Corsican Honor

by William Heffernan

  Piers laughed again. The woman was enchanting; she seemed to lack the coarseness and humorlessness of so many of the prostitutes he had seen on the streets. And she was able to joke about her own greed. In a strange way that had a certain charm.

  “How long have you been here in Marseilles?” Piers asked.

  Much nicer than asking, How long have you been fucking for a living? Colette told herself. She smiled inwardly. He was nice, had good manners. He had a certain class to him. Unlike some of the barbaric American soldiers she had been with.

  “Two years,” she said. “I came here when I was seventeen.” She wanted him to know she was only nineteen. She thought it would please him, would be an advantage.

  “You must know the city well,” he said. “I only arrived a few days ago, and I haven’t seen much of it yet.”

  She wanted to tell him she had seen little of it too, outside of the Opera district and the shops along La Canebière. But she didn’t want him to think she had spent all of her time on her back. It might frighten him away.

  “Is your wife here with you?” she asked. She had noticed the gold band on his finger, and she was curious.

  “No,” Piers said. “She’s at home. She just had a child. A son. Our second.”

  “Then you have been married a long time.”

  “We were married right after I graduated from college. The war had just begun—for us, anyway—and everyone was trying to pack as much into life as possible before they were sent off.” He imitated her shrug. “But then I was stationed in Washington. Never heard a shot fired in anger, as they say.”

  “And now you are here, and you are lonely,” she said.

  “And now I am here,” Piers said.

  Colette smiled at him. She had a beautiful mouth, wide and sensuous, and her features were delicate, her eyes a dark brown that seemed to drink him in.

  “Would you like to walk me home?” she asked. “It is not far, a small apartment a few blocks from here.”

  “Yes,” Piers said. “I’d like that very much.”

  He lay in bed, staring at the ceiling while she ministered to him. There was no other way to describe it. She played with him, brought him to points of arousal that seemed impossible to maintain, then allowed him to escape, and brought him back, even higher than before. He could feel her fingers, her mouth, her tongue manipulating various parts of him, and he luxuriated in it, wanted it never to end. He had never been made love to like this, and somewhere in the back of his mind—what little of it was functioning—he told himself he would have to find a way to teach his wife these exotic offerings. If only there was a school she could go to, he thought. He almost laughed, but could not. Colette had intensified her ministrations again.

  When they had finished and lay beside each other, he thought of what she had done, the immense pleasure she had given him, the pleasure she seemed to take from it herself. A man could love a woman like this endlessly, he told himself. If only she wasn’t what she was.

  He wondered if he should offer her money. Wondered if she would accept it. Certainly she would not be offended. Perhaps Meme had told her to accept nothing. Perhaps she feared he might ask if she had. Perhaps she had simply wanted him. He knew he would like to think that she had.

  He decided to test it. He rose to one elbow and looked down at her. She was truly lovely, and he found himself wanting her again.

  “What can I do for you?” he asked.

  She smiled, coyly, he thought. “You have done everything I could want,” she said. The smile broadened, making him think of the width of her mouth and the way she had used it. He wanted her to use it again.

  “But you could take me to lunch, if you like,” she said.

  “I would love that,” he said. He felt himself growing hard again at the thought she did not want his money. “But first …” He bent to her and brushed his lips lightly against her mouth. And they began again.

  CHAPTER

  22

  The council chambers were chaotic, the members fighting to shout each other down, anger so intense it seemed to go beyond the mere vitriolic bile of politicians. The terms communist and fascist filled the air. There were no friendships here, no words that would be forgotten once the session had ended. They would not adjourn together for a drink, for conversation about other things. These were men who hated each other’s beliefs. Men who had fought a war against a common enemy but from different quarters, and who had hated each other almost as much as they hated the enemy they fought.

  Michel Dubois rose from his seat and shouted into the tide of voices. He was an enormous man, and his girth seemed to attack the space around him, demanding room for his person and his words. He waved a meaty fist, almost as if swinging something about his head, and his deep baritone thundered over the other voices, threatening to beat them down into the floor.

