murray hadn’t told her.

What Francis Cape feared most: Adriana would come home without warning.

“If you don’t know for certain why she went away, can you make an educated guess, Murray?”

“Francis, you’re a friend, yes? I can trust you, yes? What if I told you that I did see Adriana that night? What if I told you that? What would you do?”

“Why, I’d only wonder what else you had to say.”

“What if I told you that I was alone in our first house, you remember, that property of Lorenzo’s, the one near Le Foci.”

“Of course I remember.”

“The day we moved, I went back to Le Foci instead of to Marciana. I wasn’t thinking. I went home at the end of the day to an empty house. And I stayed there for a while. A long while. And Adriana came over.”

“Good lord, Murray. Why didn’t you admit this before?” “Francis…”

“I don’t understand why you’ve kept this to yourself. Unless there’s more to understand. Unless you’re hiding something, Murray.”

“I didn’t mean to…I don’t know.”

“You didn’t mean to what? You didn’t mean to hurt her?”

“No.”

“What did you do to her? Murray, answer me. What did you do to that girl? You —”

“I am.”

“You —”

“I…”

“You did!”

“No —”

“You did!”

“Wait! You’ve misunderstood me. I didn’t do anything! Damn you, Francis, come back!”

This was on a summer night, the warm air perfumed with roses. Francis left Murray sitting by himself under the pergola at the café, and he went home. He reviewed the conversation with Murray as he drove. He hadn’t intended their dialogue to go in that direction and would have attempted to redirect it if he’d seen what was coming. Murray had forced him into the position of accuser. It wasn’t Francis’s fault that Murray had confessed. Confessed to what? Murray was confused. It wasn’t Francis’s fault that Murray was confused. And you couldn’t blame Francis for the fact that Elbans across the island were dreaming about Adriana Nardi and Murray Murdoch. Francis hadn’t actively incited suspicion. He really hadn’t done much more than ask a few questions and offer to help.

What would be done to him? Murray asked himself. What had he done? Played with a girl’s affections, then jilted her. Mr. Murray Murdoch, are you there? Yes I am, though as far as you’re concerned, Adriana, no I’m not. Go away. She went away, threw herself off a cliff, and her body was sucked into greedy Neptune’s surf — all because of Murray.

Ridiculous!

Really?

It’s possible, isn’t it? It’s possible that Elbans believed the American signore was capable of murder. He, the father of four young boys. The Elbans were suspicious of him. Suspicion being the action of accusation held in suspense.

When you’re suspicious you need a distraction. A wife suspicious of her husband will renounce suspicion when neighbors begin to grow hostile. A community suspicious of a foreigner could use the distraction of some great national calamity. Short of a war, a drought would be of some use. A forest fire. A flood. Anything to draw attention away from Murray Murdoch.

They’d be coming after him soon. If they didn’t lynch him, they’d lock him in a cell and torture him until he admitted to a murder he hadn’t committed. How are confessions drawn from innocent people? With cattle prongs, electric wires, water drops, pliers, knives, bottles, hoods, forks, acid. The extravagant art of pain. But can anyone say for sure that the dead won’t return to take revenge?