Her excellent English had become an asset. Apart from giving daily lessons, which brought her a small income, she also listened to the BBC each evening at six and translated the news to friends. Lately their flat was crowded each evening, and her visitors always left a gift: a melon, flowers, or a few cakes.
She had to admit that their apartment looked as lovely as she had imagined on her first dismal day in Bastia. Their two rooms were small but no longer shabby. They were freshly whitewashed, while the secondhand furniture had been sandpapered and painted light grey. There were vivid splashes of colour everywhere: some bright pictures Michel had painted hung on the walls, and she had made cushions and rugs and chintz covers for their old couch. Several good pieces of Michel’s sculpture stood on the mantelpiece and table. It was charming, and Sybilia was proud of her home.
The best part of the flat was their balcony. She had transformed it into something really stylish, copied from pictures of penthouses she had seen in magazines. She had bought an old table, which she kept covered with a red-checked tablecloth, and she’d re-upholstered the chair seats with the same fabric. Against one wall were whitewashed pots with a variety of brighly coloured tropical plants and creepers that trailed up to the roof. Her favourite was a rampant rubber plant that covered most of one corner. Bamboo blinds hung along the southern exposure, but she kept them rolled up except in the late afternoons. Unless it was raining, they spent most of their leisure hours on the balcony, even sleeping there when the nights were too hot to bear inside.
She had come to love this old part of Bastia with its rich mingled scent of the maquis and the sea. In the evenings came the fragrance of lemon, magnolia, and orange blossom. Below them the sea was always changing, sometimes a deep azure, invitingly beautiful, and at times grey and treacherous. Then the building would tremble from the force of the surf on the rocks below.
Her days were quite enjoyable. She still paid their rent by washing Lucilia’s laundry, but that was usually finished by midmoming, and she ironed on the balcony in the early afternoons. At three she gave English lessons to her students, and at six she cooked supper for Michel. He seldom came home before midnight, and she dreaded the long evenings without Michel, but if she became desperate, she could always spend time with the Gafforis.
So her days passed quietly but constructively. She was neither happy nor unhappy, but poised somewhere in between. It was a period of waiting, of vague worries, some of which were caused by the war. They had become used to the shortages, and that was the only sign that Corsica was in any way involved. Sometimes they wondered if the war would pass them by altogether. Sybilia hoped that it would.
Her biggest worry was her marriage. She and Michel had grown apart. She did not know why this was, but she had her suspicions. Michel’s working hours and his evenings were happily spent with his boss, Angelo. On the rare occasions when he stayed home, he would talk to her of Angelo, whom he idolized. ‘Angelo is my best friend; the brother I never had,’ he confided. He seemed so happy, that Sybilia felt ashamed of her jealousy.
One night when she was desperately lonely and needing to be loved, she set about seducing Michel. He was in the bedroom dressing to go out when she walked in and locked the door.
‘You seem to have forgotten I exist nowadays,’ she complained as Michel’s smile turned to a scowl. Oh, God, what was she saying? Was this the way to woo him?
‘Is something wrong?’ she demanded.
‘Only with you. There’s nothing wrong with me, but you seem to be full of complaints.’
Sybilia felt agitated and bloated. Even worse, she felt rejected and angry that he could make her feel like this. How unfair he was. It's been too long. I'm not old yet, and I need to be loved. But why am I thinking like a whore? What's the matter with me? Inexplicably, she burst into tears.
‘Don’t cry, Sybilia,’ Michel said. He put his arm around her. ‘I hate to see you like this. I’m very fond of you. Surely you know that.’
‘But you’re never home. I’m so lonely, and it’s been so long,’ she sobbed. ‘I need to be loved. Not always, but sometimes. Everyone needs to be loved. I’m not unique. Just normal.’
Michel sighed and began to unbutton his trousers.
This is all wrong, Sybilia thought. Can loving be a duty? Nevertheless, she began to unbutton her blouse. It will come right when we make love, she promised herself. She could feel the blood throbbing through her veins. Her thighs ached. Her fingers, fluttering impatient, fumbled with the buttons of her skirt, while her eyes locked into his. She saw tenderness there, some embarrassment, perhaps, but no passion. She did not care. She had rights, she told herself miserably.
