Hiller nailed large posters around the chestnut trees in the square and on the Roccas’ front door that read; ‘Wanted for murder’, with a life-size picture taken from his last election poster.
The new year began badly with shots around the square before dawn. Hiller had crept up unnoticed with a dozen armed police and surrounded the Rocca house. The first thing Xavier knew of them was a shot that shattered the front-door bolt, followed by the sound of boots pounding up the stone staircase.
Bleary-eyed, but not bleary-witted, in spite of the previous night’s celebrations, Rocca grabbed his trousers, his shotgun, and his knife and hid in a closet concealed by a curtain. The policeman, who was young and Corsican, ripped back the curtain, stared into Rocca’s unwavering gaze, and slowly dropped his gun. So Xavier escaped out of the basement exit in a police uniform several sizes too small for him. Once in the maquis there was no possibility of tracing him. He knew this, and so did Hiller.
Within a few hours everyone in the village knew of Rocca’s triumph over that buffoon Hiller.
From then on Hiller stepped up the siege. There was no peace for Rocca. Every second day he was hotfooting out of Taita. It was a bitterly cold mid-January, and he suffered.
Hiller, too, was beginning to lose his urbane manner. He was overheard boasting to villagers that he would have Rocca before the month was out. ‘Just let him get within firing distance, instead of skulking in the maquis like a pig,' was one of his favourite expressions, which he even tried on me once or twice.
On the first Monday in February, Hiller and his men returned from the maquis after another fruitless search. Having supervised the change of guards, Hiller walked slowly down to the cate for a cognac, as usual.
Two shepherds were lounging by the side sucking at their pipes. He nodded as he passed them.
At the turn of the road he saw Leca smoking his pipe and gazing over the valley toward Chiomia. ‘God! What a nation of layabouts,' he was heard to mutter.
Rounding the bend, Hiller was amazed to see Rocca sitting on a rock by the roadside. He, too, appeared to be engrossed in the national pastime of gazing vacantly into space. What’s more, he was unarmed.
You could literally see the surge of triumph running through Hiller as he pulled out his gun.
What happened next, only Hiller knows. I watched him intently, and I’ve thought a good deal about it since then. I guess his thoughts ran something like this:
At last I have the bastard.
I noticed he quickened his footsteps but stepped more lightly, no doubt hoping Rocca would not notice him.
He won't come quietly. He's as strong as an ox, and he'll run off into the maquis. But I could shoot him.
Hiller’s footsteps began to stumble. He was walking more slowly now, as if to give himself time to think.
I'm trapped here. There's the shepherds behind me and the cafi ahead. The villagers are watching. How can I hope to arrest him single-handed? They'd never let me take him away. I'd be pulled apart, torn limb from limb, like that poor devil Krag.
Hiller was closer now. Close enough for me to see the anguish on his face. He looked badly scared.
Perhaps images of Major Krag’s corpse, spread-eagled on the cobbles, flashed into his mind’s eye.
Is it a trap? They all know I come this way every evening for a drink, so why is Rocca sitting there?
He was shaking visibly. The poor fellow! In the cafe we were all doubled up with laughter.
Shall I throw my life away for this scum! Who could blame me for being cautious?
Now he was almost beside Rocca, who was still pretending that he had not seen Hiller. The policeman glanced wildly over his shoulder. Retreat was impossible. There were three villagers blocking the track.
Hiller quickened his stride. Keeping his face averted, he hurried past Rocca.
‘Hey there, Hiller,’ Rocca roared. ‘What’s your hurry? Aren't you going to arrest me? Here I am. Take me! Unarmed as I am, I’m sure it will present no difficulty to you.’
Tm off duty today,’ Hiller mumbled. He shoved his gun into his pocket.
Hiller ordered a cognac. He sat silently at a table staring at his hands. He must have realized he was finished in Taita. From his expression, I guessed he’d lost his own self-respect, too. He left Taita very early the following morning.
