The Dark Side of the Sun

by IAIN WODEHOUSE-EASTON

  “There’s nothing wrong with our money.”

  “It’s not the money.”

  “Then what. We could make you an offer you won’t want to refuse.”

  “Is that a threat?” I had to intercede.

  “Just that it would be a very good offer.”

  “No thanks. Now you’re trespassing. We don’t want you here.”

  They hesitated and for a moment it looked as if they would try and get into the house. I nodded to Nicole to go inside and followed to pick up the old shotgun that still hung on the wall. I appeared at the door. I didn’t mention it was decorative.

  “What sort of threat is that?”

  “Get the message.”

  “It’s not the wild west.”

  “It’s Corsica. Look up your history.”

  It had the right effect. They glanced at each other, hesitated, but then turned and went back down the path.

  Nicole and I laughed when they were gone, but were reminded this isolated spot was not entirely safe from intrusion. Tourism had not breached its defences, but the sea was a crack in its armour.

  “Thank God they’ve gone. Tomorrow should see the back of them.”

  “Do you think some of the others might come up to make a nuisance of themselves?”

  “They’ll be too drunk to climb again.”

  “I hope you’re right.”

  “Time for a stiff drink,” I responded.

  “Agreed.”

  When we discussed it later, we could see that drink was the cause of their aggression, but we hated the presumption that this cove could be turned into a modern resort. For if that ever happened it would be ruined.

  “Come to bed, I need a cuddle.”

  I was happy to oblige Nicole and we lay together naked in the evening warmth. This time there was no passion ruling our thoughts, just the companionship of two people who had faced … danger? No, not really. Just two people who shared a mutual love for the gifts of Nature and tranquillity.

  “They’ll never know that gun is useless,” she said, “I don’t have any way of protecting us against real villains.”

  “We have to hope we never meet them.”

  That was not to be.

  xxviii

  Nicole has left some small lilac flowers in a bowl. Beside them is another dish with seeds in it. I assume they are from the same plant, and the fact they have been left around for a couple of days suggests it is another test for me.

  The flowers I recognise as from a shrub renowned as the Chaste Tree. Vitex agnus-castus. This reputation for chastity comes from Greek and Roman times; it was mentioned in

  my classics university course. In fact the tree caused a students’ debate that brought arguments about its effectiveness. The dried seeds by some were said to have the power to subdue the inclination naturel between sexes. But the counter-argument stated that the fresh seeds have another claim. Their pungent aroma has been considered to arouse aphrodisiac impulses. Has Nicole left them for my consumption, food for thought?

  I make no assumptions, but when she is preparing supper for us that evening, I conspicuously sample some of the seeds, whilst picking up a few of the flowers so she will notice I am admiring them. Nicole gives me a whimsical glance and a brief smile gives away her recognition of what I am doing. As she lays the salad she has prepared on the table, we both reach for the green seeds and sprinkle them on the dish before us. It is a joint act, committed in open agreement.

  I have no idea how much time will lapse before the seeds take effect, or if they will meet their positive reputation. To reduce doubt I swallow some more and throughout the evening wait with a mild inner amusement for some inclination. By the time it is for us to retire to bed, I do feel amorous towards this beautiful tempter, though whether the wine is the cause of my interest I cannot be sure. Once again I have indulged.

  Instead of going to my room – as the rules require – I help her tidy things away, and our proximity, together with the sweet scented flowers that she now holds in her hands, leads me to stand behind and put my arm around her and give her a kiss on the nape of her neck. Then a few more.

  Nicole makes no move, but her hands drop down to my side to keep me close but not against her. This chaste conduct seems to be part of the riddle, proof of a test, to see the

  balance of reputations I am weighing on the scales. It is not long before I make my decision clear.

  I stoop down and lift her bodily off to her room, and lay her gently down on the bed. The look of innocence remains on her face, and she closes her eyes, but does nothing to resist my actions. I take the cotton shift off her and the small briefs that are the only other garment she is wearing in the summer evening heat. Her hair strays either side of her head, its corn colours forming a halo of radiance. She is irresistible, and she knows it. Chastity resists provocation. Collaboration does not.

