‘Don’t take it so hard,’ Hiller said with a cold triumph. ‘Let them get on with their lives their way. They’re ignorant, intolerant, lazy, and not worth a glimpse of charity.
‘Now, my dear doctor, let’s think about lunch. If we were in Ajaccio, I could take you to some excellent seafood restaurants where they make the most delightful bouillabaisse, but as it is, Father Andrews’s housekeeper is cooking some rabbit en cocotte. A change, at least, and the priest maintains a really fine cellar. He’s promised to let me try his Clos Marfisi. Won’t you join me?’
‘Thanks, but no,’ I muttered. I turned abruptly, intending to leave without saying good-bye, but the inspector stopped me.
‘One moment, Dr Walters. You seem to me to be very naive. Excuse me for presuming to lecture you as if I were an older man, but perhaps I am more experienced in these matters. You’re very taken with Sybilia Rocca, I can see. Don’t lose your reputation, and possibly your life, for the sake of this temptress. Corsican women are renowned for their beauty, but they are untouchable.
‘Did you know that three hundred of your compatriots disappeared in Corsica in the last war? Against orders they became involved in just such dangerous liaisons, and they disappeared. No clues. No corpses. Nothing! We have no leads.
‘Sybilia Rocca is a whore. Her reputation did not come unearned, I assure you. In any case, all women are whores by nature. Some are cheap to come by, some want a lifetime’s devotion and upkeep, plus a pension thrown in. Cheap or costly, it amounts to the same thing. Take a week off in Nice, why don’t you? Forget Sybilia!’
‘You’re mistaken. I’m not at all involved. It’s a question of justice,’ I snarled. And with that, I turned and left hurriedly.
In the café the usual crowd of shepherds and landowners were gossiping at the tables on the terrace and drinking eau de vie. As usual, there was nothing to eat there. In the background the young shepherd Romanetti was singing a strange Corsican lament without accompaniment, the words and the melody pouring out of him.
After the first raw brandy I found myself responding to the music. How strange it was: part Arab, part Oriental, a hint of Gregorian chanting; surely the sound went back to the very dawn of Mediterranean music. The untamed pagan voice seemed to hit me in the stomach. It was like a war cry! I ordered another brandy and tossed it back.
Later, with a sense of being baited and trapped, I watched Ambrosini walk in. The shepherd sat at a table alone, which was strange in itself, since so many of the villagers had committed perjury for him.
Sobering to think that there is no shelter of American law here. In a way it's rather chilling. There's no one, absolutely no one, to see that justice is done. That creep is smiling to himself. Why not? He got away with it, didn’t he? He'll try again. Next time I won’t be there.
Was this the whole reason for the depression in which I seemed to be drowning? I’ve always reasoned myself out of bad moods and anger. I ordered another cognac and drank it slowly, gazing at the wall while trying to work out what was bothering me.
Ambrosini has knocked my theories into a cocked hat. Primitive law doesn’t exist. The weak pander to the strong. The strong rule the weak. The essential goodness and justice of mankind is just a myth. There’s no justice here. Consequently I feel angry and frightened. I’ve always sat back and let other people keep my world safe. Bands of highly skilled and trained lawmen. Now they’re not here, so what am I going to do?
I waved to the barman, who placed another cognac on the table. Then I looked up and saw, to my amazement, that Ambrosini had stood up and was watching me and making a rude gesture with one hand while fingering his stiletto with the other. His smile was as vicious as the glint of the knife blade.
I lurched to my feet and flung my chair headlong at Ambrosini, catching him in the chest. As he fell, momentarily off balance, I thrust the edge of my hand against his neck, pinning him to the wall. His knife clattered to the floor. I'd got him this time. I homed in for the kill, both hands around his neck, my knee against his stomach. I squeezed with all my strength, enjoying the sense of satisfied hate and his flesh pulsating against my fingers.
Ambrosini was making weird choking noises. I heard him indistinctly beyond the roaring in my ears. I couldn’t see too well. There was only that disturbing purple-veined face in a sea of mist. A face that must be obliterated. Tell them you did it, you bastard. Tell them you did it.’
