Quinel looked at me and frowned I knew I was being unreasonable.
‘It was a different system, that was all. Not better or worse. The case had already begun with a preliminary inquiry by a magistrate into the available evidence. This information had been summarized and submitted to the court in the form of a prepared brief, based on hundreds of sworn statements by witnesses and interrogations of the prisoner. Now there would be a public review of facts by the defence and the prosecution and then a decision delivered by the presiding judge, based on the votes of his assisting judges and the jury.
As he showed me out of his chambers, I asked: ‘Could anything else save her?’
‘Only new evidence of the most unexpected kind.’
I lay awake that last night, obsessed with my failure and with Sybilia’s anguish.
Just before ’awn I fell into a restless sleep.
Sybilia an^ J… ere sitting in a cell. We could hear footsteps approaching. n hilia's face was white as chalk; her eyes glittered. She locked at me and said: ‘You should have left me to die in Taita. Why didn't you?’
I felt overcome with guilt. The door swung open slowly. Father Andrews, his face heavy with sorrow, led in a small group of men: the prison warder, two guards, and a doctor carrying a black medical bag.
A wave of fear swept through me. ‘He's to blame, ' Father Andrews said, pointing to me. ‘He interfered.' His voice echoed eerily down stone corridors, into the prison yard, and up into the mountains. The scene shifted. I was imprisoned in the bell tower in Taita overlooking the square. Hooded men were dragging Sybilia toward the guillotine, which had been set up on the cobbles. The executioner stood there… waiting. The priest was mumbling the last rites. There was no time left. I had to get down there… had to save her… but Romanetti and the villagers were crammed into the spiral staircase, blocking my way.
'You must watch, ‘ the shepherd said. ‘See what happens when you interfere.'
I turned and saw Sybilia pinned face down on the guillotine. The blade descended in slow motion. The blood spurted on her white collar, staining it deep red. Panic-stricken, I screamed.
The noise woke me.
I got out of bed and made some coffee. It took some time to stop shaking. I kept telling myself that it was only a nightmare. The truth was, reality was just as chilling.
Chapter 79
On other visits I’ve always loved Ajaccio, with its many squares shaded by palms and plane trees, its wide avenues bordered by cates and oleanders, and its old colonial-style buildings beside the picturesque docks. Today, as I walked moodily toward the court, the streets and buildings seemed to me like the backdrop to a comic opera. The theatre doors were about to be thrown open, and a striptease show was promised: Sybilia exhibited, probed, and vilified.
In the antechamber of the court, the crowd gossiped and throbbed with the chatter of a social occasion. Most of Taita was present. Others had come from villages all over Corsica. Apart from the curious public, there were journalists, photographers, and harassed police officials, all shouting at once. The vendetta had created a storm of publicity in local newspapers, providing the raw material for countless arguments in the cates and on street corners.
Xavier Rocca had been a famous wartime partisan, a ‘bandit of honour’, guerrilla leader of the National Front, a traditional Corsican hero. The intimate details of a powerful family — its loves and hates and scandals — were about to be revealed. Everyone wanted to be there. God, how I hated them all.
I caught sight of Ursuline in her novice’s habit and pushed my way toward her. I could not speak as a sudden wave of emotion undermined my calm. ‘It’s horrible,’ Ursuline gasped. She looked grave and close to tears. In the past year she had lost weight. For the first time I noticed her fine bone structure, which was slightly more angular than her mother’s. Her chin was more prominent, her nose longer, but there was still no doubt that she was going to be a beautiful woman. ‘Grandmother and I are staying in Ajaccio with relatives.’ She almost choked on the words. ‘She’s coming with Father Andrews.’
At nine sharp the doors were thrown open, and we were thrust into the courtroom by the crowd’s momentum. As interested parties we sat near the front of the court, but behind us the public gallery quickly filled to overflowing. There were a few brawls outside as police held back the rest of the crowd. It became unbearably hot, and the stench of bodies from the antechamber flooded the courtroom while the babble of conversation grew louder.
