xi
‘The olive,’ Nicole has written in notes left on the table, ‘is the saviour of the people. Its fruit, its oil and healthiness is an inspiration, and some use it as a base for medicines.’
Underneath that annotation on the olive tree are research notes en corse that she has transcribed into French (which I translate as best I can):
Cù e fronde si facia una tisana bona par u fecatu è u stomacu
With the leaves one can make a tisane good for the liver and stomach
L’alivu hè simbulu di pace`e di bundanza
The olive is a symbol of peace and abundance
Erame eranu intricciate `a e porte di e spusate. Si ne facia a piccula croce chi era
Missa `a u compulu di e pecre, à u biadaghju ecc …Sta crucetta si chjamava
U san Martinu
The branches were used as ornaments at weddings. People would (also) make a cross
with them, which would be put in the sheep enclosures and barns (for ‘ saintly protection’). This cross was named after Saint Martin.
xii
Even if Nicole has yet to turn this fruitful tree to her advantage, I have to admire the dedicated homework she applies to her studies.
Indeed I have become a more involved ‘assistant’ to her work. It interferes with the progress of my own work, but the slightest excuse finds me volunteering. Now that danger seems to be creeping closer to her, I feel the need to be beside Nicole, a motive that is obvious to her, but any passion is now controlled by events. We toil under the scorching sunshine and the beauty of our landscape, whilst sharing the warmth of our situation, in order to put behind us the cold realities of the murders. But her searches for plants and herbs take us further and further afield across the shrub-laden slopes, until a cliff or the vertical walls of red granite mountains define the limit of adventure.
I don’t have her depth of knowledge of flora, but do my best to pick and pluck as instructed those flowers, leaves, seeds, berries, stems and roots that she has in mind to experiment with, and put these in small cellophane pockets within an old canvas bag on my shoulder. The heat of the day is as much a limiting factor as distance on these wanderings, and Nicole prefers to set out early in the morning to counter this.
“Then you can do your work in the afternoon.”
Yes, of course, I can, but whether I do relies upon my restraint with the rough wines that have become a welcome reward for my efforts. The wines and whisky that both send me to sleep and oblivious to events - or get me into trouble.
It was on one of these maquis expeditions that she got me into the sort of mischief that I readily entered into. It had started as a serious search for varieties of nettles of all things. She had scribbled rough notes on the target plant – Urtica Pilulifera – also known as the Roman Nettle.
We were headed for the area around the small Pisan church, notes and sample bags in hand, since the disturbed ground and walls were a natural habitat for this plant, and it should not be hard to identify the long bristly stinging hairs. ‘Male flowers on branched axillary stems in interrupted clusters; female flowers in dense rough spherical balls.’
And the potential remedies: Dioscorides recommended that the juice of this nettle, mixed with oil, be taken to cure sore joints; nettle flagellation has been used as a cure for rheumatism. At Easter in Greece, young women beat themselves with this nettle as a reminder of Christ’s sufferings.
After much scrambling along the path, hacking away at loose branches of shrubs we found the church, its black and grey marble stone walls first glimpsed through the undergrowth. At least we were shaded from the burning rays of the sun.
There were nettles in profusion at the base of the walls, and believing them to be the variety required, cut a lot of stems, which leaked their white juices even though we tried not to crush them. Needless to say we stung our arms and legs despite our best efforts.
Retreating through the door, loose on its old hinges, we went inside in an effort to attend to these stings with some dock-leaves that might serve as antidotes. Before long we were rubbing the other’s wounds with these plants, though with little success. It left us exchanging glances as our bodies brushed against each other. It led to a kiss. To many sympathetic kisses until we had forgotten the stinging irritations and were clasped in a rush of passion. I lifted Nicole off the ground and placed her sitting on the altar stone. It was dusty, but she didn’t care, nor did I. I opened her blouse and kissed her naked breasts in turn, until she held me even tighter and lay back, wrapping her legs around my waist. There was a look of the devil in her eyes, and she let me lift her shift and move aside her briefs so I could enter her directly, without a further word, without ceremony – or gentle foreplay. Our passion was spent quickly and she leant back again as I admired once more her slight but perfectly proportioned form. Only later did the stinging return as the tension eased. We didn’t care. We didn’t think of those Greek women, and in the building’s long-lost sight of God, we didn’t feel sinful.