It took four men to drag me off. I heard someone yelling hoarsely: 'Let me kill the bastard. Let me at him.’ Then I realized it was I who was shouting.
Rubbing his neck and looking very pale, Ambrosini retrieved his knife and left quickly. The villagers dumped me onto a chair and returned to their tables without saying a word. I looked at them wonderingly — all Rocca’s cronies. They knew what had happened. Every last one of the bastards.
I ordered a coffee. Still, no one said anything. I threw some cash on the table and left.
Incredible! Insanel I was panting heavily as I laboured up the track to the fountain. The October sunlight was blinding, but I felt cold and my head ached. What time was it, for God’s sake? Only three o’clock. A bad time for drinking.
What the hell had got into me? Imagine acting like a Corsican. All passion and no sense. That's no way to carry on. Where's the logic in itl I’d forgotten about Ambrosini. I leaned over the horse trough and ducked my head in twice. As I bent over for the third time, I heard footsteps behind me and swung around. Too late! The knife slashed my wrist as I flung up one arm but I managed to catch hold of his knife.
‘You’re a glutton for punishment,’ I gasped as I knocked Ambrosini headlong with a vicious right hook. As he fell I kicked him in the stomach, but not hard enough. The shepherd ran, doubled up, into the cemetery, presumably en route to the forest.
I picked up the stiletto and examined it. & wicked-looking blade, sharp as a razor, with some words engraved in the local dialect. I’d work it out later, I decided as I thrust it in my pocket. Right now I was bleeding like a stuck pig. All the same, I was thankful for my military training. It had saved my life.
I turned back to the fountain and attempted to stop the bleeding with ice-cold water, but the blood kept flowing. I was beginning to feel faint. Looking around, I wondered what would happen if I passed out. Probably nothing. I would lie there until I died or the pigs ate me. I wondered if I could reach the church.
Around the edge of the square people were loitering. They were watching me, wondering what I would do. No one came to my aid, but no one had helped Ambrosini, either. Silent watchers. That was my job, wasn't it? God, what a mess I’d made of everything. What a fool!
I heard someone calling: ‘Dr Walters, come with me, please.’
Tm hallucinating,’ I said as Sybilia grabbed my elbow and supported me with her shoulder.
‘Don’t say anything, just walk,’ she snapped. ‘I thought you were different. I thought you used your head, not your fists. I thought you had some brains.’
‘I thought all that, too,’ I gasped. ‘Just shows how wrong we both were.’
She guided me into the kitchen where Maria clucked over me, stitched my wrist, oblivious to my pain, bandaged me, and gave me strong black coffee.
‘I knew it was a mistake to bring charges but you would have your own way,’ Sybilia said eventually in English. ‘You should have believed me. Madness! Now your life is in danger, and mine will be a living hell.’ Her two children hung around the doorway, eyeing me suspiciously.
It was clearly time to leave. Maria had packed a basket of food, which she handed to me without comment. Sybilia was silent. As soon as I could stand, they opened the door. I made my unsteady way up the goat’s track to the camp.
Was that me? That crazy loon? What's come over me? I never lost my temper before. Or at least not like that. I never tried to kill a man. And why? Because he got away with something he shouldn’t have got away with.
Chapter 63
My last box of matches, and
the goddamn fire won't light. No food, but I could at least have a cup of black coffee if this frigging wood would catch. Just look at them down there! Chimneys smoking. Windows fastened. Selfish buggers, every last one of them. I could die of cold, and they probably wouldn't find me until the spring. Even then they'd walk right around my corpse.
It was a dreary Monday morning. It had rained for five days, and the maquis was a slippery nightmare of mud. The bushes, drenched and bedraggled, looked sadly beaten; the mountains loomed grey and sombre under a leaden sky. I now understood why the shepherds were crippled with rheumatism. I stretched painfully and bent over the fire that I’d been trying to light in the mouth of a shallow cave. I’d been trying for over an hour.
