Suddenly Father Andrews realized how lonely and homesick he was. He had a sudden vision of his mother and of his home in Killala, on the west coast of Eire. Memories crammed into his mind in rapid succession, but over and again came a vivid recollection of the day he had been ordained — of how his best friend, Sean, had come to him with tears in his eyes and called him Father Andrews. Then his motheir, too, had looked at him shyly and called him 'Father’. That was the day real loneliness began. No, not loneliness, he corrected himself. He had his faith, which was always with him. Aloneness might describe it better.
Suddenly he was jolted by the sound of footsteps. It was Xavier returning from the cafe. He saw him lurch toward his house, walk inside, stand there in the hallway for a long time staring up the stairs and then gazing at his son, sprawled on the couch. Abruptly, he walked out, slamming the door behind him, and set off down the mountain trail. No doubt he intended to visit the widow Lucette, who lived alone on the outskirts of town. He knew because Maria had revealed the affair to him in her confession, when she had poured out her jealousy and despair at her encroaching age.
At that moment his responsibility as their parish priest seemed almost more than he could shoulder. He felt inadequate to cope. A wave of panic washed through him, and he prayed for the swift recovery of Father Delon. But since his stroke the old priest had showed no sign of change, either for the better or worse.
Chapter 15
Remembering her promise to Father Andrews, Sybilia was dressed and ready to go downstairs by dawn next morning, but she could not find the courage to take the first steps.
How can I? I'm a stranger here. No one wants me. What good am I to anyone in the family? Even my husband hasn't spoken to me since our wedding. It was all a trick to get Papa's land. And now they plan to starve me to death.
The truth was, no breakfast had arrived that morning. Usually Maria carried up her food each day, and at times Sybilia felt a little guilty about causing her mother-in-law so much trouble, but in her present state of resentfulness she was simply not prepared to meet anyone halfway. Instead she wallowed in her misery. She felt sure that by now the whole family regretted the marriage.
By noon she was still sitting at the window, her head in her hands, when she heard a brief knock on the door.
It was Michel. What a strange, intent person he was, she thought, watching him anxiously. Because he was not slouching today, she noticed that he was quite tall, but too thin. His hair was falling over his forehead, while his shrewd blue eyes were gazing suspiciously around the room. She caught a glimpse of his resentment at having a stranger pushed into his life… and his bedroom.
‘I haven’t spoiled anything,’ she said softly.
His face became a trifle colder, if that was possible. ‘Would you care to come down, madame?’ he said, fixing his eyes on the wall above her head to avoid looking at her.
‘Yes,’ she snapped. ‘I was just coming anyway.’
Michel turned abruptly and clattered down the stairs.
Sybilia glanced nervously in the mirror and smoothed her hair. ‘Please, wait for me, Michel,’ she called, but he pretended that he had not heard her.
A few minutes later she walked hesitantly into the kitchen, but there was no one there. Obviously they were expecting guests, for there were dishes of food laid out on the long oak table, and a large pot of stew was boiling on the coal stove. It was a pleasant kitchen, far larger than the one at home. She had not been in here on her wedding day, but now she had time to notice how scrupulously clean it was and to admire the copper pots and dishes on the oak dressers.
Sprawled on the rug by the back door was the dog, part collie, part labrador, and goodness knows what else, she thought. He was sizing her up. When he made up his mind, he wagged his tail and ambled toward her.
Feeling grateful for any form of recognition, she stroked the dog until she heard footsteps behind her. It was Madame Rocca, and she was blinking nervously.
‘We’ve been longing to see you,’ she began awkwardly, ‘but we didn’t want to intrude on you.’ She had a strange, halting manner of speech as if she had difficulty finding the right words. ‘You’ve been sitting up there overlong. How thin you’ve become, child. People will think we’re starving you. Well, you see we don’t normally eat breakfast on a Sunday because we have a big meal at noon. Today we’re expecting Xavier’s brothers and their families, and they’re late.’
She paused as if tongue-tied and then went on with a gush of words. ‘It’s a fine day today. I thought it would rain, but the sun’s come outr Really hot. I remember another Sunday, just so warm, but when was it, now…’
There was a sudden roar from the next room. Xavier’s voice! ‘Stop babbling, woman, and bring her here.’