Michel took off his vest. In a fever of impatience, Sybilia tore at her stubborn buttons, heard them fall on the floor as she caught hold of her underpants and frantically pushed them off. Her nipples stood out, aroused and urgent and her voice was hoarse. ‘Come, then,’ she muttered. ‘Stop fighting me. Stop fighting us.’
‘Oh, God, Sybilia,’ she heard him whispering into her neck. ‘I’m trying.’
Her body was in a turmoil; icy fingers of delight stabbed her stomach, her breasts were swollen and sore. There was a great urgency to have him right inside her, but then the exquisite sweetness of his naked flesh against hers was calming, soothing, hypnotic. She seemed to be falling back and floating away as she felt him move inside her.
‘Too long, too long,’ she murmured. She felt quite helpless in the grip of her need. She was incapacitated by the intense spasms of ecstasy rippling from her womb to every part of her body. She could only give little sharp yelps of pleasure, clamouring for him to do more, more, and still more. She gave a long, low moan of fulfilment and the next moment felt him withdraw.
Something was missing. She opened her eyes and looked up, feeling puzzled and somehow cheated.
‘Was something wrong?’ she queried.
‘I’m sorry.’ He stared at her impassively. ‘You came. Isn’t that enough?’
‘No! What is it? What’s happening to us?’
‘I said I’m sorry. I mean it. I’m so sorry for you. I wasn’t in the mood. Next time it will be better, I promise.’
Sybilia turned away, feeling shamed and loathsome. There will never be a next time, she promised herself. But a week later she stubbornly seduced Michel. Afterwards she felt hurt by his lack of passion and vowed she would never again be the aggressor.
It was June 1941 when she discovered that she was three months pregnant. Later she always remembered that summer as a particularly dismal time. When she told Michel she was pregnant, he flew into a rage and did not come home for three days. The weather was hot, she felt sick most of the time, and when friends and neighbours crowded into her tiny lounge for the nightly news bulletin, her translations were always discouraging. The Allies were retreating on all fronts, both in Russia and the Far East. Closer to home in the Mediterranean area, Tobruk had been encircled by German toops and the enemy had taken the main airfield at Crete.
She felt so helpless. There was no enemy to fight in Corsica and that was frustrating. In 1940, when France had fallen to Axis troops and signed an armistice with the fascists, the Vichy administration had begun its policy of cooperation and appeasement with the occupation troops. The Vichy administration was now the legal government of Corsica but Corsicans identified with General Charles de Gaulle and the Free French. Many of them were fighting with him. For the rest, it was a time of waiting helplessly as more of the civilized world fell under the Nazi boot.
On 7 December, the day of Pearl Harbor, Sybilia gave birth to a baby son, Jules, at the Bastia General Hospital. Michel came to see her, but the baby had broken their tenuous bond. What had happened to their relationship? Did it deteriorate because she was providing most of their cash for their living, as Granny Gaffori said? Her own feelings were rather more frightening. She knew that Michel loved Angelo. If it weren’t for Angelo, her husband could at least have been her friend, but Angelo had taken eve
rything. He had not even left a father for Jules. She could not calm her jealousy, or her shame.
A week later she returned to her normal duties, but her days were irrevocably changed. She was no longer an observer of life, she was inextricably involved because of her son. She had a stake in the future of the world. She cared! She began to voice her opinions more vehemently as the war news became more threatening on all fronts.
Was the enemy invincible? Clearly it was only a matter of time before Corsica was occupied and then annexed by Italy. Her son a slave to the fascists? Never, she swore daily as she watched Jules sleeping peacefully in his cradle on the balcony. He would be free, and he would be Corsican. Was there ever a child as lovely as her Jules?
Chapter 24
By the time Jules was six months old, he had deep blue eyes like Maria’s, and Xavier’s curly black hair. He was so lovely that passersby would stop her on the pavement to tell her that they had never seen such an infant. He was big for his age, too, with chubby cheeks, beautiful hands, and a ready smile. She loved him desperately. Jules made up for everything she lacked. What more could she expect out of life? she consoled herself nightly as she rocked him to sleep.
