by Joanna Scott
What more could she ask of him? She had so many questions—she didn’t know where to begin. She wanted to know more about his past, his family, his education, and, most of all, the nature of his magic. She wanted him to assure her that she shouldn’t doubt him.
She wandered back inside and found her mother going over accounts at her desk in the library. Adriana picked up a book and tried to read, but she was too restless. She took a seat on the piano bench and began to play with her right hand the opening measures of a simple march. It was the only portion of the piece she could remember, and rather than find the music and play the whole piece, she kept playing the same notes over again until she grew bored. As she played, she wondered what memories were passing through the soldier’s mind right then. How could she know what he was thinking?
She stopped playing and wandered downstairs to the kitchen, expecting to be waylaid there by Paolo. But the kitchen was deserted, so Adriana continued through the pantry and along the hall to Amdu’s room.
From behind the door, left slightly ajar, she heard the rasping sound of her soldier clearing his throat. Once he regained his voice, he began to hum. It took a few moments for Adriana to recognize that the melody he hummed was the march she’d just played, the same tune note for note, beat for beat, as though in echo. It was her song, and he was humming it—surely this counted for something. She peeked around the edge of the door and was pleased to see that instead of lying lazily in bed he was standing at the window. His shirt—one of the fine cotton relics that had once belonged to her grandfather—puffed around his slender body as he extended a handful of pine nuts and beckoned to the doves to come eat.
Here, then, was the opportunity for the soldier named Amdu to prove himself once and for all. If he was as pure and good as Adriana wanted to believe, the doves would eat from his hand. If there was reason to be suspicious, the birds would refuse him.
She waited quietly. The male bird perched on the edge of the sill, cocking its head anxiously. Its neck swelled, and it made a purring sound, almost in response to Amdu’s humming. It hopped closer to his cupped hand.
With the late-afternoon sun lighting the room, the marble floor shining, the world silent except for Amdu’s soft humming and the bird’s reply, it seemed to Adriana that she had accidentally entered a place where she didn’t belong, her own home made new and strangely beautiful. Even more than she wanted to know the result of Amdu’s effort, she found herself longing to stand there forever, outside of time. The sound of humming, the bird hopping forward centimeter by centimeter, the temptation of pine nuts, everything within the room in a perfect arrangement, everything as it should be, as if all of history were culminating in this quiet moment, the wars throughout the world were over, and spring would never end.
But she was wise enough to know even in the midst of it that the scene was too delicate to last. Although the pop of a jeep backfiring on the drive startled her, she wasn’t really surprised—unlike Amdu, who jumped into the air, bumping the bowl of pine nuts and spilling it onto the floor. The bird flapped away. Adriana rushed into the room. She had to be quick about it or whatever was about to happen would prevent her from receiving an adequate answer to the one question she wanted to ask.
“Why have you come here?” Pourquoi? Perché?
Voices rumbling in an indistinguishable language filled the courtyard. Doors opened and closed throughout the villa while fists pounded on wood. The war had returned to La Chiatta.
Looking baffled, Amdu said, “I was trying to feed the birds.”
Adriana had thought she needed proof that she could trust this foreign soldier. But she didn’t need proof to know that she wanted to be near him, to belong where he belonged, not to adore him in any familiar way, not to have actual contact with him—she was too independent, too haughty, too disdainful of common infatuation, and, despite her estimation of her own intelligence and her great maturity, too much of a child—but to exist within an approximate space, this would have been enough, to take up space near him, in sight of him, or at least within hearing distance, to watch him, to listen to him, to be close enough to assume that he was listening to her.
PEOPLE STEP BACK from the curb to let the ambulance pass. Taxis sidle into adjacent lanes. A bus slows to a standstill and then remains unmoving at the light. The ambulance edges around it, the siren echoed by a police car traveling uptown a block away.
To the medic calling in the details over the radio, Mrs. Rundel is just another nameless female who may or may not survive respiratory arrest. But she would be pleased to hear that he estimates her age at sixty. Though her blood pressure is falling and her pulse is weak and rapid, Mrs. Rundel is thought to be a mere sixty years old!
