The Corsican Woman

by Madge Swindells

  ‘Are you hungry?’ she asked.

  ‘Starving.’

  ‘I’ll bring up some bread and cheese.’

  ‘If you want to eat… that,’ he said with a nervous gesture, ‘don’t bring it here.’

  ‘I would never,’ she vowed.

  ‘I always thought I’d fall in love one day,’ Michel said, and this time is was her turn to look surprised. ‘I imagined a beautiful girl with long blonde hair, walking barefooted along the beach, the wind blowing her hair and her skirt. The reality of women is rather different.’ He caught hold of her hands and held them close. ‘We’re victims of the system. Two strangers tied together for life, for other people’s convenience. Do we bow to the system? Do as we’re told? Sex without love? Is that what you want? Like beasts?"Father Andrews says love grows. I’m getting to like you because I understand you better,’ she said softly.

  ‘Well, that’s a start, my beautiful Sybilia. Now I’m going to wash this filth off me. I stink worse than them.’

  ‘I’ve lit the copper. It’s full of hot water for a bath,’ she said, and watched his eyes light up at the prospect. ‘I told you I’d be useful.’ She smiled.

  The storeroom was full of steam, the stove was boiling merrily, and the tub was full of warm water. Michel was about to step into it when Sybilia returned carrying a clean towel and some fresh clothes.

  His eyes were suddenly hostile as he grabbed a cloth and held it in front of him. ‘I can manage, thanks,’ he said. ‘Put the towel there.’

  She ignored him and bustled around the storeroom, shutting the vents to put out the stove.

  ‘Sybilia, I’m waiting to bathe.’

  ‘Yes, you’d best hurry, or the water will get cold.’

  ‘Well, go then.’

  ‘Why?’ She turned and smiled winsomely. ‘Why are you so old-fashioned? So scared to be seen? Are you deformed?"God, no.’

  ‘Well then. Do you know that Japanese women scrub their men in the bath?’

  ‘We’re Corsican.’

  ‘I thought we weren’t going to be Corsican.’

  He shrugged, scowled at her, and stepped into the tub. ‘You’ve such a nice neck,’ she said, running her fingers over his throat. ‘And a lovely profile. Did anyone ever tell you what a lovely profile you have?’

  Once again that terrible passivity was there. He leaned back, closed his eyes, and his face took on a dreamy, sensuous expression. Was he ever going to grab her? She took the sponge and began to rub away the grime on his shoulders, moving down to his chest.

  Was it only curiosity? she wondered. She had wanted to see what he looked like for weeks, but now there was a burning need to know. The wanting began in her stomach like a warm sting and moved out to the tips of her fingers turning her skin to gooseflesh.

  ‘Does this feel nice?’ she asked, running her soapy hands over his chest and ribs. ‘Oh, Michel, how thin you are.’

  There was no answer from Michel. His eyes were closed, his head was lolling back against the edge of the iron tub, his mouth hung slack and slightly open. He was panting slightly.

  ‘Stand up,’ she said eventually. ‘You’re only half-done.’

  To her surprise Michel stood up, and she gasped with amazement at his changing shape. She ran her soapy hands over his body, enjoying the feel of his flesh, the bristly pubic hairs, the sight of his taut thighs and smooth white skin.

  ‘It’s a pity to waste this nice warm water,’ she said, and feverishly took off her clothes, throwing them on the floor. ‘I feel so funny,’ she whispered. ‘As if I could split clean down the middle, like an overripe banana. Do you feel like that?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What do you feel like?’

  ‘Why must you always put things into words? I’ll show you what I feel like.’ He caught hold of her around the waist and pulled her against him.

  Sybilia felt languid and burning hot. She wanted to lie back somewhere, but there was no room. She hardly had the strength to lift her legs over the rim of the tub and slither onto his lap. His arms were snug around her waist and hers were wound around his neck. Her legs straddled his thighs. She felt an acute sensation of pleasure as Michel slithered and slipped against her skin.

  ‘Oh,’ she gasped. ‘I think we’re doing it.’

  Michel remained prostrate, his head thrown back, his eyes closed as if in a trance as she moved her thighs gently forward and backward.

  Sybilia felt a dull pain almost lost somewhere among the urgency of her mounting tension. Then suddenly there was nothing at all, merely Michel groaning and the water staining red.