xiii
The next time I was down at the taverne it was very quiet and I made an effort to order some lunch to help fill the coffers of Antoine and Angelique. Now that she did not have the fishing of Giuseppe to bolster the meagre menu, the choice was very limited. The monthly supply boat was not due for a few days, so I had to settle for a salad from her vegetable patch, supplemented with anchovies from a tin. Their sheep’s hard cheese sliced into thin shards on top made the whole much more appetising than the ingredients had suggested. A bottle of rosé helped lift my spirits.
As it turned out, my contribution proved less vital. A fast motorboat curved its way into the cove on the crest of a power-wave that sent disturbing ripples across the waters and on to the shoreline, lapping for some time afterwards with that familiar susurrus of foam, until it was calm again. Soon a dinghy was launched and four men came to the jetty and straight up to Antoine.
I expected him to be glad at this prospect of customers, but there was a guarded look of anxiety as the men approached. Their Captain (or was he simply the leader of this scruffy gang?) looked my way, and seemed annoyed to see me there. He came over with a swaggering gait, and stood towering over me, scrunching the end of his black beard, contemplating some action. I held his stare, the wine giving me courage, but he came closer, looking down on me mockingly as I sat at the table.
“Vous reposez ici?”
I nodded.
“Pas bon. Pour vous.”
I wasn’t going to argue. What line would I have taken anyway? He reached into the inside pocket of his windcheater. I didn’t know what to expect. There wasn’t time to guess.
Pistol or knife? In fact he slowly drew out a cigarette packet. The same obnoxious weed that Antoine used. He lit it and blew the acrid smoke into my face.
“Anglais?”
“Oui.”
“Quittez ici pour votre santé.”
He knocked my glass of wine and spilt most of its contents. No pretence of an accident. He turned to Antoine, who looked at me in return. The Captain nodded at Antoine to enter the shack.
Now there was an uneasy silence. Only the sounds of Nature, the gulls and the small rivulets on the shore stirred by the breeze could be heard. Even the mules were silent as they stood in the paddock resisting the sun on their backs. Angelique appeared with some red wine for the three crewmen, who had chosen to sit at the far end of the trestle tables, as if I was infectious. I didn’t mind, but felt uncomfortable under the gaze of these men, who like their leader seemed to be looking for trouble, eating in a grim silence. Angelique too was apprehensive and shuffling about, fretful no doubt that she had little to offer.
Antoine appeared as I finished my meal and wine, accepting money I had already put on my tab. More than he usually asked for. He did not suggest coffee. I thought of lingering to see what happened, but he bent down and asked me to go back to the house. He might as well have said ‘I have some business to
do.’
I agreed, not sure how I could decline his demand, nor wishing to be involved with this motley crew. I fixed them with a departing stare and set off up the mountainside. It took me the usual half-hour and the men were lost to sight beneath the curve of the slope for most of the way. Nicole was out, and I sat on the terrace, with some disquiet about Antoine, but hoped he would have some revenue from this boat’s presence.
I must have drifted off because, uncertain of how long I had slumbered, I woke to hear a commotion down at the taverne. There was much arm-waving and shouting. Then the Captain and his crew got into their dinghy and rowed out to their boat. It sped off out of sight through the cove entrance. It was only the next day that I got to speak again to Antoine. He wouldn’t give me any information. Other than the black-bearded Captain’s nick-name – ‘Le Corsair’.
xiv
This incident was the cause of further dreams about the cove being invaded by people with bad intentions, with events here being controlled from outside, and us as actors in some stage play. However I said nothing to Nicole about this incident.