  We make love with a willing passion, considerate and joyful, lingering just long enough in expectation to be rewarded in its fulfilment. Nicole rests by my side, satisfied with her control over my desire, content that she can choose when to be wanted, pleased that her programme of riddles keeps me under her spell. Before midnight I go back to my room, ruled as I am by her protocol. I too am content.

  xxix

  The first time I ventured beyond the boundary of our domaine, along an abandoned path buried in the undergrowth of the maquis, it was by accident that I came across the stone edifice of a small ruined church hidden in the forest of holm oaks that clung to the mountainside. Nicole had not mentioned it, nor had Antoine. The door hung loose on its hinges and I was able to peer inside, but saw little as darkness was approaching. I made a resolution to return, and keep the find to myself. Surrounded by secrets, I felt a curious need to have at least one in my armoury, my defence.

  The second time I approached it in daytime. Nicole had gone in another direction, down towards the Genoese fort on the headland and I would be far from her sight. This time I had the chance to observe its structure in depth.

  Though the building was wrapped in foliage which overwhelmed its roof and walls, I could see it was of a size that would have been sufficient only for a very small community, perhaps of around thirty people. The simple rectangular shape was made of alternate black and grey granite slabs, typical of the Pisan era, an example of which I had seen on my randonnée last year at Murato, not far to the east of here. There was a bas-relief just inside the door with a date on it. 1264. Only twenty years before the demise of its protectors. Whether this was the date of construction, blessing or linked to some other significant commemoration I could not tell. Hundreds of such churches had been built by the Pisan protectorate that had ruled the island from 1077-1284. They had been built in pievi - the ecclesiastical administrative units - no matter how small and remote, even being placed at the intersections of mule tracks in the mountains. In time new conquerors changed their beliefs, their role and most were empty of people and abandoned by the 17th century.

  This church had never served a large congregation. If this was a place where ancient tracks met, they and the mules had long vanished as the maquis had grown determinedly over it. I also recognised, in this miniature example, the Pisan-Romanesque decorative style evident to this day in the cathedrals at Nebbio and Canonica; a design of Northern-Italian baroque, austere outside but vaulted within - a contrast with the crude structures of so much of the old buildings in the Corsican countryside. Beside it a large pile of broken brick and stone was all that was left of a slender campanile and lantern that had fallen in suicide at some distant time. That the roof was generally intact paid tribute however to its masons,

  unless it had been cared for under the restorations of Viollet-le-Duc in the nineteenth century. Perhaps the structure had only been allowed to fall into neglect in the last hundred years.

  Now there was little inside. Dust covered everything, including an old broom left to one side. I used it to brush off the co
bwebs of time to reveal the facing of the interior walls with rectangular slabs of faded yellow limestone, shaped and dressed to fit precisely together, the edges aligned perfectly. This precise mathematical ashlar masonry, derived in spirit from some Roman basilica, was still in place after all these centuries. Bas-reliefs adorned the walls in the semi-circular tympanums above windows and doorways, on lintels, and arches, which framed the three empty windows on either side. On the corbels the sacred beasts of ancient middle-eastern civilisations were just visible, evoking the imagery of crusades brought to Europe by invaders from Persia and Babylon. Worn motifs that only just brought their distant origins into view; birds, beasts from old Persia, lions and horses galloping from the bas-reliefs of biblical Mesopotamia. Images of symbolic significance to medieval Christianity.

  Through the foliage the sun’s rays pierced one side of these blank window spaces and cast a dusty haze onto the floor. There were no pews, no seats, no altar rail or rood screen. Just a wide stone ledge, acting as an altar, too massive to have opened itself to vandalism. The church had simply succumbed to neglect and time as the maquis absorbed it like an octopus into its grasp. Its interior, exposed through the open eyes of these windows, faced the gales and storms of winter that would rinse the walls and floor from time to time, only for the longer days of summer sunshine and dust to continue its neglected condition. The elements balanced each other in the preservation of the core granite structure.