  “How dare you speak to us of justice?” he roared. “There is no such commodity in Marseilles today. Or in all of France.” He drew in a deep breath, preparing to blow out more abuse. “Not since the Nazi filth was driven from our city have its workers been treated as mere slaves to those who rule over them. But what could be expected from those who for years before the Nazis came waved the fascist banner so proudly?”

  The final sentence brought shouts of anger and derision. There was only one greater insult than to suggest someone had worked for the fascists who had riddled France before the war—and that was to suggest collaboration with the Nazis. And, as everyone knew but would refuse to admit, France was rife with collaborators as well.

  Dubois stretched out his arms in a theatrical gesture of disbelief. “How else,” he roared, “how else can we view this incredible increase in the cost of a simple tram ride? How else can we view this picking of the pockets of workers who lack even adequate bread for the mouths of their children? And now we would imprison those who take to the streets to cry out against this injustice.”

  The roar heightened again, mixed with cries of “Anarchy!” Dubois paused, raising his chin and looking down the length of his ample nose at those who surrounded him. “Anarchy, you say?” His voice rose several octaves to indicate his disbelief. “If it is anarchy to go into the streets to demand justice, to demand mercy for one’s hungry children, then I must say”—his voice rose to a crescendo—“let us have anarchy throughout France.”

  The large rock that came down from the balcony struck Dubois in the back of the head and hurled his body forward. Only the seats in front of him, and his great size, kept him from crashing to the floor. Few around him seemed to notice the attack, their shouts and opposing shouts taking up the whole of their attention. It was not until a group of tough young men forced their way onto the floor and began beating the members on the communist side of the aisle that what was happening dawned upon others in the assembly. They were horrified, thinking at first that they too would also be attacked. But when it was clear the communists were the only target, they fell back in silence, only a few coming to the aid of those being beaten.

  Dubois was among the few who struck back at his attackers, but it was useless. The Pisani men were armed with pipes and clubs and brass knuckles, and they were younger and proficient in their task. The councilors, mostly middle-aged men, fell like sacks of wet laundry, and from the rear of the balcony Antoine and Meme looked down, satisfied with the work. Only Antoine was slightly disappointed. He would have liked to have been in the middle of it all, dealing out blows himself. But those days were past, he knew. Le patriarche of a faction within the milieu did not soil his hands with the work of a casseur. To do so would diminish his status. And especially if he hoped to become a paceri, a leader among leaders. But still, he knew, he would miss it.

  He watched Dubois fight back against two of his men. He was a dur, a tough one. Like Antoine himself, under the layer of fat, the man was a bull. And Antoine thought he would like to give him a few minutes of his time. But then Dubois fell. A set of brass knuckles had crashed into his jaw, surely b
reaking it, and opening a deep gash in his chin. Antoine shrugged and turned to his brother. It was time to cavaler, to scram before the police woke up and made things difficult.

  Meme winked at his massive brother, instinctively knowing what he felt. “A good day’s work,” he said. “Not as interesting as the old days, but I think our American friend will be pleased.”

  “As long as he continues to pay for his pleasure,” Antoine said.

  The beatings of the communist council members occurred at three o’clock, and word of it spread rapidly through the city, and by four, police estimated that forty thousand people had gathered in front of City Hall. Matters were getting out of hand, and even the battered and bloodied councilman, Michel Dubois, could not appease the crowd.

  The handful of police present, who had no hope to bring the situation under control, called upon the Communist ex-mayor, Jean Cristofol, to beseech those present to return to their homes. Cristofol, a powerful speaker but an unsuccessful mayor—and a man many of these same people had voted out of office—suddenly became the one person the shocked and frightened crowd was willing to believe.

  He assured them none of the councilors had been seriously hurt, and that the police would soon arrest the thugs and gangsters who had perpetrated the outrage. Within thirty minutes the crowd had dispersed, and by six-thirty all appeared quiet again.

