Five minutes later, when order had been restored, the president leaned toward Quinel and said. ‘And your client? Is she to be given her opportunity to make a personal statement? It is customary, as you know.’
Quinel looked toward Sybilia. At first she appeared to be on the point of refusing. Then she gripped the rail and began to speak in a whisper.
‘Speak up,’ the president said.
‘Please… please… would someone arrange a proper burial for Robin Moore’s remains, with a proper service? He was a Catholic, you know. And please, put some flowers ca the grave from me. And Jock, you had no right to dig up his grave. Those bones should never had been treated as exhibits for this trial. They are his mortal remains. You had no right… no right at all.’ She looked around. ‘Thank you. That’s all I have to say.’ She leaned heavily against the bailiff as she was helped back to her cell.
The police were filing into the courtroom. Clearly they were taking no chances of further disturbances as the trial drew to a close. They clustered around the doors and fingered their batons in the aisles.
When the judges walked into the courtroom the silence was ominous. To me it felt as if every movement the president made was in slow motion; every facial expression signified doom. He seemed to spend an hour or so rearranging his papers, then he began to speak:
‘I don’t remember when I last felt so compassionate toward any prisoner that I have sentenced in the dock. The murder of Xavier Rocca began, in my opinion, long ago, in times when Corsica was ruled by clan reprisals and consequently no one could walk safely on this island.
‘That is precisely why the vendetta, this terrible Corsican tradition, cannot be tolerated. We all know that in cases where the law has failed to punish wrongdoers the individual cannot and must not take the law into his own hands. No court can tolerate this, however great the original wrong. If we were to do so, we would be in danger of returning to the days of anarchy and savagery, and the survival of our society would be threatened.
‘Therefore…’ He paused. ‘I give no credence to the defence advocate's pleas of her innate right to take on the role of jury, judge, and executioner. Quite simply and without mincing words — she committed murder — and as such she will be judged accordingly.'
He paused again, drank some water, and (Urned over a page. I buried my face in my hands. I couldn't bear to watch Sybilia. My mind was in a turmoil. Could she appeal? I tried to remember how the French legal system worked, but I felt dazed and upset.
‘However,’ the president continued, ‘we commend her defence advocate for his two-fold plea, and we are far more sympathetically inclined toward the prisoner than might normally be the case. France has always felt that there is a thin dividing line between a criminal act and an act of passion. The crime passionnel is one with which we are familiar, and it has always been humanely dealt with by French courts. In view of the fact that Sybilia Rocca suffered a great and desperate loss, after a life of great sorrow, the view of the judges and jury of this court is that she is guilty of murder with extenuating circumstances. We feel, therefore, that her sentence should be minimal.’
He turned toward the dock to make the judicial pronouncement. The prisoner rose.
‘Sybilia Rocca, the judgement of this court is that you are guilty of the lesser charge of homicide, committed while you were under considerable emotional and mental strain. For this crime of passion, you are sentenced to three years’ imprisonmemnt, one of which you have already served while awaiting trial, the remaining two to be suspended for three years.’
She was free. Free! I let out a roar of applause that was lost in the tumult in the courtroom. Even the police could not prevent the spontaneous cheering and clapping and stamping as Sybilia stumbled out of the dock.
As I fought my way toward her, through the well-wishers, the press, and her family, I paused for a moment. Who needed me? I was, after all, an outsider. A watcher!
I hung back and tried not to grin with embarrassment at the moving scene enacted in the courtroom. Sybilia had her arms around Maria, Ursuline, and Jules — the wounds of three generations were healed at last. Sybilia was smiling, although she still looked dazed. She wanted to embrace them all at once. Then she turned to thank Quinel.
They sure as hell didn’t need me butting in on them.
I felt ridiculously emotional as I stumbled through the antechamber and pushed my way out into the blinding sunlight. Funny how good news can be as physically devastating as bad news, I thought. My legs didn’t work properly, there was a lump in my throat and tears in my eyes. I hoped to God no one was looking as I leaned against the pillar and dabbed my eyes vigorously, mumbling to no one in particular, ‘Thank God she’s free, and thank God it’s over.’
I’d run the full gamut of emotions this past year, and now I had a desperate need to get back to my work. I pushed aside a photographer and was about to rush down the steps when I heard Sybilia call my name.
This was my moment of truth, I thought with a flicker of wry humour tinged with fear. I could turn round right now and walk back into the trap of loving and caring, or I could keep going. I’d paid for my intrusion into their lives, hadn’t I? I was a free agent. There was nothing at all to hold me here. For the first time in my life, I didn’t know what to do.
Epilogue
Chapter 90
15 August 1962
Dawn in Ajaccio: a mauve twilight behind eastern mountain ranges. In bars and cafes around the docks, waiters were hosing pavements and tables; washing was being strung from windows across narrow cobbled streets; fishing boats were moving swiftly from the quayside and chugging out to sea. The city was waking.
I’d been standing on the steamer’s deck leaning over the railings for hours. I glanced at my watch. It was eight-thirty. The ferry should have left half an hour ago. ‘Who cares,’ I muttered, then laughed. I couldn’t help remembering my first baffling years in Corsica and my agony at the pointless delays, the frustration of dealing with people who had no clear concept of time, and all those disappointments that often drove me to despair.
I remembered a shouting match with a shepherd. The old man had been herding his goddamned smelly beasts down the only route through a narrow mountain pass, and I was compelled to drive my jeep at a sheep’s pace. When I had exhausted my vocabulary, threatened to run over the entire herd, and eventually acknowledged defeat, the shepherd had said.
‘I pity you, my friend. Time is your enemy. Now as for me — I savour each moment and live happily in the here and now. Well, we all have our enemies. You carry a watch, while I carry a rifle.’
That was seven years ago! Now I was going home to Boston to see my family, sort out my affairs, and attend the launch of my latest book.
If, as I hoped, my book should jolt the world into recognizing the beauty and importance of the Corsican culture, then it might repay a part of the debt that I owed the island.
Somewhere, among the digging and the loving and the agony, I’d grasped the island’s emotional thread. I would never let it go.
After musing for a while, I decided that ‘passion’ was the closest word I could find. In Corsica I’d learned about passion — a passion for honour, for loving, for morality, for living. A total passionate involvement with the environment and with every moment of every day.
I felt it now, in the railings vibrating under my fingertips, the town basking indolently in the sun, the boat heaving, the sea lapping against the bow, gulls swooping and crying — a moment in time, pure and priceless. I sucked it all in greedily.
The ferry was moving. As the horn signalled our departure, a steward walked along the deck toward me carrying a basket decorated with herbs from the maquis. The pungent scent filled me with longing, and for a moment I had a crazy impulse to rush back to Taita.
The note, in Ursuline's handwriting, read simply: To Sybilia and Jock Walters: Come back soon. Best love from all of us.
I thrust the note into my pocket. Still I lingered, w
atching until the outline of the immense mountains faded, as sea and sky merged into one empty canvas.
Then I smiled to myself, slung the basket over my arm, and went down to the cabin to join my wife.
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