I can’t remember when I first started talking to myself, but it seemed to keep the silence at bay. I was still swearing at the damp sticks when a boy of about sixteen ran past. He was calling my name. He turned sharply at my answering shout and scrambled up the steep slope to the cave.
He was a tall, good-looking.boy with black hair, blue eyes, and a fine physique. He stood in the drizzle staring at me with a look that I could best describe as distant. I wondered what I’d done now. Then I realized that it was Jules. I greeted him as pleasantly as I could under the circumstances. He was carrying Maria’s basket. My spirits soared.
‘I’ve been searching all over for you,’ the boy muttered in French. ‘They all said you were digging down there, but you’re up here.’
I couldn’t think of a reasonable reply to that. Besides, I was too busy delving into the basket: sausage, pies, warm bread. I offered him a pie, but he refused. Nevertheless, he hung around as if curious.
‘The villagers say you are mad,’ he said, watching me eat. ‘They’re wrong, of course. Grandfather says you’re not mad. He’s seen men like you before. You’re like the American pioneers who discovered the West. We can’t starve you out, so we might as well give you lodging and food. Madame Barnard is to put you up for the winter. We’ve arranged everything. You must see Grandfather at four on Thursday afternoon — down at the house.’
‘What’s your name?’ I asked him.
‘Jules Michel Xavier Rocca. Do you want me to help you with that fire?’
‘The wood’s damp.’
‘For a small price I could deliver you some dry wood."Done,’ I said, feeling pleased. At least there was one entrepreneur in Corsica.
‘One dollar?’
‘Sure. Why not?’
Half an hour later the boy was back with a huge bundle that he had dragged up on a small cart. A shaggy dog wandered behind, looking wet and muddy.
‘Would you like a beer, Jules?’
‘Er… yes.’
I fished out a dollar and a beer.
Jules moved swiftly and efficiently, with an expression of total concentration on his face. When he had lit the fire, he beamed with satisfaction at the blaze and sat back on his heels, gazing at me silently.
For a while he drank in silence. Eventually he said: ‘Grandpapa says you’re the first of an army of invaders who will come from the Western world to pillage our history, our forests, and our women. He says eventually Corsica will be full of people like you enjoying themselves, while people like us work in the docks at Marseilles. ’
I didn’t answer. I couldn’t think of a suitable reply for a sixteen-year-old boy. Besides, Rocca was probably right. ‘What’s a plastic culture?’ Jules asked after a while ‘Something that doesn’t last, something cheap and shoddy and easily destroyed. I expect that’s what he means.’
‘Is America like that.’
‘No,’ I said firmly. ‘Perhaps your grandfather only sees what he wants to see. Your English is very good,' added to change the subject.
‘Mother insists that we learn English. We have our own language. We don’t really need another. Grandfather says there’s no other language quite like it.’ After that, Jules lapsed into silence. I couldn’t draw him out further.
When the fire turned to a pile of glowing embers ready for cooking, Jules stood up and left abruptly. He was going hunting with the men just as soon as the rain cleared. They’d be back before Thursday, he promised.
The boy ran down the hill leaving me in a state of bemused elation. Things were going to get better. I had a feeling about it.
At four sharp on Thursday I knocked on the Roccas’ front door. I was dressed in a pair of jeans, a clean shirt, and a windbreaker. I’d given myself a crew-cut, and I was cleanshaven though cut in several places. Under the circumstances it was the best I could do.
Xavier Rocca opened the door with a flourish and a smile. Standing beside him, I felt like a tramp. To start with, Rocca was taller than I, which was unusual. At six feet one I usually looked down on the world. Rocca’s greying black hair and bushy moustache were perfectly groomed. His handsome but wolfish smile was reminiscent of wartime pictures of Stalin. His eyes, however, were glacial blue. When he smiled I noticed that his teeth were white and even. That was miraculous in a place like Taita. Presumably his short spell of plastic culture had introduced him to toothpaste and dentists. Right now he was dressed in his best clothes: black corduroy trousers and waistcoat, bright red cummerbund, and a white shirt with starched collar and a red-and-black-checked cravat. If anything, his clothes heightened the impression of veiled menace.