  She felt disappointed. Why had he stopped? ‘Can’t you do it again?’ she asked.

  ‘No, I don’t think so,’ he said. He was intent on looking away and avoiding her eyes. ‘Maybe later. Definitely not now. Did I hurt you?’

  ‘No, it was nice,’ she lied. ‘Was it nice for you?’

  He grinned and then laughed. Surprisingly, he wrapped his arm around her shoulder. ‘Come on, time for bed, you little seductress,’ he said. ‘I hope you’re going to find all that worthwhile.’

  Michel seemed to have lost his shyness with his virginity. He raced into the kitchen with a towel around his waist, took some bread and cheese and a carafe of wine, and brought them up to their rooms. He threw the towel on the floor and sat naked, munching hungrily. Then he smiled sleepily, kissed her on one cheek, climbed into bed, and fell asleep almost immediately.

  There must be something wrong with Mother, Sybilia thought, remembering her whispered advice and fears at the wedding. It didn’t really hurt. One couldn’t call it wonderful, either, but at least they had done it. Now they were truly married. She sat by the window for a long time, feeling too restless to sleep.

  Chapter 20

  Michel stood in the doorway of the living room and gazed at Sybilia. The oil lamp suspended from a slender chain above the table reflected red glints in her dark hair. Her face seemed paler, her eyes unnaturally large. She gazed up at him and smiled shyly. As she bent over her book her dress fell forward, revealing a part of the sweet swelling of her breast where a crucifix twinkled. She was reading aloud to Maria and Xavier. The doors to the patio were wide open, and behind her he could see the full moon, as lustrous and sensual as Sybilia, bathing the earth and the blue night sky with a golden haze. Was there ever such a night? His perceptions were sharpened beyond endurance, the mountains close enough to touch, like a theatre backdrop, unbelievable but exquisitely beautiful, each tree and rock highlighted by the moon.

  He forced himself to look at his father in his chair, filling his pipe, the Corsican patrician, handsome, robust, virile, and deadly. Maria was stitching away at her cloth, black hair gleaming, blue eyes smiling, gnarled hands moving nimbly. She was amused by Sybilia’s words and mumbled quietly to herself from time to time. They were all enriched by Sybilia’s presence; she lent them grace and beauty and brought her own special peace to the household. He should paint them just so — a Corsican family bathed in Sybilia’s glow.

  Yet something was missing. The picture was incomplete. Of course, it was himself. If he were to walk into the halo of light from the lamp, how would he fit into the picture? Who was he? What would he look like? Her husband? Or an imposter? These questions shocked him. He had difficulty visualizing himself. He had never thought of himself as a person before, least of all as a member of a Corsican family or as a member of this family. He had always been an outsider.

  He looked down and stared at his hands and the hairs on his arms and the muscles — a sculptor’s muscles. He was wearing brown corduroy trousers and a checked mohair shirt. His mother had made it two years ago, and it was rather short in the arms, so he kept the sleeves rolled up. Now he consciously imagined himself walking into the room and standing behind Sybilia, placing one hand on her shoulder and saying…? What would her husband say? ‘It’s late. Shall we go to bed, my dear?’ How trite and bourgeois! How desirable! But how impossible.

  As if on
cue, his father leaned forward, placed one hand on her wrist, and said: ‘It’s late, Sybilia. You’ll strain your eyes in this light.’

  ‘Yes, Papa,’ she said dutifully. ‘I’ll finish the chapter. That is, if you like,’ she said, turning to Maria.

  ‘What are you reading?’ Michel asked. They all looked surprised, but each showed their own emotions: Sybilia pleased to see him; Maria anxious, as always; his father contemptuous. There was a strange silence, but Gus stood up and flopped over, rubbing his body against his legs.

  ‘She’s not reading,’ Xavier said with a tinge of peasant pride. ‘She’s translating Mark Twain from the English for your mother.’

  ‘Of course it’s not the first time I’ve read it,’ Sybilia said hastily. ‘We did it at school, so I know it very well.’

  ‘It’s sad,’ said his mother. ‘The poor boy didn’t have a real mother.’

  Xavier snorted contemptuously. ‘It’s not sad at all. The boy’s going to be a man. Some mothers can ruin their sons.’

