Tourmaline (26 page)

Taking whatever I could gain by force or art. The fullness of my presumption, some would say.

Napoleon had learned next to nothing from life. Francis Cape had learned enough to rise above life. Having spent the past year wrenched by emotions he shouldn’t have allowed himself to feel, and having reached the peak of these emotions this very morning, Francis Cape was left drained. And with emptiness came invulner-ability. He no longer could feel any kind of pain. He’d feel only what he wanted to feel. Pleasure. A serene anticipation. Pride.

It was amazingly easy to conjure happiness. He wanted to be happy; therefore he was happy. He was happy just sitting there. He was happy thinking about what he’d done with his life. He was happy knowing he needn’t be burdened with regrets.

Hurry up, let’s go, while Campbell is away!

Zanzanzanzanzan.
This mild irritation the only threat to his happiness. Just when everything’s right in the world, along comes a mosquito.
Zanzanzanzan.
Senza la zanzara, everything would be perfect. If only he’d remembered to put up the netting. He could close the shutters, at least. How did it get so late? Already dusk was dulling the evening light. Soon it would be time for supper, and Francis had forgotten to go out and get some bread. No matter. He had biscuits in the cupboard, along with spaghetti and sauce. That would do. He could even offer a portion to a visitor, if anyone came to see him. Why hadn’t the postman come? Was it a holiday? What saint was martyred on this day?

No matter. In truth, Francis didn’t really want a visitor. A single mosquito was bad enough.
Zanzanzan.
How irritating. How irritating? Hardly irritating at all. Francis was on the verge of being beyond rousing. Unlike Napoleon…yes,he was unlike Napoleon in every way. The king of Elba had never stopped wanting to possess whatever he desired; the professor of Portoferraio could desire with complete passivity.

Happy, happy Francis. He pictured in his mind twelve monks in Villeneuve L’Archeveque, dancing in the darkness around an olive tree, stopping only for a moment to watch the lawful king of Elba gallop by, alone, in the direction of Fontainebleau.

Nothing could shake his belief that he was yet in time…

The bells tolling vespers.
Huzza, huzza
for the fallen king. He wants his throne back. You can’t have it, Monsieur. He wants his pension. In contrast, Francis Cape, content with his one simple chair, wants for nothing.

What could I say? My stomach filled with tumor, my spirit melancholy, my strength rapidly declining. I was and always had been, it must be admitted, unequal to the effort life requires.

Not Francis, whose mildness was turning out to be its own reward. Nothing remaining of last year’s turmoil but a single mosquito buzzing around his head —
zanzanzanzan.
If he could only swat the bug and kill it, he’d be utterly free to enjoy his happiness.

Any intrusion unwanted, now and forever. Please do not disturb. After Murray had left, Francis had waited patiently all day long for someone to come see him. No one came. No matter. He no longer wanted company. He preferred to be alone. An old man sitting in a room above the dark streets of Portoferraio, wanting nothing more than to be left alone.
Zanzanzan. Knock knock. Zanzan. Knock knock.

Who’s there? Francis, you’re supposed to ask who’s out there. Or just go ahead and open the door.

Was there really someone knocking? If someone was knocking at this time of night, who could it be? It could only be Murray Murdoch —
zanzanzan
— the mosquito in Francis Cape’s life. Francis thought he’d gone away. But he’d come back. Why had he come back? To torment him some more. Signor Americano, like Napoleon, always wanting more than he would ever have. Francis Cape floating in heaven above them both.

Knock knock.
Answer the door, Francis.

What? And let that devil back into his home? No, thank you. Rattle of knuckles against wood. Buzz of a wicked zanzara. Demons clawing at the floorboards. Francis Cape was at peace with himself, unlike everyone else in the world. And in order to stay at peace, he must not open the door.

But someone is knocking, Francis.
Zanzanzan.

His favorite toy, they say, was a miniature brass cannon. And his favorite place to play was a seaside grotto about a mile from the Corsican village of Ajaccio, where he used to gather mussels and crack them open and eat them there on the spot.

Everyone else is burdened with conflicting emotions. Not Francis Cape. Everyone else is trying in some way to conquer the world. Not Francis Cape. You’d do him a great favor if you left him alone.

