I followed in awe. This was Rocca’s land.
The sun set, but twilight lingered as we climbed higher.
Thank God there was a full moon, I thought two hours later, watching Sybilia, agile as a moufflon, scale a rocky outcrop.
I needed both hands now, so I thrust my flashlight into my pocket and tackled the gorge. Eventually I pulled myself onto the grassy ledge above the cliff. Looking to the right, I made out what looked like the ruins of a shepherd's hut and on the left another steep mountain crag. Far below were the lights of Taita — only a few dim candles flickering behind curtains.
Then, without warning, we were in the trees again. It was pitch dark with pools of dappled moonlight here and there, but still we followed the path of the river.
‘This is all our land,’ she shouted over her shoulder above the roar of the river. Suddenly I was conscious of the night: the smell of the pine, damp earth and leaves, and the sudden sharp clatter of birds disturbed from their nightly solitude; the piercing cry of an owl as it rushed overhead into the dark sky.
At the edge of the forest we emerged onto a huge flat plateau edged on three sides by maquis. ‘This is where Ambrosini I broke off, remembering that I’d been trespassing that day I’d rescued Sybilia from attack.
‘Yes. You almost found the place by yourself. They threw you off with those hand-axes and maps.’
‘Why?’
‘To get rid of you, I suppose. Rocca never wanted you on his land.’
Far above I could see a cleft in the rugged mountain peaks surrounding them. For an incredulous moment I thought we were going to climb the slopes, but at the edge of the grazing land she walked into the impenetrable thicket and disappeared. Hurrying to catch up with her, I found an almost imperceptible gap in the shrubs and thorns that reached overhead to form a tunnel.
‘Oh, God,’ she panted. ‘This is the way. I know it is, but the path’s almost vanished. I remember this rock. I’ve passed it often enough, but it’s years since anyone came here. This is all our land. Did you know that? Right up to the mountains, but in a narrow strip. Next to it is the land I brought with my dowry.’
We came to the edge of a rushing river. It was strong but not deep, filled with reeds and icy cold. My feet were numb by the time we reached the other bank.
After that we climbed a steep slope and paused on the crest. Before me, glistening in the moonlight, was a vast granite bowl, surrounded on two sides by sheer slopes but falling away into darkness on our left. It seemed to be a drop of thousands of feet, but it was too dark to see properly.
‘Now look,’ she said. ‘Over there.’
Strange beings were crowded together in a gravel pit. Weird, terrifying stone figures were protruding from the earth at waist level, like ghosts rising from their graves. Ancient warriors, their faces imbued with fearsome authority, glared in the moonlight.
Suddenly I was running, stumbling, falling between the boulders, heading for the statues. I was only dimly aware of Sybilia’s footsteps behind me. I walked around the statues, touching, stepping back in awe, worshipping the ancient primitive men who had evoked the human form with such mastery. They were frighteningly real with their prominent brows, coarse noses, heavy jaws, and small, tight mouths. There was an impression of sheer physical, brutal power about all of them.
I wandered around, touching them reverently, marvelling at the formidable power of these ancient artists: the heads and shoulders were carved with skilful understatement and a sense of symmetry. There were smaller beings as well, with crude faqes, flat-topped heads, and secretive eyes, fixing us with an impenetrable piercing stare. Each one was unique, but they glared with a shared antagonism. There were twelve altogether; some were set upright, some were lying on their backs, but all of them were superb.
At last I turned to Sybilia and said, ‘Thank you.’ Suddenly my arms were around her. I tilted her face up with my fingers on her chin, gazed at her long and earnestly. ‘I don’t know why,’ I said hoarsely. ‘I can’t begin to understand you, or why you waited so long, but thank you.’
I tried to kiss her, but she pushed me aside roughly. She turned abruptly and then paused, as if wanting to say something but not knowing how. She pointed toward the shadow of a cave at the end of the quarry. ‘Go in there,’ she said.
I wandered into the cave like a man sleepwalking. Then I groped behind and caught hold of her hand, pulling her after me, sensing her fear.