  ‘Oh, come on, Papa,’ Sybilia said gently. ‘Don’t start grumbling again. You’ll spoil the story.’

  Xavier frowned and then smiled at her and sank back into his chair, content with his pipe and her voice. She began reading, and Michel wondered at the ease with which she twisted his father round her fingers. Even Maria seemed to have become saner and her ghostly visions less frequent lately.

  A large brown moth fluttered against the lamp and fell on the book, and Sybilia flinched.

  Xavier leaned forward, caught the moth in his great paw, and squeezed it shut. Then he dropped it into an ashtray.

  Sybilia breathed. ‘Oh,’ in a slight implosion of air.

  ‘You never think…’ Michel began angrily. ‘You just killed something that was rather beautiful.’

  His father looked up, one eyebrow raised dangerously high, wolf eyes narrowed to slits.

  ‘You never think for a moment about life… what it means… about creation… about beauty,’ Michel went on carelessly, intoxicated with the splendour of the night.

  ‘Oh, I think all right,’ Xavier began softly. ‘I think about bringing food to this table, about planting and ploughing and milking the goats, about reaping the wheat, shearing the sheep. I think about survival — and we all survive. But not without this…’ He flexed the muscle of his right arm and hammered it with his left fist.

  ‘I graft and I plan and I hunt when the meat’s short. But you, you moon around the mountains all day, dreaming about beauty. What good does that do? Does that give your wife food in her belly?’

  ‘No,’ Sybilia said firmly, putting down her book. ‘No more of this. I won’t have it. Look, Papa. Look at his hands. And his arms.’ She reached forward impulsively and caught hold of Michel’s hand. ‘See the calluses… feel the muscles. Not the arm of a man who does nothing. He’s working, but he’s working in his way. He’s going to be a famous sculptor one day. You’ll be proud of him, I promise you.’

  Michel stood transfixed with horror at her betrayal… he had trusted her… but she was innocent, because she did not know.

  ‘Sculptor!’ Xavier roared, and flung out of his chair. He towered over the table, black brows knitted, mouth drawn back in a sneer. ‘Is that what he tells you? Well, I’ll tell you something. It’s his excuse for dodging work and responsibilities. It always has been. He uses art as an apron to hide behind. He’s afraid of life, afraid of other men, afraid of putting his hands to work…’

  ‘No, no. I won’t hear you say these things. He’s got talent!’

  ‘A talent for weaving lies.’

  Michel crumpled onto a chair.

  Sybilia gazed at him incredulously, then turned angrily to Xavier. ‘Why do you hate him so?’ she shouted. ‘Why do you want a cretin for a son? You resent his talent. Yes, I can see that is so,’ she said sharply as Xavier shook his head. ‘You should be proud of him, but you despise him. Michel — ’ She turned tearfully to her husband. ‘You must believe in yourself. It’s hard for your family to believe that you could be different from them. Don’t base your self-regard on their opinion.’

  Xavier flushed with anger at her patronizing tone.

  ‘Naturally I would be glad to be proud of him. Why else should I have taken a cartload of his damned statues to Ajaccio, to an art dealer? That was four years ago. I would have sent Michel to study in France if he had shown any signs of promise. They told me to tell him to take up plumbing.’ His voice rang with contempt.

  ‘They were wrong,’ she cried out sharply, on the verge of tears.

  ‘And his teacher? Was she wrong? And the art gallery in Nice?’ He went on in a quieter voice, rather ashamed of his outburst. ‘He’s had every chance. We would have paid. We would have pawned our fields. Anything! But if he hasn’t got what it takes, then he must find some other outlets for these talents that he feels he has. He can’t be a parasite forever. He’s a married man now. My God, he can’t even slaughter a Pig — ’

  Sybilia shuddered and heard Michel groan as if in agony.

  Xavier stared at the table. ‘I’m sorry, Sybilia,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry for you, and I’m sorry for him — and myself and Maria. But that’s the way it is, and he’s got to come to terms with things the way they are. Just as you had to come to terms with marrying him and living here. You did it. You’re making the most of what you’ve got. Well, so must he.’

  ‘You’re right. I aim to make the most of Michel,’ she replied tartly and too quickly, still smarting from the hurt. ‘He’ll never amount to anything here. You’ll make sure of that.’

  She saw Xavier turn red and then white with shock. He clenched his fists and stared at her with his mouth open. For a moment she thought he would strike her.