In the time it has taken for her to be strapped in and the ambulance to start on its way to the hospital, the strangers who collected around Mrs. Rundel on the train have dispersed. The financial adviser, who didn’t linger at the scene, is already entering his office building on Thirty-seventh Street. The woman who performed CPR is in the restroom in Penn Station, splashing water on her face. The lawyer and the software designer are shaking hands outside the east exit of Madison Square Garden. The student is in the coffee shop at the end of the lower-level corridor leading to the Long Island Railway. When asked what he wants, he shrugs, and the woman in line behind him calls out her own order. The man who was talking on his cell phone to an answering machine is standing in the waiting area, staring at the knuckles of his fists. Only the Polish woman has stayed behind on the platform to help the transit police with their report, describing to them in thorough detail all that she witnessed on the train regarding Mrs. Rundel’s collapse, though she’s unable to help the police with the important matter of identification and is unaware that Mrs. Rundel’s purse was stolen.
No one saw the thief making off with the purse, though because of the dominating fragrance of her Chanel perfume, many passengers noticed her when she boarded the train in Newark. She is a short woman, under five feet tall but raised a couple of inches by the heels of her pumps, in her late twenties, carrying a bulky lambskin shoulder bag and wearing a knee-length skirt and brown jacket—a drab but expensive suit suggesting that she is a young attorney or perhaps a novice associate in a consulting firm.
She’d been among the passengers standing at the end of the crowded car on the short stretch between Newark and Penn Station. She appeared confident and cheery, and whenever her eyes happened to meet the glance of another passenger, man or woman, she immediately smiled. She seemed eager—too eager—to start up a conversation, and yet when the man beside her asked her where she’d bought her handsome bag, she turned away without replying, the smile frozen on her face, her eyes containing a hint of fear but her poise indicating that she was contemptuous of anyone who dared even the mildest come-on.
As the train pulled into Penn Station, passengers began to wonder about the confusion at the other end of the car. Word spread that a woman was having a heart attack. But since the aisle was clogged with the people who immediately gathered around Mrs. Rundel, most of the other passengers realized they would only get in the way if they tried to help, and they began filing out the opposite door.
The woman in the brown suit, however, squeezed backward through the line of passengers and found a position between two seats where she could observe the action. Looking down at the woman bent over Mrs. Rundel, she saw the pronounced black roots at the dye mark in her hair. She observed that one of the men standing nearby was wearing a Rolex watch. Across the aisle, she noticed the red corner of a wallet peeking out of a purse that had been left open on the seat. She started to move in that direction. But then she felt her right shoe kick against a strap and with a glance saw another purse—a fatter, more promising purse—on the floor.
Squatting nimbly on legs thin and strong from years of ballet classes, the woman in the brown suit swooped down, lifted the purse, bunched it between her bag and her chest, and slipped away, following the other passengers out
of the train and onto the platform, joining the crowd funneling up the narrow staircase.
Now, locked in a stall in the lower-level women’s bathroom, she examines the contents of the purse item by item, depositing what she doesn’t want in the box for used sanitary napkins. She is disappointed to find only forty-three dollars in the wallet. But it is thrilling to run her forefinger along the embossed print of the credit card.
She stuffs the purse itself into her own bag and exits the stall. The sinks are in use, and while she waits her turn, she tries and fails to look at her reflection in the mirror over the shoulder of a woman who is vigorously washing her face. Staring at the back of the woman’s head, the thief notices with distaste the black roots. She is shocked to recognize the woman from the train who was trying to revive the woman who’d collapsed.
The thief leaves the restroom without washing her hands. While the ambulance carrying Mrs. Rundel is nudging through the intersection at Twenty-ninth Street, the woman in the brown suit is clacking in her pumps toward the subway and the line that will take her over to Bloomingdale’s on Lexington.
