‘Very well, Jules. If that’s the way you want it. You’re to leave Corsica for two years. Go and make your own way in the world. Join the Foreign Legion, or the civil service. That’s my condition. Otherwise I’ll turn you over to the police. You’ll get ten years, or more. Perhaps that will knock some sense into you. I blame myself. I spoiled you because I felt guilty.’
‘But you don’t understand, Mother…’ Ursuline began.
Suddenly it became of vital importance to Jules and Ursuline that their mother should believe in them and be converted to their cause. She had to understand.
‘The French are giving away our homeland to foreigners. To Algerian-born immigrants, the despisedpieds noirs…’
‘We can say good-bye to independence now that seventeen thousand ex-Algerian French immigrants have settled here…’
‘Every day more pastureland is fenced off for scientific farming…’
‘What is there here for us? No jobs, no industry, no chance to live and work in our own country. If we stay here, we’ll be unemployed…’
Familiar arguments. We’d heard them before, time and again.
Sybilia was not convinced.
‘It’s true that we can’t sell our olive oil any more,’ Sybilia said to me later that evening. I had to come to the house to make sure that no one needed my help. Jules had already left. Ursuline was packing and crying bitterly. I tried to comfort her by promising to get her out of the convent within a year. ‘Just give your mother time to cool down,’ I told her.
Afterward I sat on the balcony having coffee with Sybilia. This was only possible because Rocca was hiding in the hills and Maria was in her room.
‘We can’t compete with the low prices now that the pieds noirs are producing so much. So the olives are rotting on the ground,’ Sybilia went on. ‘What’s the point in gathering them? We can’t sell our wine, either.
‘The takings at the cafe are down because the men can’t pay for their liquor. Too many families are leaving their homes. Our schools are almost empty. Oh, Jock, what’s going to happen to the peasants?’
‘Progress means change. There will be different kinds of employment, the old life-style is on the way out.’ There wasn’t much point in trying to sound cheerful.
‘I feel I’ve failed my children, Jock. I hope Jules will return with a new perspective on our island’s problems. Ursuline will be better off with an education behind her. Then perhaps they’ll be able to do something constructive to help Corsica.’
What could I say? With a pang, I realized that I’d grown closer to those two children than to anyone in my life before. Now she’d sent them away. I’d be leaving, too, one of these days. I might never see any of them again.
This was not a night to be alone, I decided. I went down to the cafe and drank eau de vie. As I listened to Romanetti singing, I felt about as sad as I’d ever felt in my life.
Chapter 76
Sybilia had always taken refuge in her self-imposed standards and routine. She never had to worry about tomorrow since it would be of a replica of today. So she walked through a mirrored passage, looking forward to an endless progression of today’s images, going on into infinity. This gave her some sort of comfort. But now everything was in a state of flux: first Ursuline left, sobbing bitterly; then Jules joined the army.
It was a lousy start to the summer for everyone. Sybilia was depressed for weeks. I couldn’t get through to her. I was determined to see Jules through the university eventually, but Sybilia wouldn’t allow me to get involved in the Roccas’ domestic affairs. She was like that. I reckoned that a two-year stint in the army wouldn’t do him any harm. We’d see about the rest later.
After a few visits to the convent, Sybilia began to feel better. The nuns were kind to her daughter, and she was coping. The days passed, and Sybilia began to laugh again. I’d taught her to drive. How else could she transport the provisions to the cliff at the bottom of Taita? As it was she had to leave the jeep at the base of the cliff and make two journeys with a heavily laden donkey to get it all up to the dig. Now that I had twelve diggers, requiring three meals a day, the catering was quite an undertaking. One day she told me that she had enough money saved to cover Ursuline’s training, but she would have to wait a few months longer because she thought convent discipline was good for her daughter.
