William Styron: The Collected Novels: Lie Down in Darkness, Set This House on Fire, The Confessions of Nat Turner, and Sophie's Choice (136 page)

And now it was getting lighter, the peach and rose glow fading from the sky, and as he himself reached the fork and plunged to the right onto the path with its general disuse and its weedy outcropping of mustard and sow thistle and stunted daisies and crumbled litter underfoot of fallen rock and goat droppings and dust, he knew that Mason was sealed up, bottled, fleeing into a cul-desac not only unpeopled but decisively confined and bounded—a long slope with a fixed terminal at the summit’s edge where the one choice short of suicide must be to turn and give battle. And as Cass galloped on, the slope getting steeper now, he heard the breath again coming from his lungs in long, amazingly delicate sighs, like the sighs of a man in the embrace of love, and it occurred to him with brief surprise how soft and glowing and gentle was the morning, how serene were these heights and the blue and shining sea below, and how deeply curious was his own fury—so free of passion, of delirium—which could yet push him on toward slaughter with the urgency and certitude of something already destined, preordained, inscribed in time. Yet even as this flashed through his mind, he thought of Francesca, and a swift, infernal vision of her mutilated beauty rose up before his eyes; blood and horror streamed against the sky, gushed heavenward, vanished in a sucking vortex, and for the briefest particle of an instant all went black as his pace slackened, and he let out a single brutish and inhuman roar, his soul transfigured, one and the same with that of his remotest ancestor. Light broke again, instantly; he saw Mason, nearer now—near the summit—pounding up the cliffside. For a second the figure paused, winded, hands on his knees as he bent low, gulping for breath, then stood erect and in a precipitate burst of speed, hair bouncing crazily like a wig askew, ran forward a dozen yards, hurled himself off the path and began to scramble up the slanting face of the cliff. Cass reached the place where Mason had begun his ascent half a minute after the ascent began; hand on his hips, regaining wind, he stood looking up at the pink patch of buttock protruding from the shorts, tanned legs flailing at the rocky slope. It was a distinct advantage thus to pause and watch him; it allowed his own lungs to rest while Mason scrambled up a nonexistent short cut: no matter how he reached the summit, he was imprisoned there, with a drop on the other side of a quarter of a mile, straight down. He may as well have taken the path.

As Cass turned then and galloped on up the path, he removed his glasses in mid-stride, thought better of it, replaced them, cast a glance over his shoulder and saw that Mason, sending down an avalanche of rubble and dust, had nearly gained the promontory. And as he increased his pace once more the breath began to tear itself from his lungs in racking gasps; he stumbled again, righted himself, plunged on up past the abandoned villa with its sagging façade and blasted columns, the marble portico inscription in the morning shade sweeping backward across his vision like the hallucinated glimpse of some impenetrable alphabet—spero, spiro dum—vanishing, the smell of damp and fern and rotted stone enveloping him as now. near the summit, short-cutting too, he vaulted a low wall, hurtled forward without breaking stride across darkened spongy ground where an arena of tiny whitefaced mushrooms scattered and exploded like people beneath his feet. He gained the peak. Sunshine like a scream; below, the blue sea suddenly came up to meet his eyes, half-blinding him as he leaped up from the ground to the encircling wall and stood balanced there, looking for his victim. Trapped, hemmed in, Mason was fifty yards opposite in the bramble-choked field, head down as he sat propped against a withered, wind-bent olive tree, shuddering for breath. Unable to see his face, Cass could see his neck, which was the scarlet hue of blood itself, and he jumped down from the wall, prepared to hurl himself forward again and upon his prey when at this instant something in his lungs gave a harsh involuntary whooping noise, and fingers of pain encircling his heart caused him to sink to earth like a stricken deer, gasping, helpless, puking, and nearly blind.

For a long while he crouched in the weeds on his knees. His retching stopped. Sight came slowly back. Far off on the still sea a dark cruise ship plowed through the dawn, past a smaller, lighter craft moving south toward Sicily. From the black-hulled ship a plume of smoke went up in salute against the blue; Cass watched, blinked his eyes, heard the roar of the whistle, deep-throated, drowsy, sonorous, floating up faint but clear through light like a pearl. Presently he saw Mason lie down in the weeds, one leg up, one arm thrown over his eyes; Cass lay down too, on his side, drinking the air. The dark ship surged westward, high-prowed, majestic, silent, its slumbering voyagers oblivious of all, its running lights still aglow, but now, even as he watched, winking out one by one. At last he saw Mason draw himself half-erect. With guarded movements he too raised himself partly up, and now Mason seemed to be trying to say something to him, calling out across the field—but what was he saying, what were the words he was forming with his lips?
I
didn’t? I don’t? I’d die?
He seemed to be weeping. Again Mason tried to speak.
It wasn’t? It was?
Why didn’t he come out with it? Why did he mouth those words, as if imploring him to understand? Foolish Mason flopped back in the weeds once more, Cass flopped back, too, for one brief and final rest, and though he has no recollection of how long they lay there—perhaps five minutes, perhaps less, perhaps more—he does recall that a thirst such as he had never known before swelled in his throat, and that as he lay in his doze, half-conscious, with the noise of cool, delectable waters rushing through his brain, he was carried swift as memory back to the very light of his own beginning, and there in some slumberous southern noon heard his first baby-squall in the cradle, and knew it to be the sound of history itself, all error, dream, and madness.

