The Corsican Woman

by Madge Swindells

  Sybilia, in revolt against black, wore an old school dress she had discovered in one of her chests. It was of pale blue linen with white cuffs and collar. With her. hair braided she looked the child she was. She was bent over the ironing table when Gus appeared at the door, wagging his tail and begging for food.

  ‘Well, at least the dog comes home for supper, which is more than one can say for your Michel.’ Maria grumbled as she filled its bowl with scraps from the stew.

  ‘Do you know where Michel is?’ Sybilia burst out, near to tears.

  ‘Yes, I do, although he thinks I don’t,’ Maria said.

  ‘Oh, Mama, what am I going to do?’ Sybilia began hesitantly. ‘Is this to be my life?’ Desperation brought the words tumbling out. ‘Will I never be a real wife, never have children? Will I grow old here, like a spinster aunt, helping in the kitchen and bored to tears? Oh, what’s the matter with Michel? I heard the women talking — they say terrible, vicious things about him.’

  Maria collapsed in a heap on the kitchen chair and dabbed her eyes with the tea towel. Watching her, Sybilia felt ashamed. She knelt beside her and wrapped her arms around her shoulders.

  ‘Oh, Mama, I’ve hurt you. I’m sorry, really I am, but I’m so… so empty. I have nothing to replace all that I have lost. I mean I have you, and I’m grateful, but it’s not enough. No, not nearly enough.’ She buried her face in Maria’s lap.

  ‘I know, child,’ Maria said, stroking her hair. ‘Those wicked women, they’ve always misjudged my Michel. He’s different, but only because he’s so sensitive. He’s shy, you see, and he’s never had much to do with women. You know, Sybilia, one always thinks that it’s the man who does the chasing, but in many cases it’s the women who have to take over. If they want their men, that is. If you want children, Sybilia, I think you’re going to have to woo Michel. Try and get him on your side. Try to tempt him, Sybilia. I mean,’-she wiped her face — ‘that’s just the viewpoint of a silly old woman, but in your place that’s what I would do. Some men don’t know what’s good for them, not until it’s rammed down their necks. I reckon Michel’s one of them. He’s proud and stubborn, and he didn’t want to be married. It’s up to you, Sybilia. You’re a beautiful girl.’

  Sybilia was glad her face was hidden. She could feel herself burning with embarrassment. ‘How would I do that?’ she murmured into the woman’s lap.

  ‘Oh, I don’t know about those things. Xavier was always — ’ She broke off. ‘That is, until he met that other woman. But there, I mustn’t fill your head with my problems, and besides, he thinks I don’t know. I remember the day I found out…’

  She rambled on and on, but Sybilia was not listening. She was remembering a book she had seen once. A terrible book! One of the girls — yes, it was Miriam — had found it in her father’s library and brought it to school. Photographs of such ghastly women, milky white and plump as Christmas geese, with deep red paint on their lips and nails and other places in various stages of disgraceful undress, gazing slyly toward the camera. Oh, no, she could never do that.

  She was brought back to the present by Maria tapping her shoulder. ‘Why don’t you go up there?’ she said with a smile. ‘Take him some food.’

  ‘How would I find him?’

  ‘Keep Gus on a lead, and you won’t go wrong. I’ll lock that dog up for the night, or he’ll be off as soon as he’s finished his food.’

  Early next morning Sybilia dressed in her second-best black dress and set off up the mountain carrying some cheeses, bread, wine and a flask of coffee. What could be more reasonable than for a wife to take her husband some coffee? All the same, visions of herself dressed like those dreadful women in the dirty pictures kept floating into her mind’s eye. Michel would not take kindly to that.

  It was still cloudy; wraiths of mist were drifting in the valleys below. But the maquis was a blaze of autumn flowers, yellow broom, and wild chrysanthemums, lavender, and rosemary. Bumblebees, fat as plums, were gathering the last pollen, and the birds were lingering and swooping and twittering before their long southward flight.

  Sybilia was in no mood to admire the morning. She regretted wearing her second-best dress and wondered if Gus was quite as good a tracker as Maria claimed. Together they raced around boulders and through thickets, along a narrow goat track. In places the undergrowth was four metres high, and she burrowed through it until her dress was soiled and her hands scratched and bleeding.