  Then Michel learned over the table, clutching a knife in his hand. ‘Leave her be,’ he whispered. ‘Or I swear I’ll kill you.’

  Suddenly Xavier smiled crookedly. He shrugged and turned to Sybilia. ‘Maybe you’ll turn him into something,’ he said. ‘If you keep your feet on the ground and your head out of the clouds. I have no fight with you.’ Then his fist shot out. Quick as a snake he knocked the knife onto the table. He picked it up slowly and handed it politely to Sybilia. ‘Of course, you have some way to go yet,’ he said.

  That night Sybilia tried to comfort Michel, but he seemed listless and apathetic. When at last she succeeded in convincing him that they would throw all their efforts into making his dreams come true, he seemed slightly comforted. Later, when they tried to make love, he could not get aroused. Eventually he fell asleep, but Sybilia lay for hours staring at the ceiling.

  Chapter 21

  Inside the confessional, Father Andrews kept his face averted as he heard the rustling of starched fabrics and felt the heat from yet another body in the small, confined space. From the smells and the sounds, he was learning to recognize most of the older women. He dreaded the sweet, cloying odour of female sweat, was none too fond of garlic, either, although he was getting used to it. But most of all he hated the smell of age. It reminded him of corpses. In spite of his training and his beliefs, he still dreaded death.

  It was late, and he was tired. The sins, peeled off and abandoned there, seemed to fill the confessional with a poisonous odour. Pettiness, cruelty, spite, and envy — their venom spattered his feet like drops from deadly tropical flowers. He battled daily with his intolerance, and he prayed nightly for God’s grace.

  Was she the last? he wondered. He listened carefully. No, soft footsteps were approaching, the chair sqeaked. There was a strong smell of eau de cologne, a sharp intake of breath, and then a young girl’s voice whispered:

  'Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.’

  Sybilia! There seemed to be a tight band around his chest as he gave the blessing. ‘What are your sins, my child?’

  ‘It is many weeks since my last confession. I have omitted to come to mass or to confess. I know that I have committed a mortal sin, but Father, I was too shy to come.’

&nb
sp; ‘My child, omitting to come to mass or to confess is a most grievous state of mortal sin. There is no point in being shy before the Holy Father, since He sees all things and knows all things. You have committed a grave error, and you must make amends.’

  ‘Father. Oh, Father.’

  Her voice was hardly more than a whisper as Father Andrews tried to block his ears to her vivid description of modelling naked for Michel in the mountains.

  What sort of a ninny was this husband of hers? he asked himself incredulously. And why had his own compassion slipped away, just when he needed it most? Wasn’t Michel one of his flock? Sybilia was describing her physical needs in detail and leaving nothing back. Father Andrews’s hands were shaking as he clutched the crucifix.

  When she came to the day of the hunt, her voice was taut with emotion. ‘Oh, Father, we did it, there in the bath. I was shameless. It was all my fault. I led Michel into doing it. I had to turn him into a husband, you see. How else will I get any children? The next day in the cave, I modelled for him again, but I could see he did not have his mind on his work, and later we lay down on the sand in the sunlight… there in the open, Father. I’m ashamed to say that I enjoyed — ’ She paused — ‘‘I.’ Mother said that decent women never enjoy it, they simply have to do it, like a sort of penance, and that I should never let my husband see me naked, but I did. And Father, Michel said I have the most beautiful body he has ever seen, and I enjoyed hearing that, too.’ She sighed. ‘I fear that I am beyond all help, Father. And I still do not love Michel, but I like what he does to me, although I wish… I wish… well, I wish he were more like a man and less like a boy.’

  ‘You are a married woman. God has joined your two bodies as one. What you do is not wrong, my child.’ He broke off. She was prostituting herself for the sake of convention. God damn the lot of them. His righteous indignation was bubbling up and threatening to boil over.

  ‘Your only sin was missing mass, my child,’ he whispered. ‘That was wrong. For that you must gather some flowers every morning for two weeks and bring them to the church and arrange them lovingly under the statue of St Augustine, our patron saint. And remember, Sybilia, St Augustine was a sinner, too.’ He broke off and took a deep breath. ‘My child, come into my garden tomorrow morning and we’ll talk about your family.’ He bent his head in prayer.