The Corsican Woman

by Madge Swindells

  Earlier I had passed neatly stacked piles of wood where a charcoal burner was preparing his harvest, but the countryside seemed deserted now. I knew this was private property, but since there was no one around I decided to explore the terraces.

  The morning yielded nothing as I tramped up and down the steep slopes looking for signs of the students’ excavations. By midafternoon I was too hot to carry on. I longed to swim, but to reach the lake I had to trespass through strips of cultivated barley. This worried me slightly, but I was too hot to care much. Beyond the fields, dense maquis surrounded the shore. Eventually I found a narrow path tunnelling through the undergrowth where honeysuckle and deeply scented lilies nestled among the scrub of myrtle and rosemary. The scent of the wild herbs was as heady as incense.

  Suddenly I was sliding down slippery slopes to the water’s edge. I landed ankle deep in the lake, stripped hurriedly, and plunged in. Icy bliss! From nearby came the thunder of a waterfall, but it was hidden by a promontory jutting into the lake. Climbing out, I lay behind a thick bush, suffused with a sense of physical well-being from the fragrant air and the hot sun.

  While I sat lazily watching sparkling water through tangled branches, I tried to imagine Corsica in the Stone Age. These scrub-covered slopes had been densely forested; reindeer and mammoths roamed the hills, while wolves and men preyed on them. If my theory was right, harassed Stone Age clans had been driven into these very mountains to find refuge from invading hordes of better-armed tribes. Did they come this way? Had they camped by the lake? And who had come first — perhaps the Neanderthal man of the middle Paleolithic period, carrying his primitive tools made of bone.

  So long ago, I thought sleepily. I would be the first to find their fort, their weapons, and their burial sites and try to piece together what they were really like and who they were. The thought sent a thrill of anticipation through me.

  Was I dreaming? The sun was setting in a blood-red sky, the lake was bathed in a mystical ruddy glow, and the trees stretched above deep violet pools. I could hear a slow beat of hooves approaching, and remembering that I was trespassing, I edged back into the shadow of the bush.

  A peasant woman dressed in black pushed her way through the thicket, followed by a mule loaded with firewood. They looked exhausted, but as the woman came closer I saw her face. I was staggered. She was that rare and cherished phenomenon, a perfectly beautiful female, by far the loveliest woman I had ever seen. I gazed wistfully at her brown hair, shining with reddish glints in the sun, and her flawless golden skin. Yet her blue eyes gazed around dismally. She looked so sad that I longed to comfort her.

  She led the mule to the water’s edge and tied his reins onto the halter. There you are, Pierre. Have a rest.’ This was another shock, for she spoke in a cultured French accent.

  Surely she would sense my presence, but it seemed that she was too exhausted. She sank to her knees beside the trickling stream, soaked her face, and then scooped up handfuls of water to drink.

  Heck! I’m hallucinating! I couldn’t force my eyes away from her as she began to take off her clothes, not provocatively but contemptuously, piece by piece, throwing each garment down as if she had waited a long time for this.

  ‘Ursuline, where are you?’ she called over her shoulder. There was an answering shout from a child some distance behind.

  The woman was standing quite near, but on an incline. As I gazed up toward her, she looked statuesque, but her flesh was warm and glowed invitingly. Her hips were voluptuous, her waist slender, her breasts were globes of tender white, infinitely touchable, with wide brown circles around her nipples. When I could tear my eyes away from them, I noticed her square, brave shoulders and her long, unblemished neck.

  With an impatient gesture she pulled the combs out of her brown hair, which fell in tresses over her shoulders. Slowly she looked down and ran her hands over her breasts and her smooth stomach, touching her thighs. She sighed, pushed her hands hard against herself, moving up and down. She gave a low, poignant cry, and her eyes filled with tears. Then she bent over swiftly and dabbed water onto her face.

  By this time I was caught halfway between guilt and desire. I fought back an absurd, pristine urge to lurch out of the thicket and impale her with my own flesh. Insane! At the same time I wished to God I’d never come here in the first place. I’d never seen anyone so desirable or so unforgettable.