  It was only after an hour of absorbing the details of its fine construction that I realised I was still holding the broom in my hand. That was no ancient artefact. Who had left that here and when? There was a dusty old tarpaulin too, hidden behind a pillar, that I had not noticed. Marks in the dust suggested the tarpaulin had been dragged about. In an alcove three candles, though no matches. Did someone use this place from time to time? For what purpose?

  xxx

  The scents of the maquis dominated the land as well as far out to sea. I knew this from my first approach by ferry to the island, but this was reinforced on those occasions when Giuseppe let me join him on fishing trips.

  Off the coast, working in his small fishing boat, we would breathe the cool fragrant air. There being no engine, Giuseppe was happy with my requests to help him with the rowing; this gave him a better chance to tow his lines of baited hooks, behind our slow speed. Normally he would stay close inshore, laying lobster pots and eel traps. When we were together he could handle his nets more easily, casting them over the side whilst I rowed in a circle to close the head and entrap fish. This teamwork increased his effectiveness and extended the hours of operation, before tiredness overcame us.

  On other occasions we fished at night in the calanques either side of the headlands. Giuseppe would fire up his carbide lamps fixed to the stern counter, and we searched for octopus under the dazzling pools of light, grappling them with hooked poles. When exhausted we would float silently under the stars whilst he sorted the catch into buckets of water, so that we no longer slipped and slid on the wet bodies of squirming cephalopods. Then we would row, trailing phosphorescence in a gentle co-ordinated rhythm, back through the narrow entrance to the cove, with only the glimmer of oil lamps at the taverne to guide us.

  Another day, when the muse had failed me, I wandered down to the cove and along to Giuseppe’s grotte. He was preparing to launch his boat from the sandy shore. He gestured to me to jump in and I did so willingly. He pointed to the oars and I started pulling as he leapt into the stern with one last shove off the beach. I knew not to begin a conversation the minute we were free, as he would want to concentrate on guiding us through the narrow entrance between the twin headlands. These sheer vertical cliffs of red rose granite towered over us like high walls of a prison, whose strictures we had to escape before we could breathe the fresh air of freedom of the sea outside. All along this western coast these jagged outcrops leant into the clear waters, their rocks sharp enough to sink the strongest vessel that might fall upon them, cutting them open like knives into butter, so tough was the granite upon which the island’s core rested.

  As we passed the navigation buoy, we averted our gaze from the deathly scene it had once put before me, and looked outwards where the sea was calm. As so often, Giuseppe directed me silently with his hands along the northern side of the coast and guided me close in to the calanques, the inlets which lay between the spokes of the rocks radiating out from the land. We were close to the southern border of the Reserve Naturelle de Scandola – a large nature park - beyond the next headland. To venture into these rivulets was unwise for all who did not know the position of every underwater rock, for though the water is crystal clear in places, weed would mask some hidden dangers. Only Giuseppe knew enough to chance his arm and search for lobster and octopus in these pools.

  “This place is amazing.” I had broken his silence at last, meaning to say ‘beautiful’, but how often can one repeat that word without seeming to exaggerate, for the island had many faces, carried many images, some dark from its past.

  Today the weather was fine. “It is not always so,” Giuseppe retorted, wise to the varying moods of the seasons. “If the Maestrale or Ponente westerly winds blow, this can be a dangerous coast. In a matter of moments it can go from calm to rough. On this coast you will be exposed and be blown onto a lee shore - and these cliffs of granite.”

  “Have you ever been caught out?”

  “Not put in danger.”

  “Lucky.”

  “Not luck,” Giuseppe answered firmly. “I have a place of security to which I can go.”

  “Une cave de sécurité ?”

  He choked back a laugh. “Pas une cave … de vins! Une caverne de sécurité!”