Sybilia followed her mother-in-law into the sitting room and flushed hotly. Xavier Rocca was sitting at the end of the table in his shirtsleeves and braces, a carafe of wine at his elbow and a half-empty glass in front of him. Michel was sitting beside him. Xavier had been reading the paper, but now he folded it and pushed it away politely. ‘Well, come and sit down,’ he said. ‘We’ll have some wine to celebrate your emergence. It’s a little overdue, but never mind.’
He pushed out a chair for her, poured the red wine into her glass and Michel’ filled his own, and held it up to her. ‘You’re very welcome here,’ he said, ‘and the sooner you get to feel at home, the happier we’ll all be.’
Sybilia had been prepared for almost anything — except kindness. As her eyes began to water she bent her head over to sip her wine. It was too sweet, and it tasted like medicine. Two big tears rolled down each cheek, and she hoped no one noticed as she brushed her hand against her face.
Xavier had noticed, but he decided to pretend that he had not. His oaf of a son was doing very little to help her, so he picked up the newspaper and began to read the news to the family.
Sybilia remained silently staring at her glass, hoping that no one would speak to her again, but after a while she became aware of Michel’s intent appraisal. He was not looking at her directly, but she sensed that all his attention was targeted on her. When she moved her hands, his eyes flickered. If she sipped the wine, he shot a swift glance of disapproval. If she looked away, she could feel his glance on her. When she turned her head, he was suddenly studying his hands or the table. After a while he leaned back and made a show of lighting his pipe and discussing the war news with his father. He was showing off.
Later, when the dog ambled in and laid his heavy head on her knees, Sybilia noticed how jealous Michel became. Evidently it was his dog. ‘Gus,’ he called angrily. The dog shifted over obediently.
What strange hands, she noticed. They seemed to be the strongest part of him. His fingers were long and blunt and callused. Was that from farm work? She had not seen him on the terraces, although she had looked often enough. She watched him stroking the dog with long, sensuous movements. Eventually she stretched out timidly and fondled the dog’s ear. Surely he would remove his hands in another fit of pique, but he did not. A strange warm glow seemed to be flowing from his hand into hers, although their fingers never touched. A tingling feeling burned in her stomach and moved to every extremity, until she was gooseflesh all over.
Xavier looked up and noticed the two of them so intent on stroking the dog. He grinned and filled their glasses. Could it be possible that he’s not queer after all? he wondered hopefully. Glory be! His eyes scanned Sybilia slyly. Without doubt she was the loveliest woman he had ever set eyes on, and he’d seen the best. Fucked the best, too, and all over the world, but you can’t beat Corsican women, he thought smugly.
Unaware of his scrutiny, but feeling warmed by the wine, Sybilia leaned back, her mouth slightly open, her eyes fixed unseeingly on the wall. What a strange morning it was. Sitting there, confused and sleepy, with one hand on the dog and the other on her lap, and listening to Xavier’s voice drone on and on, Sybilia had the strangest sensation that her soul was merging into the
Roccas. It was as if their bodies were only a part of them, the part you could see, but the essence of them flowed into the room in waves, and she was merging and joining, flowing head first, like a small stream into a river.
She pushed back her chair in an abrupt gesture as Madame Rocca hurried in with a plate of olives and bread and cheese. ‘You’d best eat something, since you’re drinking on empty stomachs,’ she grumbled. ‘The family’s late, as usual.’
‘I must help you,’ Sybilia mumbled.
‘No, no,’ Xavier said in his deep, gruff voice. ‘Stay here beside me. Today you are our guest. Don’t worry about a thing, just enjoy yourself.’
Suddenly the spell of warmth was quite lost. Michel scowled and withdrew his hand, and the dog walked back to the kitchen.
It’s all very well for Monsieur Rocca to say that, she thought critically, but it was Madame Rocca who was doing all the work. Mama, she thought desperately. I really must start to think of her as Mama, or I’ll never say the word. She looked around guiltily, but Madame Rocca nodded her approval and pushed a plate of olives toward her. ‘Eat,’ she said. ‘Eat! Put on some weight, for goodness sake. You’re as white as a spook. You’ll be frightening the life out of Michel one of these nights.’