  ‘Mama, Mama,’ a child was calling. A girl of about twelve years, with a tangle of thick red curls, burst out of the thicket. ‘Look at these flowers.’

  Her mother took the flowers and thrust them against her face. She turned abruptly and waded into the water while her daughter dragged off her clothes and followed her. Soon the two were splashing and laughing, nimble as otters.

  Who could they be? Corsican women never stripped, never swam, never spoke such perfect French. What if the husband followed them and discovered me peeping through the thicket? The thought of being sighted down the barrel of a Corsican shotgun was unnerving. Best shots in the world, I remembered gloomily. I crept out of the thicket, backed along the path, and hurried toward the road.

  On the long climb to Taita, I could not banish the image of her face, although I tried. It wasn’t just her loveliness that haunted me, but the sadness in her eyes and the underlying dejection I’d witnessed. How could anyone so desirable be so sad?

  I knew that it wouldn’t be difficult to trace a woman like her with a red-headed child called Ursuline. ‘But I’m not that big a fool,’ I said aloud. ‘I’ll forget I ever saw her.’ It’s not often I lie to myself, but at that moment I really believed what I said.

  Chapter 53

  Reaching the road at last, I climbed on toward Taita. On the very lip of the cliff, where the gravel road made its last tortuous twist up to the village square, stood a cafe. It was a ramshackle affair by modern standards: a converted cottage, open on one side, standing in the centre of a large stone terrace overlooking the valley. In the shadowy interior I found a surprisingly well-stocked bar and a shelf filled with locally made produce.

  This, I realized, was the villagers’ watering hole. Several of them were sitting on benches on the terrace, smoking their pipes and gossiping noisily. Tough, middle-aged men, they wore sombre black corduroy with checked shirts and red cummerbunds. I noticed their rifles were never out of reach.

  The sullen barman was sitting with the villagers. I had to wait nearly ten minutes before he decided to take my order. He had only one good eye, but it looked pretty hostile to me.

  I ordered Perrier with essence of citron and asked the barman if he knew of an inn or a boarding house where I could stay for a few nights.

  ‘No.’

  ‘A place to eat supper?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Surely there must be someone who takes in lodgers?’ I argued.

  ‘Why should there be? No one comes here.’

  My friendly overtures to the neighbouring tables also met with short shrift. Conscious of angry eyes boring into my back, I reluctantly finished my drink and left.

  As I climbed through twilight shadows toward the village, I heard footsteps gaining on me. Turning, I saw a tall blond man catching up fast. From his rifle, his corduroy trousers, and his thick boots and rucksack, I guessed he was a shepherd.

  ‘Hey there! Wait for me. Don’t think that all Corsicans behave like these surly locals,’ he said in a loud voice as he hurried to catch up. I turned and shook hands ceremoniously, since he seemed to expect that.

  His name was Antoine Romanetti, and he was lonely. Although he was from Taita, he, too, had suffered the insults of these inhospitable villagers, he explained. As I’d guessed, he was a shepherd. His sheep were grazing on common ground above the village. Later he would herd them down toward the coast.

  Each year he spent two months at home and then went down to winter pastures. He liked to gamble, and there was a good deal of opportunity to do that around the coast; but the summers were boring, for there was nothing to do
in the mountains — no gambling, no women. He would be delighted to take me home with him but it would be more courteous if I called on the priest. Father Andrews liked to meet visitors, particularly English-speaking visitors, since he, too, was a lonely man. No doubt he would ask me to stay the night.

  ‘You mustn’t judge all Taitans by the ones in that cafe,’ he went on earnestly. ‘They fancy themselves, all big landowners. The cafe is owned by Xavier Rocca, the biggest of them all, both in politics and in land. A right bastard!’

  ‘And the man who served me was Xavier Rocca?’

