Time Is a Killer

by Michel Bussi

  ‘I don’t believe you! You don’t care about money. So tell me something else. Find some other way of explaining to me why Cervone’s shack hasn’t burned down. Why the foundations of his hotel haven’t been blown up.’

  Plainly Cassanu couldn’t find anything.

  He seemed to be having trouble breathing.

  Clotilde checked that her phone was working all the way up here, that she had no more messages, and most importantly that she could dial 15 if she had to. It would take a helicopter less than five minutes to get here from Calvi. Saving hikers lost in the mountains was a daily occurrence for the Corsican emergency services. Reassured, she continued to interrogate her grandfather, as if twenty-seven seconds had passed rather than the twenty-seven years since they’d first had this same conversation. On this very spot.

  ‘Cassanu, why did you choose that pig Cervone’s projects over Natale Angeli’s dolphin sanctuary? You virtually promised me. You almost said yes. What made you change your mind? Because Natale was in love with my mother? Because by getting close to your son’s wife he was violating the family’s honour?’

  ‘Honour, Clotilde, is what remains when you’ve lost everything.’

  Clotilde looked out over the vast terrain in front of them, the eighty hectares of land that belonged to the Idrissi family.

  ‘Lost everything? I think there’s some left over, isn’t there? But you haven’t answered me, Cassanu. In the Idrissi family a woman doesn’t cheat on her husband, is that it? While a man …’

  She waited for Cassanu to react.

  Not a word. He was waiting.

  OK, Papé, if you really want me to deliver a good kick to our family secrets …

  ‘I’m not a little girl any more, Cassanu. I know my father cheated on my mother. Everyone knew about it, the locals all made jokes about it. So why be angry with Natale and Palma?’

  At last the old man reacted.

  ‘The problem lies elsewhere, Clotilde. It started long before all that, long before you were born. The problem is that your father never should have married your mother.’

  And there we were. Twenty-seven years later, there we were.

  ‘Because she wasn’t Corsican?’

  ‘No, because your father was already promised to another girl. Before he met your mother, before he fell in love with her, before he gave up everything for her.’

  ‘A Corsican girl, I suppose?’

  ‘Her name was Salomé. She was part of our clan, almost part of our family. She was faithful to him, and would have remained faithful. And Paul would have remained faithful to his island. Your mother wasn’t the kind of woman he needed. There it is, Clotilde, there’s the fatal flaw. Your mother wasn’t the woman you thought she was.’

  The words floated in the silence, the wind seemed to have carried them there so that they clung to this isolated mountain peak. Speranza’s words in the Marcone cemetery:

  Believe me, women are capable of that. Your mother cast a spell on your father, she took him away, caught in her net, far away from all those who loved him …

  They mixed with the laughter of the men at the Euproctes bar, when she was fifteen and learned of her father’s infidelity.

  Paul should have lived here, if your mother hadn’t killed him. He should have lived here, do you hear me? Lived here. Not come back here to die.

  Cassanu coughed, noisily, like cannon-shots scattering the voices of the past.

  ‘It’s as simple as that, dear girl, your father shouldn’t have married your mother. He regretted it. We all knew he would. But by then it was too late.’

  ‘Too late for what?’

  He stared regretfully at Clotilde.

  ‘You were born. You and Nicolas.’

  ‘And?’

  He closed his eyes for several seconds, as if hesitating to say any more, then he seemed to make up his mind.

  ‘And … Palma had joined the scene, like a worm in an apple. After that no one could avert the tragedy.’

  ‘The tragedy?’

  Was Papé talking about the accident?

  First of all they had accused her brother, now it was her mother’s turn?

  ‘Don’t try to find out any more,’ Cassanu added. ‘I’m sorry, Clotilde, despite our shared blood, despite the land that you will inherit, you will never be part of our clan. For that, you have to live here. There are things you can’t understand, things you can’t learn.’

  Clotilde was about to protest, but Cassanu raised his hand and continued.

  ‘You see, my dear girl, right now you’re looking at me with that pitying look, as if you think I’m about to die here at the foot of this cross. No one here, no one in our clan, looks at me with pity. No one has ever called me Papé.’