In the middle of February the cafe began to run out of vital supplies, and Rocca, as usual, saddled his mule with two large panniers and set off for the wholesaler at Galena. On the way back, dusk fell while he was still in the Tetti forest. He was armed but relaxed, he told us in the cafe later. It was a beautiful evening, and he passed the time by singing old Corsican laments in his particularly beautiful tenor voice. He was remembering in detail to whom he had sung each song and subsequently made love to. He had just reached ‘Dans Mon lie D’Amour’ when the mule stumbled badly. Rocca was jolted half out of the saddle. At that precise moment a shot rang out and just missed him. As he rolled into the nearest ditch, a dozen more shots peppered the ground around him.
He was unharmed, he discovered, and pleased to see that his wartime reflexes had not been entirely lost. He let off a couple of rounds into the bushes and heard a yell of pain. Then he doubled back to the thickest part of the forest, where firs, brambles, and silver birch formed a near impenetrable jungle, and from there he made his way to the maquis.
Arriving home at midnight, he found that the mule, too, had escaped unharmed, but that all the liquor had been taken from the panniers. The financial loss was bad enough; the loss to Xavier’s dignity was worse. Even more dramatic was the knowledge that he was an easy target each time he set out for Galeria on his fortnightly buying trips. He would have to disassociate himself from the cafe. He even stood drinks all round and said good-bye to his patrons.
That night he was much more friendly toward me. I don’t know why. Perhaps because he was half-drunk. He told me, in whispers, that Bonnelli was a rogue, and he would be bled dry if he were fool enough to put the cash into his brother-in-law’s hands.
‘There’s only one person with enough sense and honesty to take over the cafe,’ he said, ‘and that’s Sybilia.’
‘It must be very hard work running this place,’ I argued, amazed that he would trust Sybilia after all those years of contempt.
‘Something you Americans have yet to learn,’ he said, slurring his words, ‘is that hard work keeps women out of trouble. Not one of them knows how to make good use of leisure time.’ He fingered his moustache thoughtfully. ‘It takes brains and integrity to use leisure wisely. That’s why it’s the prerogative of men.’
Chapter 74
Inspector Hiller was once again in the village. He was investigating a bomb attack that had destroyed one of the immigrant farmers' barns around the other side of Lake Taita. Lately there had been several attacks against the pieds noirsy as the hated ex-Algerian French farmers were called. Hiller had taken up residence in the priest’s house. Consequently Rocca was obliged to hold a family conference in the woodshed in the forest. It was a bitterly cold February. The family felt sorry for him huddled over the wood stove. He looked older and so vulnerable.
Later that day Sybilia was full of compassion for Xavier. I marvelled at her forgiving nature. He had spoken to Sybilia for the first time in fifteen years. From now on, he had told her, she would take charge of the cate and the household cash.
‘But what about Pierre Bonnelli, Papa?' she’d stammered. ‘He won't like me being in charge.'
This was a business arrangement, Rocca had explained rudely. She could not call him Papa. From now on it was ‘Monsieur Rocca'. After that he’d spent the next hour giving Sybilia exact instructions on how to set about her buying, how to make sure my needs were catered for, how to demand a cash discount from the wholesalers, how to check the labels and count her change.
He had promised to speak to Bonnelli, to warn him that Sybilia would do the nightly check on the cate's takings, as &tvier had always done. In retu
rn for her trouble she could keep all the non liquor profits for herself. Quite a nice little business, Rocca had pointed out to her.
Sybilia was thrilled. She told me she'd soon have enough cash for Ursuline’s university education. She was still stubbornly refusing my offer of financial assistance.
The trip to the wholesalers involved a five-hour walk with the mule. She could bus to and from Galeria, but how would she manage boxes of liquor on the bus? she wondered. Eventually she discovered that walking ten hours was not nearly as tiring as housework. She found the journey invigorating, even though it was cold.
For the first time in years she wandered around shops and villages, saw how old-fashioned and dowdy she was compared with all the other women. She marvelled at the changes she saw. On her third trip she found an abandoned cottage near the beach. It was owned by an English family, she learned from the local agents. They were prepared to rent it to a reliable tenant. She hurried back to tell me about it.