I relit my torch, but it was ineffectual in the stygian depths. Perhaps the cave was unwilling to give up its secrets and fought back by pressing darkness on us. In the feeble beam I saw colour and movement. I gasped and switched off the light. For that brief moment I had seen artistry as great as any modern painter, greater perhaps because of the economy of line. It was an illusion, of course. I knew that. A trick of the shadows, aided by my own imagination. I had merely seen what I wanted to see. Steeling myself to disappointment, I pulled Sybilia closer and eventually switched on the torch again.
‘My God! Take a look at that.’ There was a massive bison, in shades of ochre and it was charging over the ground, head lowered toward the hunters, a look of puzzled agony in its eyes. It was hauntingly alive. ‘I’ve never seen anything so brilliant, not in any cave paintings anywhere in the world,’ I whispered, feeling awestruck.
‘There are more of these paintings further back,’ she said.
I walked from one to the next as if in a trance, but gradually I became aware of the woman beside me and I flicked the torch toward her. She was shuddering violently. Her face had a strained, deathlike expression.
‘What is it? Tell me what’s wrong.’
‘This place is full of memories,’ she said.
As we walked back I noticed pieces of half-finished sculpture lying around, littering the cave. Compared with the ferocious power of the ancient statues, and the brilliant moving flow of the rock paintings, this work seemed pretentious and clumsy.
‘Junk,’ I said aloud, and kicked a piece. ‘I’ll get it out of here. ‘Tomorrow.’
Suddenly she burst into tears.
‘You mustn’t cry,’ I said gently.
Sybilia crouched down almost in a foetal position. ‘All for nothing?’ she sobbed. ‘Michel and his hopes. And my hopes… We both tried so hard. He longed to be a sculptor. I wanted to be a wife. We both failed.’
I felt her wet cheeks with my hand. I put my arms around her and pulled her against me.
‘Poor, poor Michel,’ she sobbed.
I didn’t know what she was talking about, but I sensed her uneasiness in the darkness, so I took her elbow and led her outside.
Too many ghosts,’ she repeated with a shaky laugh.
The moonlight seemed blinding. In the reflected glow from the granite slopes, the concave bowl looked like the focal point of a ring of spotlights. I smoothed the ground and said, ‘Here. Sit here. It’s dry.’
She bent her knees and knelt on the sand. ‘I want to tell you about me. I want to tell you how it happened.’
Torrents of words. I put my arms around her and pulled her against my shoulder. She didn’t seem to notice. My lustful intentions were squashed in the trauma of her story. She told me of her grief when she was taken out of school to be married to a stranger. She recounted her efforts to make her marriage work, and then her war stories and how Robin rescued her from the Boche. Mainly she told me of how she loved Robin. She still believed he would come. To me that seemed amazing. I remember thinking, If I ever meet up with Moore, I’ll kill the bastard. How could he leave her?
Afterward she lay in my arms, gazing at the sky, watching the moon sink slowly toward the sea, enjoying the silence and the shared intimacy.
‘And now?’ I said quietly. ‘It’s time to forget the past. You’re young and lovely, and you’ll learn to love again.’
‘Love!’ She laughed cynically.
For some reason her laugh annoyed me. I pulled her roughly toward me and kissed her. She gave a sharp cry and pus
hed me back.
‘No,’ she said.
Her refusal was like a slap in the face. I felt furiously jealous of those ghosts from her past who still possessed her. She scrambled to her feet, ‘Here is your cave. Here are your statues and your precious bones. Don’t lose them. I won’t show you the way here twice. Remember to tell the villagers you found them by yourself.’ She left, and I lay back, feeling confused and angry. I felt sorry for her, but I felt even more sorry for myself. Sybilia was snared by the trauma of her past. She could never go forward, never forget.
When I next opened my eyes, the sun was streaming over the summit of Mount Cinto and I was quite alone.
Chapter 66
It was becoming lighter, and certain images were forcing themselves into my consciousness. I resisted them. I turned and buried my face into my pillow. That was a mistake, for the hay stuck in my nose and I sneezed violently several times. After that there was no point in trying to fall asleep again.