  But it was not over. A handful of young workers gathered nearby at the Vieux Port, and decided that the terms “thugs and gangsters” could only mean one collective villain: the Pisani brothers.

  At seven o’clock Antoine and Meme sat near the front window of their nightclub, awaiting a response to their attack in the council chambers. Twenty of their men waited with them, each of them armed, as were the two brothers.

  Word had come several hours earlier, by way of a telephone call from a terrified Pierre Ferri, that a sea of humanity had gathered before City Hall and was crying out for blood. Meme had listened to the frightened clichés, certain Ferri was exaggerating the danger. But it made little difference. He and his brother could not run and hide, for the loss of face within the milieu would be too devastating. So he had called in men and prepared for a fight, even if it proved to be his last.

  Shortly after seven o’clock they heard a mob of nearly forty men moving down the street, smashing windows as they came. To the average citizen the Opera district was the headquarters of the underworld, replete with its nightclubs and brothels, and the control point for the black market which dominated their purses. And as such, it was a legitimate target for working-class anger.

  When the mob came into view, Meme snorted derision. He turned to Antoine, noting the small smile on his brother’s lips. “It would seem our ‘sea of humanity’ is nothing more than a filthy mud puddle,” he said.

  Meme told his men to remain inside, but to make their presence—and those of their weapons—visible through the window. Then he and Antoine stepped outside, guns in hand.

  The crowd stopped on seeing them and began shouting. taunts and threats.

  Neither Meme nor Antoine said a word. They simply raised their guns and fired into the crowd. Five men fell, badly wounded, and the remainder of the mob broke and ran.

  The following day one of the wounded men died.

  CHAPTER

  23

  The next day Antoine and Meme were arrested. That morning the city’s Communist newspaper, La Marseillaise, reported that it had been Pisani men who attacked the municipal councilors, and that later, the Pisani brothers themselves had fired into a crowd of workers marching to protest the attack. The charges were not seriously rebutted in the Socialist paper, Le Provençal, or the Gaullist Méridional. It appeared, on the surface, the Pisanis were about to be thrown to the dogs.

  Yet Meme and Antoine did not appear concerned as they sat with Piers Moran and Pierre Ferri in the rear office of Club Paradise.

  “Why did you shoot them yourselves?” Piers asked. “I thought leaders in the milieu remained above the dirty work.”

  “There are times when you must show you have not forgotten how to deal out violence with your own hands,” Meme said. “These men, they were attacking our club. Our club.” He gestured to his brother and himself to emphasize the point. “So they found themselves facing us.” Piers was sure the lesson was meant more for their opposition within the milieu than a handful of ragtag workers. But he saw no point in pursuing the matter.

  “You do not think the object lesson you sought was made more forceful by what happened?” It was Antoine this time, and the question carried a hint of anger in it.

  “I do indeed,” Piers said. “But we now have the problem of keeping you out of jail. We have no interest in losing you at this point.”

  The Pisanis had been bailed out of jail that morning by one of their men, with money provided by Piers Moran. It was not that they lacked the funds. It was intended as a show of support that would not be missed by the politicians who learned of it. And it had brought Ferri to this meeting. Otherwise, after reading the morning’s newspapers, he would have remained far away.

  “There are witnesses,” Ferri said. “Two police officers claim to have seen the shooting.”

  “Witnesses can be dealt with,” Antoine said. “We only need to know who they are.”

  “That I can discover,” Ferri said. “The question of what happened in the council chambers I think will go away by itself. We are claiming it was a spontaneous reaction to the slanderous statements of Michel Dubois. It will be difficult to prove otherwise.”

  “Tell me more about these police officers,” Piers said.

  Ferri scratched his head, sending a cascade of dandruff onto his blue suit. “They are honest men, always the most difficult kind to deal with.”

  Piers smiled at the politician. “Certainly there are ranking officers in your police department who could convince these men they made a mistake—that they really didn’t see our friends here firing into the mob.” He smiled at Ferri. “Perhaps they were just too far away. After all, if they were really that close they should have stopped it.”