We were often together during that long, hot summer. She taught me the names of the plants and trees in the forest, I taught her scuba diving. I showed her how to excavate and explained the rudiments of archaeology. To my surprise, I discovered she was an accomplished rider. She had ridden with her brothers, she told me, so we borrowed two horses from a friendly farmer and explored the countryside.
For Sybilia nothing would ever be the same again. She was like a strong river, dammed too long by the imposed social curbs of her culture, which at last broke through.
We spent hours together, digging at the site, numbering and describing the finds, packing them. She became an efficient secretary, handling the correspondence with the French authorities and dealing with documentation and all the paraphernalia of an undertaking that had grown to mammoth proportions. She even helped me prepare a number of lectures. Weekends we swam and lazed in the sun.
We were together, yet we were also apart. I had never believed in a platonic relationship between a man and a woman, but she could not give of herself or show any type of physical affection. This was a source of constant irritation to me.
‘Give me time,’ she would say when I broached the subject. If I persisted, she became angry. ‘If friendship isn’t enough for you, then forget me,’ she would snap, and for a few days we would shun each other.
What’s wrong with her? I asked myself repeatedly. It seemed that she was all snarled up in the past. There was a blockage, and she could not move forward. Understanding didn’t make it any easier for me. I could forgive her for loving Robin and for waiting for him, but not for ruining her life-and mine.
Chapter 77
It was early August, and the weather was superb. I'd taken the day off from the dig. It was too damn hot up at Taita, and besides, I had other work to do. The morning had begun well with a hard chase after a huge, ungainly ray that had flapped around the bay. Then I had come across a slab-sided sargue, which I'd noticed crabbing around a rock in crystal-clear water not fifty metres from the beach. Suddenly there it was in front of me, tearing at soft fluffs of green seaweed. My harpoon transfixed it, a fluttering, broad silver disk. After that I'd caught some mullet and stowed it all in the fridge.
Later I was correcting proofs when I heard a knock on the door. It was a telegraph boy. The message from Boston University read: Retiring at once due to ill health. The board has offered you the chair. Return soonest. Congratulations. Don Miller.
My first reaction was a sense of loss. Should I go? I wondered. What possible excuse could I make, either to the faculty or to myself, not to take this opportunity? Besides, Professor Jock Walters sounded pretty good.
I began to mull over the problem. What if I left at once? What would that involve? I'd have to pay the Algerians the rest of their contract money — fair enough — give notice to the widow, Germaine Barnard, likewise no problem there. I’d promised a month’s notice on the purchase of provisions. Well, a month would just about see me through.
What sort of notice do you give on lovel This was no time to get sentimental. Besides, there was no commitment between us. Sybilia had never been able to take the final step, so what was there to keep me here?
Once I'd decided, I felt better. I sat down and finished the corrections within the hour.
Shortly afterward I heard Sybilia returning. She’d taken the jeep to stock up the cafe shelves. Feeling guilty, I hid the telegram in my desk drawer.
Watching her, I wanted her badly, as usual. She was hot and perspiring, her hair plastered over her forehead, her face paler than usual from the heat, her eyes wide and very beautiful. When she was like this I loved the smell an
d the nearness of her. Just as well I’m leaving, I remember thinking. Life was too damn frustrating. At this rate I’d turn into a eunuch.
‘I must bathe,’ she said. ‘Look at me. I’m exhausted. Or perhaps I’ll swim. D’you feel like swimming?’
I turned away. I found I couldn’t look her in the face. ‘You go. I’m busy.’
She frowned, took my arm, and gazed at me quizzically.
‘I’m just fed up with checking proofs,’ I lied.
‘But what’s wrong? Tell me what’s wrong,’ she persisted.
‘I told you. There’s nothing wrong.’
‘All right, have it your own way. I’m going to cheer you up with some special wine. It’s out of our own cellar. I brought it from home this morning.’
She was singing happily when I went off to shower.
‘Where’s the corkscrew?’ she called out after a while.
‘I dunno,’ I yelled. ‘Somewhere around.’