‘Come in, come in,’ Rocca said in perfect French, in a deep voice that rumbled from his stomach. ‘Welcome to the Rocca household. Of course you’ve been here before, but that was in the kitchen with the women, so it doesn’t count. Warm yourself by the fire, my friend.’ He poured two glasses of eau de vie and explained that Maria had made it herself.
‘I believe I have to thank you for rescuing my son’s widow. My son was killed in the war.’ He sighed dramatically. ‘The war destroyed many things for many people, but more for Sybilia than most. So now she stays here because she has nowhere else to go, assisting Maria with the housework in return for her bed and board. She is waiting, I believe. While she waits she is entitled to my hospitality, which includes my protection. Just as you are,' he said with emphasis. ‘Since you are here.’
Everything he says is calculated, I thought. Nothing is wasted.
I looked around curiously, trying not to be rude but noting the hand-embroidered curtains and cushions, the sparse, homemade furniture polished to mirror surfaces, the piano, the paintings. Clearly the Roccas were well above the average household. On the table were plates of raw smoked ham and sausages arranged on squares of yellow pastry. There were dishes of olives, onions, and tomatoes swimming in the raw, hand-pressed olive oil. When we sat down to eat, everything tasted fantastic.
I didn’t have to add much to the conversation. Every time I opened my mouth, Xavier interrupted me. ‘Now, you sit there by the window,’ he said, ‘and watch the best theatre in the world. The best! I’ve often said that to Maria. I’ve been to theatres in Rome, and once in Canada. There’s nothing to beat the drama you see in this square. This afternoon you have a private box, as it were. When the window is open you can hear every word. No doubt you brought your notebook, Dr Walters. You may need it. There’s a funeral on the way. You’ve been scribbling away at our weddings and our christenings and now here’s a funeral for you. The priest tells us we’re to go into your book, to be published by your university. Makes us feel very important,’ he said with a touch of sarcasm.
‘Perhaps I should explain… not everyone is aware of the social sciences,' I began, feeling uncomfortable.
‘Not necessary, not necessary at all, I assure you. The ways of the West are not completely foreign to us. Most of us here have businesses in the south of France. Well, at least a dozen Taitan families have financial connections there. They travel back and forth. Taita’s lack of outside communication and facilities is largely a matter of choice. We like to enjoy our traditional Corsican ways. Here, each man is a prince — in his own way, of course.’
I came to the rapid conclusion that Rocca was bluffing a
nd playing with me. I grinned to show I could take it.
‘I’ve been told there is a famous mazzeri living in Taita whose predictions have never been wrong. Everyone knows about her, but I haven’t been able to establish her identity. Can you help me?’ I asked.
Rocca frowned and then smiled again. ‘Do you believe in that nonsense?’ He snorted with amusement. ‘I once went to a fortune-teller in London’s Petticoat Lane. D’you know what she said? She said I would travel the world and marry money. I did, too.’
Neat, very neat. I was distracted by the distant sound of knocking approaching the square. ‘It’s nothing,’ Rocca said. ‘Just the funeral I mentioned. There won’t be much to interest you: no mourners, no voceri, no family; just a very short service. A shepherd passing through. He leaves no kin.
‘Well, now,’ Rocca went on. ‘You’ll freeze to death up there, and we’ll be responsible. Tell me, why are you camping out this winter, Dr Walters?’
‘I’m running out of time,’ I explained. ‘The journey to the nearest inn takes too long.’
‘We’re not inhuman, Dr Walters, even if it seemed so at times. The widow Germaine Barnard will put you up for the winter. She’s our dressmaker. Oh, yes,’ he said as if on the spur of the moment, ‘you’ll find her interesting. You’ll be able to fill another notebook. Bed only, plus hot water and bathing facilities. Four dollars a week. Will that suit you?’
I gasped at this excessive demand but quickly agreed.
‘From now on, you can buy your provisions at my store. Let us know in advance what you’ll need. Oh, and by the way, we prefer dollars. Is that settled then?’
The Corsican Woman Page 32