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The Corsican Woman

Page 36

by Madge Swindells


  ‘If we were American, or British, and our daughter was raped, or our son murdered, we’d pick up the telephone and dial a number. That would be the beginning and the end of our responsibility. Justice is done for them by a team of trained lawmen who get well paid for it.

  ‘Well, I thank God we’re Corsican.’

  With his curious sixth sense of crowd mentality, Rocca knew that he had his audience right with him. He was working toward his climax.

  ‘In Corsica, there’s never been the triumph of one class over another. Our society is based upon a truce maintained between men who are free and equal. This truce rests upon our moral code and the acceptance of the dignity of man. The breaking of this truce has always led to the vendetta.

  ‘But Major Krag came here with his fascist army and stripped us of our dignity — destroyed our honour, disregarded justice. I say there’s only one way to deal with Krag, and that’s the vendetta.’

  The vote was taken. Almost everyone was in favour of the vendetta. Xavier Rocca went off with the other leaders of the National Front to plot the hows and whens of the matter.

  It was all great stuff, but since it was only theatrical, I couldn’t see much point in it all. I was not aware that Major Ernst Krag and his family were touring in Corsica.

  Chapter 70

  A strange phenonemon occurred in the village square at exactly four P.M. on the first Friday of that fateful August. I’ve never found a reasonable explanation of these events,and I still get goose pimples thinking about it.

  Imagine the scene: the island was baking in a heat wave. I was excavating a cave in the blistering heat about two hundred metres above the lake. How cool the lake looked, glittering turquoise far below. I had a terrific hankering to plunge into it, but I’d trained myself to stick to my routine: down tools at four-thirty, make notes until five, and only then did I allow myself the luxury of a lazy crawl around the icy water.

  That afternoon, however, I was disturbed by the sound of drums. An irregular beat! I remember thinking that the drummers could do with some training.

  The sound seemed to be coming from the village square. I guessed the village youths were practising for St Augustine’s Day, which they seemed to be tackling in earnest this year. To Father Andrews’s astonishment and pleasure, Rocca had asked that the entire village be roped in to improve their patron saint’s day celebrations. Whatever the reason for the drums, I wanted to record it, so I packed up early.

  It was hard to hurry through the somnolent, moist air. The maquis was particularly lovely. Extreme heat had toasted the herbs to an indescribable fragrance. Several times I disturbed herds of goats and wild boars, but I didn’t linger because the drums were quickening their beat and I was filled with a sense of urgency.

  The square was cool, and I paused to thrust my head under the fountain. Then I turned to speak to an old woman sitting on the bench. ‘Why are they beating the drums?’ I asked.

  She jumped up, gave me a curious look, crossed herself, and hurried away.

  I didn’t take much notice but sat on the bench and fished out my notebook.

  Shortly afterward the drums increased in intensity. It was too much! The noise seemed to be coming from the Rocca house now, which was odd. Sure enough, the front door was flung open, and Maria Rocca came running out. cupping her ears with her hands. I could hardly blame her. When she ran to the centre of the square I jumped up in alarm. She moaned quietly and then started to speak in a curious, high-pitched, singsong voice, more like chanting than talking.

  Was she ill? Had she received some bad news? I rushed to help her but found myself grabbed from behind by the priest. He surprised me with his strength.

  ‘Leave her,’ he gasped. ‘She has these attacks from time to time, and I’ve found it’s best to let them take their course.’

  I turned and saw that he looked worried. ‘Probably the drums,’ I said. ‘It‘s loud enough to give her a migraine. What’s it all about?’

  ‘What drums?’

  Now it was my turn to look alarmed. ‘For God’s sake!’ I snarled. ‘Can’t you hear the drums?’

  ‘No!’ He crossed himself silently. His expression of alarm convinced me that he was not playing the fool.

  ‘What the hell’s going on?’

  ‘Jock, my friend,’ the priest said, ‘you are in mortal danger. You must come to mass. They say the spirits of the maquis Beat the drums to herald a death. Sometimes, they say, the spirits come down from the mountains and perform a ghost funeral. Many older villagers have claimed to hear the drums, a few have claimed to see the funerals. The victim hears nothing, sees nothing at all.’

