A troop of Corsican police had arrived from Ajaccio in the night, he told me next. Inspector Rene Hiller was in charge. ‘A pompous man, between you and me,’ he continued.
It was rumoured that the young Bertoli, wanted by police for some crime in the mainland, was trying to see his mother, who was on her deathbed in Chiomia. Hiller was hoping to trap him unawares.
‘Of course his chances are virtually nil. I don’t care for Hiller much. He’s a man without compassion. Or should I say without passion? Either way, he won’t get much cooperation from the villagers.’
‘Breakfast smells real good,’ I hinted.
At last the priest pushed the feast under my nose. ‘By the way, who was it who attacked Sybilia?’ he asked innocently.
‘Who knows? A passing shepherd perhaps. She’d never seen the man before.’
The priest burst into harsh cackles of genuine mirth. ‘It was Ambrosini. The entire village knows about it. Sybilia knows him well. He’s been boasting about your shiner and lying about your precise role in the drama. That man’s a terrible crook.’ He paused. ‘Strange people, the Corsicans. They guard their hates and grudges like they guard their goats. D’you think you’re an island — something apart from all this? Let me put you wise. You’re just as vulnerable as the rest of us, and Ambrosini’s out to get you. So are his friends. So there you are, Dr Walters. See how far you’ve slipped off your damned pedestal?’
‘Tell me about Sybilia. How did she get into this mess? Who is the father of that pretty redheaded child, and where the hell is he?’ I asked. ‘What could he find anywhere else that’s better than what he left here?’ I felt I had to know. Sybilia’s plight was becoming an obsession.
‘I doubt your curiosity is as scientific as you would like me to believe,’ the priest said. ‘Why don’t you ask her yourself, since you’re so interested? Just remember one thing — you’ve been hanging around a long time, poking your nose into the villagers’ affairs. You think you’re invisible, a camera, perhaps, something apart, but you’ll surely find you bleed red blood — just like the rest of us.’
Chapter 60
As I emerged from the priest’s house, I saw Xavier Rocca loitering in the square. He strode over and clapped me on the back. His smile was compelling. Good humour oozed out of him. He ignored my obvious bruises and, to my astonishment, invited me to join him and his friends for a drink at the cafe.
An invitation to the White House couldn’t have pleased me more. This was the big breakthrough I had been hoping for, or so I thought at the time. I wondered if Rocca had heard about Sybilia’s attack and this was his way of thanking me, although the subject was too delicate for him to mention. In my self-induced state of narcosis, I decided that was the case.
Rocca introduced me to several of his cronies, most of whom I’d seen around: there was Jean Pinelli, the cheese maker; Louis Padovani, the cabinetmaker, a careworn man with a twitching eye; Marcel Leca, the local blacksmith, who looked born to his trade with his big hands and enormous strength. Francois Castelli, the cobbler, seemed to be wasting away from tuberculosis. There were deep grooves in his cheeks and a look of suffering in his dark brown eyes.
The small talk in Taita differed considerably from that of Boston, and I battled to join in, for the conversation centred around the rival clans of Corsican politics, and I soon discovered that allegiances were formed around clan personalities rather than bread-and-butter issues. Hunting and shooting were the other two topics of interest, and I tried to angle an invitation to join them, with no luck.
Consequently I was all the more astounded when Xavier Rocca, with an air of a conspirator, produced a bucket from behind the counter and solemnly gave me six Mousterian hand-axes, which some children had collected for me, he said. He even fetched two of them to tell me exactly where they had found them.
Later, as I hugged the precious bucket, Rocca pulled me aside and told me that he had managed to persuade six leading villagers to allow me to excavate on their land. He handed me a crude, hand-drawn map, marked where the children had found the hand-axes, in the fields that I now had permission to excavate.
In one hour my opinion of the villagers had been knocked into a cocked hat. I was exhilarated enough to pay for drinks all round several times. My aches and pains dissolved in this euphoria and I remember thinking that Rocca really was one hell of a guy.
After that the party livened up. Castelli produced his accordion, and several men, including Rocca, sang and danced quite well.