On another occasion I might have admired the courtroom, with its brilliant red upholstery, carved oak benches, alabaster crucifix, and ornate ceiling. The sun’s rays had set fire to the stained glass of the big windows. Rocca’s rifle, which lay on the table at the front, was painted with blood-red light.
Just before ten there was a sudden hush as the doors near the rostrum opened and the legal teams began to enter. First came the advocate general for the prosecution, Monsieur Henri Duval, wearing his robe and torque hat. He was a tall, ascetic-looking man with thinning hair and an unhealthy pallor. His eyes were a strange dark brown, almost black, and they lent a hawkish appearance. He sat at a table to the right of the judges’ rostrum and smiled coldly at his assistants, who now sat down around him.
I stared at him and was seized by anger. I knew his brief: Sybilia was an example, not a person, to be used as a deterrent. What did he know or care about the real person standing there?
Then the twelve jurists filed in, looking self-conscious and grimly determined to do their duty. Last of all came Charles Quinel and his two colleagues, who, like him, seemed insignificant amidst the crowd.
When the prisoner was led in, I tensed and held my breath. Sybilia looked thin, almost emaciated, as she clutched the bar in front of her and stared around defiantly. She was wearing a plain, shapeless black dress with a drab V neckline. She wore no makeup, no jewellery, and her hair was brushed back in a plain bun. She had done nothing to make herself look appealing, but for me she stood there hauntingly lovely — a face that once seen could never be forgotten.
The court hushed and rose as the presiding judge entered with his five assisting judges in their red robes and hats. The president stopped at the seat in the middle. He was a surprisingly youthful-looking man, although he must have been in his sixties, with smooth cheeks and almond-shaped brown eyes. A clever face, I thought. He took the seat on a raised dais in the centre and his colleagues sat on either side of him.
By 10.30 A.M. everyone was ready for the trial to begin, and the jurors took the oath. A clerk read the charges:
‘May it please the president and members of the court, the Republic against Sybilia Rocca, the charge of premeditated murder.’
I felt Ursuline’s hand tighten on my arm. I put my hand over hers and squeezed. ‘Chin up,’ I whispered.
The president looked at Sybilia sternly. He said: ‘You are Sybilia Rocca, bom Sybilia Silvani, in the village of Chiomia, but now living in Taita.’
Her tortured answer was hardly audible. ‘I am.’
‘Sybilia Rocca, you are charged in this court with the wilful and premeditated murder of your father-in-law, Xavier Rocca, on the eleventh of August 1960. Are you represented, or do you require the assistance of a public advocate?’
Charles Quinel stood up: ‘The accused is represented, Mr President… Charles Quinel, advocate for the defence.’
The president nodded, and his pencil moved over his papers. Then he said; ‘Sybilia Rocca, according to this indictment, you walked across the main square of Taita at noon, carrying your father-in-law’s rifle. You saw that he was sleeping on the bench, and you took aim. Monsieur Rocca woke and staggered toward you, but you fired six times, first wounding him in the arm and then the shoulder and finally the chest. Only when you had fired six shots and Xavier Rocca lay dead on the cobbles did you throw down your rifle. You ran to the church and put yourself under the protection of Father Andrews. That night, under cover of darkness, you fled to the maquis with the
help of an accomplice. Later, on August the fifteenth, you gave yourself up to the police at Xavier Rocca’s funeral.
‘You were taken into custody and charged. At the time, you made the following statement: “I did not murder him, I executed him.” Do you now wish to withdraw this statement?’
Charles Quinel answered for her: ‘We do not wish to withdraw this statement. It was made freely and without coercion.’
At these words a gasp rippled around the courtroom, followed by a few angry shouts.
‘Silence in court, or I’ll clear the courtroom.’
The president made another note in his ledger. He turned to Sybilia and gave her a long, searching glance. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘Sybilia Rocca, you are charged by the State with the crime of wilful and premeditated murder. How do you plead: guilty or not guilty?’
Sybilia stared stonily at the President. Then she answered in hardly more than a whisper: ‘I refuse to discuss the question of my guilt. I acted according to the dictates of my conscience. I shot Xavier Rocca, and I am prepared to take whatever punishment the French courts care to mete out to me. I have nothing further to add to this statement.’
