Then one plant I had already come across. Datura stramonium – the Thorn Apple, which had played a role (unsuccessfuly) in one of her lovemaking riddles, whereas others had easily seduced me. Now the notes on the Love Apple lay beside it - Mandragora officinarum – the Mandrake of the Bible. I was concerned to see how these two plants had poisonous attributions, though the Mandrake less evil and medicinally employed in ancient times. Nicole must have toyed with my emotions since it also was said to have aphrodisiac properties. Had she been playing with fire? Or was its other role as a pain-killer which might have induced her to develop a new medicine? Her notes didn’t make clear.
Then one other candidate attached to a beautifully rendered watercolour. I recognised the trumpet shaped flowers. The notes in Corsican:
Digitalis purpurea. Vene longu à e strade. Face fiori rossi o malvi. Ghjè una belleza. Ma hè vilenosa. I zitelli ghjucavanu à fà schiattà i fiori. I translate this as : Purple Digitalis. Found along the roads and byways. It has (makes) red or mauve flowers. It is beautiful but poisonous. Children have a great time amusing themselves playing (safely) with the flowers.
And the last to hand that I can find of a ‘dangerous’ nature ;
Ruta ssp. Sta pianta puzza. L’animali un’ la toccanu micca. Quellu chì ne manghja assai pò more. U so suchju cù quellu di u finochju hè bonu per curà e malatie di l’ochji. A’ tisana hè bona per caccià i vermi. ‘This plant stinks. The animals don’t touch it. Those that do eat (too) much will die. Its sap, like that of fennel is good for clearing eye problems. As a tisane it is good against fever.’
The problem with these notes is that they do not include her ‘recipes’ or conclusions as to their relative efficacy. Perhaps she keeps these separate for reasons of security – or patent. I began to doubt whether they would be of any help to the hospital doctors in Calvi, but at least I could hope. And help clear me of involvement in the attempt on her life.
The final shortlist of toxic or narcotic candidates took me two days to assemble. They seemed to be, by definition, all native to Corsica and under Nicole’s practical observation. I did not have the knowledge to grade them in an order of toxicity, but Nicole made my task lighter by having annotated the plants with those red dots that showed her interest in them for their medicinal or remedial effects; she had used the descriptors vénéneux (poisonous) or toxique, though the degree of each I could not reliably quantify. I just had to do my best for the doctors.
The primary dangers seemed to be grouped in the following categories:
a) Vénéneux
• Digitalis purpurea – beautiful red and mauve flowers but dangerous.
(Nicole’s borrowed note en Corse: Face fiori rosso o malvi. Ghjè una bellezza. Ma hè vilenosa.)
• Datura stramonium - (The Thorn Apple I had met before) very poisonous
and a narcotic, containing alkaloids.
• Papaver rheoas - the common poppy. A narcotic? (An infusion of its fruits
are good for coughs – and as a tonic or eye lotion for horses).
• Coriaria myrtifolia - has poisonous berries dangerous to animals (and humans?) … the poison has the similar effect as alcoholic intoxication.
• Rhus coriaria (Sumach) – the juice of the leaves is poisonous.
Strangely there were three common plants noted, that appeared to have some poisonous effect (only) if their milky juices were extracted (by design or fault):
• Mandragora officiarum (Love Apple) – ‘slightly poisonous’, an ancient pain killer.
• Colchium cupani (Autumn Crocus) – in ancient times considered a dangerous poison, but not now? (To be discounted because it was not yet in flower?)
• Nerium oleander – the ubiquitous plant with leaves carrying a poisonous milk.
b) Toxique/Narcotic/Medicinal
• Spartium junceum (Spanish broom) a purgative, emetic and diuretic
• Tamus communis – another purgative (and remedy for chilblains)
(Confirmation via a notation en Corse: Cruda, sta pianta hè vilenosa.)
• Ecballium elaterium – the root contains a violent purgative, used to treat rheumatism, paralysis, dropsy and shingles.
• Urginea maritima – medicinal treatment for heart disease.
• Bongardia chrysogonum – a cure for epilepsy.
• Leontice leontopetalum – also a cure for epilepsy
Would this list, assembled by an amateur, an occasional fieldwork assistant be of any
use to the doctors? I could not possibly tell. And where might there lie the significance
within Nicole’s work? Am I looking at a clue in front of me that will explain so much of Nicole’s dedication? Should I see emphasis in the presence of two cures for epilepsy? Does a child – that existence forgotten here on the island – have epilepsy? Does that, or one of the other plants she is investigating underpin her research and lead to a sinister diagnosis back in England that has obsessed her for a cure?
Even as I daunted myself with these questions I knew I did not have any answers to hand. Furthermore I was being deflected from the problem in hand – Nicole’s survival. That was the issue, and which, if any, of the poisonous substances had she taken – or been forced on her. I resolved to catch the next boat back to Calvi.
x
There is a large cabin-cruiser anchored in the centre of the cove. From the terrace of the house the binoculars pick out six men clambering into their dinghy and heading to the taverne jetty for lunch. I am glad for Antoine and Angelique. Some income to help them at last.