I didn’t realize my mistake at first. There was the sound of drawers opening and shutting, her happy singing, then silence. It took a while for the silence to sink in, and with it the knowledge that something was very wrong.
I went downstairs. As I’d thought, she had rummaged through my desk for the corkscrew and found the telegram.
She was so pale. She looked ill. I was surprised how hard she was taking it, but I couldn’t help feeling that it served her right. Virtue was all very well, but it could be stretched too far. She couldn’t blame me for leaving.
‘Professor Walters. Sounds good, hey?’ I tried out a grin.
‘Sounds good,’ she echoed, near to tears.
‘Aren’t you pleased for me?’
‘Of course,’ she whispered. She pointed at my desk. ‘And those things?’
She was trying to change the subject. That was her way. I glanced at the relics of World War II I’d brought back from the dig that morning: a rusty dog tag and a few personal effects wrapped in an oilskin wallet. Nothing much. I said: The Algerians dug them up when they prepared the ground for a new latrine. Did the war come this close?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘Is that all there is?’
‘A skeleton in bits and pieces. It’s of no interest to me. I’ll hand this over to Hiller next time I see him.’
‘He’s in the village. I’ll take it,’ she said.
I frowned. I wanted her to beg me to stay. How upset she seemed. Her eyes were haggard. Suddenly she looked old. When she forced her face into a smile, it was even worse.
‘It was always inevitable that you would leave,’ she said. She wiped the hair from her damp forehead with the back of her hand.
As she moved her arm, her breast swayed under her blouse, and I felt desire stirring again. Like a conditioned dog, I thought distastefully.
No one's ever affected me as she does. It's like being hooked on drugs or alcohol. I can V help wanting her, yet I can't have her. What's so goddamn special about her body, her sex appeal? There's plenty of other women around. She's like this damned island, she's penetrated my soul. I'm not free any more. I should have left a long time ago.
I scowled with annoyance and with the necessity of saying the right and humane thing: ‘You could marry me. Yes, why not?’
‘There are many reasons why not,’ she said, slumping onto a chair. ‘Mostly due to my past. There’s Jules, Ursuline, Maria, the cafe… but primarily Robin.’ Suddenly she was sobbing, and I didn’t react. It was over.
I felt relieved, almost happy. I drove Sybilia to the donkey and helped her pack the panniers. Now she seemed very controlled and calm. It was almost as if my leaving were of no interest to her, which was a relief. I arranged to see her the following day when she would deliver provisions to the Algerians.
Early next morning I set off for my dig, driving like a maniac through the Tetti forest, marvelling at the splendour of the chestnut trees. Parking at the base of the cliff, I bypassed Taita. For the first time I saw a flash of a brown-grey pelt and the magnificent horns of a moufflon that streaked off into the maquis.
I felt pretty good. I was about as fit as I had ever been. My site had yielded five distinct cultures, from Homo Neanderthal to the later Stone Age. All had been documented and photographed. This was, without doubt, my best project to date. I grinned happily to myself.
As promised, Sybilia arrived in the midmoming, looking stern, uncompromising, businesslike. I recognized her efforts to put on a brave face and put me behind her. I respected her for this and felt grateful that she was taking it so calmly. Another woman might have acted differently, I thought.
When we’d finished unloading the food from the donkey, I realized that she was not going to make me some coffee as she usually did. All right. We could play this any way she liked, I decided.
She went up the hill and spent a long time poking around and talking to the diggers. She was probably avoiding me, but I felt glad I’d managed to stimulate her interest in archaeology. That was something, particularly since the ruins were on Rocca land. She’d have a good deal to do with the museum that would eventually be set up here. After a while I noticed she’d disappeared into the cave where we’d been working recently.
I hope she’s not destroying anything important, I thought. From the clanging noises it sounded as if she were digging frenziedly, venting her anger on the gravel. Well, rather that than me. This was not the right time for a lecture on careful excavation.