Then to my surprise, Romanetti the shepherd began to sing in a hoarse, compelling voice. Perhaps it was the wine, but I had never before felt so moved. When I left at last, I was amazed to find that it was mid afternoon. We’d been drinking for hours.
Goddamnit! I could squirm when I remember that day — even now. To be so naive — a mossback like me. Afterward, my views of the relationship between myself and the villagers did an about-turn. While I was studying them, they were studying me, and I was damn near caught in the rip.
Of course, every man in Taita knew where the ruins lay. They deliberately sent me to excavate around the opposite side of the lake, about as far away from the ruins as I could possibly get. Months would be lost, archaeologically speaking, as I went digging southward. Anthropologically speaking, however, this time was invaluable, for I merged into the background as the village idiot, accepted, tolerated, but mainly ignored. This gave me inroads into the Taitan households.
Chapter 61
By evening I was feeling ill. My bruises were still sore, I was hungover and I was once again in need of a good meal. Shivering and damp, I rifled in the wooden box, which was my larder, and found two stale rolls, hard as stones. I’d eat them both now and hope to buy something at the cafe next morning. Obtaining food was becoming an obsession. Some days I would return from the coast laden with all I could carry, only to find the cafe shelves stocked with pies, eggs, sausage, and freshly baked bread. But when I took a chance, the shelves were invariably empty.
I sat on a stone and tried to munch one of the rolls. Eventually I dunked it in my tea, and it promptly dissolved. Oh, hell!
Suddenly I saw a flicker of light in the darkness. I grabbed my night glasses, jumped on a rock, and scanned the maquis. There was a lantern carried by hand, and it was moving purposefully toward me. From time to time, I thought I saw the outline of the climber, but he or she was deliberately keeping out of sight.
As the figure neared camp I realized with a jolt that it was Sybilia. For a moment I felt an unreasonable hope. Was she coming to demonstrate her thanks? As she came into the camp I noticed that she looked so unattractive in her dowdy black clothes, her hair scraped back in a tight bun, her skirts long enough to cover the top of the clumsy men’s boots she habitually wore. If I had not seen her naked, I would never have known how lovely her body was. I felt angry, both with her and with myself. I wondered what she wanted. At least I could offer her some tea. I picked up a saucepan and torch and hurried to the river for water.
When I returned, I startled her. ‘I thought you weren’t here,’ she stammered. Then she pulled herself together and smiled. ‘I came to thank you,’ she said. ‘And I brought you some food and, of course, your jersey.’
I pounced on the basket. ‘Hey, but this is great.’ I couldn’t believe my luck: sausage, pastries, fresh bread, olives, fruit, cheese, olive oil — I unpacked it carefully and filled the larder.
‘Wine! Hey! I’ll tell you what. We’ll celebrate right now. I’ve only one mug, but you get first sip.’ After a moment’s hesitation and a quick glance around to make sure no one was watching, Sybilia crouched near the fire.
‘You’ll be racked with rheumatism like the shepherds if you persist in sleeping and sitting on this damp ground,’ she said, looking shy and very prim. ‘They are all crippled by the time they reach thirty. Hadn’t you noticed?’
‘I noticed they’re ferociously strong.’ I fingered my eye tenderly and grinned. ‘Your English is really s
omething,’ I said to bridge the awkward silence, although to tell the truth it was just a bit too perfect to be real. A few mistakes would have sounded less contrived.
‘Yes, perhaps,’ she said, sipping the wine and taking care not to swallow much while pretending to be at ease. ‘I have an ear for languages. A gift which I neglect.’
It was a chilly night. She shivered and pulled her shawl around her shoulders. ‘I came to thank you… for what you did… you saved me, and I… I am grateful.’
‘Think nothing of it,’ I said lightly. ‘All this food… it simply wasn’t necessary, although to tell the truth I’m grateful, top. So we’re quits. I saved you from attack. You saved me from certain starvation.’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘You do look thin.’
‘Sure am.’ I cut some bread on a large flat stone with an army survival knife, placed a wedge of sausage on it and handed it to her, but she shook her head.
‘Thank you; I supped at home quite adequately,’ she said. 'Supped?’ Oh, heck! You need English lessons, Sybilia, and Vm volunteering for the job.
