The Corsican Woman

by Madge Swindells

  Chapter 10

  Just before the ceremony ended, Xavier slipped out to search for Maria, who was missing as usual. He found her huddled by the fountain, face grey as ash, her eyes haggard.

  For once his anger swept over her without any visible effect.

  ‘I heard the drums,’ she began in the strange, chanting voice she affected after her uncanny visions. ‘I saw them coming down from the maquis, as real as you stand here now, but in the distance. You were there…’

  Xavier stepped back and turned as white as death. Maria had never once been wrong, and he had learned to fear her second-sight.

  ‘No, not you. You were carrying the coffin on your shoulder as well as a gun. I saw you weeping, and her…’ She gestured toward the church. ‘I saw the bride. She’s lovely, isn’t she?’ She bit back a sob. ‘It was Michel, he’d — ’ She crumpled.

  With a bellow of rage, Xavier caught Maria by her shoulders and shook her violently. ‘Will you kill your own son, woman?’ he cried.

  ‘Not me,’ she whispered. ‘Them! It was horrible…’

  ‘You’re mad. Pull yourself together, Maria. I tell you this. If you breathe one word of this nonsense to anyone, you’ll be sorry. Now tidy yourself. Be quick. Our guests are coming.’

  By the time the wedding guests had slapped each other on the back and emerged from the church, Xavier was standing in the square to welcome them to his home.

  He flung open the doors with a flourish. The guests trooped down the wide stone passage into the front room and gasped with pleasure. The sight of so much food and wine arranged on the gleaming tables put everyone in a good mood.

  Then Vannina Susini fluttered dovelike across the square, and after strutting and cooing and pecking around the table, she puffed out her voluptuous bosom and began pounding out a waltz on Maria’s piano, as arranged. Everyone was far too busy eating and drinking to begin dancing. The plates were half-empty and Xavier half-drunk before he grabbed Sybilia and whirled her round the circular space cleared between the furniture.

  Xavier Rocca was an excellent dancer, but Sybilia’s fear had turned her legs to wood. Besides, she was hampered by her unaccustomed long skirt, so she stumbled and tripped and turned very red in the face, but Xavier kept smiling.

  Her thoughts were in turmoil, but uppermost was anger.

  I'm not real to him, not real at all. I'm just a thing. A possession, bartered to this monster and tossed to his horrible son like a toy or a doll. Yes, I'm a wooden doll, and that's just what I feel like.

  Doll-like, she handed around the plate of fritellis woodenly she shook hands with her new relatives, but all the while she hardly knew what she was doing, for she was still in a state of shock.

  ‘Take care of Maria Rocca. She’s a witch, a mazzeri.' Her youngest brother, Dominique, grabbed her by the shoulder and hissed in her ear. Then he gave a sly chuckle. ‘She can order your death whenever she wants. Just whenever you make her angry. That’s what the boys here swear. As for your husband…’He giggled at the hated word and ducked instinctively, but Sybilia was too shocked to box his ears. ‘He’s got his mother’s evil eye. He’s like her. Better make sure you please him, too, or we’ll have to walk all the way back to Taita again for your funeral.’

  The party was a nightmare: thick-set, sweating bodies were leaping into each other’s arms; the women were kicking off their shoes and fanning their faces; the room was odious with smoke and the smell of sweat, tobacco, and brandy. The jokes were coarse and embarrassing. The older men were eyeing her lecherously, and her mother, who had drunk too much wine, kept pulling her aside to whisper words of advice in her ear. Then her eldest brother rushed outside and vomited loudly into the bushes. Oh! The awful shame of it.

  Sybilia fled to the back garden. There was a bench set among some rocks beside a stream that was rushing noisily from the mountain. Shuddering, she noticed that the garden was an overgrown mess of weeds and wild herbs, yet it was pure and beautiful in a way. Sybilia felt like an intruder in her soiled wedding gown, with her sweaty hands and dirty feet, and her mind preoccupied with the fears of the shameful night ahead of her.

  As she hid there, two doves flew down to the grass beside the river. The male strutted around in circles, preening its tail. Suddenly the two were a shuddering, circling oneness. Sybilia watched intently, her stomach a fluttering echo of each movement they made. Quickly they parted and began pecking among the grass.

