Tourmaline (30 page)

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, Francis 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.

Ninanina’s marito started to —

Massimo Massimissimo, don’t even think about it!

Adriana Nardi walked proudly — too proudly, some people thought — between her mother and Lorenzo. What secrets did she have to tell? No one really believed that she’d lived and worked inside a royal palace. But the business about the child — there must be something to it, people whispered. She’d been gone from Elba for eleven months. Why eleven months? Why not six months? Eight months? Girls who birth bastards go away from home for eleven months. And then they come back, trying to pretend that nothing has happened.

Clippa clop clop.

There would be a repast at the Nardi villa. Everyone knew and admired Signora Nardi’s cook, Luisa. Luisa had been working in the kitchen for two days, preparing a feast to feed the mourners. There would be acquadelle and langostini, risotto and patate and a dozen different kinds of sweet cakes. Just the thought of it made Ninanina’s husband hungry. “Are you hungry too?” he asked the reverend.

A dead man inside a coffin. Francis Cape. Who was Francis Cape? A professor of history. A scholar of Napoleon. An Englishman who once told Lorenzo that leaving England at the age of sixty-three was like checking out of a hotel. An old man who never spoke about his family. A careful man who never locked his door. A nattily-dressed man who lived in a filthy room. A solitary man. A bachelor who smoked a pipe.

Clippa clop clop clop.
Who was Francis Cape? What do you care?

Massimo, you’d better get back into line or your wife will be — There she goes, hitting her marito on the head with her purse again.

A dead man inside a coffin. A wooden box to signify the security of death.

Hai finito?

Sì, sì.

When will it be my turn? Murray wondered.

When will it be my turn? Lorenzo wondered.

When will it be my turn? Reverend Fink wondered.

Clippa clop clippa clop.
“Ciao, Roberto!”

“Ciao, Massimo!”

Please, people. There is a dead man present.

Who?

His name was Francis Cape.

What did he do?

Not much.

Whom did he love?

He loved the island and its history. He loved Adriana Nardi, Claire knew.

And who loved Francis Cape?

His mother, presumably. His father.

Adriana certainly didn’t love him. Adriana was in love with a boy her age. Good for her. She would marry and have children, molti bambini to fill the Nardi villa. Good for her. And while she’s at it perhaps she could give the archival material to a museum for safekeeping. An antique cup that once belonged to Napoleon did not belong in a house full of children.

Ninanina’s husband pointed to the butcher’s shop. In the window was a pig’s head wearing sunglasses and a bright red visor. Bravo!

Massimo, stop it! Attenzione!

The mourners had never processed in a procession like this. Down toward the quay instead of to the cemetery at San Giovanni. For a Protestant, no less. Mother of God, spare us.

Who was Francis Cape? A man who felt obliged to explain to the fishermen of Marciana Marina that what the ancients thought were the voices of sirens were, in truth, the cries of the gabbiani echoing in the Cove of Barbarossa at twilight.

Clippa clop clop clop.

The procession slowed to a halt. They’d reached the quay, where there should have been a boat waiting to transport the coffin and the reverend to Livorno. There was no boat. Massimo, Lorenzo, Carlo, and a dozen other men gathered by the harbor master’s hut to argue about what should be done. Children approached the coffin. One girl took off a chrysanthemum and put it in her hair, but her older sister plucked the blossom free and returned it to the coffin. The mourners stood quietly, waiting for Reverend Fink to indicate the next course of action. The reverend looked at Signora Nardi for a suggestion. Signora Nardi blinked, startled at the awkward situation. People thought she looked vulnerable and gentle, and they were reminded of how much they had admired this woman over the years.

But it was time for the mourners to go on to La Chiatta. Motorcycles and bicycles suddenly appeared out of nowhere. A couple of taxis started their engines. The mourners bid Francis Cape a safe journey to his final destination and began to disperse — and then stopped, for they noticed, or were told to notice by their friends, Murray and Claire Murdoch, i signori Americani, approaching the coffin.

The Nardi women were standing nearby. Our parents had already let it be known that they would not continue up to La Chiatta for the meal. They had to get back to their children.

“Arrivederla,” said Claire softly. People watched as Signora Nardi and Claire exchanged a warm three-point kiss. They watched as Claire and Adriana kissed twice. Murray just stood there. Signora Nardi offered him her hand. He pressed it weakly. Adriana offered him her hand. He held it. People watched as Adriana and Signor Americano politely shook hands. They watched as Murray bent to whisper something in Adriana’s ear while Signora Nardi and Claire stood by, patient and expressionless. They watched Adriana give a slight nod, indicating plainly that she understood. They watched as Murray kissed her lightly on the cheek and then turned toward Francis’s coffin. He bowed his head, touched the wooden lid with his fingertips.

“Good-bye, my friend.”

A tear shed. A touch of sarcasm visible in that shadow of a smirk. Claire put her hand over Murray’s, held it against the wood as though she wanted him to feel a heartbeat.

Good-bye, Francis Cape.

Our parents took a taxi back to Marciana. The rest of the mourners made their way up to the Nardi villa. The Nardi women waited with the reverend and Lorenzo while the harbormaster found another boat willing to take the coffin as cargo. Reverend Fink himself had to help carry the coffin, unadorned by flowers now. It was a difficult effort with only four men, and at one point the reverend lost his grip and the back end of the box banged down on the pier, splintering the wood at the corner. The harbor-master came to help, and the coffin was loaded onto the boat.