Antoine and Angelique seemed to be on edge and their mood affected me, and my sense of blissful existence. At least Nicole kept up her work as diligently as ever, and involved me in her gathering of samples from the maquis. These jaunts were undertaken in the simmering heat of the ever-shining sun. Even an early start was soon overtaken by the heat, and we had to carry bottles of water filled from the spring in order to last the hours tramping across the maquis. It was after one of these long days that we returned to the house absolutely exhausted, and collapsed on our beds. Dusk found us gathering our wits after a long sieste, and Nicole took some goat’s cheese from the larder and offered this simply with the left-overs of the salad we had had the day before. It was all we wanted, rinsed down with a glass of wine.
“Tomorrow I want you to help me again. It won’t be such a long day. We can enjoy an evening together, and open a special bottle of wine that Antoine has given me. Not rough for a change!”
I accepted this control of my day. How could I object? She continued to fascinate me and she knew of my lingering passion for her body, for her to lie beside me. A due reward for my help? I lived in hope.
Next day confirmed the plan. We set off in a new direction, in pursuit of plants she had not managed to find. Ingredients for some potion she had researched and wanted to formulate. It proved a fruitless search and we arrived back later than planned. I was weary, but she put her arms around me on return and gave me a gentle kiss.
“Have a rest. I need to go down and see Antoine.”
“I’ll come with you.”
“No. Stay here. Work up an appetite. I’ll be back in an hour.”
Nicole had not given me an option. I did not resist. There seemed a promise in the air. I washed in the cold well water of the basin in my room and put on fresh clothes. I only needed a shirt and shorts to sit out on the terrace as dusk descended and I caught the first glimpses of stars, a whisky in my hand. It was going to be a moonlit night, and that steely light began to shine as she came up back to the house.
“All well?” I had to ask.
“Yes,” her simple answer. As often, when something was on her mind, she said little, busying herself with supper, and keeping my glass filled. She had brought a cut of mutton from Angelique’s. A recent killing, the meat kept supple for a week in what passed for their cool room. With it she showed me a bottle of local wine. There was no label on it, but I knew it to be special.
“Fourteen per cent,” she announced. “Strong enough to blow your socks off.”
“I’m not wearing any.”
“Then to make you sleep like a log.”
“I was hoping to be awake to …”
“Don’t worry. If you are very good tonight, tomorrow you can have your reward.”
“But tonight?”
“Sleep.”
This sounded an order. But if it was part of the behaviour required to win her again, to be with her, inside her, I was content to take it. The big meal, the chestnut bread dipped in olive oil, and the considerable share of the wine that I finished off with a couple more whiskies, yes, that did the trick. Her intentions for my slumber were met, and I staggered off to my room as darkness overcame the landscape – and my eyes. I just remember scudding clouds beginning to close down the brightness of the moonlight, and put the hillside under a blanket. There was a slight chill and I sank under the bedclothes. I passed out.
The dreams came once more. The soft shuffle of feet, gravel sliding underfoot as dark shadows of corsairs crossed my deadened thoughts. Drifts of subdued voices? The clink of armour? The rustle of weapons? Warriors in some war of attrition, in mountainous terrain, passing in front of me on their way to war? Then slipping into the beyond, carried on the backs of horses, in pursuit of …?
I woke with a start, raising my arms in defence … of what? Nothing. The house was quiet. I couldn’t see my watch, and did not want to light a candle. It was the middle of the night, pitch dark. The wine and sleep regained me.
xv
Giuseppe. I wasn’t satisfied with the gendarmes’ conclusion that his murderer was a gang member, linked to fishing or some other interest in the cove. None of that seemed to fit with anything he had ever talked about. There never had been stories of criminal activity, of trading or even smuggling in those moments of casual talk when we had been fishing - and we had spent many hours drifting at sea or chatting in front of his grotte. He had stories to tell, but they were of Marianne and family, found or lost; of his detachment from his Genoese birth, of the rewards and penalties of war. All my instincts were supported by the notebook I had quietly taken from the grotte on the day I had found his body. His own testimony. I still had not declared it to the Gendarmerie Maritime. If I did would Inspector Girard change his beliefs?