  Well, that was some huge relief.

  ‘But you… you are not Corsican. They say that if you hear the drums, the spirits have taken you for their own. Come to mass,’ he repeated.

  Superstitious mumbo-jumbo. I turned my attention to Maria Rocca, who was still chanting. I must admit at that moment I felt more elated than anything else. I had found the mazzeri. I should have guessed it was Maria — she looked the part exactly: her black hair was spread wildly over her shoulders, she stood pointing dramatically in the centre of the square, her blue eyes fixed on nothing. She was obviously in a trance.

  My understanding of the dialect is poor. It is a curious language, part French, part Genoese, some Latin, and some Berber. I only managed to catch a little of what she said, but she repeated herself several times. Piecing the words together, it went something like this:

  The drums are calling… the spirits are calling… calling him here… back to Corsica… back to die… to pay the penance for his crimes… the spirits are crying for vengeance, they will bring him back, his blood shall run on the cobbles. It will seep into the earth. They will not wait for long… sleep soundly, spirit of my son, sleep soundly, your blood will be paid for… ’

  And so on. There was a good deal of repetition about blood on the cobbles, but that was about all there was, or all I could make out, until I caught the name Ernst Krag.

  Suddenly Maria groaned and sat down on the fountain bench, holding her head. The priest took the stone cup hanging on a long chain and gave her some water, which she drank. She looked around, half-fearful and half-embarrassed. Then she stood up and hurried back to her house. The door slammed shut, and that was that. The villagers, who had gathered silently, began to talk to each other in undertones.

  I felt exhausted, but thank God the drums were gradually fading into the mountains. It sounded as if a ghostly squad were marching away. I was left feeling light-headed.

  The word had got around that I had heard the drums. People were staring, but not unkindly. I felt strange and very pleased with myself. So the famous mazzeri was none other than Maria Rocca, Sybilia’s mother-in-law. Typical of them to conceal this information from me.

  A quick survey revealed that of the twenty-five people in the square, only a few had heard the drums, one had seen the ghostly figure of the deceased Michel Rocca, wearing battle-dress, and the remainder had seen and heard nothing, except, of course, for Maria’s performance. However, they all remembered her past predictions, which, they claimed, had never been wrong, and were now eagerly awaiting bloodshed in the square.

  I went on to question Father Andrews, who appeared to be humouring me, as if I were a mental patient. I took full advantage of this and persuaded him to reveal his precious and hitherto well-guarded research.

  Because the priest thought it might help me back to reality, he actually showed me his bulky file on mazzeris and witchcraft. Of this, there was a large section on Maria, concisely and factually recorded.

  ‘Maria Rocca is a good Christian,’ he insisted several times.

  After we had shared a bottle of wine and eaten his excellent village-made bread and garlic sausage, he told me the little that he understood. I’ve digested what he told me over the next three hours:

  Maria Rocca was initiated into the ranks of the mazzeri by an aunt when she was only thirteen. At one time sh
e did not believe in witchcraft (and she tried not to believe in it later). She dreaded experiencing these ‘nightmares’, as she called them.

  At the age of twelve Maria was paralyzed, but no one could find out why. Eventually, her condition was blamed on an attack of polio. She resigned herself to spending the rest of her life in a wheelchair.

  One night she was awakened by a voice calling her name, telling her to get up and walk in the maquis. She managed to stand, although her legs felt like rubber, to use her own description. Her aunt was waiting for her outside. She handed her a long stick, rather like an old-fashioned shepherd’s crook.

  They climbed into the mountains to hunt wild boar. Eventually her aunt pointed to one, and Maria struck it on the head with her crook. When they turned it over, Maria saw that it had the face of her aunt.

  When Maria awoke in the morning, she found to her joy that she could walk, but her aunt died shortly afterward of cancer. Since then Maria claims to have had several visions, or trances, or whatever you like to call them.

  I learned that a mazzeri operates on behalf of her clan, ay a mouthpiece of the collective psyche has only one function, that of predicting death. The priest felt that if it was abnormal and if it couldn't be deemed a miracle, then it must have been Satan's work.