Later, Mrs. Rundel will share the disbelief of family and friends at the thought of a stranger who was desperate enough, or maybe just sufficiently coldhearted, to steal a purse from an old woman who’d passed out on a train. But she will also feel a sharp regret that she would never know the other individuals, the ones she’d ignored or chosen to avoid, who tried to save her life.
In fact, they did save her life. Although the aid they offered was not entirely appropriate for her condition, their intentions have left an impression. Even without full awareness, she continues to feel the effects of their fumbling attempts to revive her. They pushed and pounded and breathed for her. They did what they could to help—the memory of this is perceived by her body as a physical fact, like a surge of adrenaline prompted by astonishment. At a time when she needed help, they tried to help her. And though when she wakes she’ll have no memory of their efforts, somehow she understands that they’ve challenged her to help herself.
Bracing herself, Mrs. Rundel prepares to cough. In order to cough she needs to breathe on her own. She takes a deep breath. She doesn’t need or want to cough, but she coughs nonetheless. She breathes again. She coughs again. She keeps coughing. And though in the netherworld of nerve impulses and sensory signals she can’t yet tell whether the action will be productive, she is pleased to sense the determination.
Mrs. Rundel keeps coughing simply so she can keep hearing the sound. She coughs out the airway. The medic lifts off the oxygen mask. Taking her for a Latina, he begins speaking gently to the old woman in Spanish, explaining to her where she is.
Welcome
MONSIEUR LIEUTENANT—YOUR INFORMANT MUST BE MISTAKEN. There are no renegade soldiers hiding in my home. What would I want with a renegade soldier? How would I feed him? I hardly have enough food for my own household. We are nine altogether, counting the gardener and his family. Imagine adding a soldier to the group. Impossible! If it weren’t for the bounty of the sea outside our back gate, the residents of La Chiatta would be eating nothing but bread. Even bread is a luxury during a time of war. We’re lucky to have a sufficient provision of flour. And wine—it’s true that there is plenty of wine. When you live in the middle of a vineyard, there is always wine. And the early crop from the fruit trees. Sour peaches and plums, wine and bread. There was a wheel of pecorino as well, but it’s almost down to the rind. You can’t feed a renegade soldier with a cheese rind.
Anyway, why would a member of the liberating army want to hide from his comrades? The struggle has been successful, even if it hasn’t gone exactly according to the plan. Although the war isn’t over yet, the end is in sight. The Germans are on the defensive, their supply lines strangled. Their occupied territories are shrinking and their propaganda campaigns are faltering. The Allied forces are celebrating in Palermo, in Naples, in Rome, and in Portoferraio’s Piazza Repubblicà. Now it’s just a matter of following the effort to its inevitable conclusion. If you’re a soldier on the winning side, you’ll be going home soon. Surely the French Colonials understand this. Why would a soldier want to run away from a war when the war is almost over?
But really, Monsieur Lieutenant, what does a woman know about war? I may know a great deal about such diverse subjects as embroidery, geology, and the cultivation of vines. I can speak three languages with fluency. And I know something about the history of this island, as well. For instance, I can tell you that the emperor Napoleon once dined at La Chiatta. Apparently, he ate nothing but a small piece of beef and a bowl of boiled peas, and he brought his own claret to drink! But the wars in Europe and Asia—I don’t pretend to understand these wars, Monsieur Lieutenant. Or even how the island of Elba figures in the scheme. Why does anyone bother with this little bauble? It’s said that Elba was formed with the rest of the surrounding archipelago when Venus’s necklace broke and the jewels scattered in the sea. Will the victors gather up the jewels and string them together again? Is this what they intend? And then what? What do the Allied forces want with a pretty necklace?
Monsieur Lieutenant, you have come looking for one of your own. Go ahead, order your men to search the villa. I keep everything of value on shelves in full view. I have no need for secrets. Secrets leave a map of wrinkles upon a face. Please observe, if you will, how at ease I am, with my forehead as smooth as the inside of a seashell. Pardon my vanity, but I want to be sure that Monsieur Lieutenant believes me when I say that I have nothing to hide.
