by Michel Bussi
The images passed again before Clotilde’s eyes.
The silence in the car, barely troubled by the few words uttered by her father or Nicolas. What she saw of the woman in front of her, a chignon, the back of a neck, an earring, a dress, a thigh. The rest, her mother’s face, her smile, she had invented over the years, she had added it all to the woman sitting in the car who could only have been her mother. That woman whose hand her father had taken just before the Fuego crashed on to the rocks.
Nicolas knew. Nicolas had seen, heard and understood the tragedy that was being played out.
But how could she have suspected it for a moment?
12 noon.
Lisabetta got up and walked towards the courtyard.
‘The ambulance will be punctual. Giovanni, the driver, is an old friend. He knows that Cassanu doesn’t like to be kept waiting.’
Clotilde couldn’t take her eyes off the portrait of Salomé. Lisabetta’s voice softened as she anxiously looked at the clock.
‘You have understood, my darling, it isn’t your mother’s grave that Speranza goes and waters every day in the mausoleum of the Idrissi family. It’s her daughter’s.’
Clotilde saw Speranza carrying her watering can in the graveyard, digging her secateurs into the marble of the mausoleum, scratching out the name of Palma Idrissi; heard once more the old witch’s insults.
She shouldn’t be here. Her name doesn’t belong here, engraved with the rest of the Idrissi family.
Behind her, Speranza spoke for the first time, her voice like an echo.
‘I didn’t hesitate, Clotilde. I didn’t hesitate for one second to bury my daughter under the name of another so that she could rest side by side with your father, in the Idrissi mausoleum. To claim that Salomé had died, that she had committed suicide after the accident, and bury an empty coffin in the Marcone cemetery. Because that was what she would have wanted. She had always dreamed of being a part of your family.’ Speranza stuck the knife she was holding in the loaf of bread on the table. ‘She only achieved her dream by losing her life. Leaving me with her child. Because …’ She was choked with emotion, and her eyes stabbed into Clotilde’s with the same ferocity as she had plunged the knife into the loaf. ‘Because your mother killed her!’
One minute past midday.
The ambulance slowly entered the courtyard and, for the two women, nothing else seemed to matter all of a sudden. They glanced around to check that everything in the kitchen was in place, hung their aprons on hooks and went outside.
Clotilde was left on her own, Speranza’s words still echoing in her ears.
Because your mother killed her …
Instinctively, she reached for the phone in her pocket. She had received a text. Franck, at last. Her husband had been trying to contact her.
*
We heard about the murder of Spinello.
We’re on our way back.
We’re nearly at the Euproctes, where are you?
See you very soon
Franck
The text had been sent almost three quarters of an hour ago. In the yard, Lisabetta held out her hand and a cane to Cassanu. Speranza had already come back inside, as if to check whether the food was cooked or anticipate a request from the patriarch.
Because your mother killed her.
Clotilde went and stood in front of her, blocking her passage, not caring whether the figatellu was burning on the stove.
‘You didn’t answer my question. You’ve told me your story, but neither you nor Mamy have given me an answer. Where is my mother? Where is she?’
‘She ran away, my little darling,’ Speranza croaked. ‘She cut Pacha’s throat and she ran away.’
57
23 August 2016
For the campers, passing through the gate in the fence surrounding the Euproctes, simply in order to go to the beach, had become more complicated than a Mexican in Tijuana trying to get into the United States. Two young, smiling but inflexible policemen made each camper open every beach bag, unroll every towel, and present ID; they also noted entry and exit times, and stopped just short of running metal detectors over the tanned and bikini-clad girls. What was the point, the ones in a hurry grumbled. They’d found the murder weapon, they’d banged up the guilty man, what else were they looking for? In the end, the only real question for the tourists, who had spent 1200 euros a week renting their bungalows, was who was going to clean the toilet blocks that day, since the keeper of the brooms was in prison in Calvi, and who was going to hire his replacement, since the boss was in the morgue in Ajaccio.
