What could possibly happen in the space of a few hours, you might ask, what could go so badly wrong as to end in murder?
It’s hard to say. Can anyone pinpoint that precise moment when love turns to hate? Everything ends, I know that. Especially happiness. Especially love.
Forgive me, I’ve become such a cynic. I used to be so idealistic when young—romantic, even. I used to believe that love lasted forever. Now, I don’t. Now, I know only this for sure—the first half of life is pure selfishness; the second half, all grief.
Indulge me for a moment, if you will—let me linger there and enjoy this last happy memory.
We ate dinner outside under the stars. We sat beneath the pergola, lit by candlelight and surrounded by sweet-smelling climbing jasmine.
We began with the salty sea urchins, freshly prepared by Agathi. Eaten raw with a sharp squeeze of lemon, they’ve never been to my taste—but if you close your eyes and swallow fast, you can pretend they’re oysters. Then the grilled sea bream, and sliced steak, various salads and garlic-tossed vegetables—and the pièce de résistance: Agathi’s deep-fried potatoes.
Kate didn’t have much of an appetite—so I ate for two, piling my plate high. I eulogized Agathi’s cooking; careful to tactfully praise Lana’s efforts also. But her healthy salads couldn’t compare to those decadent potatoes, grown in the red earth of Aura itself, golden and oozing oil. It was a perfect meal, that last supper.
Afterward, we sat by the firepit. I chatted to Lana, while Leo played a game of backgammon with Jason.
Then Kate suddenly demanded Agathi’s crystal. She went into the house to fetch it.
I must tell you about the crystal. It held near-mythical status within the family. A crude fortune-telling device, it had belonged to Agathi’s grandmother and supposedly had magical qualities.
It was a pendant—an opaque white crystal, in the shape of a small cone, like a baby pine cone, attached to a silver chain. You held the chain in your right hand, dangling the crystal over the open palm of your left hand. You asked a question—phrasing it so it could be answered with a yes or a no.
The crystal would swing in response. If it moved like a pendulum, in a straight line, the answer was no. If it swung in a circle, the answer was yes. Absurd in its simplicity—but with an unnerving tendency to give accurate results. People would consult it about their plans and intentions—Should I accept this job? Should I move to New York? Should I marry this man? The majority would unfailingly report back—months, sometimes years, later—that the crystal had been right in its prediction.
Kate passionately believed in the magic of the crystal, in that na?ve way she sometimes had, with a childlike faith. She was convinced it was the genuine article—a Greek oracle.
We all took turns on it that night—asking it our secret questions—apart from Jason, who wasn’t interested. He didn’t stay long. He lost his temper when Leo beat him at backgammon—and stormed into the house, in a sulk.
Once the four of us were alone, the atmosphere became more convivial. I rolled a joint. Lana never smoked weed, but tonight she broke a cardinal rule and had a drag; so did Kate.
Leo took out his guitar and played something he had written. A duet, for Lana and him. It was a pretty song; mother and son had sweet voices that complemented each other. But Lana was stoned, and she kept forgetting the words. Then she got the giggles, which Kate and I found hilarious—much to Leo’s irritation.
How annoying we must have been to him, this earnest seventeen-year-old boy; these silly, stoned adults behaving like teenagers. We couldn’t stop laughing, the three of us, clinging to one another, rocking back and forth with laughter.
I’m glad I have that memory. The three of us, laughing. I’m glad it’s untainted.
It’s hard to believe, in twenty-four hours, one of us would be dead.
12
Before I tell you about the murder, I have a question for you.
Which comes first—character or fate?
This is the central question in any tragedy. What takes precedence—free will or destiny? Were the terrible events of the next day inevitable, ordained by some malevolent god? Were we doomed—or was there hope of escape?
This question has haunted me over the years. Character or fate? What do you think? I’ll tell you what I think. Having deliberated long and hard, I believe that they are one and the same thing.
But don’t take my word for it. The Greek philosopher Heracleitus said:
“Character is fate.”
And if Heracleitus is right, then the tragedy that awaited us in a few hours was a direct consequence of our characters—of who we were. Correct? So, if who you are determines what happens to you, then the real question becomes: