Later that morning, at break, I saw her sitting alone in the clearing behind the school, eating her roll. The other pupils appeared to be ignoring her.
At one A.M. the school bell tolled and the children came running out. Jules was one of the first. He raced off down the forest path toward Taita. Obviously he intended to continue ignoring his sister as he had always done at home.
Eventually Ursuline came out. She looked serious, but not upset. She climbed up the bank and joined me at the side of the trench.
‘My goodness, what a morning,’ she said.
‘How did it go?’
‘Oh, so-so.’
She had an unusually low voice for a girl of her age: her mother’s voice. To an outsider, I guessed she would seem precocious, but that was natural when you remembered that she spent her days with adults. She was tall for thirteen. At the moment she reminded me of a stick insect: long skinny limbs, huge eyes, and very little else.
We shared lunch, but she seemed preoccupied.
‘What’s a bastard, Dr Walters?’ she asked gravely, catching me unawares.
‘Call me Jock,’ I said, playing for time. ‘Why d’you want to know?’
‘You can tell me the truth, Jock,’ she said. ‘I have to know.’
I explained as gently as I could.
‘Is that all?’ She stared at me haughtily, but her eyes were swimming with tears and she looked pale. ‘I expect that Mother and he were too busy to get married,’ she said. ‘You see, they both worked very hard in the war. Papa flew here from America to help free Corsica. He was a very brave man. He had to leave in a hurry to help free the rest of France. He was killed,’ she explained in a moment of pure inspiration. ‘He was coming back to fetch Mother and me, but he was killed in the war. Yes,’ she added, her eyes looking at me wistfully. ‘For sure he’s dead.’
She bent her head, unwilling to let me see that her cheeks were wet with tears.
Two bars of chocolate later, she brightened up. ‘I asked Mama if Father was like you,’ she confided.
‘Oh, yes?’I mumbled.
‘She said you’re taller than he was and a bit younger than he would be now. He had red hair like mine. Yours is dark brown, but you both have blue eyes.’
She broke off and stared up at me. ‘You’ve got funny eyes,’ she said. ‘They’re not like other people’s eyes. They’re too light.’
‘I see well enough,’ I snapped.
‘Mama says your voices are very similar, and you are both very strong.’
I decided to change the subject. ‘What did you learn at school today, Ursuline?’
‘Corsican history. Tell me,’ she said, ‘who was the greatest Corsican who ever lived?’
‘Napoleon,’ I said, and watched her face take on an expression of contempt.
‘No. It was Paola. Pasquale Paola. Never Napoleon?’
‘And why not Napoleon?’ I asked.
‘Napoleon was a great man, but more French than Corsican,’ Ursuline said excitedly. ‘Being born in Corsica does not make you a Corsican. To be Corsican you must be patriotic. You must do great things for your country and dream great dreams — just as Paola did.
‘Mother says Paola is someone we need badly now,’ she added. ‘He gave us laws that were more modern than anyone else’s. After the French took over, he longed to free Corsica of foreign rule, but he never succeeded, even though he spent his whole life fighting for Corsican freedom. He was a great statesman and fighter. He made the world see how brave Corsicans are. In America, Paola was thought of as a hero, and three towns were named for him. Do you know where they are?’
‘Don’t you think you should be getting along?’ I said wearily. ‘Your mother will be worried about you.’
‘Oh, all right.’ She left reluctantly. Shortly afterward I heard yells and screams coming from the forest. I raced along the path. At the edge of the glade I saw Ursuline surrounded by schoolmates, but far from beaten. She was kicking and hitting out with her fists. What a little tiger she was.
I was about to dive in and haul her out when I saw Jules racing back toward the children. A moment later he was in the midst of the fray, punching and swearing. He looked murderous.
I left them fighting back to back. I had a feeling that I shouldn’t interfere. Together they were more than a match for the village toughs, but I hung around within earshot, just in case. Among the yells and shrieks and taunts, I heard Jules call: ‘Leave my sister alone! If you insult her, or if you touch her again, you’ll have me to deal with.’
So the Rocca children had found something to pull them together after all.
Chapter 57
Progress report to Prof. D Miller
As I write this report to you, I am sitting in a tent beside my preliminary dig, overlooking the village Taita, which will be the object of my studies for the next few years. I’ve been crabbing around here for a while now, and I haven’t found my site. Vll swear it's here. Thanks for your confirmation of the date of the artifacts. I knew the hand-axes were Mousterian. Somewhere up here lies their ancient base — I’m homing in on it.
My village is exactly right. It's primitive — truly primitive. Most of their livelihood is pre-Neolithic. Can you imagine? They actually hunt for much of their food: birds, wild boars, buck, rabbits — hunting is the principal pastime of most Corsican males. Their basic foodstuff — that is, chestnuts — are gathered by the women. (Strange to think that the hunting-gathering life-style could endure for so many centuries.) Of course, they also practise a little agriculture, but haphazardly and without much enthusiasm. They have a few vines and olives, introduced by Roman colonists centuries ago. They grow a few crops reluctantly — no more than they need to consume or barter. They herd sheep, and the women have spinning wheels to spin their yarn and looms, from which they weave a thick, warm fabric.
The men are delightfully archaic. They boast that the only thing a Corsican man ever carries is a coffin. For the rest the women act as beasts of burden. The men hunt, fight, sit around in cafes talking politics by the hour, and expect to be waited on hand and foot by their women, who do most of the work.
Traditional mores bind their lifestyle: examples are their traditional marriages, the belief in ghost funerals, their strange mourning rites, the vendetta (the word and custom originated in Corsica, incidentally. and the existence of mazzeris, women who go into trances and predict death (accurately, if one can believe the local priest). My theory is that they’re the direct descendants of the high priestesses of ancient Stone Age cultures. There’s a famous mazzeri in Taita. Everyone knows about her, but I have not yet been able to find out who she is.
When I find my site, excavating it is not going to be as easy as I’d imagined. First, there’s no accommodation available in Taita. When winter comes Til have a rough time sleeping out or lose hours each day travelling from an inn at the coast.
None of the locals has any intention of hiring themselves as labourers. That would be demeaning for a Corsican. Every man here is a prince. Even the French authorities have to employ ‘Macaronis’ to build Corsican roads. I may have to import Algerian diggers. This is complicated and requires permission from local authorities. Meantime, because of the difficult terrain, I have to carry all my equipment up and down a steep cliff to get here.
l’m hanging in here and will write again soon. As you probably guessed, the object of this letter is to enclose my expenses for the past three months. Please refund soonest.
Best wishes, Jock.
Chapter 58
I was excavating a cave overlooking a field above the forest when I heard a call: ‘Who’s there… there… there…?’
As the echoes ran around the mountains, I could sense the caller’s fear but saw nothing. Below me was only a thick white mist stretching to the far horizon.
‘Hello,’ I called.
A feeling of unease prompted me to abandon my dig and hurry down the hillside.
Incredible mist. So thick. Goddamnit. I b
lundered into a ditch and fell heavily. I was being a fool, I thought. Yet something about the voice had reminded me of Sybilia Rocca. Could she be in trouble? I ran on and at last reached the forest where it was even worse. Visibility was down to a couple of yards, making it tough to follow the path. The mist seemed to press in and around me, choking sound. I began to feel disoriented. I had no idea which way to go, nor from which direction the cry had come. I shivered and swore. Then I decided to try to find my way back to my dig’. It was typical autumn alpine weather, one minute so warm and the next freezing.
When I heard the river rushing over stones, I felt relieved. I could follow its path upstream. I was on the way back when I heard a sharp scream of fright. It was far away and downhill. I set off down the bank again, slipping on sodden leaves.
I thought I heard a curse and a low moan. I wasn’t sure, so I stood still, listening. There it was again, nearer now. But where? The sound seemed to echo from all around.
Where the hell is she? A shrill scream, suddenly silenced, turned my skin to goose pimples. I was sure it was Sybilia. I felt panic and a sense of futility. ‘What the hell’s going on?’ I muttered aloud. ‘Where the hell is she?’
Another scream. Surely she was not more than fifty yards away.
‘Keep screaming,’ I shouted. ‘I’m trying to find you. Yell, for God’s sake. Yell!’
I heard muffled groaning, then a stifled curse. They were just beyond the dense thicket ahead of me. I charged through the bush, head down, and burst out, scattering twigs and branches. I was almost on top of them before I saw them.
It was Sybilia. She lay spread-eagled on the ground, her face covered with mud. Over her sprawled a filthy, unshaven man. He looked like a tramp, but he was probably a shepherd.
A split second told me everything: her eyes wide and staring with fear, her skirt pushed up around her thighs, her blouse ripped apart. Even in that moment of horror, I noticed how lovely she was.
I bellowed with rage and sprang on the shepherd, intent on beating him to a pulp.
He twisted aside and reached for his rifle. I flung myself at it and kicked it into the ditch. Then I grappled with the bastard around the hips and eventually flung him down. I was fighting a professional. Thank God I was still able to recognize that, in spite of my rage.
My right fist lashed out, and the shepherd ducked. We fell with flailing arms and legs into the bracken-filled ditch beside the river. Then we were scrambling around in the slimy mud, exchanging blows, fighting dirty with anything that came to hand. The shepherd knew all the right moves, and so did I. But I was younger and fitter.
After a few minutes the man’s breath was rasping and his strength was failing. I caught the thick wrestler’s neck between my hands, squeezed, and kept squeezing. Chest heaving, his face brick red, the man reached around and grasped a branch. He brought it down with a ferocious crack on my head.
That hurt. I nearly passed out but managed to hang on. Slowly I increased the pressure of my fingers and watched that ugly face turn from red to mottled purple.
The shepherd broke free, and for a few minutes we were wallowing in the mud again. Then a sudden, sharp swing of a dead branch caught me across the eyes. For a split second I could see only a red glow. The shepherd bolted into the thicket.
I found his gun and fired over his head. A flurry of panic-stricken birds soared from the branches. I guess the shepherd knew I wouldn’t shoot him, for he kept going.
Sybilia had run a hundred yards downhill and collapsed behind a bush. She was mumbling a prayer over and over.
‘Let’s go,’ I said. I flung the rifle into a ditch and kicked some leaves over it.
She tried to stand but collapsed. Then she burst into tears. I helped her to her feet, but she keeled over again. After a few more tries, I caught hold of her and hoisted her over my shoulder. Together we slid down the riverbank.
Hours later, it seemed, we reached the mossy bridge. Trying not to lose my footing, I stumbled across. I was talking breathlessly all the time, trying to calm her. I can’t remember exactly what I said, something about killing that bastard if it was the last thing I did.
By the time I reached the outskirts of Taita, Sybilia had recovered sufficiently to speak coherently.
‘Put me down. Someone might see us,’ she complained.
I lowered her to the ground and steadied her. Blushing, she tried to pull her clothes together, but her blouse was irretrievably ruined.
‘Here. Take my jersey.’ It was covered in mud. I wished I’d been wearing something warmer.
She was still shaking, so I took her arm.
‘Where’s the mule? Where’s Pierre?’ she muttered.
‘I’ll look for him afterward. Don’t worry,’ I tried to reassure her. ‘What were you doing in the forest?’
‘Gathering mushrooms, of course. Now I’ll have to start all over again.’
‘And who was that stinking pig who attacked you?’
‘How should I know? A passing shepherd perhaps.’
I gripped her arm tighter, i’ll find him,’ I promised.
‘Oh, no. Don’t interfere. I’m sorry — ’ She checked a sob. Then she gripped my arm and looked up at me imploringly. ‘I’m grateful to you. Truly grateful, but please don’t get involved. This has nothing to do with you. Goodbye, and thank you again.’
‘I’ll see you safely home,’ I said.
‘No, really, you must let me go. How long have you been here? Yet you are still a stranger to our ways. Believe me, it would be better for you… for both of us… if you would let me go on alone. Please.’
‘No longer a stranger,’ I argued. ‘Surely we’re friends.’
She did not answer. Regretfully, I watched her hurry away. Then I shrugged and went back to camp to clean myself up.
Chapter 59
I awoke to a feeling of intense discomfort. My bruises were coming out, and every joint ached. Sleeping out was a pain in the ass, particularly in October at this altitude, where it was damp and cold and the ground was stony. I was damned if I would admit that the shepherd was partially responsible for my pain and stiffness.
I sat up and pushed my head through the tent flap. It was still dark, and all I could see were the ghostly white shapes of bushes and stones covered with frost reflecting the starlight.
I dived back into my sleeping bag but couldn’t stop shivering. It was too early to get up, but too cold to stay on the ground. Eventually I clambered out, pulled my trousers and sweater over my pyjamas, and lit a fire. Half an hour later, croucht: beside a roaring blaze, with a mug of hot coffee in my hand, I fell cheerful enough to watch the dawn break over the mountains.
I had a pretty good system for shaving: a mirror on a tree near the fire with a basin hanging below. When I peered into the mirror, I flinched with disgust. My face was swollen, one eye was almost closed, and I had a deep gash on my temple. My face was too tender to shave properly. After I’d cut myself twice, I abandoned the attempt.
The morning continued much the same as it had begun. My head throbbed when I tried to dig. The ground was frozen hard, and my fingers were numb with cold. Worst of all was my lack of concentration. I couldn’t clear my mind of the image of Sybilia, stripped half-naked and screaming with terror. Uppermost was the disturbing sense of fear. What if I hadn’t been there? What if it should happen again? Who would protect her next time?
I was puzzled by my concern. It was none of my business, I lectured myself. I was here to study the Taitans. This material was great stuff: the local whore, having broken the traditional moral code, was condemned to lifelong punishment, jointly and severally administered by a wrathful community. Cruel, but interesting. A valuable insight into primitive law enforcement. Any other concern of mine would be highly unprofessional, or so I lectured myself that frosty morning. Lust was forgivable, passion was not.
Eventually I decided to report the attempted rape to Father Andrews and wash my hands of the affair. The priest was not in the ch
urch, or in his house, but a wrought-iron gate around the back stood open. I walked into a walled garden, and found Father Andrews digging his vegetable plot. It was a well-tended garden of about half an acre with flowers between the vegetables and a statue of St Patrick at one end, a bench beside a fountain at the other.
‘Good morning, Father Andrews,’ I called out.
‘The top of the morning to you. What brings you from your work at this time of day?’ The priest looked me up and down and grinned. ‘By God, the clinical Dr Walters stumbled into a fight. Did you forget to mention you’re an uninvolved observer?’ Eventually he stopped laughing.
I forced a grin and told him what had happened as briefly as I could.
‘I don’t want to get involved with the villagers’ squabbles,’ I told him, trying to sound reasonable. I could see by his face that he was disappointed in me. He’d spent many of the past months trying to convince me that every man was my brother, not my laboratory animal.
‘I’m here to record village customs,’ I argued in the face of his scowls. ‘It’s not my job to push them into the twentieth century. Maybe it’s your responsibility — I don’t know. Do what you feel best. If Madame Rocca should lay a charge. I’m prepared to bear witness…’
‘Oh… you’re prepared,’ said the priest. ‘Is it a matter of choice? Well, it’s glad I am to see you're sufficiently human to help a maiden in distress. And a fine shiner you have for your trouble. All right. I’ll let you scramble back into your ivory tower. I’ll speak to Sybilia myself. Does that eye hurt much?’
‘No.’ He could be infuriating sometimes.
‘Come and have a bite to eat, Dr Walters. You look as if you haven’t eaten a good meal for days. Stiff-necked and grey-faced as an old woman you are, to be sure.’
I couldn’t resist the temptation of a hot breakfast. I warmed myself by the fire and listened to the priest’s gossip as he bustled around the kitchen. Delicious odours kept teasing my nose: eggs sizzling iri butter and cream, bacon grilling over hot coals, bread warming in the oven. The priest seemed to be in no hurry to hand over breakfast. I sat bemused and starving while he prattled on, describing the births and deaths and illnesses of his entire congregation.
The Corsican Woman Page 30