At the heart of this shipwreck, behind the reception desk, her face ravaged with tears, Anika Spinello was reassuring everyone, in every language in the world, explaining that yes, all the campers would be questioned, that no, the tents wouldn’t be searched, that yes, the campsite was still open, that nothing was going to change, that they could go on enjoying the sand and the sun, no, there would be no activities today, no diving, no pétanque, that no she hadn’t slept, that yes thank you, Marco, she would like a cigarette, a tissue, a whole box, no, she didn’t want to rest, or go to bed, take sleeping pills, yes she did want to stay there, like a captain at the wheel of a ghost ship, because this campsite was Cervone’s life, his work, his kingdom, and now that he was dead, she was the quartermaster, no, the Euproctes wouldn’t close, that would mean killing Cervone a second time, yes, my little one, that’s kind, I’m touched.
Valentine placed on the counter the bunch of wild thyme she had picked, and the condolence card she had written.
‘I liked your husband,’ she said. ‘Even though not everyone in my family shared that opinion. We came back as soon as we heard.’
Anika smiled.
‘Was your sailing trip good?’
‘Yeah …’
The answer wasn’t too convincing.
‘Isn’t your dad around?’
‘I don’t know.’
Anika didn’t have the strength to continue, she was lost in her thoughts, far away, years earlier, when she had given up windsurfing and washed up on these shores like a lost mermaid, only to be gathered up by Cervone.
‘You wanted to see me, Anika?’
The woman seemed already to have forgotten. She tried to concentrate.
‘Oh, yes, sorry. I had a message for you. You’re to go up to Arcanu. It’s urgent, your mum’s waiting for you there.’
~
Three police vans were parked outside the campsite, but just around the corner there was nobody about. The contrast was striking. As if the cicadas, the crickets, and the grasshoppers were ignoring all the excitement and just getting on with their lives. Valentine understood why it was so easy to get lost in the maquis: you only had to run a few metres into the scrubland and, hey presto, job done, nobody would ever come looking for you again. Not even a police dog, with all those scented flowers around to cover your trail.
Now she was climbing straight up towards Arcanu along the path. After the turning where the path crossed the road, she saw the parked car. At first she didn’t make the connection, even though she was intrigued by the vehicle, it seemed to bring back a vague memory. More of an image. Its shape, its colour. Perhaps it was like the vintage car that belonged to some television detective. She went on walking towards the road, wondering what her mother might want. ‘Urgent’, Anika Spinello had said. Valentine sighed. She’d had it with all these stories, Arcanu, her grandparents, her great-grandparents, her mother, ghosts, the dead …
That’s it!
Now she remembered. The car. She had seen it in old photographs, Maman sometimes got them out at home. A … Valentine got annoyed with herself, the name was on the tip of her tongue. What was that stupid red-and-black car called? It had a weird name, something slightly Latino …
She walked over. An old woman was sitting in the car on her own, in the passenger seat. Valentine had never seen her before, but when her eye came to rest on the figure, a shiver ran down her spine.
She tried to chase the impossible idea from her mind – this old woman looked just like her! For a moment, Valentine thought she was looking at herself in a mirror, a mirror that aged her; recognising herself, but in sixty years’ time.
Stupid.
Come on, keep on climbing. There were two hundred metres of slope to go before she could rest her bum under the Arcanu oak-tree. Yet she kept looking back at the red car and met the old woman’s eyes once more. They seemed to be imploring her, pleading with her, trying to express a message that her lips could not utter. There was no one else around them. Only the buzzing of the evening insects. The silence suddenly disturbed her.
‘Shit,’ Valentine whispered to reassure herself, ‘what was the name of that car? The one from the accident that Maman’s always going on about.’
‘A Fuego,’ said the voice behind her.
58
23 August 2016, midday
Cassanu Idrissi refused the hand that the woman extended to help him down from the ambulance, handed a 20-euro note to Giovanni the driver before he set off again, and rejected with still greater irritation the cane that was proffered.
‘It’s fine, Lisa, I’ve still got two legs.’
He climbed the step into the farm and observed the laid table, the cutlery, the plates, the glasses. Set for four.
It was only at that moment that he turned and noticed Clotilde.
‘We have a guest,’ Lisabetta said quietly.
Speranza had returned to the stove. Nothing seemed more important than the cooking of the meal. Had she already forgotten everything else? Saint Rose’s night, her daughter’s death, the last words that the old witch had spat at Clotilde?
She ran away, my little darling. She slit Pacha’s throat, and she ran away.