  To my mind, the explanation was nothing more mystical than Jung's joint subconscious, operating in birds and beasts (as instinct) and in people (as second sight and thought transference). Wolves and hunting dogs operate through mass communication. The termites' and the baboons' joint psyche has been brilliantly documented by Eugene Marais. The priest had some very convincing instances to suggest that it existed among the villagers.

  There is a long study to be undertaken here, comparing local beliefs and sayings with those of Brittany and Wales, where phantom funerals have been seen within living memory. Perhaps I will tackle it when I leave Corsica. If l leave Corsica.

  Now why did I write that? Why was I feeling fearful. Why was it I loathe to record my visit to Maria following her vision in the square? Was it because I was afraid that putting her words on paper would put the seal on them?

  The truth was, I went to interview her and found her sitting in her kitchen, sipping tea. She did not invite me to have a cup with her, which was unusual. Instead she stared at my forehead with her strangely penetrating blue eyes and said: ‘Leave Corsica now. If you stay here, you will bring anguish and death. Go now. Leave the island. I’m begging you.’

  I decided that I needed a rest. The next morning I packed up early and went down to the coast for a couple of days’ underwater swimming.

  It seemed to me there’s no doubt at all that my brain had reached a level of consciousness where I could share the psychic unity of the mountain Corsicans. Either that or I was about to have a breakdown.

  Chapter 71

  St Augustine’s Day, Tuesday, 28 August, was unbearably hot. The sirocco had strengthened during the night, and by morning it had reached gale force. Tempers soared as chimney pots tumbled and tiles richocheted across the square. In homes, scrubbed and polished for the celebrations, dust infiltrated every crack and sabotaged the housewives’ efforts. Tongues were coated, hair was grimy, and even the food tasted of the cloying dust. Occasionally a strong gust would ring the church bell, making everyone uneasy.

  The procession had lined up behind the church: the choirboys in their white smocks, the girls in their new white dresses. But before they could move into the square, the flowers, veils, statues, and even the priest’s golden cope were streaked with grime. Everyone felt scruffy and cross.

  I watched them, took notes, and hung about the village, feeling sticky and irritable, wondering if the saint’s day celebrations were worth missing a day’s digging. To my surprise, there were far more men than usual loitering in the square. Grim-faced and tense, they waited for the religious procession without a pious look among them.

  Moving around, I mentally ticked off the names: Pascal; Pinelli the cheese maker, his soulful eyes glittering; one-eyed Giacobbi, who’d walked ten miles to be here; Castelli, looking thinner, if that was possible; then Leca, Padovani, and Bonnelli. I was surprised. The Roccas never closed the cafe. I was startled to see one of the Bertoli twins from Marseilles standing in the shadow of the chestnut grove. There were several strangers hanging around, too.

  I'll never understand them. To think that this tough bunch could be so inspired with religious enthusiasm.

  I made a few more notes in my book. Apart from the wind, the village looked glorious. Flags were flapping noisily from every window, there were little statues of the Virgin, St Augustine, and his mother, St Monica, in every nook and cranny. Flowers by the armful decorated every corner, and bunting hung across the square. Father Andrews looked magnificent in his gold alb and cope, his eyes gleaming.

  He hurried toward me. ‘Quite a turnout,’ he muttered, unable to conceal his satisfaction. A sudden gust splattered his face with dust.

  ‘I hate this goddamn wind,’ I said.

  ‘Satan’s breath. That’s what I call it,’ said the priest, it blows no end of mischief into men’s minds. Seeds of lust and anger, grudges they’d almost forgotten. Everything flourishes when the sirocco blows. I’m glad you’re here,’ he went on. ‘Naturally I’ve chosen the parable of the prodigal son. As you no doubt know, St Augustine is the symbol of sinners and forgiveness. God pardons us all, if we repent in time. This is the day to remember the importance of mercy.’ He took his place at the head of the column, and the procession started off along its route.

  Antoine Romanetti came up to me. He was dressed in his best black corduroy, his hair was plastered down with grease, and there was a bright polka-dotted scarf at his throat.