I decided to take the boat out to his caverne de sécurité. The site was so small there seemed to be little prospect of any important discovery, but I realised I had not yet found his soul. There was a gap in the thesis that this was only a place of refuge. If he had had to flee there to avoid danger, how long would he have stayed, how would he have kept himself provisioned, how would he survive in such a small space? In other words, I couldn’t picture him there other than for moments of peaceful solitude, of reflection perhaps. I couldn’t sense his spirit of place.
The sea was calm and it did not take me long to row out of the cove and along the coast to the hidden entrance with its narrow inlet, just short of the Réserve Naturelle de Scandola and its attraction for hikers. There were no other boats in view, so I turned in and squeezed through the rocky shoulders of the outcrop and round the corner that concealed the pool. The water within was once again that bright aquamarine as it slopped over the oars. I tied the boat’s rope to a spur of rock and stepped out onto the thin sand bar at the entrance to the caverne itself, stretching into darkness.
I peered into the murk and it soon became evident to me that the space under the rock face went further back than I had assumed. Ignorant of this depth I had not thought to bring an oil lamp, and it took my eyes some time to adapt to the little sunlight left that struggled to find its way in to prevent total darkness. In the gloom I began to realise that here, rather than a concave space shaped like an upturned sea-shell as I had supposed, was actually a more complex and fractured mix of strata of granites. I could not detect their colour, though it was most likely a continuation of the red-rose stone of the cliffs above.
What I did see as the pupils of my eyes opened wider was a bend in the rock face on one side and that this concealed a second space in which even less light reached. Here a candle and matches were set on a ledge. I lit it and there was just enough illumination to see evidence of habitation. Not of ancient invaders - those Greeks, Romans, Pisans or Genoese that had overrun the island - but the marks of Giuseppe’s presence. A carton of kindling and wood, some tools, a blanket wrapped in a w
aterproof bag, a few tins of food – his emergency rations, no doubt. A knife and spoon. On a natural rock shelf was a small tin trunk, old and battered, travelled and scratched, but surprisingly only slightly rusty. I noted the air in the caverne was dry, not damp, even though so close to the water outside. There were other materials to one side. A few wine bottles (they felt full), a hammer, nails, a water-carrier, some rope, a tarpaulin, fishing hooks and line, oil, and carbide lamps. And a larger tin of matches.
I turned back into the main space with a carbide lamp. I intended to light it without succumbing to the fumes in the inner sanctum. I put a match to the solid lump of carbide and it flared into intense light that infused the whole caverne. Back inside the depths, it revealed no other new evidence, no treasure chest. But an image, a small ceramic sculpture on a shelf set in the back wall.
A Marianne.
I recognised at once the emblematic icon of France, the republican symbol of Liberty. The protector of freedom. The person who would remind Giuseppe of his adopted country, of his break for freedom, of his escape from war, from German tyranny. And of the love he had found and lost.
I had discovered the secret cache of memorabilia that was the pathetic sum of his life. Giuseppe had kept this archive away from the grotte, a home that now seemed generous in its furnishings, though it was no more than a larger caverne. He had carried this personal trove to his death. Had he not mentioned to me the existence of this hideaway, this all would have lain undiscovered perhaps forever, unless in time some recreational swimmer, scuba-diver or caver from Scandola crossed the limits and searched this coastline diligently.
I opened the tin trunk, lifting the lid gently on its creaky hinges. A photo, that I assumed to be of Marianne. A fading black and white image showed this girl, thin as a scarecrow, in a floppy black peasant dress, standing on a shoreline. No doubt a photo taken just after the war, whilst starvation and poverty reigned. Maybe when they had met in Bastia, or when they had escaped to Canari and the asbestos mine.
The Dark Side of the Sun Page 14