Knock knock.
Hello in there.
KNOCK KNOCK!
“Go away!”

What did he say? Did he say, go away? That’s exactly what he said. Go away. And you thought he was a gentleman.

“Francis, it’s me, Adriana.”

It must have been about half past eight by then. The sky, still overcast, couldn’t hold the glow of the setting sun. But as often happens late on a damp day, the smells were magnified, and up from the streets of Portoferraio drifted the aromas of fish: of trash cans filled with fish heads and fish scales, fish stock simmering over a low flame, fish fillets baking beneath a blanket of tomatoes. Fish, fish, fish. Though Francis had closed his shutters, he’d left his windows open, and now, though he hadn’t eaten fish all day, his room smelled like a pescheria. Everywhere, the smell of fish. In the streets. In his room. In the hall, where Adriana Nardi was standing, waiting to be let in.

Francis had told whoever was knocking at his door to go away. Having identified herself, Adriana waited for a different kind of reply. She listened for the rattling sounds of an old man trying to put his disorderly home in order while he called to her, Just one moment, I’ll be right there, vengo subito. She waited for the door to open wide. She being the kind of girl who, Francis knew, wouldn’t wait for long.

He wanted to match his actions to her expectations, he really did. He wanted to get up and throw open the door.
Zanzanzan.
And say, My God, I wasn’t expecting you. Why are you here? Why have you come to see me?

Giving her the chance to respond, I’ve come to apologize.

You, apologize? But it is I who should —

But I —

No, I —

Unless she greeted him with an expression so stony in its aspect that he felt the coldness of stone inside him.

Go away. That’s what he’d said. He wanted to take it back. But you can’t erase what has already been heard. Go away. Don’t go away, Adriana.
Zanzanzan.
He desperately wanted to open the door and greet her —
zanzanzan.
He wanted to push himself up out of the chair and was just at the point of mustering what was left of his strength, anticipating —
zanzanzan
— the shock of what he was about to see —
zanzanzan
— the awful, wonderful shock —
zanzan
— her skin the creamy color of a peeled chestnut, her black hair, her lips, her hands too thin, her fingers gangly, that tiny mole above her right eyebrow, the collar of her maroon blouse cut in a high V, no necklace, her torso always seeming to teeter slightly, her waist too high, her legs too long, her nose too sharp, her eyebrows too thick, her teeth too small, her smile never wide enough, her eyes always mischievous, always full of spirit, full of life, little rubies in her ears reflecting the lamplight from his room, blinding Francis, so at the instant prior to the encounter that would have been, he believed, too momentous to survive, he couldn’t —

Paolina? Maria? Josephine? Marie-Louise?

“Francis, it’s me, Adriana.” Did he even care? What did he care about? He cared about making others care about what he cared about, most importantly, a little man in a black cocked hat and Hessian boots who was said to enjoy picnics.

We can picture him resting under a lentisk tree. From a distance, he looks entirely approachable.

Why not, then, take advantage of the situation and confirm once and for all that Napoleon is indeed the author of the following sentence: “In the final analysis everything that is human has its limits.”

And why, sir, did you want your regiment of young scouts to ride horses that only had their front hooves shod?

A man who has a strictly logical mind is a man to admire. Still, it occurred to Francis that, taken as a whole, the character made no sense.

The sky was weighted with rain clouds. Bicycle wheels rattled over cobblestone. Doves cooed. Men argued in the street.

Hai detto che —

Cosa?

If in doubt, advance to meet the enemy. Keep a cool head. Receive impressions of what is happening and never fret or be amazed or intoxicated by good news or bad.

History, it could be said, is the story of logic colliding against itself.

All persons who have committed excesses, and stirred up rebellion, either by setting up any rallying signal for the crowd, or by exciting it against the French, or the government, must be brought before a military tribunal and instantly shot.

First there were the Ligurians. Then the Etruscans. Then the Romans, the Pisans, the Genoese, the Medici, the Spanish. Then at the Treaty of Amiens the island came under French rule.

There was a lot that could be said.