7 August was a day of intense heat and unbearable humidity, but to Sybilia nothing else counted except the wonderful progress in the Allies’ war efforts. It was the date of the first American landings on the Pacific Islands. There were rumours of British and Russian cooperation. In the Middle East British and Commonwealth troops were defeating the enemy. The entire world was taking up arms against the fascists.
Wearied by the heat, Sybilia put the ironing aside for another day because Jules was so fretful. Finally she decided to take a cold bath. Then she glanced at the clock. At five she gave English lessons to a young engineer, Jean Perrier. It was almost half-past five, and he was late. No doubt he would expect his full hour’s lesson. Then she would not have time to cook supper. She sighed. Not that she was expecting Michel to come home to eat it, but at least she always had a meal ready on time.
When she heard a knock on the door, she took out her handkerchief and wiped her forehead.
It was Perrier. He was holding a bunch of lilies and looking amused.
‘You’re late,’ she snapped.
‘Forgive me.’ He handed her the flowers with a wry smile.
Sybilia eyed him suspiciously. Lately she had discovered that his English was even better than her$. She had never understood why he wanted to take lessons. In the beginning she had suspected that he would make a pass at her, but his behaviour had been irreproachable.
He puzzled her. Why was he always switching to German or Italian to question her? Even trying to teach her phrases and expressions. He wasted hours discussing the war news. When she objected he said that he was practising his English, or German, or whichever language he had been speaking.
‘Where are your books?’ She felt awkward about accepting the flowers.
‘Excuse me, madame. I was late. I didn’t want to waste more time fetching them.’ He smiled. ‘Then I thought the flowers might recompense you for your wasted time. Please, put them in water. They are lovely, aren’t they?’
‘They are,’ she replied in English without really noticing that he had switched languages.
‘Sister Agnes was right about you,’ he said. ‘Your grasp of languages is truly a gift.’
She dropped the flowers and to hide her confusion spent a long time picking them up. ‘Sister Agnes? Do you know her?’
‘She recommended you to me. And she sent her love,’ he added.
‘Oh.’ Impossible! How could Sister Agnes exist in this day and age? She belonged to another lifetime, didn’t she? To a young, idealistic girl who had set her heart on becoming a teacher. ‘How is Sister Agnes?’ She could not disguise the quiver in her voice.
‘She’s well. She’s working in a convent outside Paris,’ he explained.
‘And you saw her recently?’
‘I did.’
The conversation was frightening her. What had Jean been doing in occupied France? How had he escaped? Who was he, and why was he here?
‘I thought we might try a little Italian conversation today,’ he was saying.
‘Italian,’ she faltered. ‘Why? Whatever for? You asked me for English lessons.’
‘I think my English is about as good as yours.’
‘I would say better,’ she replied. ‘But why are you here?’ she asked, switching to the Corsican dialect. She glared at him.
‘I’ve been sizing you up, Sybilia,’ he replied in their dialect as he followed her to the kitchen.
Sybilia felt a sudden surge of relief. He was definitely Corsican.
‘The Resistance is looking for young, attractive female linguists. You, madame, are exactly what we need.’
‘Intelligence… spying…?’ She stared at him and took a few steps backward, nearly dropping the vase. ‘Me? A spy! I have a child… and a husband,’ she added as an afterthought. She thrust the lilies into the vase. They really were lovely. For a moment she buried her face against the blooms. Then she looked up. ‘You don’t know what you’re asking. You’re forgetting I’m Corsican.’ She frowned. ‘Sister Agnes sent you to me?’
‘She said you might say yes. “Patriotic, idealistic, determined, and gifted in languages.” Those were her precise words, Sybilia. I would like to add that it is your duty to help us.’
‘Duty?’ she queried. ‘I will decide exactly where my duty lies. It could be to look after my son and my husband.' She ignored his sarcastic smile and hurried back to her sitting room. She felt uncomfortable with him lounging against the kitchen table. ‘What exactly are you asking me to do?’
