Marina and the cart road that led to our new house, and he returned to the villa in Le Foci.
It was a cool, clear autumn night. The light of a full moon filled the deserted rooms with a dim fluorescence; the fringes of curtains fluttered in the breeze. It took only a moment for Murray’s eyes to become accustomed to the dimness and another moment for him to realize his mistake and remember that his family had moved to a different residence. The first wave of panic passed, replaced by a puzzling serenity. He’d always preferred chaos to simplicity, noise to silence, society to solitude. But he felt inclined to linger in the empty house and enjoy the inventions of his imagination. To imagine, without much effort, life without a family or friends. The freedom of solitude.
Alone, without responsibility, in a villa filled with moonlight. He could consider what he might do if he could do as he pleased. He didn’t want to have to answer for his actions. He didn’t want to think about his reputation. For a good long hour he sat there not thinking about his reputation. All the jobs he’d quit since he’d come home from the war. His mother and uncles. The people of Elba. Adriana Nardi.
The truth was, he hadn’t seen the girl for weeks, ever since the early morning when he’d gone to La Chiatta. Sitting alone in Le Foci, he was trying not to think about her. He had no reason to think of her. She’d been busy, Francis Cape had said with a vagueness that had secretly annoyed Murray. But of course Murray had no right to know what she’d been doing. He didn’t really care about what she’d been doing. Most of the time, she couldn’t have been farther from his thoughts. And yet he experienced an odd sensation of unreality when he heard a noise and looked out the window to see the girl stepping from his mind onto the path beside the house, a mirage so vivid that he had to shake his head and look again. And she persisted, an apparition he’d conjured, making her way toward the front of the house, as real as the curtain he drew aside to watch her. He listened to the delicate crunching as she rolled her shoes over the pebbles, saw her wince when she turned an ankle, heard his own intake of breath, and knew exactly when she looked up to see him move back from the window.
He couldn’t will her away, nor did he want to. He just needed to compose himself. He was surprised at how boldly she knocked. People who knock like that always have a clear purpose.
Is anybody home? Buonasera…Oh, come in, you poor girl…. Without a coat, no less…. Murray, it’s Adriana at the door…. Put the water on for tea and fetch a blanket, will you?
She’d seen him at the window. And his Lambretta was parked in the drive. She knew — he knew she knew — that he was inside the house, just as she’d known that he’d come to see her at the break of dawn. Did she know he was alone? She knocked again and again. She kept knocking until he had no choice but to get up and answer the door, greeting the girl with a smile meant to convey calm, inviting her to come inside.
She hesitated, privately struggling to enact whatever scene she’d rehearsed in her mind. All at once he felt sorry for her; he understood why she was there. It’s not easy to find the words in any language, Signorina, when you know you shouldn’t say what you want to say. Come into the living room, Adriana, come and sit beside Murray on the sofa, talk, if you want, don’t talk if you can’t, let the two of you enjoy the sense of existing far away from everything that is familiar, let him hold you, Signorina, just this once, and feel you in his arms, the softness of your skin, the surprising strength of your limbs, this strange island creature making him feel at home in this distant place, bringing to mind the shadows of mountains in the mist, the color of the sea, the beach at Le Ghiaie, the brightness of the moon, the deep folds of a skirt, the tenderness of touch, her
It was a cool, clear autumn night. The light of a full moon filled the deserted rooms with a dim fluorescence; the fringes of curtains fluttered in the breeze. It took only a moment for Murray’s eyes to become accustomed to the dimness and another moment for him to realize his mistake and remember that his family had moved to a different residence. The first wave of panic passed, replaced by a puzzling serenity. He’d always preferred chaos to simplicity, noise to silence, society to solitude. But he felt inclined to linger in the empty house and enjoy the inventions of his imagination. To imagine, without much effort, life without a family or friends. The freedom of solitude.
Alone, without responsibility, in a villa filled with moonlight. He could consider what he might do if he could do as he pleased. He didn’t want to have to answer for his actions. He didn’t want to think about his reputation. For a good long hour he sat there not thinking about his reputation. All the jobs he’d quit since he’d come home from the war. His mother and uncles. The people of Elba. Adriana Nardi.
The truth was, he hadn’t seen the girl for weeks, ever since the early morning when he’d gone to La Chiatta. Sitting alone in Le Foci, he was trying not to think about her. He had no reason to think of her. She’d been busy, Francis Cape had said with a vagueness that had secretly annoyed Murray. But of course Murray had no right to know what she’d been doing. He didn’t really care about what she’d been doing. Most of the time, she couldn’t have been farther from his thoughts. And yet he experienced an odd sensation of unreality when he heard a noise and looked out the window to see the girl stepping from his mind onto the path beside the house, a mirage so vivid that he had to shake his head and look again. And she persisted, an apparition he’d conjured, making her way toward the front of the house, as real as the curtain he drew aside to watch her. He listened to the delicate crunching as she rolled her shoes over the pebbles, saw her wince when she turned an ankle, heard his own intake of breath, and knew exactly when she looked up to see him move back from the window.
He couldn’t will her away, nor did he want to. He just needed to compose himself. He was surprised at how boldly she knocked. People who knock like that always have a clear purpose.
Is anybody home? Buonasera…Oh, come in, you poor girl…. Without a coat, no less…. Murray, it’s Adriana at the door…. Put the water on for tea and fetch a blanket, will you?
She’d seen him at the window. And his Lambretta was parked in the drive. She knew — he knew she knew — that he was inside the house, just as she’d known that he’d come to see her at the break of dawn. Did she know he was alone? She knocked again and again. She kept knocking until he had no choice but to get up and answer the door, greeting the girl with a smile meant to convey calm, inviting her to come inside.
She hesitated, privately struggling to enact whatever scene she’d rehearsed in her mind. All at once he felt sorry for her; he understood why she was there. It’s not easy to find the words in any language, Signorina, when you know you shouldn’t say what you want to say. Come into the living room, Adriana, come and sit beside Murray on the sofa, talk, if you want, don’t talk if you can’t, let the two of you enjoy the sense of existing far away from everything that is familiar, let him hold you, Signorina, just this once, and feel you in his arms, the softness of your skin, the surprising strength of your limbs, this strange island creature making him feel at home in this distant place, bringing to mind the shadows of mountains in the mist, the color of the sea, the beach at Le Ghiaie, the brightness of the moon, the deep folds of a skirt, the tenderness of touch, her
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