One might consider the impact of the Turkish threat. One might consider many things. Sitting in the Chiesa della Misericordia, one might consider whether the king of Elba would really want a mass said annually for his soul. The same man who, faithful to his oath, declared that he would descend from the throne and quit France.

He agreed to exile, don’t forget. He could have fought to the end. Instead he stepped down from his throne and left France without much of a fuss. Twice. But wherever he was, he always accepted visitors.

Which reminded Francis that he should have told Adriana to try the door. It wasn’t locked. It wasn’t ever locked.

Ricordate: He’d relinquished his title. He’d quit France and even offered to quit life, if such an action would have served the good of his subjects.

In another mood he might have begun,
C’era una volta un piccolo re.

He knew himself to be a good man. It was as simple as that. The kind of man who sat in the shade of a lentisk tree. And who wouldn’t even raise a hand to kill the mosquito buzzing around his head.
Zanzan.
The kind of man who wouldn’t swim in the sea because he was sure that the outgoing tide would pull him in exact proportion to the force of his will to return to shore, and he would get nowhere.

He’d declared that he was ready to descend from his throne — against his own best judgment. And quit France. Good riddance.
Zan.
They hooted as his carriage rolled away from Fontainebleau. They called him the great proud.

Go away, he’d said. The stupidest thing he’d ever said.
Zzzz.
Go away. What he’d meant to say was that he was ready to give up everything for the good of others and thus, with a few simple words, to secure his place in heaven.

He didn’t bother to get out of his chair because he was sure that gravity would push him down in exact proportion to the force of his will to rise to his feet. Instead, he felt like closing his eyes for a while. At the same hour when our father was helping the barista in La Pila finish a bottle of wine, Francis Cape closed his eyes. Leaving Adriana to return home in a rage because bruttissimo Francis Cape had refused, if you can believe it, even to open the door!

NAPOLEON BONAPARTE, KING OF
Elba. Francis Cape, scholar of Napoleon. Malcolm Murdoch, Signor Americano. Is it my turn again, Ollie? You say you want to know what I believe really happened on Elba. I was a young mother then. I am an old woman now. Have forty-five years passed? This is the part of the story I find most difficult to believe. The simple fact of passing time. Someone we love is here in time and then not. Not. Your father, my husband. Was that him peeling potatoes at a bar in La Pila? Was that him walking along a deserted road in a drizzle on an autumn night in 1957?

You know, instead of fretting about the mysteries of death, we should try to understand what we lose by staying alive. We lose someone we love, and we lose with him a good chunk of experience. We need the mingling of minds in order to know what is real. A story becomes true with recognition. The joy of recognition. The surprise of it. Someone else to recognize what you remember.

I want my husband to remember with me that first morning in Florence when we were woken at seven by the bells. The murky darkness of the shuttered hotel room. Our bodies sharing the damp heat of that warm morning in the summer of 1956. One of us to recognize what the other recollects. If he didn’t remember the bells, he’d remember the heat. He’d remember the feather mattresses in our Le Foci house. Stopping to watch an old man in a doorway weave a basket. Drinking the new olive oil by the spoonful. Lines of sunlight falling across the papers on the desk when the windows were closed and the shutters opened. I remember. Murray would recognize these memories, even if he didn’t share the details of them.

The memories that you children share. The memories I share with you and you with me. All the memories I’ve lost because Murray isn’t here to remind me. All that we’ll never know for sure.

Dear Ollie, you say you want to know what I believe. What I remember. What I know for a fact.

Fact: we embarked in July of 1956 for Genoa.

Fact: we accumulated a debt of over 10,000 dollars during our fifteen months on Elba.

Fact: Francis Cape is buried in Livorno.

Fact: your father spent two nights, not three, at the bar in La Pila. Fact: for four days I did not contact the police to report your father missing. I was afraid his absence would be interpreted as evidence of terrible guilt, so I did not contact anyone. I waited. I thought I’d learned how to wait from Signora Nardi’s example.

Fact: Adriana Nardi came home the day before your father left us, as I told you. But I didn’t tell you that when she went to see Francis Cape, she was not alone. Her mother was with her. Signora Nardi intended to surprise Francis when he opened the door.