‘Learn to operate a radio transmitter and the Morse code; broadcast information to the Free French in London and Algeria. Sometimes we would give you this information. In addition, you would act as liaison between the occupied coastal towns and the Resistance in the mountains. Relay information… that sort of thing.'
‘What sort of thing?’
‘When enemy ships come in; what troop movements are taking place; details of enemy convoys in and out of Bastia…'
‘How would I know?’
‘From this balcony you have an excellent view of the harbour. An intelligent girl like you could pick up a great deal just by walking around the city.'
'Is that all?’ she asked, guessing that she had only heard part of the story.
‘You’re not making this very easy for me. How do you feel about it? Are you enthusiastic? Frightened, perhaps?’ He smiled sympathetically. 'You usually give me tea.’
‘Please… please. You’re bombarding me with all this. It’s not “no,” it’s not “yes.” I don’t know. I feel… well… shocked.’
‘We have a position for you at the Hotel Bastia. Enemy troops are coming. We know that. They will be lonely.’ She noticed that he looked embarrassed. ‘They’ll be talking in the hotel. A good-looking girl could pick up useful information if she kept her wits about her. They would never guess that you have such an excellent grasp of their language.’
Unthinkable for a Corsican woman to work in a hotel at night. Her reputation would be irreparably tarnished, and her marriage would be over, but would that be so bad? a small, irrepressible voice was whispering at the back of her mind. ‘Unthinkable,’ she said.
‘In wartime the unthinkable becomes necessary. We all have to make sacrifices. Many people will die.’
‘Better dead than disgraced.’ She stood up and went to put on the kettle. ‘You are Corsican, aren’t you?’ she called.
‘Yes,’ he said after a moment’s hesitation, ’but I have lived most of my life in France.’
‘Perhaps you have forgotten what it is like in our mountain villages. My mother was French,’ she went on. ‘She never really understood Corsican ways. Besides, your plan sounds a little absurd. The fascists know how close our dialect is to Italian. Everyone will be able to understand them.’
‘An
d Germans?’
‘Germans! Here?’
‘There’s no doubt about that.’
A shiver of apprehension gripped her. ‘They won’t get far,’ she said. ‘They won’t penetrate the interior. I promise you that.’
‘Not if we all work against them,’ he said. ‘Of course, it would be disastrous for you to keep your baby here. I mean, if you should be found out. You must take Jules back to your mother-in-law. You do understand that, don’t you?’
Sybilia let out a cry. Glancing at Jules to reassure herself that he was sleeping in his crib, she turned to Jean.
‘Stop talking as if I will work for you. I must think about it. My answer will probably be no.’
She turned away, feeling safer now. Jean went on arguing. ‘I’ll discuss it with my husband,’ she said angrily. ‘I think you should leave now.’
‘Michel is a member of the Communist party and the Resistance. You know what his answer will be.’
‘But he’s also a man, and I’m his wife.’
‘Very well, Sybilia. Until the next lesson.’ He stood up and gave her a strangely cynical look.
‘You’re still coming? For lessons?’ she asked incredulously.
‘Italian next time. What d’you say?’
‘Who’s teaching whom?’ she asked sourly.
‘We’re learning together, but I’m paying, as usual. Or to put it bluntly, Sybilia, you’ve been in the pay of the Resistance for some weeks.’
‘Oh, you bastard,’ she muttered, surprising herself, for she had never sworn before.
It was a long, lonely evening as she waited for Michel. At twelve Jules awoke and wailed. She breast-fed him while sitting at the table reading the newspaper. Much later, Michel came creeping in with an apologetic smile on his face.
‘I thought you’d be sleeping.’
‘As you can see, I’m not. Supper’s on the stove, but you’ll have to wait until I’ve finished with Jules.’
He hardly glanced at their baby. Surely that was strange, she thought, feeling sad. How was it possible Michel could be so disinterested in them both? He was not against them. No, nothing cruel, no anger or spite, just his apologetic disinterest. Perhaps that was worse.
The Corsican Woman Page 13