No!
Clotilde couldn’t bring herself to accept it. That her mother would have waited twenty-seven years, all alone in the middle of the maquis, only to make her escape on the very day when her daughter came looking for her, at the exact time when her daughter was climbing towards the refuge? After sending letters with an explicit invitation?
It didn’t add up.
‘A guest,’ Cassanu mused. ‘When the children were here, with all the friends and cousins passing through or staying, when family still meant something, I never knew this table to have less than ten people sitting around it.’
Lisa was twisting her fingers.
‘She … she got away …’
Cassanu gave her a strange look but didn’t say anything.
‘She ran away,’ Speranza repeated. ‘She killed Pacha and then she ran away. And … Orsu …’
‘Orsu is in jail,’ the old Corsican cut in, ‘I’m aware of that. Giovanni told me everything on the way here. The police say he murdered Cervone.’
He drained the glass of Clos Columbu, and placed his knife on the table between his plate and his napkin. Just as Cassanu was about to pull out his chair, giving the impression that this information had nothing to do with him, or that his orders had already been given, Clotilde grabbed her grandfather’s sleeve and erupted at him.
‘Orsu will be fine. I’m defending him. I’m his lawyer. Orsu is innocent!’
Cassanu set down his glass.
‘Innocent?’ he said with a hint of a smile that disappeared as he wiped the napkin over his lips.
That’s right, treat me like a little girl! Well, apologies to your poor heart, Papé, and apologies to your stove, Mamy, but I’m about to put my foot right in it!
‘Innocent,’ Clotilde repeated, raising her voice. ‘Orsu couldn’t hurt an ant. I know, and not just because he’s my brother.’ She paused to assess the effect of the bomb she had just dropped. ‘I know because he was the only one who loved my mother. He was the only one who helped her all these years.’
A petrifying bomb, Clotilde thought to herself. Six hands froze. Bodies mummified. Only the lentils, the thyme and the bay simmered away in the pot, abandoned by the witch who seemed turned to stone.
‘I want the truth, Papé, I beg you. Tell me what happened.’
Cassanu Idrissi hesitated for a long time. He looked over at Speranza, Lisabetta, the pot, the wine bottle, the bread, the four plates, the knife, then finally pushed his chair back.
‘Come on, then. Follow me.’
~
This time Cassanu was careful to bring his walking stick with him. They left the yard and headed towards a path lined with black elders that rose up behind the farm. Passing in front of the kitchen window, they heard the carillon of plates being washed. He turned towards his granddaughter.
‘Four plates … that’s only the beginning of the end. Those two mad old women will have to get used to eating on their own, I won’t be around for much longer. That’s how it is, it’s the fate of women, to look after men who leave, to accompany them, wait for them, visit them. Choose a house near a school when they are young, near a cemetery when they are old.’
Clotilde merely smiled. For a moment she thought of taking her grandfather’s hand, but Cassanu pointed at the path ahead of them.
‘Don’t worry, we’re not going to climb Capu di a Veta, even if Dr Pinheiro is a dunce. My legs will go on walking even after my heart has stopped. I’ll explain everything, Clotilde, and show you Corsica as we go, its history will help you understand ours. Come now, and tell me what those two old crazies have told you.’
They proceeded along the narrow path. Clotilde told him what she had just learned, about her father’s mistress and the secret child, what had happened on the evening of 23 August, Salomé taking her mother’s place, the accident, Lisabetta’s fears over the last words Palma had uttered.
Cassanu nodded.
‘Lisabetta never agreed with me. She had, let’s say, different ideas. But she never said anything. Lisa is a loyal wife. She respected our choice.’
‘The men’s choice?’
‘If you like, Clotilde. But Speranza was on our side too.’
‘What happened, Papé? What happened after the accident?’
The old Corsican’s cane struck the ground as if testing its solidity.
‘Everything happened very quickly that evening. We heard about the accident shortly after 9 p.m., it was Cesareu Garcia who called me, he was at the scene of the accident and described what he saw. The car in the Petra Coda ravine. The absence of any survivors apart from you. Otherwise, no one knew anything. Was it an accident? Murder? Revenge? I had a few enemies in those days.’ An enigmatic smile flitted across his face. ‘At the time I imagined all kinds of possibilities, but my first decision was to find your mother. She had fled Arcanu Farm, but the last words she had cried out under the tree still echoed in my head: “off you go with her, but don’t take the children in the car”. It was like a threat, as if she knew what was going to happen.’