  Was that how it would be? It did not look so painful. Oh, if only she could think of something else, but she was obsessed with the stories she had heard and the scenes she had imagined.

  After a while a black-and-tan shaggy dog ran up to her and wagged its tail. Behind it strode Maria Rocca, lithe as any man. She was tall like a man, too, and when she stood staring down from the other side of the stream, Sybilia could not help trembling. The woman looked so intimidating with her curved nose and her hooded eyes. Her hair was still black, but her skin was horribly eroded, and Sybilia shuddered and wondered if she would grow as ugly in time. Is she really a witch? And if she is, did Papa know about it when he married me into this family? Did he care?

  ‘I understand what you’re going through,’ Maria said in a voice that was surprisingly soft and gentle. T shall try to help you. You can count on me as your friend — if you want to, that is. I saw you weeping, you see. I saw you as plainly as I see you here in front of me now. I could see that you cared for him, and I was grateful. ‘

  Whatever was she talking about? Sybilia did not know how to answer her. But obviously she meant well, and Sybilia tried out a timid smile.

  ‘In all the world you won’t find a kinder boy than my Michel,’ Maria went on. ‘I hope you will be good to him.’

  Just as good as he is to me, Sybilia thought, but she simply bowed her head and stared at her scuffed shoes.

  There was a sudden commotion as her cousins came rushing up the slope. ‘There you are,’ they shouted in a chorus. ‘We’ve been looking everywhere for you. You’ve been hiding.’ They giggled as they pulled her back toward the house.

  Her brothers had struggled to carry the wooden trunks containing her trousseau and her possessions up three flights of stairs, and now they were heaving up buckets of warm water. Flushed and guilty, they tried to bid her goodbye, but she would not look at them. She could not even reply because of a painful lump in her throat.

  There were her possessions: her hairbrushes, handkerchiefs, toilet water, and knick-knacks laid out on the dressing table with her toothbrush and ribbons as if to demonstrate the irrevocable and unbelievable truth — she was not going home.

  She wanted to die as her mother and her cousins pulled off the hateful gown and thrust her into a tub of scented water. Simultaneously giggling and weeping, they scrubbed her and dressed her in a frilly muslin nightdress. Then they fled. Her mother crumpled on the bed and buried her face in her hands. ‘Oh, Sybilia, my poor little child.’

  ‘Mother, please go,’ Sybilia whispered.

  ‘Sybilia, I’ve never talked to you about being a woman — or a wife,’ she added hastily. ‘I never liked to… and God knows I thought it would be years She broke off and sighed. ‘Never let him see you naked,’ she said, pulling out a handkerchief to wipe her eyes. ‘That way you lose respect, you see. Tonight, remember that it only hurts badly the first time,’ her mother prattled on. ‘With any luck, he’ll only do it once and then sleep until morning. I found that if you push hard, it doesn’t hurt so badly.’

  Sybilia longed to throw herself into her mother’s arms and beg to be taken home, but she was a married woman now, and it would be futile to beg. Instead, she hung on to her dignity, since it was all she had left, refusing to answer and keeping her eyes averted. At last her mother left.

  Chapter 11

  It was nine o’clock, and Sybilia was alone. She knelt at the window in prayer, but the words would not come, perhaps because she was so angry. Eventually she said the rosary, and the familiar touch of the beads was
some small comfort.

  Ten o’clock passed. Would he never arrive? Like a condemned man, she dreaded the coming ordeal but longed for it to be over and done with.

  At half-past ten the door of the bedroom was flung open and Michel staggered in. There was muffled laughter from his friends, whispered hints on what he should do, a strong whiff of brandy and then the door slammed shut behind him.

  Sybilia stared coldly and dispassionately at her husband. She noticed for the first time his large blue eyes and black hair, which kept falling over his eyes. She could feel the sensitivity of the man, the shyness and the hesitancy, that was so un-Corsican. It gave a certain delicacy to his bearing and a gracefulness to his appearance. He’s not a monster, she thought. No, he’s more like a poet, really. There’s no reason to be afraid of him, but he’s not a boy, either.