By the end of March the lease was signed. Sybilia agreed to refurnish and decorate the cottage for a fee. Soon afterward I received permission to employ twelve Algerian diggers. Sybilia volunteered to begin catering for them.
So there she was, a woman with prospects and cash in hand. It was great to see how she changed. Suddenly the sneers of the villagers did not seem so important. ‘Dogs bark, but the caravan moves on she quoted to herself almost daily. She bought a new wardrobe and clothes for the family, including Xavier. Only Maria could not be coaxed out of her perennial black.
Sybilia felt as if she were at the start of a new life. It was as if she had joined the twentieth-century, she told me.
I’m not a Catholic, but I went to church every Sunday morning, partly to feel a sense of oneness with the Taitans and partly to please my friend, Father Andrews.
The following Sunday I was sitting unobtrusively in the back row when I saw Sybilia come in. She was wearing a new blue silk dress with a white lace collar and white cuffs. Her hair was turned under and held back with a navy band, and her hat was a straw boater. She looked tremendous. Envy and malice fairly dripped from the village women. The priest must have noticed. I blessed him for his unusual and spontaneous sermon on joy.
‘I’ve been watching you all,’ he began in his deep, rough French with the Irish brogue he would never lose, ‘and I’ve been thinking to myself that God in his heaven must be sick and tired of the tiresome Corsicans who only seem to be happy when they are miserable.
‘Is life a gift from God? That’s what I want you to ask yourselves. The Bible says that it is.
"Now what if you were to give someone a present? Something precious? Suppose this person moaned about your gift, and far from bringing them joy, it seemed to make them utterly miserable. You might think you’d made a mistake and that this ungracious person didn’t deserve anything.
‘So I wonder, is that what God thinks? Where’s your joy? I don’t see much evidence of it. I see long faces and malicious gossip and a good deal of meanness.
‘Sunday is God’s special day, and to show Him that you are grateful I want you to try to be happy on Sunday. Come to church in pretty clothes, wear a smile, or if you can’t manage a smile, wear a flower in your buttonhole. Show a little appreciation for this supreme gift.’ The priest went on at great length about joy.
What a hum of conversation the moment the service ended! Had this strange Irish priest taken leave of his senses? Some even spoke of writing to the pope to complain.
Chapter 75
It was the twenty-seventh day of May. The weather was perfect, so I’d decided to take off for a couple of days at the coast. Jules had promised to watch the dig. He was quite skilled at excavating nowadays, and it gave him an excuse to earn extra cash. I decided to go down to the cafe to pay my food bill for the month. With luck I might even persuade Sybilia to take a day off, too.
We were trying to balance the accounts when Bonnelli called out, ‘Hey! Guess who’s coming?’
Inspector Hiller was looking even more pompous than usual. He was always a dandy, with his snowy cuffs a trifle long, his folded handkerchief aggressively evident, his carnation and trim moustache. Today he was wearing a bowtie.
I’d avoided him since the day he was set up by the villagers. I knew he’d seen me laughing in the cafe. I had no desire to talk to him today, either. Sybilia and I slipped into the back room, leaving Bonnelli to serve him.
Hiller sat at a table, placed his briefcase to one side of it, and handed Bonnelli his card. ‘Is Madame Rocca here? Good. Tell her I should like to see her now.’
Sybilia walked out reluctantly. I noticed Hiller’s frown when he saw how elegant she looked. She was wearing a black suit, and white shirt, open at the neck. I expect he was wondering why she had abandoned her peasant’s skirt and shawl.
He did not stand when she approached the table. He appeared to be engrossed in his file. He flicked his hand toward the chair opposite. After a moment’s hesitation, Sybilia sat down, frowning.
‘Madame,’ he began quietly in French, ‘you seem to be surrounded with trouble. That’s a pity. Xavier Rocca’s lawlessness seems to have infected your children.’ Turning to Bonnelli, he ordered two coffees, waving aside her refusal. ‘Your son, Jules, is running a subversive political organization, planting bombs on the property of French immigrant farmers. Did you know that? He was responsible for the bomb attack I’m investigating on Monsieur Bouet’s farm on the other side of the lake.’