She came out of the cave and started walking toward Taita. Then she hesitated and turned back, as if something had suddenly occurred to her.
‘Jock, there’s no need for you ever to feel guilty about anything,’ she said as if she’d read my thoughts. ‘I want you to remember that. I wish I had loved you more. If I had the time over again, I wouldn’t hold back. No, not for a moment. I’m only sorry I waited so long and wasted so much time.’
That seemed a strange thing for her to say. Later, when I heard the shots, witnessed the vendetta, and raced down to the square, I realized she had known at that moment she was going to kill Xavier Rocca. It was her goodbye to me.
Part VI
Chapter 78
It was 12 September, the day before Sybilia’s trial began. The wind was blowing the first breeze of morning through the dusty room I’d rented in Ajaccio, where I would stay for the duration of the court case. Staring through the window, I watched the birds gathering on rooftops. I sensed their agitation and their restlessness. On the outskirts of the city the maquis was a staggering profusion of shrubs and flowers; their scent had been drifting around the city on these last torpid days of summer.
Last Sunday I had returned to Taita to watch the villagers make their annual mass exodus to the little chapel of Notre Dame de la Serra, on the Haut-Asco mountain pass. Father Andrews held a service, followed by an outdoor picnic in the hills. Taita, too, was languishing in a heat-wave, just as it had been thirteen months ago when Sybilia had taken the rifle and killed Xavier Rocca.
In my mind’s eye I could see the square and hear the fountain trickling; I could see Sybilia standing there with the rifle and hear her sobbing.
After they took her away, I’d missed her desperately. She was being kept in a penitentiary run by nuns, where I hoped she was kindly treated. I’d tried to visit her several times, but she had refused to see anyone.
Eventually I had made an effort to get back to my work. I’d been about to leave Corsica to take up the chair of anthropology at my university. The faculty were eagerly awaiting my arrival. I knew I could not keep them on a string indefinitely.
It took days of anguish before I decided to give up my career. Once I had resigned from my post at Boston University and given up my other commitments, I was free to research Sybilia’s story in the hope of helping her defence.
Months later I felt that I knew her intimately, yet I was even more baffled by her crime. Here we were, hours from the start of the trial, and I had no idea why she’d shot Xavier Rocca. Consequently the defence and I had been f
orced to agree on a plea of temporary insanity.
The morning passed slowly. I tried to work, but my concentration was nonexistent. I cooked lunch but had no appetite to eat. Eventually I decided to see Sybilia’s defence lawyer again, although I did not have an appointment.
Advocate Charles Quinel, a top Parisian criminal lawyer, had been engaged with my financial backing to defend Sybilia. Quinel was a short, stout man with a remarkably cherubic face. If I’d had to describe him, I would have said ‘puddinglike’. He was supposed to be the best, but nothing about him gave this impression. He looked more like a scout master.
This was my impression once again when his secretary showed me into his office after only a short wait. These temporary rooms in the village were borrowed from a local colleague. They were old-fashioned and dingy, but to my mind Quinel fitted in very well. I wondered if his rooms in Paris made him look any more imposing.
When I told him of my fears, he did not offer any comfort.
Tt’s always difficult if you can’t get the cooperation of the prisoner in the first instance,' he explained.
I stared back, feeling hopeless. I had wasted a year in investigations and questions, but I had not found even a shred of evidence that might reduce her sentence or save her from the guillotine.
‘You know what we’re up against,’ Quinel began. ‘Henri Duval is a most able prosecutor; Pierre Vaquier is a gifted presiding judge. We face a formidable team of legal experts who have been influenced by the highest French authorities to insure that the vendetta is never resurrected as a means of airing Corsican grievances. They intend to throw the book at Sybilia. They want the death penalty. The only hope we have is to fight for a life sentence instead of death.'
I felt sick. This was not new to me, but with the trial about to begin it seemed even more terrible.
‘If only we were in America. There she would at least be innocent until she’s proven guilty.’
The Corsican Woman Page 39