‘Not supped,’ I growled. ‘That word’s archaic. “I ate,’’ or you could say”I dined,’’ but that would really mean something pretty formal. Maybe you are formal at home, are you? Well, you’ve done your duty. I guess you want to go. It’s cold and dark.’ I didn’t seem able to get through to her, and that irritated me.
Sybilia made no move to get up. She flushed and bit her lip. I wondered what she wanted. ‘Tell me about your work,’ she whispered. ‘What exactly are you doing here?’
I was only too delighted to oblige. I was lonely, after all. I began at the beginning and took a great deal of pleasure in winding through my theories and my objectives.
Eventually she interrupted me: ‘Well, the fact that you’ve been studying our customs makes it so much easier for me,’ she said brightly. ‘Of course you will understand when I ask you, please, do not pursue this matter of my attack any further.’
‘Come again?’
‘You were foolhardy to tell Father Andrews about the attack,’ she persisted. ‘Fortunately he is a most trustworthy person, and it will go no further. So please, tell no one. Let us remain silent, otherwise the consequences would be disastrous for me.’
I frowned. What could I say? ‘Sybilia, I’m sorry. I took the easy way out because I didn’t want to get involved. So I left it in the priest’s hands, but of course you will bring charges.’
‘Why… no… I can’t do that.’ She took a deep breath. ‘You see, I would be dishonoured. Ruined! Do you understand?’
‘Maybe I do. I think you’re too damned scared to face up to the villagers. Or maybe you enjoy being called the putana. Are you some sort of a masochist? Do you like being kicked around?’ I knew that wasn’t true. I wanted to hurt. Sybilia’s placid acceptance of her fate was goading me into a harsh temper.
She gave a small cry. ‘Oh, how insulting!’ She leaned forward and slapped my face.
Well, at least I got through to her, I thought. For a moment we stared at each other.
‘How dare you insult me.’
‘Sybilia,’ I began, trying to make amends. ‘I was trying to shock you into doing something about it. I want you to know what the people will think if you don’t bring charges.’
‘No one will know ’
‘Everyone knows. How d’you think I found out Ambro-sini’s name? He’s been boasting around the village that he found you and me having it off under the bushes. I don’t know if anyone will believe him, but they’ll all have a go at you, because you’re already disonorata. That’s the word, isn’t it? You could become the target for every homy shepherd in the mountains. Now either you bring charges, or I will.’
I broke off, feeling confused. Sybilia was crying into her handkerchief, and I wasn’t sure she was listening. Besides, I’d had time to remind myself that this had nothing to do with me. Everytime I saw this woman, I lost my professional cool. She was distracting me.
When she was calmer I said: ‘Do as you wish, Sybilia. But don’t kid yourself. You’re outside local society because of something you’ve done in the past. Consequently your only protection is the French law. Believe me.’
‘Why are you so horrible? You have no right to say these things,’ she sobbed. ‘You don’t know what you are talking about. It all happened long ago. People have forgotten.’
‘You know I’m making sense. You’re not a fool.’
She shuddered. Eventually she dried her eyes. ‘You saved me and I’m grateful, but that doesn’t give you the right to lecture me.’
‘You’re absolutely right. I can’t imagine what got into me.’ I munched the sausage and waited for her to pull herself together. At last she said: ‘I’ve tried very hard to live down the past.’
‘Sybilia,' I said carefully, kngwing that it would be better to say nothing, ‘you’ve got yourself all socked in with this honour business. You’re pushing yourself down — and for nothing. You won’t regain your self-respect on their terms. They’ve got the lowdown on you. Although I don’t know how or why. Put yourself above them. Somewhere so different that they can’t judge you. And to start with, for God’s sake, bring Ambrosini to justice. Don’t waste time. I’ll back you."You mean well, and you’re a kind man, I can see that. I don’t understand why you wish to involve yourself.’
Because you’re the most desirable woman I’ve ever met. Because you ‘re quite special to me, although Vm not sure why — not yet. 'Noble’ would describe you rather well. You’re also the saddest woman Vve ever seen.