  She was aware that she wouldn’t get anything more out of her grandfather; no statement, no confession. It didn’t matter, she had expected that, and it wasn’t what she had come searching for.

  ‘Nor do I, if you’ve noticed, I don’t call you Papé any more. The little girl who called you Papé died, Cassanu, on 23 August 1989, on the rocks of Petra Coda. Her family died. Her childhood died. Everything died that day. We have at least one point in common, Cassanu – we both lost our hopes and dreams that evening. So if I came up here to see you, it wasn’t to make you break the omertà, nor was it out of pity.’ She stressed that last word. ‘I need you. I need you to do me a favour.’

  The old man’s dark eyes lit up again.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘A favour that only someone who isn’t afraid of the police could do. Someone who isn’t afraid of making his own laws.’

  ‘What makes you think that’s me?’

  ‘I may not be part of your clan, but it still seems obvious to me that you aren’t too keen on official justice, and that you don’t put too much trust in the local Prefect, in the notaries, in the police …’

  This made him smile.

  ‘I’ve tried as best I can, throughout my life, to correct injustices.’

  She rested a finger on his lips.

  ‘Shh. You remember the words you said to me here, twenty-seven years ago? A throwaway phrase: “You never let go, do you, my dear girl? You would make a good lawyer.” And I did, in the end, perhaps thanks to your advice. So do let me know when you need my professional services, but in the meantime I don’t want to know anything about businessmen who sank to the bottom of the sea, or villas that went up in smoke, about the unidentified body that was found in Crovani Bay this morning, according to the radio, about the trucks that exploded with their cargo on the Algajola road … Even though I think it’s a shame that Cervone Spinello wasn’t on that list.’

  That drew another smile. He was getting his strength back; perhaps Papé wouldn’t need to be taken home by helicopter. She went on confidently.

  ‘This has nothing to do with any of that. I need you to help me stage an intervention. An intervention that isn’t entirely within the law. It’s potentially dangerous. I need you to get hold of a handful of determined men. Armed.’

  He was staring at her now, astonished. Perhaps he was even revising his judgement. That perhaps a little of his blood did flow through the veins of his granddaughter. That she might even be able to dip a toe into the bosom of his clan.

  ‘Armed? I’m an old man, I have no influence any more. Who do you want me to …’

  ‘Ta-dah.’ Clotilde held out her mobile to him. ‘I’m sure you only need to make a few calls. I’m sure your Corsicans will be lining up for a mission like this.’

  ‘That depends on the mission.’

  ‘To neutralise a bodyguard. Maybe two. A muscular bodyguard, but definitely not armed.’

  He closed his eyes and visualised the scene.

  ‘Where would this happen?’

  ‘It’ll bring back memories.’ She gazed at the shadows on the beach seven hundred metres below. ‘The Tropi-Kalliste, Oscelluccia beach. I’m not sure you’ll have paid any attention to the posters, but I want to get close to
Maria-Chjara Giordano.’

  ‘That whore?’

  Yes, he clearly had paid attention to the posters.

  ‘Why do you need to talk to her?’

  She replied crisply, as if wielding a cleaver.

  ‘I want to find out the truth. The truth about the death of your son. My father. My mother and my brother. She’s the only one who knows. A truth that even you don’t know.’

  This time the shock hit Cassanu head on. He seemed to suffer from a sudden fit of dizziness, his eyes were closed, he wheezed and coughed then slowly slid down the cross, his limbs spread, as if he wanted to die here, his arms in a cross in challenge to the one erected by the Austrians.

  Clotilde took his hand and spoke to him: ‘Are you all right, Papé? Are you OK?’ She thought about calling the emergency services, and gave him some water. ‘Gently now, Papé, gently.’ She calmed his quivering legs, she calmed his thumping heart. ‘It’s fine, Papé, you’re OK.’ She gripped his ten fingers in her ten as if his life were a bird ready to fly away, hidden in the hollow of his hand. It took a few minutes before Cassanu was fully conscious again, as if he had analysed all the data in his badly ventilated brain; then slowly his breathing began to return to normal, and he was able to get up and grab his cane.