‘She does that already,’ Xavier said, and laughed heartily at his own joke.
Michel flushed and grabbed his pipe again, while Maria frowned at her husband and then hurried back to the kitchen. That was my fault, Maria told herself. Why am I so foolish as to give him openings like that? The boy will never be a man while Xavier’s sitting on him. Something stirred in her mind, some sadness connected with the boy. A sense of time closing in on her. She stirred the simmering pot of mutton stew, thick with vegetables and barley, and tried to remember what it was that was making her sad; but she could not. She had forgotten her vision on the day of the wedding, as she often did, but she was left with a sense of foreboding that she could never quite define.
The lunch was ready, but first they would eat smoked ham and sausage, with tomatoes and raw onions swimming in the unrefined olive oil she made each year from their own olives. If only the family would come. Anxiously Maria checked the homemade cheeses of ewes’ milk, nuts, and small sweet melons that grew so well on the eastern terraces and which she had laid out on a large dish with slices of homemade bread.
It was past one when her brother-in-law, Pierre Bonnelli, arrived with his wife, Carlotta, who was Xavier’s sister, and their three sons and daughter. Maria heard them greeting Xavier and her husband’s booming response and then Carlotta’s heavy footsteps approaching along the stone passage.
Carlotta was a well-built, compact woman of unusual strength. Surprisingly she had not run to fat, for her bulk was muscular and shapely. Her skin was olive, more like the coastal people, and her prominent nose and full lips were a permanent reminder of the many Saracen invasions. Her black, wavy hair was cut short, and although she wore peasant black, she wore it stylishly. Her expressive, heavy-lidded dark eyes flashed affection, or contempt, or envy, but usually with a trace of amusement in them. Today her lips were twisted into a forced smile that was more of a sneer.
‘Why is she not helping you?’ she hissed in a stage whisper. She clasped Maria and kissed her on both cheeks. ‘Why does she sit languishing in the living room with the men? Who does she think she is — a queen!
‘She’s our guest yet,’ Maria retorted promptly. ‘She hasn’t really settled in.’
‘Ten days! That’s time enough, unless of course she thinks she's too good for the family. Poor you! You’ll have a permanent house guest on your hands.’
Carlotta flounced into the living room and placed a plate of homemade bread on the table, slinging a meaningful glance of approbation toward Sybilia, who was still hunched beside Michel sipping her glass of wine.
‘There’s a fine, haughty lady for you,’ she muttered to Maria seconds later. Carlotta had noticed that Sybilia’s beauty, added to her youth and sensuality, seemed to fill the room with an electric charge, and the men were vibrating with it. They couldn’t forget her for a moment, none of them could, not Xavier, nor her husband, Pierre, nor her three silly sons, who were showing off madly. She’d lay her hands around their ears if they didn’t stop gawping at the girl. Even Xavier was red-faced and beaming like a dog that had brought down a boar. You’d think he’d married the girl himself, instead of that queer boy of his. No point in him trying to turn Michel into a man, he never would. Well, Xavier had married Maria for her fortune of land, and he’d got exactly what he deserved — land and nothing else, while she was rich in sons and only had one daughter, thank God.
‘Maria, darling,’ she whispered loudly in the kitchen, ‘You’re too patient by far. She’ll sit on you, just like the rest of the family. You mark my words, Maria. You’re becoming a long-suffering donkey carrying a load of ticks.’
Sybilia heard her whispers and shuddered inwardly. A queen? Could anything be further from the truth? She felt bewildered, foreign, homesick, and scared. Just when she was feeling faint with desperation, Michel leaned over as if to grab an olive and murmured: ‘Take no notice. She’s jealous of you.’
She felt amazed. She could not quite believe that Michel had said that. Xavier pushed a dish of canistrelli, dried cakes flavoured with aniseed, toward her and filled her tiny glass with Maria’s homemade liqueur in which whole grapes floated. She was beginning to feel quite dizzy from it all. Or was it from joy? Michel had said something kind to her. She felt like a starving dog that has been tossed a crust.