I fill my glass with wine and nibble some olives and nuts I have prepared with little enthusiasm instead of the trouble of preparing a salad. Nicole is so much better than me at making the best use of the wild salad plants to create distinctive flavours. I miss her skill and the little touches, the small things that she put into our casual relationship which I now remember with affection. The light touch on my arm, the passing kiss in the kitchen, the brush of her slim form against me. Gentle acknowledgements of our intimacy. Under her control. I miss her.
The crew of the boat are milling around, seemingly unsettled as to where to sit, inside or on the wooden tables under the pergola of the ramshackle structure. They are wearing uniform black tunics and trousers, a professional team. There is one tall man amongst them ordering a hassled Antoine. Angelique appears from moment to moment with trays of food, evidently stressed by the sudden custom after so many blank days. I look back at the boat and realise it is familiar. The ‘Corsair.’
I check my memory. Yes, it was this gang who gave Antoine such a hard time on their last visit. He never would talk about the argument, and had diverted my questions when I persisted. Maybe rough customers were part and parcel of this outpost. Beggars can’t be choosers. We were not on the tourist map. This was old Corsica, the simple life. Giuseppe had demonstrated by his grotte existence that one could live a caveman’s life quite satisfactorily. Nicole too managed with a few supplies by boat. Everything else Antoine and Angelique provided from their smallholding. The sheep, goats and chickens. The olive grove, fruit trees, the chestnuts. One could live off the earth, cut off from the modern world.
So, what was the ‘Corsair’ doing back again?
Finally I could not resist the temptation of a decent meal prepared by Angelique. I knew if she had boating customers she would overcook the quantities so as to feed herself and Antoine and to put some aside for the morrow. I set off down the path.
I arrived at the taverne as the boat crew was gathering to leave. There was a lot of swaggering going on, as if they owned the place. Antoine pocketed a wad of cash with an ingratiating smile that did him no favours. They needed the money, but he hated being servile. To ugly customers most of all.
As I came to the shack, the Corsair appeared from round the back of the structure, zipping up his trousers. There was a dribble of piss on the front.
”Vous etes ici encore?”
I decided not to respond. He clearly didn’t like the fact I was here, and I had the same feeling about him. He was the ugliest of them all, with a long black unkempt beard, a nasty piece of work. I was glad when they got in the dinghy and set off to the cruiser.
“Good riddance,” I said to Antoine as we watched the craft weigh anchor and speed off round the headland and out of sight. “What’s he doing here?”
Antoine shrugged his shoulders. Angelique looked at him as if expecting an outburst of annoyance, or rage, but he didn’t say a thing. He lit one of his cigarettes and blew the smoke upwards, polluting the clean air of the cove with its musty smell.
I took my lunch in silence. Angelique did me proud, with Agneau romarin – one of her specialities, the rosemary complimenting the tender meat. I hoped the boat’s crew appreciated it as much as I did. Or perhaps I didn’t care. I hoped never to see them again.
xi
The patrol-boat was now a regular visitor to the cove and it took me back to Calvi with my candidate list of plant ‘troublemakers’ for the doctors to assess. I hoped it would prove useful, but I was an amateur botanist to say the least and I reckoned nothing might come of it.
As I handed in the list, the doctors gave me the results of the laboratory tests so far.
“We have identified two substances that could have caused Nicole’s state:
Papaver somniferum - the opium poppy.”
At once I recognised the papaver. “That is on the list I have just given you.”
He read out a second plant: “Urginea maritima rosa.”
I was pleased. “That too.”
The doctor did not seem to share my enthusiasm for a solution. He looked over my list carefully once more and compared it with the laboratory report. His sullen look surprised me.
“I am afraid not.”
“I don’t understand. I am sure they are on both lists.”
He gave me a knowing look. I was the amateur after all.
“They’re not the same things.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes. You see we have the poppy – papaver – on the two lists, but Papaver somniferum, the one the lab has detected, that’s not indigenous to this area. It doesn’t grow wild here. In Afghanistan of course and in the Middle East, but not on Corsica. And as for Urginea maritima … that depends on whether it is the plant, growing here, that has broad strap-shaped leaves growing out of huge bulbs – yes, that’s the Sea Squill in the maquis. But Urginea maritima rosa is a sub-species, native of North Africa; its bulbs have a use as a rat poison.”
“My God.”
“Exactly. The two on your list, in Nicole’s research, have some medicinal use and she may have been looking into them, but the two the lab have found – they’re dangerous.”
“Fatal?”
“It depends upon the dosage, the blend of ingredients.”
“You think she was forced to … ?”
“These compounds would attack the nervous system. One is a narcotic, the other a poison. Someone wanted to do her serious harm.”
“And pass it off as an accident, self-inflicted by her research and testing?”
“Very possibly. It would be the perfect crime.”
“With what motive?”
“That’s for the police to sort out.”