Clotilde said nothing. She turned round and looked towards La Revellata several hundred metres below them. From that distance, the wooded peninsula, edged with tiny beaches, a few scattered villas and small white paths, could have been paradise. What an illusion. A peninsula is also a cul-de-sac.
Cassanu followed her gaze.
‘It wasn’t hard to guess where your mother would go. I sent two men, Miguel and Simeone, who caught her near the Revellata lighthouse, just above Natale Angeli’s home, just before she could reach her lover.’
The ghost, Clotilde thought, the ghost that Natale had seen that evening. The spectre that had haunted him all his life. The truth seemed so simple now. So obvious. Natale hadn’t been dreaming. It was Palma who had smiled at him on the hill by Punta Rossa, before Cassanu’s men caught up with her. It was Palma who had come to see him, probably to give herself to him that evening, or merely to weep in his arms. Who could know? No one, not even them.
They continued along a track that smelled of lavender. On their right, they passed a rock filled with bullet-holes. Cassanu had chosen his route carefully; Clotilde remembered tha
t this was called the Federate Rock, because Corsican resistance fighters had been executed there in September 1943, a few weeks before the liberation of the island. Cassanu merely ran his fingers along the bullet-holes as he continued his story.
‘Your mother went to join her lover. You understand, Clotilde, this shed a whole other light on the events leading up to the accident. In front of us all, in the Arcanu yard, in front of Salomé, your mother had played the victim, she had recited the soliloquy of the humiliated wife. For the entire holiday, she had been obsessed with Saint Rose’s day and her famous anniversary meal with your father at Casa di Stella, but it was nothing but theatre. Your mother desired only one thing: Natale Angeli! At the time, my darling, I almost listened to you. You had me convinced, up there, and I could easily have agreed to let him have a scrap of land for his dolphins. My poor dear, you too were nothing but a pawn. Those two were accomplices, even if I never had any proof as regards Angeli. Was he in on his mistress’s plan? Was he involved in my son’s murder? Could he have prevented it? If he was involved then yes, of course, I could have had him executed. I started threatening him, trying to extract a confession from him, to know for sure. Perhaps I frightened him too much. The coward went and married Aurélia, Cesareu’s daughter. Sergeant Garcia turned a blind eye to many things in this corner of the island, but he would never have ignored the murder of his son-in-law. Over time, I’m not going to tell you that I forgave Natale Angeli, oh no, but I did reach the conclusion that he had been manipulated as well. That the drunkard, behind that handsome face of his, didn’t have the balls to be a murderer. Or even an accomplice.’
Clotilde took her grandfather’s arm.
‘An accomplice in what?’
Cassanu didn’t reply but continued walking. With every metre they climbed, the path opened up to the east, on the boundary between the maquis and the villas of Calvi, flanked by their pools and their balconies overlooking the Mediterranean.
‘Forensic tests were done on the Fuego the very next day, and the official verdict was delivered: an accident. Case closed. Bodies delivered to the family. They could bury them and forget, and the authorities could breathe again. If it had been a murder, a settling of scores, there would have been a battle of the clans in the Balagne, no question, the Idrissis against the Pinellis, the Casasporanas, the Poggiolis. The official line – that the car had accidentally left the road, because of tiredness, speed, alcohol, fate – suited everyone. But Aldo Navarri, Calvi’s expert mechanic, is an old friend of mine. My father and his father liberated Corsica together. Even before talking to the police, he told me his conclusions: my son’s car had been sabotaged, the bolt on the steering mechanism had been unscrewed. For Aldo it wasn’t a theory, it was a certainty. The tie rod was intact, it hadn’t been twisted, proof that it had failed before the car came off the road, all of a sudden, and not after the impact. I asked him to keep his views quiet, to tell the police what everyone wanted to hear, that nothing untoward had taken place. Aldo had no qualms about giving the police a false report, he was called on as an expert witness less than three times a year, and he agreed with me that some family stories were none of their business.’