She sat up and began to take more notice of the family. Carlotta’s three boys were so alike that it was hard to tell one from another; they were stocky, swarthy, and flamboyant, and they were all making a great deal of noise.
Their father, Bonnelli, had only one eye. He looked surly and behaved churlishly, as if he had a chip on his shoulder. Perhaps because he works for Xavier, Sybilia thought. Their daughter, Anna, seemed so different from both of them. She was slight and lighter in colouring.
After a while Anna sat next to Sybilia and told her about her vocation. She was to enter a convent as a novice soon. She hoped to be sent to Africa eventually. ‘So much leprosy… need for service… our deprived black brethren… the plight of the poor…’ Her voice went lightly on and on, but she never finished her sentences, merely tripped from one idea to the next, like a butterfly in a garden of flowers.
Sybilia was overcome with envy. Anna would be free. She was escaping from marriage.
At that moment Carlotta blustered in: ‘Why, Anna, what's got into you, child? Come and help in the kitchen or you’ll grow corns on your backside.’ She shot another meaningful glance at Sybilia, who flushed and stood up.
Sybilia followed Anna to the kitchen. She felt quite intimidated by the flamboyant Carlotta.
‘Just mind the milk,’ Carlotta snapped at Sybilia.
Maria hurried over, but Sybilia told her rather abruptly that she was quite capable of minding the milk. She stared at it for ages, and it showed no signs of boiling, but then, just as she turned to find a spoon for Anna, there was a horrible hissing and burning smell, and the milk ran onto the coals.
‘Heavens, girl. Just what did they teach you in that high-class convent?’ Carlotta shrieked, making sure her words were heard next door.
Maria was too busy mopping up to notice Sybilia’s burning cheeks.
Then she heard Xavier shouting from the living room. ‘Hey, there, ladies. You’ve too many cooks in the kitchen. Ask Sybilia to come here and play the piano.’
‘How vulgar,’ she murmured. ‘Now I’m to be paraded in front of the family.’ She flushed and walked unwillingly to the piano. Was she a little dog? When Xavier snapped his fingers, would she jump through the hoop? Underneath her resentment, she realized that in some subtle way Xavier had come to her defence. He was not going to allow her to be criticised. Why? Because he liked her? Or because she was a part of his family, and he wanted to be proud of her? Yes, t
hat was it. She was being drawn into them, for better or worse, like a new skein of silk being threaded into Maria’s embroidery. She would be stitched and blended, and eventually she would be so much a part of the whole pattern that there would be very little of her left. No, she thought rebelliously. No, no, no.
‘She’s a talented girl,’ Xavier roared, giving her a hearty smack on her shoulder.
Maria rushed to her rescue. ‘What, after all that wine you gave her? Leave her in peace. ’
Xavier’s disappointment was so blatant, Sybilia decided to try her best. Something simple! She sat down in front of Maria’s piano and strummed her fingers over the keys. As she played an old Corsican lullaby, she was gratified to notice that Carlotta’s boys stopped shouting and sat quietly. Glancing up, she caught Michel’s glance. He was looking at her, really looking at her for the first time, and he looked puzzled. She tried harder. She missed her music, but fortunately there were a few pieces she knew by heart: Clair de Lune the Moonlight Sonata; Chopin’s Nocturne in E-Flat; she had played them all at school concerts. She tried her best, wanting to show the family that their pride was justified.
The first course arrived, and soon they were seated around the table. Sybilia was fussed over and found a place opposite Michel. Before long they were all discussing Corsica’s problems.
‘Western civilization,’ Xavier explained patiently, ‘has damaged our traditional customs and all but destroyed our way of life. Corsican virtues will soon be forgotten when the modern world's loose ways come flooding in.’
Watching him, Sybilia sensed his fears. He was a traditionalist who lamented the passing of his culture. Nearly all the changes he had seen in his lifetime were for the worse, he explained, wars, mobilization, inflation, the exodus from the countryside, the neglect of the land. And what were they getting in return? ‘A lump of dung, Sybilia dear.’
The Corsican Woman Page 7