  Suddenly the maquis came to an abrupt halt at the edge of a slight incline. She would have fallen if it were not for the dog, which sat on its haunches and whined. She paused and stared in surprise, for she could hear the unmistakeable sound of hammering.

  Ahead the ground flattened into an old, disused quarry. Or was it a quarry? It was only slightly concave and more like a platform halfway up the mountain. On the edge of the platform, overlooking the mountain slope, huge blocks had been placed on top of each other to make a crude fortress. It looked as if a giant’s child had played with building blocks. Triangular slabs of granite lay on the ground. Some were weirdly shaped into the crude outline of a face. Whoever did it must have lived a long time ago, she thought wonderingly, for shrubs sprouted from every crack.

  The dog was bounding toward a large cave in the mountainside. Sybilia followed more slowly, acutely aware of her ragged appearance. As she hurried after him, she heard a curse while she stood blinking in the sudden gloom. ‘Shit! Sybilia! Why are you spying on me?’

  Michel was sitting on a sliced tree trunk, his legs straddling a large rock that he had been attacking with a hammer and chisel. He was wearing only his corduroy trousers. His thin sun-tanned body gleamed with sweat while his hair hung damp and dishevelled over one eye. He looked pale, exhausted and was caked with grime.

  ‘Spying on you? Good heavens!’ She flushed with anger. ‘Spying, you call it? I was worried about you. I want to know what you do all day. Why shouldn’t I? It’s natural for a wife to worry,’ she added.

  As her eyes adjusted to the shadows, she saw that the rock Michel was hammering was being chipped into the shape of a naked girl. Was it supposed to be her? It was hard to tell, for the surface was full of chips and the body was only crudely emerging from the waist upward.

  Sybilia was speechless. The cave and the ledge behind were cluttered with statues of people and animals. Among the debris she saw a half-finished image of a goat, shockingly real and life-size, rearing up to paw the air. Then she remembered the stories she heard about Michel, and she began laughing almost hysterically with relief.

  Michel threw his hammer on the floor and swore. ‘So! What is there to giggle about? This is art. Something you wouldn’t understand you ignorant peasant girl.’

  ‘Do you know what they say in the village? They say you make love with the goats.’

  He sighed, pushed his hair out of his eyes, and stood up. For a moment he seemed undecided. Then he dropped his chisel on the ground and stretched. ‘And what else do they say?’

  ‘That you are a mazzeri ‘Do you believe their stories?’

  She shrugged. ‘I came to see for myself.’

  ‘Now that you’ve seen, you can go home,’ he said irritably. ‘You will tell all your prattling girlfriends, and Papa will find out.’

  He did not look angry, she decided, watching him intently. In fact, he looked quite pleased to see her, but wary, like a wild animal, half-tamed and hungry.

  ‘My only friend is Maria,’ she said sadly. ‘And she knows — She broke off. ‘What is it?’ she said, pointing to his work.

  ‘It’s you,’ he said. Then he stood up and gazed down at her so searchingly that she frowned.

  Michel turned away quickly. He did not know what it was about her that disturbed him so profoundly. He only knew that he had to re-create her with his own hands. It would be enough simply to capture the essence of her in stone or wood, but that very act of creation seemed to elude him. This was his third attempt, but when he looked at the real thing he was overcome
with humiliation. Why was she so lovely? He noticed how the light from the entrance made a halo around her hair, how her face had a strange, brooding expression as she gazed at him. There were shadows under her eyes, and her cheeks were thinner. However much she frowned, she could never disguise the yearning in her face. She longed for a kind word, but his only defence was cruelty. He sighed, picked up his chisel, and began chipping away at the shoulders of the statue.

  ‘You’re not very good at this,’ she said after she had examined several pieces, ‘because you’re not as realistic as the statues in the church. But there’s a sense of power in your work. I feel the goat’s fear, and its desperation. Yes, I feel it here.’ She pressed her stomach.

  Michel looked pleased momentarily. Then he scowled and shrugged. ‘What do you know about it, little peasant girl?’