A soldier is missing. There is evidence that he has deliberately run away. Why has he run away? And what is the basis of the charge? Who advised Monsieur Lieutenant to come to La Chiatta in the first place? Does he know that he’s not the first officer to come to La Chiatta to gather up errant troops? It’s hardly worth commenting upon the fact that the Ninth French Colonial Division is not a model of military discipline.
There are so many stories circulating about the Allied forces, so many witnesses offering contradictory testimony that I’m not sure what to believe. Did the soldiers douse a wounded man in petrol and light him on fire? Did they murder the daughter of Sergio Canuti? Did they cook and eat a German prisoner on the beach at Le Ghiaie? The more lurid the story, the easier it is to concoct. But if some things are easily invented as fantasies, doesn’t it follow that they are easily enacted, especially during a time of war?
Monsieur Lieutenant has not come to La Chiatta to ponder unanswerable questions. He has come to verify the whereabouts of one of his men. Va bene. I will lead my guest myself through the villa that has been my family’s home for more than two hundred years. If you listen closely, you might hear ghosts whispering. The air is saturated with history. Think of it, Monsieur Lieutenant: Napoleon Bonaparte once stood where you are standing. Perhaps he thrust his pale hand inside his jacket and extolled the merits of his little kingdom of Elba while he privately calculated the details of his escape from exile. Perhaps he wiped his boots on a worsted mat just like the one on the floor of the front hall. Perhaps he sat in the high-backed chair at the head of the dining-room table. The chair, by the way, like the two oak cassoni against the wall, dates from the seventeenth century. And those puzzling fine-meshed trays once held the eggs of silkworms that the family used to raise. Entire bedrooms were filled with branches of tree heather and given over to the silkworms when they were ready to spin. Monsieur Lieutenant is welcome to visit the bedrooms. Or would he prefer to sit and sip Chartreuse from a Venetian glass?
Come then, Monsieur Lieutenant, and sit beside me. I will tell you about Napoleon. I will tell you about the Etruscans and the Turks and Barbarossa and Mussolini. You couldn’t have known that Mussolini earned the resentment of Elbans years ago for doing nothing to save all the jobs lost when the first ironworks closed. He visited the island on several occasions and he was warmly welcomed, it’s true. Elbans lined the streets and cheered. But cheers for a dictator don’t necessarily indicate the true feelings of the people. A
dictator’s subjects tend to keep their true feelings to themselves. Is this cowardice or self-defense? Sometimes it’s hard to tell the difference. Don’t think I’m unwilling to hold my countrymen accountable. But I have also learned that sympathy is a clarifying influence, especially during a time of war. You can see more clearly when you imagine seeing through someone else’s eyes. Also, it helps to read widely. Did you know that I was educated at the university in Pisa? I can recite poems by Manzoni, Carducci, Negri, and whole cantos out of Dante. I have read Austin and Eliot and Dickens in English. I have read Molière and Montaigne in French.
But isn’t all this beside the point? The subject at hand is a renegade soldier. What will Monsieur Lieutenant do with the soldier when he’s found? Will the soldier be punished? But why should he be punished if he merely ran away from slaughter that shouldn’t have occurred in the first place? It’s easy to imagine running away. Most of my dreams lately have involved running through the darkness from an enemy I haven’t been able to identify. In some dreams I am followed by the sound of boots thumping over paving stones. In other dreams a Frenchman commands me to halt.
There are Elbans who believe that dreams seep from the dead, from their tombs into the island’s soil, to grow in the vineyards and eventually to be crushed with the grapes and drunk by the living. They believe that the island contains a limited collection of dreams, with each dream available for borrowing, and that death comes when the dreams are due to be returned to the land. But it’s just as likely that dreams are blown in by the sirocco. Or else dreams are memories left behind by the future.
I have taken to dreaming that I am being hunted. How strange, then, to wake and find that I am only a bystander in this war. I have done nothing to provoke it. But neither have I helped to prevent it. Maybe this is why I am running away in my dreams—like a renegade soldier, I am running from my duty.