  Meme was studying Piers closely, and a very faint, almost unrecognizable smile was forming on his lips.

  Ferri twisted nervously in his chair. “But the people would be outraged if they thought we were corrupting our own police,” he said.

  Piers leaned back in his chair and stared up at the ceiling. “The people are hungry,” he said. “Many do not have jobs. They believe this is unfair. And, of course, it is. But it has been my experience that when people lack food, and the work to get it, they’re resentful of those who have both readily available to them, and are prepared to believe the worst about them.” He sat up and let his gaze fall heavily on the mayor’s man. “I don’t think their outrage would be too lasting,” he said.

  “I do not think I could get the mayor to agree,” Ferri said.

  Piers drummed the fingers of both hands now. “Then perhaps we need a new mayor,” he said. He studied the shock on Ferri’s face, then smiled. “This does not mean that you, my friend, could not be part of a new administration. Loyalty is something we never forget.”

  Meme saw Ferri crumbling inwardly. “Gaston Defferre would be the man,” he said. “He is the leader of the Socialist party, and a man we have dealt with before. He is a realist.” Meme offered his faint smile again. “And he has worked with your people before. He headed an intelligence network in the south of France during the war. I think, perhaps, he would be willing to continue in that role. He hates the communists, and only agrees to work with them for political reasons.”

  Piers nodded, then glanced back at Ferri. “What do you think of Defferre?” he asked.

  “He is a good man and a powerful one. I think he is honest. But he also understands the way politics work.”

  Antoine snorted. “He understands how his relatives work. Every time a government worker leaves his house, he is afraid he will find one of Gaston’s relatives sitting at his desk when he arrive
s at his office.”

  Piers smiled broadly at the evaluation of Defferre. “It’s something that has been known to happen in many countries,” he said. “But it sounds as though Gaston may be our man. If not for this strike, then certainly for the next.”

  “You expect more of the same?” Ferri asked.

  “I was told to expect to be here for several years,” Piers said. “And it was not because my government expected this difficulty to last that long.”

  Ferri let out a long breath. “I will talk to the mayor,” he said. “But I do not know if he will agree. But I will try.”

  “Only tell him what we want,” Piers said. “If he chooses not to listen …” He raised his hands in a shrugging gesture. He knew Ferri would tell the mayor much more.

  This American was becoming very Corsican, Meme thought. Even his gestures were becoming so.

  “I will speak to him,” Ferri said. “And, I assure you, I would have no difficulty working with Gaston.”

  “I’m sure you wouldn’t,” Piers said. He paused, folding his hands before him. “For now we must deal with the charges against our friends here,” he said. “We must arrange to have them dropped. Then we can get back to the business of ending this strike.”

  Four days later the two officers appeared in court and recanted their earlier statements that they had seen the Pisani brothers fire into the crowd. The court did not act immediately on the new information. To do so would incite the public. The court, in fact, would not drop the charges against the Pisanis until December 10, almost a month later. But, in effect, the case against the Pisanis was over.

  Now Piers could concentrate on the strike—and the other interests he had found in Marseilles. He looked forward to the pleasures of both.

  Colette allowed her fingers to roam softly, gently, the fingers barely touching him, just a faint flicker of movement across his skin. Her head rested on his stomach and she watched him become more aroused with each caress. She liked to watch him, to hear his breathing catch with pleasure, to feel his stomach muscles tighten against her face as his passion grew and surged. It was as though he had not been loved in a long time and the pleasure of it was alien to him. Perhaps he had never been loved. Oh, she knew he had been with women, many of them. He had been skilled enough, even from the beginning. But she did not think he had been given true pleasure. She thought he had been with women who simply took it for themselves, or those who gave only what they had to give and got it over with quickly. She knew there were such women. She had heard them talk about men, about the demands they made and how those demands never seemed to end. It had puzzled her that a woman would not wish to be wanted with such intensity, that it would not please her that a man she had chosen to be with would find her so desirable, he could not stay away. She could not understand how a woman would not want that power over a man.