  ‘I know what I feel, and the statues give me goose pimples. Oh!’ She exclaimed, pointing toward a cleft in the wall where a life-size bust had been placed. ‘Just look at Carlotta there.’ She burst out laughing — a childish laugh that reminded him of her deprived youth. How wicked of their parents to force her into marriage.

  ‘You’ve turned Carlotta into a grinning demon,’ her voice babbled on nervously.

  ‘That’s how I see her,’ he said.

  ‘And is this how you see me?’ She forced herself to turn back to the offending statue, which brought the blood rushing to her face. ‘One side is larger than the other,’ she stammered, ‘and I am not that fat.’

  ‘I can’t do it — that’s why.’ He flung his chisel on the ground in a fit of temper. ‘Since you’re here let’s see what you’ve brought to eat.’

  They sat outside in the sun drinking wine and eating bread and strong goat’s cheese. After a while Sybilia flushed and blurted: ‘Will you be my friend? I am not the silly peasant girl you take me for.’ She held out her hand in a gesture of conciliation, but Michel made no move to take it.

  His blue eyes were gleaming, his lips twisted into a crooked smile. ‘How can a man be friends with a woman?’ he said. ‘That’s a ridiculous idea. We have different interests. Besides, you would bore me.’

  Oh, how cruel! She would get him back for that. She longed to control and possess this disagreeable man. How else would she ever have any power or be able to do anything? Only through him. An idea was forming in her mind, taking her breath away with her audacity. But hadn’t Maria said…? And hadn’t she seen in the book…?

  But no! Never! Her prudish convent upbringing, her shyness, and her virginity sent the blood racing to her skin until she was throbbing and flushing all over. She shook her head at her own boldness.

  Instead of scowling, she smiled teasingly. ‘Would I bore you, Michel? Are you sure? Maybe I’ll surprise you yet.’

  He lay on his back, put one hand over his eyes, and dozed in the sun.

  ‘Michel,’ she persisted, ‘why did you drag the goat into your cave?’

  He sighed. ‘I’m sleeping,’ he said.

  ‘Was it to help you make your statue? Can’t you work from memory?’

  ‘No,’ he snarled. ‘Even top artists have models. Didn’t you know that?’

  She stood up and tiptoed into the cave. It seemed to go back a long way, and then she saw a hole leading to another dark cavern that she was too frightened to enter. ‘Shall I go now?’ she called.

  ‘Oh…’ He sounded pleased. ‘So you are not going to surprise me, after all.’ He propped himself on one elbow, and his moody blue eyes met hers. They were so inscrutable, so uncommunicative, that she had a fleeting impression there would never be another chance to get through to him. She shuddered slightly and bit her lip. ‘I will be your model,’ she said. ‘Then perhaps you will be able to make your lump of rock look like me. That’s what you want, isn’t it?’

  ‘Oh, God,’ he groaned.

  ‘Or would you prefer that I didn’t?’ she called out, a new imperiousness in her voice.

  Michel stood up and hurried into the cave. He stared miserably at his chipped rock with the dumb, uneven features and then back at her.

  ‘Yes. You’re right! That’s what I want more than anything else,’ he admitted hoarsely.

  ‘And we shall be friends? I shall be your model and help you with your work?’

  ‘Maybe just this time.’ He sounded unsure of himself.

  Sybilia walked slowly out of the cave again. How could she? Never. No, never. Part of her wanted to flee from Michel and not come back, but another unknown, pristine part of her womanliness knew that she must conquer him.

  She tried to unbutton her dress, but her fingers had turned to jelly. At last she let the garment fall slowly to the ground. She looked around coyly at Michel. Why did he pretend that he was ignoring her when she could feel his intense awareness soaking into her like summer rain?

  I’m his wife, she told herself as she lost her courage. It’s not a crime to take off my clothes. What had her mother said? Never let him see you naked. Yet hadn’t they dressed her in that silly, transparent nightgown? But here? In a public place? She knew there was no one around for miles. Gus would bark if there were.

  She unbuttoned her bodice. Her breasts thrust up and out like birds freed from a cage. Then she noticed how silly she looked in her black boots and slip and glanced to see if Michel was looking, but his face was turned away from her.