I lay and studied the painting on the ceiling above me. In the soft dawn light it was even more unbelievable, one of the most beautiful examples of prehistoric art I’d ever seen: a great bison charging a hunter against a backdrop of horses and deer. What was superb was the sense of power and speed so brilliantly conveyed in simple lines and natural pigments. Somewhere below me lay the artifacts and remains of the people who had created these paintings. Maybe the bones of this very artist.
It was weeks since Sybilia had led me to the cave — my cave, as I thought of it now. I’d made some progress with the excavation, although not as much as I should have, mainly because I’d not been able to get any help. A report to Professor Miller was long overdue. I promised myself to write it as soon as I’d shaved. Meantime I lay in my sleeping bag reviewing my progress.
After finding the statues and satisfying myself that this was the site for which I had searched so long, my first step had been a visit to Bastia. I’d spent days wading through regional and national red tape in order to obtain a permit to import Algerian labour on a contract basis. I had come back disillusioned and depressed. It looked as if a long hard haul lay ahead before I’d get those diggers.
On my return I’d gone straight to the cafe and spoken to Bonnelli about local help, offering exhorbitant rates; but no villager was prepared to demean himself by hiring out his labour.
Eventually Pd borrowed the priest’s donkey, Matilda, and brought up load after load of spades, tools, wood, wheelbarrows, and everything else I needed. The first essential was to construct an office near the entrance to the cave. Then I’d sectioned off the dig. The thought of tackling the entire project single-handed was daunting.
At the end of a month, in a fit of pique, tiredness, and sheer frustration, I’d taken a holiday near Saint Florent. But I needed feminine companionship more than sun, so I went south to Ajaccio. Once again I cunningly booked into a hotel where they billeted air hostesses. Before long I was bedded down with a pretty, dark girl from Antwerp. But she was no Sybilia.
Enough daydreaming, I told myself sternly. There was work to be done. I climbed out of my sleeping bag and dived into the ice-cold river water. Then I went into my office to write the report I’d been putting off for far too long.
Dear Don, I've completed my first excavations, and so far I've found two distinct cultures or time zones on this site going back to early Stone Age man, around twelve thousand years before the present. I don't know much about them yet, except that they may have worshipped the Mother Goddess, judging by the small stone idols they have bequeathed to us. (Three are enclosed for carbon-14 dating. They appear to be made of reindeer horn.) On a higher strata, I've found evidence of early Neolithic people, around eight thousand years before the present. With these more advanced tribes came a changeover to the more patriarchal concept of religion, as shown in the progression of their menhir statues in this very quarry, (photographs and drawings enclosed). No more breasts and bellies. Instead they hewed larger-than-life figures displaying their meticulously carved weapons, glorifying and immortalizing man.
Hopefully the photographs and artifacts will enable you to unlock the major part of the university's grant. I've been using my own funds, and I'm getting near to broke. In the past month, for instance, I've purchased eight wheelbarrows, ‘ive pickaxes, trowels, half a dozen shovels, scaffolding and rope, and my technical and drawing equipment.
The documentation of Taita and the villagers is proceeding splendidly, despite local attempts to block my research in every way. The villagers are — jointly and severally —are baffling people. Their antagonism has increased since I found this site. I wonder why?
Now to the nitty-gritty. I need an extension of time — another year. After over four years of painstaking search all over Corsica, I’m not going to abandon my site now. Regards.
Writing the report had reminded me that the scaffolding was still piled up at the base of the cliff below Taita, waiting for me to bring it up to the site. I decided to go in the afternoon. I wanted to continue excavating all morning.
Later, when I went down to Taita and tried to harness the donkey, Father Andrews came out waving his arms angrily.
‘Don’t you think Matilda is looking a trifle wan?’ he demanded. ‘She’s been hauling your stuff up the mountains day after day without a rest.’
I’d never given the donkey a thought. That’s what donkeys were for, wasn’t it? It looked much the same to me. ‘I’m sure you know its capacity better than I do.’