But he rose, with a stone in his hand, and Mason rose with a knobby club, pale, to confront him, and at that instant, as if from nowhere, one single pigeon shot toward them, then veered aslant in fright with the faintest snapping of its wings. But even as Cass saw the pigeon skim away seaward he had charged, roaring, and he fell upon Mason, who fought savagely, furiously, for the few seconds allotted him. Cass would remember that moment’s bravery—the club and the ruthless solid blows it landed on his ribs: it gave to that brief meeting a thrill of unexpected triumph and honor. But as Mason’s arms boldly struck out, Cass brought the stone across between them in one roundhouse sweep of his shoulder, and Mason dropped like a bag of sand, murmuring, “Dollbaby.” “Dollbaby,” he whispered again, in a child’s voice, but it was the last word he said, for Cass was atop the prostrate form and he drove the stone again, and again, and still once more into the skull which made a curious popping noise and split open on one side like a coconut, extruding a grayish-white membrane slimy with blood.

Perhaps it was then that he drew back, understanding where he was, and what he had done. He does not recall. Perhaps it was only the “Dollbaby,” echoing belatedly in his mind, that caused him to halt and look down and sec that the pale dead face, which was so soft and boyish, and in death as in life so tormented, might be the face of almost anything, but was not the face of a killer.

Children!
he thought, standing erect over the twitching body.
Children! My Christ! All of us!

Then in his last grief and rage he wrestled Mason’s body to the parapet, and wearily heaved it up in his arms and kept it for a moment close to his breast. And then he hurled it into the void.

Except for the doctor and the priest (Luigi later told Cass this), Luigi himself was the first person that morning to hurry to Fran-cesca’s side. Sergeant Parrinello, who went off pompously to the valley path, “the scene of the crime,” sent him there… . She lay on a bed in the house of Ivella the pharmacist, just outside the town walls; the farmers who found her on the valley path had dared not take her any further. She had lost an enormous amount of blood—so much blood, in fact, that the doctor ventured no hope that even the transfusion he might give her would suffice for more than half a day of life. She was unconscious, her breathing slow and shallow. Yes, she might be questioned, Caltroni said, if and when she became aroused; no disturbance or exertion seemed likely to alter the course of her mortal injuries. The doctor and the priest departed (the rite of
Estrema Unzione
had already been administered); they set off in search of more blood, and said they would return. In crisis, Caltroni was performing nobly. The corporal sat by Francesca’s side. An hour passed. A terrific clamor arose outside, and Luigi bade the pharmacist to go out on the street and shut the people up. For a long while there was silence, and Luigi sat there as light flooded the clean white room, watching the dying girl. Once she moaned and her eyelids flickered, and a flush came to rouge the pallor of her cheeks. Then again she went pale, and sank back into her coma, barely breathing. A half-hour passed, and another hour. But, still later, at about nine o’clock, her eyes opened and she breathed a great sigh as she looked around her; then, trying to move one of her shattered arms, she cried out in pain, and the tears started from her eyes. Luigi bent forward and placed another cool damp rag against her brow, as the doctor had instructed. He moved his lips close to her ear then, and very softly said:
“Chi e stato?”
For a long while she was unable to reply. She bit her lip in pain, and for a moment he thought she was going to sink back into oblivion.
“Who,
Francesca?” he repeated softly. And the girl whispered, “Cass.”

He drew slowly back in his chair, with a sudden mingling of emotions. He was, as he recalled later, shocked but not surprised, if such a combination of feelings can really exist. Because already he was almost certain who had done it. He had not thought of Cass. And yet when she murmured his name he realized she could be speaking the truth.

Bending down over the dying girl, he recalled the walks which even Cass had not been able to hide. Walks hand in hand in the valley, an American and a poor peasant girl—they were not disguisable, any more than the trips in the Cadillac to Naples. Luigi spoke gently to Francesca.
“Chi?”
he said once more. “Tell me again. Who did this to you?” The girl tried to speak. It was not Cass, it must not be Cass, and yet again, it
could
be Cass. Take a borderline mental case (an American at that) and combine this with some unbearable oppression—and finally love—and
anything
might happen.
“Who,
Francesca?” Now she seemed unable to answer.

There was a rap on the door and the pharmacist’s distraught wife appeared at the threshold, to tell him that Parrinello was outside and wished to talk to him. He got up from Francesca’s side and went into the rose-fragrant garden, where the sergeant was waiting. It was after nine o’clock. Parrinello was beside himself, slapping a glove against his fat thigh, his face shiny with sweat.