I sat down with a thump on a bench. Nicole was at death’s door, and was indeed the victim of a deliberate attack. A cunning, deceitful attack. One that I had merely assumed to be an experiment gone wrong, when I first found her. How ridiculous it now seemed, my initial fussing. Thank goodness the boat had come in that day and we had got her away smartly to professional help.
“There’s something else you’re overlooking,” the second doctor said. “If these two compounds are not indigenous, the people who prepared them, who delivered the toxic dose, have come from outside the island. Not Corsica.”
“Unless they were working in league with locals.”
“Possibly. The police need to check everything out.”
The doctors shuffled the notes and became absorbed in the details of their analysis. I felt I had done all I could.
“Can I see Nicole?”
They apologised for their lack of attention to me. “You can’t go in, but have a look through the window in the corridor.”
They guided me towards the room in which she now lay. The window allowed me to see a bed, a mass of equipment, wires and tubes connected in all directions. Nicole’s head was barely visible under this array.
“How is she?”
“Stable.”
“Which means?”
“There’s been no significant change for a week, since we pumped out the ‘poison’ she had ingested. The degree of coma is the same. Not better but not worse. The monitors show stability. The Doll’s Eye test went all right. Her brain stem is not damaged.”
“Any signs that she is responding?”
“The stimuli we are applying are gentle at this stage. We are not getting any physical reaction or mental response. Her breathing is under control and steady. Her eyes have not blinked or opened.”
“What do you hope will happen?”
“We can increase, carefully, certain stimuli. But it is better to maintain stability and see if she returns to us on her own accord. It is difficult to accurately assess whether other damage has been done to the brain, so we mustn’t force the issue and create worse implications.”
“Is there anything I can do?” I sounded as if I had some capacity, which I didn’t.
“We will call you if there are any signs of recovery, but you need to understand that we need to find her next-of-kin. They should know of her condition and be here should any difficult decisions have to be made.”
In pursuit of my own interest, of my attachment to Nicole, and because I now knew that love had overtaken our lustful beginnings, I had overlooked that there were others – her family – much more entitled to be at her bedside. I felt guilty of possessiveness.
“I understand.” But I didn’t want to. What family had she been hiding? In those moments when I had tried to find out, she had carefully or sometimes abruptly, warned me off pursuing the information. She must have something to hide, or be embarrassed about the truth. No husband, no partner? Is that why she could free-wheel with me and indulge in our games of lovemaking? Or was there a child? If so, was there something wrong with it, some condition that formed the basis of her obsession with finding cures?
xii
I felt abandoned by the absence of Nicole, though of course I was not. She was on my mind every hour of the day and I found it difficult to concentrate on finishing my literary critiques. If I hadn’t had a contract and a deadline fast approaching I don’t think I would have bothered with them. I didn’t really need the money. Nicole’s astute observations in her logbook had struck home. I was commenting on authors many would not read. However exemplary their work, success had come to them decades ago and the tide had moved away from literary dexterity towards instant and banal prose. The attention span of many in an audio-visual and internet age could only manage pulp fiction that had two page chapters and italicised summaries in case the reader had not fully understood what they had just read. Brutal simplicity was the vogue and only a few talents broke through this mist. I was working out of time. I felt past it. Yet Nicole’s warmth, our intimacy, stopped me being remorseful and self-pitying.
I thought how lucky I was compared with others. I reflected on Giuseppe and what a turbulent life he had suffered. Despite a belief that Corsica’s violent past for most people was behind it, vengeance had caught up with him.
I decided to make one more visit to his caverne de sécurité. I knew I had not said goodbye properly and felt I should ensure his refuge was preserved in a manner that did justice to his name. It was not his grave but I could make it a memorial that would survive – almost certainly - untouched forever.
Antoine saw
me come down from the house, and I could not hide from him that I was going over to Giuseppe’s grotte. But I made a remark that I felt I should tidy up his effects and check his small fishing boat was still serviceable. The police had not made any decisions as to what should happen to his few belongings. I knew there was no next-of-kin. Giuseppe’s things would probably be dumped in a déchetterie by some insensitive official.
Having made a brief attempt to tidy up the grotte (tidy was hardly the applicable word), I took the oars and rowlocks out to the small boat that rested on the shoreline with a short rope and anchor embedded in the sand. I unhitched this and pushed the boat back into the water and rowed slowly across the bay and into the narrow entrance. The rocks on either side reminded me how skilful yacht skippers had to be to navigate safely in to this haven. Only the very best – and hungriest - could risk that passage, though it would be easier for the few motorboats that had large-scale charts. The Gendarmerie Maritime and the supply boat were the only familiar users of this dangerous entrance.
I passed the navigation buoy on which the corpse had first greeted me this year. The sea had long washed off any blood and only a short length of rope remained where the gendarmes had cut the man free. The buoy bobbed up and down in the swell. I could see how most passing yachts would not spot it from a distance. That oversight was a further protection for the isolation of the cove.
It took me some time to reach the inlet that lead to Giuseppe’s caverne. The swell hampered my entrance and I bumped against a couple of rocks, fortunately smoothed by centuries of pounding, before passing between the sharp jagged edges of granite either side.
The Dark Side of the Sun Page 19