Quinel was on his feet. ‘I act on behalf of my client to enter a plea of not guilty.’
‘Very well. The public minister may present his case.’
The indictment by the president, the ornate courtroom, the red robes and tapestries, all seemed to shriek ‘inquisition’.
Sybilia appeared to be in the grip of a death wish. Without any prompting from the president, she had proved herself to be sane, wilful, and unrepentant. I didn’t dare glance at Quinel.
When the prosecutor, Duval, stood up, his resemblance to a bird of prey was even more pronounced, for he had a habit of leaning forward in swift, stabbing movements, while his dark eyes darted from side to side.
‘Mr President, gentlemen of the court, this is a very straightforward case,’ Duval began. ‘Sybilia Rocca shot her father-in-law with his own rifle, at noon, in full view of many good citizens of Taita and the local priest. She has never denied this, nor has she given the examining magistrate any reason for her crime. Throughout prior cross-examinations she has maintained an obstinate silence. I will not waste words condemning the prisoner’s crime. Instead I will merely call my witnesses, who both saw the murder and know the family intimately.
I should never have rescued her She wanted a quick death. I should have left her to die. Crazy thoughts! What the heirs got into mel It was my helplessness that was mainly responsible for my morbid fears. I wanted to grab her and take her away, but I could not. At that moment I was keenly aware that all my resources might not be enough to save her from the guillotine.
Chapter 80
The first to testify for the prosecution was Francois Castelli, cobbler of Taita. In spite of his slim stature, Castelli managed to convey an air of flamboyance. He walked and carried himself with an affected casualness, and was wearing a brilliant red cummerbund and a matching cravat, contrasting with his black corduroy peasant suit. While being sworn in, he was full of bravado. This was all in a day’s work for Castelli, or so his frequent shrugs seemed to indicate.
I listened impatiently while Castelli described the crime. He had been sitting behind the fountain and was the nearest eyewitness.
‘You were a close friend of Xavier Rocca?’
‘Yes.’
‘Had you heard of any quarrel or disagreement between Sybilia and her father-in-law?’
‘Well, that’s a strange question. Their life was one long disagreement from the day she was married into the family. She was headstrong and arrogant.’ Castelli nodded contemptuously toward the dock. ‘She and Rocca were always fighting — right from the start.’
‘From the start? Could you be more explicit, please?’ Castelli gestured with his hands, palms upwards. ‘In the name of God! D’you expect me to remember all the Rocca’s squabbles? I have my own problems. But as I recall, the first big confrontation was when that woman persuaded Michel to leave home and earn his living in Bastia. Rocca was brokenhearted, what with Michel being the only son. After all,’ he continued, ‘It’s only right that a son should help his father on the land…
‘Well, she would have her own way. Michel was to be a famous sculptor. Village life wasn’t good enough for her. We all knew the boy didn’t have the talent. God knows his old man had tried hard enough to push him. But she insisted, and off they went to Bastia, where he worked as a stonemason. Then the war came, and Michel joined the Resistance, as we all did. I myself was the leader of a squad of fifty men. Well, I can tell you -’
‘Quite, quite, but you were saying about their fights…"Next she wanted to join the Resistance. Big stuff, that was her. I remember her standing in the village square and looking at Rocca, daggers drawn. My word, yes. If looks could have killed, he’d have dropped dead that day.’ Castelii broke into a rare smile.
‘Objection.’
‘Sustained.’
The prosecutor shrugged diffidently and smiled at Castelii. ‘Very well, Monsieur Castelli. Can you tell me if there was something specific and recent that they had quarrelled about? Something that might have inspired this killing. After all, they had lived in this state of siege you have described to us for over twenty years.’
‘Yes.’ He hesitated and glanced toward his wife, who nodded. ‘She wanted her daughter, Ursuline, to marry my son-in-law, Raoul Pascal, but Xavier Rocca wouldn’t give her daughter a dowry. Ursuline was no kin of his, being illegitimate. Besides, she was living evidence of the disgrace that had dogged the Rocca family since the war.