  Hastily she kicked off her boots, her slip, and, last of all, her pants.

  The breeze on her skin was like a gentle caress. Her body vibrated with the pleasure of it, and her nipples grew until they were erect. She tried to speak, but her mouth was so dry only a cracked whisper came out: ‘Where do you want me to sit?’

  He glanced her way so briefly. ‘Oh, on that rock,’ he said as casually as he could.

  ‘Can I sit on my dress? The rock hurts me.’

  ‘If you wish.’

  Covered with shame and humiliation, but determined nevertheless, she sat, hunched and dejected.

  ‘If you could sit more like this,’ Michel said in the manner of a polite stranger. He walked up to her and tried to move her shoulders around, but when he touched her skin he pulled his hand back as if he had been burned. She flushed deeply.

  ‘Don’t be a baby,’ he said angrily. ‘Married people do this all the time.’

  Whom was he snarling at? Himself? Or her? She smiled inwardly and tried not to think about her own body. She had never examined herself naked, and she tried not to look down. Instead she gazed out at the mouth of the cave. She could see a hawk soaring on an upcurrent. Suddenly it dived into the bushes, and a second later it rose, clutching a small creature, a rat or a mouse, in its claws.

  Oh, Michel, she thought. I wish you had the courage of that hawk. I wish you would soar down on me and carry me helplessly away.

  For the first time she became aware of herself as a physical being and not just a walking, moving hive of thoughts. She became aware of her breasts rising and falling with each breath, of the blood coursing through her body, of her heartbeat, which was surely much louder than usual.

  She had the strangest sense of the present moment, as if it were a precious drop of moisture, and she, dying of thirst in the desert, must make the most of it.

  ‘You’re very beautiful,’ Michel said suddenly, breaking in on her fantasy.

  ‘Am I?’ She had never thought of herself as beautiful or not beautiful, nor as anything physical in her life. Merely as herself.

  ‘When I have finished this, I shall use you as a model for a statue of the Madonna. It will be far more beautiful than the one in the church.’

  ‘Hush! That’s blasphemy,’ she said crossing herself quickly.

  He chuckled. ‘What a little goose you are.’

  She looked around at him, feeling angered by his indifference. ‘How silly,’ she called out, pointing at his statue. ‘I am not wide like that. And my ribs are not all knobbly. Come. Feel how soft my skin is. And my breasts are round, not square.’

  Michel put down hi
s chisel like a man in a dream. He walked slowly toward her and pushed his hand at her, as if into a fire. She caught hold of it and pressed it over one breast. How rough his skin was, how hot his hand — like burning coals.

  She gasped and stood up. ‘You see,’ she murmured. She was not quite sure what she meant, but she could feel his hand trembling and hear his breath coming in short, sharp gasps.

  Then her courage fled. She leaped away. Grabbing her clothes, she scrambled into them outside the cave.

  ‘That’s quite enough for one day, thank you,’ she called out in a high-pitched voice. ‘My back’s aching, my neck is stiff, and I’m shivering cold all over.’

  ‘You will come back, won’t you?’ she heard wistfully behind her as she fled.

  Chapter 18

  A late autumn heat wave held the island becalmed.

  Xavier had organized a hunting trip for his political colleagues and rivals, and they were meeting in a glen on the outskirts of the Bonifato forest, under the slopes of the Ladroncello mountain peaks.

  He was early. As he reined to a halt at the edge of the glade, he saw a chamois doe leap up and stand transfixed with shock, staring bolt-eyed at nothing. He pulled up his gun, aimed, and put it down again. It was too soon and too easy. There was no point in a kill without a chase, and it was too early to burden the hunt with meat.

  What a morning! Dew fresh and new, the sky was washed by the rain into a pale, translucent blue. The crystal-clear mountains loomed over the forest. Chestnuts and oaks were turning gold and red. A sudden gust of wind sent the leaves spiralling into the sodden humous of countless leafy harvests, where brambles sprawled thick with berries and mushrooms sprouted. There was the sound of a stream gurgling in the thicket behind the glade.