  ‘No, a brother-in-law, Pierre Bonnelli. One of Rocca’s poor relations. He has enough of them. Rocca wasn’t always rich, but he married well. He’s got everything except happiness. His wife’s crazy, his son’s dead, tortured to death by the Boche, and his daughter-in-law is a whore, a putana.’ He said the word contemptuously and spat on the ground. ‘It’s enough to take the joy out of any man,’ he added philosophically. ‘No one knows why he keeps her in the house. Some say in memory of his son, some say because of his grandson. He adores that child, but he never speaks to the mother. It’s thirteen years now, but not one word has he said to that putana, nor her red-headed bastard.’ He paused and then continued, ‘Well, I suppose all folks have their burdens.’

  He stopped talking and sized me up for a moment.

  ‘So what are you doing here?’ Romanetti asked.

  i’m looking for prehistoric ruins. I’m an archaeologist.'

  Take my advice. Don’t trespass on private land. Ask first. It’s safer around these parts. The priest will tell you which is common land and who owns what.’

  I shook hands and followed the shepherd’s directions to the priest’s house.

  Father Andrews was in his cups. He looked embarrassed but pleased all the same as he wiped his grimy hands over his robe.

  ‘My birthday,’ he said in a strong Irish accent, giving me an apologetic grin. ‘I’m forty-one, though I can’t believe it myself.’

  I could believe it. I’d guessed him to be pushing fifty.

  ‘Will you have a glass of wine, then?’ he ushered me to the best chair. ‘Sit here and tell me what brings a stranger to these parts. I don't often have the chance to speak my native tongue, although one member of my congregation speaks excellent English.’

  I couldn't resist staring at the priest’s desk. It was the handwriting that snared my interest: neat, concise, and straight, it covered the numerous pages scattered over the desk. A large box file lay open. It seemed to contain some sort of thesis and, judging by the number of pages — I estimated close to a thousand — represented years of work.

  it’s nothing but a foolish man’s dream,’ the priest said quickly. Then he scooped up the pages and closed the box.

  I explained about my grant and my reason for coming to Taita, and I was pleasantly surprised to find that the priest was quite knowledgeable about the history and prehistory of the island. When I showed him the hand axes my landlady had given me the priest became enthusiastic. One of the villagers had given them to him, he explained. He could not remember who. Presumably they had been found in the maquis. He had kept them on his bookcase and given them to the students because they’d seemed so interested. He was quite sure that none of them had been found on a grave.

  I tried not to show how let down I felt. I’d really hoped for something more positive. Early days! In my mind’s eye I was exploring the mountain slopes, listing the possible places for excavation, discounting others, only vaguely aware of the priest’s monologue. The poor guy had been sent to Taita for a year’s stint to complete his thesis and been stranded there like a fish in a rock pool. Some dispute over a sermon during the war had thrust him out of favour with the Vatican.

  ‘The Catholic doctrine of freedom,’ the priest explained as he filled my glass repeatedly, ‘was originally my theory, and I have my thesis to prove it.’ He hurried over to the cupboard and produced another heavy box file. ‘The germ of this idea was spawned in 1942,’ he said, To be precise, October 1942. I had to advise the villagers on their Christian duty in the face of anticipated invasion. After the war I was severely criticized by my superiors, so I continued with my research. But, of course, my real work has been on pre-Catholic religious beliefs. All that,’ he said sadly, pointing toward his desk. ‘Good stuff, believe you me.’

  Was Father Andrews touched in the head, I wondered, or was his greatest crime being ahead of his time? Did it matter? For one reason or another the priest had been left to rot in Taita while his monumental research gathered dust on the shelves.

  ‘Interesting,’ I said. But shortly afterward I regretted having said that, for, overcoming his initial shyness, the priest explained his work at length.

  Oh, God, I thought, half-asleep. I’ll be sitting here all night. As I listened to the priest, my mind was occupied with the memory of that beautiful, poignant woman I’d watched furtively. I felt compelled to know her story, but I was not quite sure how to broach the subject. I was still lusting over her beautiful body when I dozed off.

  When I woke shortly afterward, I was surprised at the change in the priest. His thick black brows met across his forehead, his mouth was set in a grim, straight line, and his chin jutted out ferociously. What a disturbing scowl! He must look fearful in the pulpit when his temper’s roused, I thought.

  ‘Well, let’s hear about your work,’ Father Andrews snorted. ‘What exactly are you after here?’