  No, Michel Rocca was a man of twenty-two, and he was staring at her with something close to despair in his eyes. Yes, she thought, remembering her brother’s warning. He did look a little like his mother with her strange, hooded eyes, but that was all. Admittedly his hair was black like his father’s. But for the rest, his face was entirely his own, with a short nose, a puckered forehead, and an intelligent, cynical expression which he was trying so hard to maintain. He’s more scared of me than I am of him, she thought.

  ‘Are you Michel?’ she whispered timidly, for this was the first time she had plucked up the courage to look at him.

  ‘Shit!’ he swore. ‘Are you simple-minded, or what?

  Welcome to the Rocca household. You’ll fit in well with my mother. She’s a maniac, or hadn’t you heard? You can go hunting souls with her in the maquis.’

  Sybilia’s chin jutted out defiantly. ‘You can be rude to me if you like, since you’re my husband and from what I’ve seen husbands are always rude to their wives, but I don’t think you should talk about your mother that way. She’s not mad, she’s just…’ She searched for an apt description. ‘She’s kind,’she said.

  Michel looked dumbfounded by her show of spirit. His cheeks flushed, but his eyes lingered for a moment over her face and her hair. Then he turned away and laughed. ‘Wait and see,’ he said. Sybilia could not think of anything else to say. She stared at her hands and turned her wedding ring round and round. It was so unfamiliar and intrusive, and it bothered her all the time. She listened to Michel walking across the floor toward their sitting room alcove.

  He paused in the doorway. ‘I pity you,’ he said softly. ‘A husband is all girls think about, or want, but you’ve got nothing. You’ve been cheated. I didn’t want to marry you. He made me. Now I feel sorry for you.’

  Sybilia flung herself face down on the bed and pulled the sheet over her head.

  Michel turned off the oil lamp. Then he kicked off his shoes. The springs of the settee squeaked rustily. Was he sitting down or lying, perhaps? Was he going to sleep there? She saw the flare of a match and the dull red glow of a cigarette, and soon the smell of pungent tobacco wafted into the bedroom. Am I supposed to sleep in this fog? I shall complain. But to whom? This was not home. After a while the cigarette was ground out, and Michel settled deeper into the couch.

  For Sybilia, this was the worst part of the night. Nothing happened! Yes, for sure this was the worst part. She felt wretched and unwanted. In the dark the slightest sounds took on fearful importance: the tick-tock of the clock on the mantelpiece, ticking away her life, and the wind whistling through the trees. How loudly the waterfall thundered in the night. Even the cries of the night birds in the mountains were unfamiliar. From time to time there came the sound of shouts and singing from houses around the square. The wedding guests were taking a long time to settle down. They would be tired tomorrow when they were faced with their journey home. But oh, if she could only go with them, she would not mind how tired she was.

  This was not how wedding nights were supposed to end. Of all the terrible stories her friends had whispered, surely this was the worst of them all. Loneliness and rejection set the seal on her nightmare, and for the first time she burst into tears. Curling into a ball, she buried her head under the blankets to muffle her sobs.

  Michel, who was not a cruel man, clapped his hands over his ears, but her dismal sobs went on and on. In spite of his determination to ignore her forever, it was all he could do to swallow. Women made him feel soiled and slightly nauseous. The knowledge that she was to live in his house and sleep in his bed was unendurable. You disgust me, he wanted to say with real loathing in his voice, but how could he hurt her so? She was, after all, an innocent victim in this tragedy.

  Why am I crying? What do I want? If only I knew. I'm lucky that he leaves me alone. Well, aren't I? If only it weren't so horribly dark. If only I weren't so completely alone.

  Tm so cold,’ she called out, and began sobbing again.

  Eventually Sybilia crept across the floor and tapped Michel on the shoulder. ‘I’m so cold,’ she said again, but as she stood there she began to feel burning hot with spasms of pain shooting through her stomach. She stared at him with frightened eyes. Then she reached down and touched his shoulder.

  ‘Please stop crying,’ he said. ‘It’s no use. You see that, don’t you? Nothing can be put right now, and there’s no one to comfort you. We’re trapped, but never mind. Life is a matter of endurance,’ he said when he had calmed her by holding her hand.

  ‘Endurance?’ she cried out bitterly. ‘What about happiness?’ What about love? What about all the things the priest said at the wedding?’ She bent over swiftly and tried to ease herself under the blanket next to her husband, but with a vicious push he shoved her back.