  Giuseppe looked along the line of forbidding cliffs. We were about a kilometre to the north of the bay, following closely the inlets that were the homes of the lobsters and octopus we sought. Then he turned to me, looked hard into my eyes, as if deciding whether to entrust me with one of his secrets.

  “Ma caverne, c’est la,” and indicating with his free hand, pointed to a break in the rocky slopes. To the casual eye there was no difference between this place and any other on this dangerous coastline, but he took charge of the oars and manœuvred the boat between two shoulders of rock that ran into the cliffs. The waterway was no more than five metres

  wide, twice the beam of his small craft, but sufficient for this intrepid navigator. We crept slowly in, now lost to sight between the blades of red-rose granite and slipped in through an even narrower gap to find ourselves in a pool of crystal clear water set under the cliff. The mouth of his caverne was no more than seven metres wide, tucked under the overhang, and its opening recalled the shrines favoured by patrons of sea-saints. The back was in darkness, though there was a shaft of light that shone on the outside directly down from the midday sun above. The pool of aquamarine water was about ten metres across, and in the sunlight at the entrance of the caverne was a short strip of sand.

  “Ma plage!”

  He touched the boat on the sand and leapt out. He disappeared inside for five minutes and returned without saying anything, and without having asked me to join him. There was a look of sadness on his face, but I felt unwilling to ask him the reason. He clasped his hands as if in prayer, before pushing the bow off and jumping in.

  Giuseppe turned the boat round sending ripples across the surface that bounced back off the rock face. There was no need for words. This was his sanctuary, and there was no cause for me to interfere with its privacy. I had to be satisfied as an onlooker, and give him my silent trust to preserve its sanctity. He rowed us out through the twisting channel and back to the open sea. For two hours we lifted his lobster pots and eel traps, with mixed success, but enough for him to bargain with Angelique on his return.

  xxxi

  The illustration and notes have been left on the table. Deliberately to attract my attention? Nicole’s challenges became stiffer tests, as if I had to earn the greater access t
o her inner spirit – and body. With time I had become more conscious that a riddle solved could lead to an embrace, a kiss or much more. A loving touch, a surreptitious hand on my knee; hints for a desire allowed to express itself. So casually were these puzzles introduced that I was never sure if some passed me by, and whether I unwittingly missed clues before my very eyes. A deliberate part of her games?

  Nicole today is out on the landscape. I don’t expect her back for hours. A quick glance at these papers suggest I might need all that time to crack their code. For a very good reason. I am not competent in the language in which the entries are written.

  The illustration is a fine pen and ink drawing she has made of a plant known to me, one abundant in the maquis - the Lentisk with its small berries. That much opens a door. The text leaves it only slightly ajar.

  U Listincu. Nicole has annotated in small letters at the foot of the page: Pistacia lentiscus. Confirmation.

  However: U listincu hè un arburettu. E so fronde s’assumiglianu à quelle di l’alivu, ma sò più dure. Face palliole rosse chi diventanu malve. Hè cumpagnu di a morta. Li piacenu i petricaghji. A so fronda fatta à tisana hè una medicina per i ghjiloni.

  This is testing me to - or beyond - the limit. Notes in Corscian? Most probably. I had seen signs using such language in the towns and in local newspapers on my last trip. Nicole has a number of sources for her flora and fauna, and maybe has logically sought local texts. I have no knowledge of this, but my recognition of French and Italian (similar) words may help.

  ‘The lentisk is an arbuste (tree)? Its fronds … assume/look like those of the olive? But are harder? It makes … red … berries? … which become bad (or mauve)? It is the companion of death? It likes stone(y?) places? Its fronds (leaves) make a tisane which is a medicine (cure) for?

  Nicole may be making progress on some potion of her own compounding, but I have to accept I can’t see a riddle in it that might bring me reward. Perhaps it is not meant as a challenge to me at all. I am being nosey. If I am suffering from ghjiloni, I am none the wiser.