“Has she spoken?” the sergeant asked. “Has she said anything?” His expression was solemn, but he seemed visibly to thrill with excitement.

“She has said nothing, Sergeant.”

“She must speak. She
must speak.”

Luigi sensed something. “What now, Sergeant?”

“Flagg. The American from the Palazzo d’Affitto. The man the girl worked for. He has been found
dead
at the bottom of the cliff below the Villa Cardassi. His head a bloody mess.”

Luigi felt the tips of his fingers go numb. “So it was—” For a moment he found it impossible to move his lips. “That is—”

“I’ve called Salerno. It is a clear case of
doppio delitto.
Captain Di Bartolo is on his way with a squad. Now you must—”

“Double
murder? But the girl is not dead.”

“Yes, I said double murder!” He paused with a shrewd glint in his eye, a look of discovery. A full page spread in
Il
Mattino.
And Luigi, as if in a dream, saw the fat sergeant waddling forward at some regional police parade, chest bloated and extended for the distinguished rosette. “The little wench had a lover. One of those cafe bums had been taking her into the weeds. A nice piece, too, and he didn’t want to let it go. Then this American she worked for began to fuck her, too. She got confused. She told her first boy friend, or he found out. He went really crazy. Flagg had to get her away from the palace to do it, away from his blond girl. So he took her up onto the valley path sometime last night. And he began to fuck her. But he hadn’t planned on a crazy lover. The boy friend tracked them there, and found them in the act. He took care of the girl and then went off after Flagg, and chased him up to the Villa. Then he threw him over the wall. You should see his head, it’s a bloody mess.”

For such, Luigi thought, for such I let myself become a policeman, to listen to a man who two meters from death can talk with a mouth like this. Bees hummed around them, amid the heavy sweet scent of roses. The impulse to punish, to obliterate the gross face was, for an instant, almost unbearable.

“You say she said nothing?” Parrinello said.

“Nothing, Sergeant.”

“Well, keep after her. If she says anything, let me know. I’ll be down at the station. One of those cafe bums. The fellow must be a big man—big and husky. If I could just get the name of the man who did it before Di Bartolo comes I’d be—” He paused, made a sullen grimace, as if understanding he’d revealed himself. “You’d better—”

But before he could deliver the order, Luigi had wheeled about, stalking away without a word as he entered the house again, crept quietly into the bedroom, and resumed his vigil at Francesca’s side. The girl, white as a bone, had sunk back into her profound repose, so still now that he thought for a moment she must be dead. But she clung if not to consciousness then at least to life, and he watched her, barely breathing himself. At around ten o’clock, the doctor returned, accompzinied by the woebegone gray-eyed priest whom Luigi had never seen before. Together they rigged a new jar of blood plasma on the metal hanger above the bed. The doctor—or maybe it was the priest—said that he was sending a nurse. The priest spoke another absolution, and again they were gone—to Amalfi this time, the doctor said—in quest of more blood. It was hot now, and Luigi took his jacket off, his bandolier and belt. Francesca seemed to sleep more peaceably, and faint color had returned to her cheeks, but still she breathed in her soft shallow breaths, and her eyes were closed as if in death, lids chalky white, and she uttered no sound. He kept looking down at the girl. He had never in his life given peasants much thought or consideration, neither despising them nor feeling for them pity, sympathy or anything, but accepting them only as one might accept the nagging presence of bad weather or an eternal headache or a pet dog so old and ugly that one no longer wished to give it food and water yet could not bear to destroy it or turn it away. His parents had been far from rich but not bitterly poor, and out of all that ordinary life from which he had grown in Salerno he had taken with him as little understanding or caring about pure, wicked, despairing poverty as he had the desire to become excessively rich. His schoolteacher father had wanted him to be a lawyer, but the war had come, shattering all; he had become instead a policeman, and life had reduced itself to a space of excruciating gray disappointment through which he drifted halfeducated, purposeless, feeling nothing, ready for any easy bribe, and paying lip-service to a political label of which he was, at heart, deeply ashamed. He tried to do his job well, but what was his job? What? He knew that in this country there was little chance of “becoming”; you were what you were, and that was that. Yet now as he looked down at Francesca he saw not the brutalized, defeated, life-corroded face which had existed like a wish in his mind since childhood but a face which was, even in dying, extraordinarily beautiful, and he felt anguish wrench at his heart. Though he had seen this girl before, he had never really looked at her. He realized with something of a shock that it was the first time he had ever looked
directly
into a peasant face.
Felice.
Happy. This is the word he had always heard about peasants. So poor. But really so happy. They have music. And love. Now, looking down at Francesca, he knew differently. No music at all, and very little love. She seemed to wake, and now to try to speak, and he bent forward, listening. She was beautiful. But only the shadow of a word passed across her lips. She sank back into sleep. He looked down at her, feeling sorrow to his depths. The knowledge of human distress, for the first time in years, washed in upon him like light. He thought of Cass and, in deep misery, wondered what demon had possessed him to attack this girl.