‘Sybilia begged him for a dowry, but he wouldn’t give in. He was an obstinate man. You couldn’t budge him once he’d made up his mind. Well, Jules put the word round that when he inherited his grandfather’s estate there would be a good dowry for Ursuline. Jules was fond of his half-sister, but old man Pascal couldn’t be budged. He didn’t want the Roccas’ scandal on his doorstep.’
Castelii looked around anxiously at his wife, who signalled for him to continue. The president noticed, frowned, and made another notation in his ledger.
‘I expect Sybilia blamed Rocca for being tight-fisted.’
All eyes turned to Sybilia, but she stared impassively at the wall over the judges’ heads. There was no drama to be wrung out of her.
‘So in your view, Sybilia wanted a dowry for her daughter strongly enough to commit murder.’
‘There’s other possibilities,’ Castelli said.
‘Please continue.’
‘Mr President, I protest,’ Quiriel said. ‘We’re not here to listen to rumours.’
Once again there was a whispered consultation among the judges. Then the president turned to Quinel: ‘Since the prisoner has not contributed one word to her defence during the previous hearings before a magistrate,’ he said, ‘or given us any reason for her crime, the opinion of this court is that we must listen to conjecture in order to discover her motives.’
Castelli wiped his forehead with a handkerchief. He looked as if he were about to pass out. He began mumbling and was told to speak up. ‘A few years back, Sybilia was discovered in the forest in a compromising situation with Ambrosini, the shepherd. She pretended she was being raped, and the American archaeologist took her home. Ambrosini told us the real story.
‘A few days later, Ambrosini was killed in a shooting accident during a hunt. Now, lately, she’s taken up with this same American, Dr Jacklyn Walters. He’s been hanging around Taita for years, digging up ruins. Perhaps Rocca threatened her, or threatened Dr Walters. Perhaps Rocca tried to turn her out. He always said that he would. Who knows? They had many reasons to quarrel.’
It was Quinel’s turn. ‘Were^any of the rumours you have quoted to us anything more than idle gossip? You know that you are on oath, Monsieur Castelli. Can you swear beyond any doubt that Sybilia Rocca had actually engaged in sexual relations with Ambrosini or Dr Walters?’
‘No, of course not. Peopl
e don’t do that sort of thing in public, do they?’
The laughter from the public gallery was quickly silenced by the president.
Quinel continued: ‘Are you aware that Sybilia Rocca brought a charge of rape against Ambrosini and that Dr Walters has likewise sworn an affidavit about Ambrosini’s attack? Inspector Hiller, too, has testified that Ambrosini had attempted to rape Sybilia Rocca. I suggest, Monsieur Castelli, that you are deliberately lying about my client’s reputation.’
‘It’s not for nothing she was called the putana,’ Castelli retorted.
After that he became surly and uncommunicative, and shortly afterward Quinel dismissed him. Rumours, conjecture, gossip, all of it, but nevertheless it was damaging evidence. The jurors’ eyes reflected their opinions.
When Pierre Bonnelli, Xavier’s brother-in-law, took the witness stand, I listened incredulously as he explained that Sybilia had always been known as the local whore and that she had lived up to her reputation. Rocca had often been on the point of evicting her, he explained, but he was softhearted and had pity on his grandchildren.
‘What exactly is this scandal that dogged the Rocca family?’ the prosecutor asked Bonnelli. ‘In this day and age, an illegitimate child is hardly considered that damning, particularly since the liaison occurred during the war.’
‘They say her lover caused her husband’s death,’ Bonnelli muttered.
‘Speak up, please.’
‘It’s well known that the American agent, Captain Robin Moore, deliberately sent Michel on a suicide raid in order to be rid of him. After that the two of them shacked up together in the mountains.’
A snicker rippled through the court.
Bonnelli’s testimony went on for another hour. Because he was a member of the family, it was particularly damaging. Quinel declined to cross-examine him. By the time the court convened for lunch, Sybilia appeared to be all but condemned to death.
She was in a state of shock and had to be helped from the courtroom. I felt equally shattered. As I’d feared, the trial was becoming a sham to confirm her guilt. I was gazing vacantly at the empty dock when Quinel approached me.
The Corsican Woman Page 40