I decided to ignore her question. ‘Stand tall, Sybilia. Don’t let them wipe their feet on you ever again.’ She picked up her basket and fled. I followed her for part of the way.
I wish I were someone different, I thought as I walked slowly back to my camp. I wish I could do more for her. As it is, I can only record and observe. That’s all I’m good at.
It was a bad night. The sort of night that called for a drink. I raided my medicine box and finished off the brandy. I was still watching the following morning, sitting on a well-positioned vantage rock with my binoculars, nursing a sore head and recording the comings and goings of the inhabitants before I settled into a new digging site. I saw Hiller return from Chiornia, accompanied by several police, with a prisoner in chains. Presumably they had caught Bertoli at last.
Later I saw Sybilia and Maria go to the priest’s house, where Hiller was staying. I noticed that Sybilia’s hair was dressed in a more becoming way around her face, and she was wearing a white blouse and smart shoes. Perhaps I’d gotten through to her after all. The women stayed there for half an hour, then they left.
Hiller took two police with him to the cafe. He was there for a while, but he emerged alone later. During that time I saw Ambrosini walk into the cafe. He was still there when Hiller left.
‘What the hell…? What the hell…?’ I mumbled to myself, feeling furious. In spite of my renewed determination not to interfere, I decided to pack up work for the day and see Hiller myself.
Chapter 62
Inspector Rene Hiller had cultivated a military bearing. He was tail and thin, clean-shaven, with shrewd grey eyes, neat, trimmed moustache, and boots like mirrors in spite of the dusty road he had travelled that morning. I found myself taking an instantaneous dislike to him, although I wasn’t sure why.
As soon as I’d introduced myself and explained my mission, he lectured me in his cultured French on the folly of interfering in the purely domestic affairs of rural Corsicans.
I listened in amazed fury. Shit. He's trespassing on my beat. I wondered why I should find my own advice so contemptuous when heard from other lips.
‘They’re curious people,’ Hiller said, rubbing his hands as he warmed to his theme. ‘Primitive, savage, ungrateful. Dealing with a Corsican is like handling a keg of dynamite. You never know when it will blow up. Take my advice, don’t get involved.’
Encouraged by my silence, he added: ‘You migh
t find yourself wiped out without mercy — just for interfering. In fact, if I were you, I’d move on.’
‘That’s out of the question,’ I muttered.
‘Ambrosini will be out to get you. So will his friends. Rocca would shoot you through the back, like a dog, just for touching his daughter-in-law. You went overboard and carried her home, or so I was told by the priest. Then there’s my police. They’re not French, unfortunately, but Corsican. They’re inclined to shoot first and ask second. If you hang around here, stick to what you know and leave law and justice tome.’
I tried to control myself. ‘Let’s get to the point,’ I said. ‘Did Sybilia Rocca bring charges against him?’
‘She did.’
‘So why didn’t you arrest Ambrosini?’
The inspector was filled with his own self-importance and clearly enjoying himself. He simply pressed his lips together and smiled.
Angered by his attitude, I unleashed a barrage of accusations: ‘I fully corroborate her evidence: assault and battery… attempted rape… abusive language… polluting the atmosphere, he stank like an old goat. I can identify him positively, even by his smell.’
‘No doubt you could, my dear doctor,’ Hiller crowed, waving his hands like an animated octopus. ‘But Ambrosini just produced a dozen witnesses who swore he was in the mountains with them at the time of the assault on Madame Rocca and you. They also swore that Sybilia was touched in the head and regularly saw visions.’
‘Do you think I see visions?’
‘Ah. Who knows? You have a certain frenetic look about you.’
I sucked in a deep breath. ‘So what are you doing about it?’
Hiller hesitated. ‘What can I do?’ He lifted his hands in an attitude of despair, but his face showed only satisfaction. ‘I must take the word of twelve villagers, all landowners — big fish in this stagnant little pond. We’ve added attempted rape and assault to a long list of crimes perpetrated by person or persons unknown in these barbarous backwoods. As for Ambrosini, he swears he scraped his knuckles in a mountain fall, and three more witnesses saw him do it.
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