  Inwardly furious with myself for being so rude, I tried to recoup his friendship. It was vital to have the priest as my ally. Without his help it would be tough to enlist the support of the villagers. I would need food, supplies, and workers. I explained the background to my theory, the efforts I’d made to get the backing I needed and my certainty that Taita was the right village.

  ‘Let me see if I heard you correctly,’ the priest said. ‘Taita is to become a living laboratory, with you the scientist, attempting to reach back, through superstitions, customs, and traditions, to some semblance of the life of prehistoric man.’

  ‘I couldn’t have put it better,’ I said, smiling happily.

  ‘And the villagers here will be your guinea pigs?’

  ‘Well, something like that.’ I was beginning to feel uneasy. -

  ‘It’s un-Christian, immoral, and a damned impertinence to treat people like rats in a cage. Worse than that, it’s the biggest lot of baloney I’ve ever heard. Now I’ll bid you goodnight because it’s late and I’m tired. Good day to you, Walters.’

  I found myself ushered into his spare room with a speed that left me breathless. I wasn’t sure what I’d done to offend him. If only I hadn’t drunk so much wine, then I would not have fallen asleep or talked so much about myself.

  I bathed in the old-fashioned bathroom next to my room. On the way back I almost collided with Father Andrews, who was bringing me a mug of tea.

  ‘A peace offering,’ he said.

  I drank it, although I hate tea.

  ‘It would be a pity if the two of us can’t get on with each other,’ he added. ‘Particularly since we share a common language.’

  ‘My work is sometimes hard to understand,’ I said, still feeling puzzled.

  ‘Never mind that. A spell here with civilized men will do you no end of good,’ he went on.

  I wasn't going to let him embroil me in an argument, although I could see he was spoiling for a fight. I went to bed, but I could not sleep. So many of the day’s events kept flashing into my head in vivid detail.

  Overwhelmingly, I could not banish the image of the putana, standing naked by the lake. Despite her incredible beauty, she had seemed defenceless, a tragic person. I longed to know more about her. Why was she so despised? She did not look like a whore. I tried to persuade myself that my interest in the woman was merely scientific curiosity, but I knew in my heart that I was suffering from a bad dose of old-fashioned lust.

  Chapter 54

  My curiosity about the lovely C
orsican woman continued for the next few months as I dug my way around Taita. Although I found extensive evidence of Roman occupation, and one site containing ceramic beads and Iron Age artifacts, I could not locate the source of the Stone Age weapons Madame Bartoli had given me.

  By the end of the first month I’d brought up most of my equipment and worked out a pretty good routine. I camped in the bush. Each morning I woke in the chill of the predawn. By the time the sun rose, I had made and drunk my coffee, eaten a stale roll, and was on site ready for some exploratory digging. By noon it was too hot to dig. That was the best time. I would go down to the lake and swim in the ice-cold mountain water. Afternoons were set aside for collecting anthropological data.

  To me, Taita and its inhabitants had become a vital living organism. I had to document each facet of the villagers’ lives, from their waking until they went to bed. No, even more than that. I wanted to know the thoughts, feelings, longings, and day-to-day actions of the village as a group. I thought of Taita as a termitary. The villagers were the termites. Together, by their actions they kept the village alive.

  This work was not new to me. My papers on the Eskimos and the Polynesians had brought me a good deal of scientific acclaim. But this time my concentration was being weakened by my excessive interest in Sybilia Rocco.

  Instead of studying the Taitans, I would find myself studying the beautiful Corsican woman. Admittedly she was part of my investigation, wasn’t she? She was theputana, the village whore, reviled, and therefore of interest. Or at least that was how I rationalized my curiosity about her daily activities.

  In the days that followed I noted that Sybilia, being the daughter-in-law and therefore of lowly status, was always first to rise in the Rocca household. Dressed in an old skirt and blouse, her hair braided around her head, she raced from chore to chore. Apart from her hard work in the house and on the family terraces, she had also been given the task of writing up the books and checking the cash from the bistro once a week, which she did in a small dark room behind the counter.