  ‘Might I trouble you to ring the bell?’ he asked with old-fashioned courtesy. ‘I’ve wrenched my back, and it takes some pulling.’

  ‘Why, sure. Why not?’ I felt pleased. It was the first time anyone had asked me to do anything.

  ‘Be sure to hold on,’ Romanetti said gravely. ‘A sudden gust can whip you clean out of the tower. Give about two or three hard pulls every minute. That’s what the good father prefers. You’ll have a lovely view of the procession from up there.’

  When I’d climbed into the bell tower, I was surprised to find how high it was. I seemed to hang over the square. Literally a bird’s-eye view, I thought, feeling pleased. I took out my notebook and found a handy ledge to write on. While waiting, I jotted down notes about the decorations.

  After a while I remembered the bell. Without much enthusiasm, I caught the rope and gave a tug. Nothing happened! I tried again harder and managed to get a feeble clang. At the sound, a number of villagers looked up, and some of them started clapping and jeering. I distinctly heard Bonnelli say, ‘I hope that shit-bag falls out of there and takes his notebook with him.’

  I yelled back an equally obscene retort and instantly regretted it.

  No one looked up, no one heard me. That was amazing. Belatedly I realized that the bell tower and the encircling buildings had created a whispering gallery. I could hear every word that was said in the square below, but they could not hear me at all. I felt foolish and sprang at the rope, forcing three good solid tolls out of the bell.

  Leaning against the alcove, I saw the choirboys cross the square in a neat double line, looking cherubic in their white smocks. After them came six young men shouldering a statue, which, buffeted by the gale, was tipping at a dangerous angle. Then the young girls followed, clutching long white dresses with one hand while trying to hold their flowers with the other.

  At that moment, a family who looked like tourists came puffing up the last few steps and onto the cobbles. They were being shepherded by Xavier Rocca with Guerrini and several other men I’d not seen before who were obviously Corsican. All were breathless as they leaned against the stone wall at the side of the square.

  The tourist was balding, thick-set, and dressed in hunting gear: a safari suit, hiking boots, a Tyrolean hat
with a feather in the side, his rifle slung over his shoulder. His skin was bright red, perhaps from the heat, and glistening with sweat. He was smiling broadly.

  His wife was blonde and pretty, with square shoulders. Only her hair was hanging lank and dishevelled in a fashionable Brigitte Bardot style that gave her a slightly gaunt appearance. Their two daughters, who were about ten and twelve years old, were dressed alike in pink shorts and white T-shirts. They laughed delightedly at the sight of the flags and flowers. Shortly afterward they were thrust into the procession by a smiling Rocca. Their mother frowned, then shrugged and followed them.

  The procession wound off on its circuitous route. They would pass along the clifftop to the waterfall, over the bridge, around the mausoleums to the back of the cemetery, and into the square again. This should take, in all, half an hour.

  No one in the packed square appeared to be following the procession. I felt a twinge of unease when I saw Rocca take hold of the tourist’s rifle, which he slung over his shoulder, while clapping the man on the back.

  'Let me assist you. You’re not as fit as a hunter should be,’ he bellowed. ‘Anyone can see that. Why, look. You’re sweating like a pig and puffing like an old goat.’

  ‘My God,’ the tourist replied, ignoring the insult. ‘I thought I would only see moufflons on this precipitous mountain ledge. Instead I find a whole village.’ He gave a deep belly laugh. ‘Look at you all, so agile and fit, and no wonder, if you climb this way often.’ He was smiling, but it seemed to me that he acted uneasy. Why?

  As the procession wound away out of sight, a hush fell upon the square. Something was wrong, but I couldn’t work out what it was. I had the impression I was watching a play. A bad play! Perhaps because it all seemed so rehearsed, or was it because of the nonchalant groups of men gossiping together or merely waiting? For what? The only sound was the sighing of the wind, which seemed to have dropped considerably.

  Suddenly I remembered the bell. I sprang up, grabbed the rope, and gave three sharp tugs that nearly dislocated my arms.

 

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