  ‘What a baby you are,’ he said, trying to ignore her gesture. ‘Happiness? In this house? I have never been happy, but I would be ashamed to make the noise you are making.’ After this there was silence, and he felt he had gained a brief respite, but shortly afterward she began again.

  (You’re my husband,’ she sobbed, sinking to her knees beside the couch.

  ‘Unfortunately, yes,’ he said.

  ‘So you didn’t want to marry me either?’

  ‘Don’t take it personally. I didn’t want to marry anyone.’

  ‘So why…? Was it for the land?’

  ‘Not only for the land, but because I wanted to go away -I wanted to study in Paris.’

  ‘Why? What would you study there that you can’t learn here?’

  He shrugged. ‘I’m an artist,’ he went on after a small hestitation. ‘One day I will be famous, but first I have to get to Paris — and study.’

  ‘So what stopped you?’ she asked.

  ‘Him!’

  ‘Your father? Are you so afraid of him?’ she asked softly.

  ‘Let’s not talk about it,’ he said. ‘Please go back to bed.’

  For a moment she hesitated, but when she fumbled for his hand she felt Michel quivering. Why? Disgust? Or was it desperation?

  In some strange way she wanted to be violated, longed to find out about the strange mystery of physical coupling between men and women. But Michel had no such desires, and the knowledge of this was like falling into a lake of ice-cold water. Feeling heavy with anguish, she tiptoed back to bed.

  Poor Michel, she thought when at last she could think rationally. They were both victims. With this thought came a strange sense of bonding, but the realization brought no comfort. Sinking into this strange family was like being sucked into a noxious bog. She would never escape, never… never… and neither would Michel, for all his fine talk.

  Chapter 12

  Sybilia awoke from a deep sleep to a light tap on the door. Such a lovely dream, she thought, stirring languidly. She had been feeding the birds in the school’s aviary with her favourite teacher, Sister Agnes, who had taught her English and German. Opening her eyes, she gazed at the unfamiliar ceiling of oak beams sloping to eaves. Embroidered muslin curtains shimmered in the breeze. Was it a dream? When she moved her head she saw Maria standing smiling in the doorway holding a jug of steaming c
offee on a tray.

  Maria’s smile faded when she saw her son, fully dressed, sleeping on the couch.

  Maria turned as if to block her husband’s view. ‘Let them sleep,’ she said urgently, but Xavier saw the boy and let out a bellow of rage.

  ‘God almighty! What do I have to do to turn this slinking cur of yours into a man?’ he growled. Thrusting Maria aside, he scowled at Sybilia until she felt less than human. Was she goods in a shop window, then? She sat up angrily, forgetting that her frilly muslin gown was almost sheer.

  Intuitively she had divined his thoughts. A blemished apple, Xavier was thinking. There must be something wrong with her, but as he deliberately scanned her body, he could see no faults. Above the sheets her breasts were full and thrusting forward, the nipples erect in their brown circles of flesh. Her shoulders were smooth and square, and from them her neck rose slender and exquisitely formed. Her eyes were wide with fear, but they were still lovely. She had clamped one hand over her mouth, and the other was clutching the sheet. She was like a chamois disturbed by the marksman one chilly mountain dawn, just as startled, just as tragic. The male huntsman’s instinct was aroused, he wanted to shoot his bullet straight into the quivering, seductive flesh.

  The thick muslin frills of her gown, crumbled now, hung around her neck like the garland of dying flowers he had once seen around a Hawaiian girl. The memory of that far-off night of bliss thrust his body into turmoil.

  Shit! If this girl could not provoke his son into some semblance of maleness, then there was no hope for him. The guilt and horror of his own lust heightened his anger.

  In a split second Xavier was across the room. He grasped his son by his tie, hauled him upright, and shook him.

  ‘No! Oh, God, no, you’re choking him,’ Maria called out.

  Sybilia watched dumbfounded as Xavier rained a dozen blows on Michel’s face and shoulders with his right fist, while his left hand held him upright. Michel looked terrible. His usual sardonic expression had changed to a look of resigned acceptance. For an insane moment Sybilia imagined that he was enjoying the battering.