  ‘Help me up, Clotilde. It’ll take us at least an hour to descend. Give me your telephone so I can use it on the way. Armed men in balaclavas, yes, I should be able to get hold of some of those.’

  45

  Tuesday, 22 August 1989, sixteenth day of the holidays

  Porcelain-blue sky

  Like everyone else, I am part of the movement, I sing holding on to my neighbour’s hand while swaying gently to ‘We Are the World’, standing around the fire on Alga beach, for the big communion of big sentiments. Nicolas stands in the middle, probably hoping that the light of the flames will help him pick out the guitar chords he doesn’t know. He keeps to the rhythm as best he can, my brother-in-arms – if he played like Mark Knopfler, we’d all know about it. Estefan thinks he’s Manu Katché and is accompanying Nicolas on the djembe.

  It’s almost midnight below Betelgeuse and her friends. Tonight is the good little boys’ and girls’ party. We’re grilling marshmallows, singing Bob Marley, Maxim Le Forestier and theme tunes from the TV. This evening’s festivities are meant to reassure the parents; a way of masking tomorrow’s trip to the Camargue organised by Nico, the party for the older kids and the ones over eighteen, with laser balls replacing the stars, techno replacing the guitar, and joints instead of Haribo.

  That’s Nico’s plan; to move from childhood to adulthood within the space of twenty-four hours.

  It’s a bit quick, don’t you think, my trusted reader?

  As if they don’t know how it will all end. It’s like they’re in a hurry to hit on each other and sleep with each other, left, right and centre, then to sleep with the same person all the time, then to set up home together, get married, sleep with each other less often, once a month, once a year, on the anniversary of the first time, to remember it, to dream about it, then sleep with someone else, someone who’s already set up home elsewhere. As if they’re in a rush to follow the same path as their parents. My parents. As if they’re in a rush to start pretending.

  Maria-Chjara thinks she’s Cindy Lauper and howls over the chorus of ‘We Are the World’. She’s got a lovely voice, you have to give her that. The only one sulking is Hermann. He wanted them to sing ‘99 Luftballons’, but apart from Tess and Magnus, the Dutch kids, he’s the only one who understands Nena’s song in German. Which leaves him sitting there like an idiot. He even brought his violin along, but got nothing but boos when he suggested playing it to accompany us. We still prefer Nicolas’s rubbish guitar, and I’m not just saying that because he’s my brother! Now Hermann is holding hands with his neighbour Aurélia, and Aurélia is holding hands with Cervone, who is holding hands with Candy. And so it goes, a pocketful of posies, all fall down.

  We move on to a sequence of songs – ‘Loin des yeux, loin du coeur’; ‘Petite fille de casbah’; ‘Le monde est bleu comme toi’; ‘Au Macumba, Macumba’; ‘Moi aussi, j’irai là-bas’ – until silence finally falls. Until Hermann takes advantage of the break, gets out his violin, and strikes up with his bow before anyone has time to stop him, wresting from it notes of sorrow and passion.

  He plays well, you have to admit. Even if we don’t immediately recognise the tune. It’s Maria-Chjara who works it out first. She sings the words to ‘Forever Young’ and, this time, everyone falls silent. It sounds as if he and Chjara have spent the whole summer rehearsing.

  Chjara’s voice and Hermann’s violin rise softly towards heaven. No one speaks. There are times when words fail even the most gifted of writers. I just wish you could have been there, listening to Hermann’s violin weeping and Maria-Chjara’s voice consoling it.

  It’s ridiculous, but when songs, even stupid songs about love, are sung well, they make you shiver, even if you’re wearing a Back in Black T-shirt.

  Nicolas, a good musician, has let his guitar drop to the sand. Aurélia lacks his class; she stares at the German and the Italian with the eyes of a jealous little police cadet who dearly wishes that she could lock them up for disturbing the peace, exceeding the permitted number of heartbeats per minute, and the lack of a seatbelt in their rocket to the Milky Way. She darts loving glances at Nicolas, but there’s no danger of my clumsy brother catching any of them.

  There they go, the last notes on the violin disappear into infinity, and then it’s over.

  Everyone applauds.

  Forever young.

  They know that’s over too.