‘She’s not an “it,” she’s a “her,” and she’s bushed. Give her a break. Go buy yourself a donkey. The Pinellis have a good, strong beast for sale.’
I tried to explain that I didn’t want to shoulder the responsibility for a living creature; I’d prefer to borrow.
‘That figures,’ Father Andrews said.
Finally we hit on a compromise. If I would provide the cash for purchasing and feeding the Pinellis’ donkey. Father Andrews would keep the creature in his field and take full responsibility for its welfare. I could ‘borrow’ it whenever I wished. When I eventually left Taita, the church would inherit it.
‘Oh, my goodness,’ he called just as I was setting off for the Pihellis’ house. ‘How could I forget? There’s a letter for you. It’s from your publishers.’ He stood around looking anxious while I read it.
‘It’s good news,’ I reassured him. ‘My book is selling well, and I can expect a royalty cheque soon.’ He was pleased and invited me in for a glass of wine to celebrate. I’d never felt less like celebrating, but I couldn’t disappoint him.
Shortly afterward I bought the donkey and left it in the field with Matilda. The following day I was once again carting gear up to my dig. It was getting monotonous. I had to talk to myself to boost my morale.
‘I’ve found my ruins,’ I argued. ‘I’m sure I’ll be given a year’s extension to complete my dig. I’ll notch up ariother triumph here, and without doubt they’ll offer me the chair when Miller retires. My book is selling well, and I expect the next one will, too. If all this can’t make me happy, there’s something radically wrong.’
Nevertheless, I couldn’t convince myself that I was happy. I felt tired, and the new donkey was a mean brute. We were vying for leadership, and so far the donkey was winning. After all, he had teeth and hooves.
The sun sank into a wine-red horizon, the sea turned deep peacock blue, the mountains took on a luminous rosy glow with deep purple shadows. I let the donkey graze while I sat on a rock to watch the sun set. Dusk swept swiftly around me, and I succumbed to a sense of bitter loneliness.
The feeling had been creeping up on me for weeks, and I’d tried to overcome it time and again. It had something to do with the community I was studying so intently but which resisted me so completely. A world within a world — complete, whole, isolated, content. Never before had I become so enmeshed.
Last month, for instance, I'd been unable to sleep because Madame Barnard, junior, was giving birth to expected triplets. When they’d
emerged just before dawn, the village had reverberated with happy cries, gunshots, and echoes of songs from the cafe. I’d curled up in my sleeping bag with a sense of having accomplished something important. What — for God’s sake? What had all this to do with me?
I felt a part of them, yet I was apart. I would wake with them just before dawn, observe them stumble out to their fields or to the hunt, watch the women set about their daily chores, the typical hunting-and-gathering syndrome reminiscent of prehistoric man.
Dusk was the time when I became nostalgic, for then the villagers would wend their way home from mountains and terraces to open doors, warm baths, and even warmer welcomes. Delicious aromas would float from kitchen doorways. I would note in my cryptic shorthand the division of labour, the frequency with which they washed or bathed, what they ate, how long they slept. And all the time I would be wondering how to describe an integral part of their existence — their unity and togetherness!
It seemed to me that here in Corsica all my preconceived ideas had been held up to scrutiny and found wanting. I’d been foolish enough to imagine that a simple, ancient life-style meant being primitive. I’d seen myself as the only modern and therefore civilized man on the island. Yet all that I had gained from my extensive education and twentieth-century background seemed pitiable compared with what they had.
The crazy part was — I hadn’t come here to study myself, but to study them, yet I was becoming increasingly introspective, and I didn’t like what I saw.
I stood up abruptly and tried to bully the donkey out of the knee-deep grass where he was grazing. I reached the cave at last. After a quick scrub in the icy river, I dried myself and peered into the mirror hanging on the tree. Good God, I looked like a hobo. I decided to clean myself up, find something decent to wear, and go down to the café. Even Bonnelli’s grim greeting would be better than nothing tonight.
The Corsican Woman Page 34