Sybilia turned pale. ‘I’m sure you’re mistaken, or you would have arrested him, Inspector Hiller,’ she said. ‘But I will speak to Jules. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a great deal of work to do.’
‘One moment, please. Your daughter, Ursuline, has joined this organization. It was Ursuline who carried the bomb into the shed. She’s likely to blow herself up, along with her innocent victims.’
Sybilia was badly shaken, and it showed. To tell the truth, so was I. I knew Ursuline had joined Jules’s movement, but I never guessed she’d do more than clean the chalet and run errands.
‘Did the French farmer identify my daughter?’ Sybilia asked. ‘Have you come to arrest her?’
‘I wanted to talk to you first,’ Hiller said, avoiding her question. ‘She’s a pretty girl. I wouldn’t like to see her in prison. She’d be ruined. I’d prefer to help her. Just as I want to help you. You are even lovelier than your daughter. Come, Sybilia, we’ve known each other for a long time. You’re in serious trouble. You need an ally to bring your unruly family under control. Say the word and I will deal most leniently with your children.’ His hand slid over the table to rest on hers.
Sybilia started back and pulled her hand away.
What a pompous idiot. Vi like to punch his teeth in, but Sybilia can cope. I hope he's lying about the kids, but somehow I don't think he is. I've always suspected Jules and his gang might be linked with the bomb attacks around this area. I wonder if Hiller has any proof? Probably not. It's months since the bomb attack. He's bluffing Sybilia.
‘How absurd you are,’ I heard Sybilia say. i can’t imagine how your leniency would alter our lives one way or the other.’
‘We’ll see, we’ll see.’ Hiller gazed at her lasciviously. ‘Rocca’s getting old. Sleeping out in all weathers can’t be good for him. I shouldn’t be surprised if he died of exposure or pneumonia one of these autumn nights. He could be hounded into his grave.’
‘Monsieur Rocca seems to be quite capable of looking after himself,’ Sybilia said, smiling softly. ‘Particularly since you are so often off duty. Isn’t that so?’ She smiled mockingly.
‘I see you have a sense of humour.’ His voice grated unpleasantly as he banged down some coins on the table and left.
Sybilia burst into tears the moment he left. She had good reason to cry. No comforting words from me were going to alter the truth.
‘The children should get out of this cloistered village atmosphere and learn something of the world outside,’ I told her, adding t
hat she mustn’t let her silly pride stand in the way of her children’s future.
Whichever way I put it, she wouldn’t give in and accept my financial help. Jules would go into the army immediately, Sybilia insisted, and Ursuline would enter a convent as a novice, where she would be trained as a teacher. I couldn’t persuade her to change her mind. Eventually we quarrelled. Sybilia rushed back to the house, and I returned to my dig.
Both Jules and Ursuline were waiting there. They had guessed the reason for Hiller’s visit and wanted my moral support.
‘Don’t expect me to condone your actions,’ I told them angrily. ‘You’ve done a terrible thing. Thank God no one was hurt. How would you feel if a child had been crippled or blinded, or someone killed?’
‘We were careful. The bombs were timed to blow up the sheds at night,’ Jules said.
‘You had no right to take that chance.’
Sybilia arrived, looking furious. She had intended to show the stern side of her nature, but she promptly burst into tears again.
No one was hurt, they assured her when she had dried her eyes.
‘How does Hiller know you’re responsible?'
‘Gossip. He's been asking around,' Jules said.
‘I never thought I’d see the day when I called you a coward,' she said scornfully to her son.
The boy looked shocked.
‘Yes, you are. Leaving bombs around for innocent people to be hurt. That’s horrible, cruel, but worse than all, it’s cowardly. And then to get your sister involved. What sort of a man are you?’
‘Mother, stop it. Say what you have to say without the overture. You’re a bit melodramatic, don’t you think?’
I longed to clout him, but Sybilia was running the show.
The Corsican Woman Page 38