  Hermann is sensitive enough to stop there, and go back to the circle, taking the hand of Aurélia, who takes the hand of Cervone and so on. Nicolas makes big eyes at me and I know why, I’ve been given a Cinderella pass and I’ve already disobeyed it. I have to add that I wasn’t granted a visit from my fairy godmother before the ball, just a threat from Mama Palma:

  Bed, midnight!

  I reluctantly head back towards the campsite, leaving the little men and the little women three years older than me to their utopia. The last image I have as I leave the beach is that of the circle scattering like confetti, usually in pairs. Aurélia’s hand in Hermann’s. Maria-Chjara’s head resting on Nicolas’s shoulder. Cervone surrounded by Tess and Candy.

  I reach the bungalow, dragging my feet in the gravel, making noise on purpose – slamming the door of the fridge after I’ve poured myself some water, my skull belt clanging against the cupboard door, my rings spinning like tops on the bedside table. I say ‘Fine’ when Palma asks me how it went, and I kick the door of my doll-sized bedroom, keep my T-shirt on, and open the window because it is crazily hot. I go to bed but I can’t get to sleep. I try, I swear, I go for hours like that, I think, but sleep is locked up in the marital bedroom next door, so I get up again and this time I don’t make as much noise as I did before. Being forty kilos, thin as a boobless, bumless Barbie, is handy when it comes to sliding out of the window of a doll’s bedroom.

  It’s four in the morning. I know, I know, I promised Nicolas not to do the little mouse thing, not to spy on him, at least not until Saint Rose’s day. I said yes, definitely yes, I had better things to do, persuading Papé about the dolphins and so on.

  Except I’ve already done that! He said yes this morning, Papé did. Natale’s going to be so impressed.

  So, you understand me, I’m not about to sit around here getting bored!

  The beach is deserted, almost all the teenagers have gone, the fire is nearly out. There’s just Nicolas, sitting by the embers, strumming away on his own in the darkness, the sound like a shy cicada practising before the sun rises.

  Where are the others? Have they all gone to bed?

  Where’s that other one?

  A voice answers me, she’s rising from the water, like a nymph or a mermaid or a naiad (I’ve never really known the difference between all those creatur
es with women’s bodies that end up in sailors’ nets).

  ‘Are you coming?’

  Maria-Chjara emerges, and with what remains of the light from the embers and the moon in the sky I see a shape first of all, then her silhouette, and then the shadows on her silhouette. She’s still in the water, up to her waist.

  ‘Are you coming, Nico?’

  ‘You’re crazy, it must be icy cold in there.’

  I observe them, hidden in the darkness, subjugated. I’m learning. I’m learning things that your mother doesn’t teach you.

  ‘Come and catch it!’

  Before I even have time to notice her arms moving, the top of Maria-Chjara’s bikini is dangling from a finger.

  ‘Come on, then, catch it.’

  She’s dancing, and each one of her movements seems calculated to make the shadows play over her curves, to caress her, hiding her bosom before suddenly revealing it, concealing a pair of nipples before illuminating them, like two black-gloved hands settling on each of her breasts, pressing them, lifting them, crushing them. Playing with them to make the night aroused.

  Nicolas gets up.

  So is that how it works? Seduction. A whirlwind, dizziness, a pompom waving in the air? Is it the same after the first spin on the merry-go-round?

  ‘Too late,’ the Italian girl’s voice simpers.

  The lacy bikini top goes flying and collapses in the wet sand like a jelly-fish.

  Hurry up, my little Nicolas. My great idiot of a brother is taking an age, pulling off his shirt and then folding it up at his feet. Unless his studied slowness is also part of the dance.

  I’ll never be able to … the guy, I’d just go straight over and eat him up!

  ‘Seconda possibilità?’

  And by the same stroke of magic, another tiny piece of transparent lace is dangling from Maria-Chjara’s fingertips. She stands there for a moment, up to her belly in water displaying her trophy, then she takes a couple of steps forward until her parted thighs form a bridge just above the water, licked gently by the waves and the foam.

  Nicolas has abandoned all patience. His underpants are hauled off with his trousers. As soon as I catch a glimpse of my brother’s bum, forgive me for dumping you here, my nocturnal reader, but I’ve got to close my eyes.