A Rather Curious Engagement

by C. A. Belmond

  There was a long silence.

  “What a sad story,” I said softly. I hesitated. “So, it was Paolo’s grave that you made the procession to in November?”

  Diamanta nodded. I had been mindful all along of something I’d learned from an art history teacher, years ago. When searching for family secrets, he said, Tombstones speak. Tentatively, I asked if we could see Paolo’s grave.

  Diamanta translated this for the older woman, who paused a long time. I held my breath, as the moment hovered over us. Then the grandmother murmured something. Diamanta said to us, “Come with me.”

  Jeremy had been watching the whole time, like a bodyguard, glancing round at everyone else in the room. As we moved to follow Diamanta out the kitchen door which led to the back of the house, the middle-aged woman at the stove suddenly looked up and spoke in an angry tone which even my ears knew meant something along the lines of, What are you, crazy? Don’t show her anything, look where it led the last time a stranger visited. The two little girls stopped chattering and looked wary. The grandmother gave a short, decisive answer, holding up the index finger of her right hand, indicating that she had the last word on the subject.

  “You must understand,” Diamanta murmured when she saw my expression, “that we have always been a very private family. Only once did we allow a stranger in, and he took pictures that caused us to be robbed. But Grandmother understands that you are here to restore the balance that was disturbed. I will take you now to Paolo’s grave.”

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Diamanta silently led us out the back door, beyond a fenced-in garden redolent of flowers, vegetables and herbs, through an arched wooden gate that led us up a grassy hill. The surrounding shrubbery was fragrant, and when I asked Diamanta about it, she told me that it was called maquis, a wild flowering variety that grew very tall and could be used as an herb in cooking.

  We reached the crest of the hill, where, flanked on two sides by low stone walls and eucalyptus trees, was a small hut carved right into the rocky cliff. This, she told us, was a shepherd’s hut which had been converted into a family crypt. I recognized it from Clive’s photo. Diamanta had a key that unlocked it. We stepped inside. It was cool and damp, with an earthen floor. The walls were of carved rock.

  As my eyes adjusted to the dark, I saw that the floor of the hut had three headstones in an area that was marked off by small round flat stones all around it. Diamanta had brought a flashlight, and now she pointed at the headstone in the center, which was the largest and most prominent.

  “There Paolo sleeps,” she said simply. I felt a slight chill on my skin, rippling up to my neck. But, I had come very far for these answers. I had to see it. Jeremy and I leaned forward intently, reading the name carved on the headstone. There was no birth date, only the date of his death. It said Paolo Andria on the biggest stone, followed by the words padre caro, 1805.

  “Dear father,” I murmured.

  I asked Diamanta if I could make a rubbing of the tombstone. When I assured her that we would take care not to damage the stone, she agreed. I had brought my tools with me—a roll of white paper, and colored chalk. Jeremy held the paper against the headstone, while I carefully rubbed the chalk stick across the letters and numbers. When I was done, the tombstone inscriptions appeared on the paper as ghostly white writing against the colored background.

  Jeremy nudged me, nodding toward the smaller gravestone on the left. As I peered closer, Diamanta aimed her flashlight at it. The letters were harder to read, so we traced them on the paper with the chalk, and I read them aloud as each letter emerged: G-R-E-T-A . . .

  Greta von Norbert. 1834. Adorata.

  “Von Norbert!” Jeremy whispered. “No wonder we’ve got two families telling the same story.”

  “Look.” I pointed to the last stone, the one on the right, which bore the name Aldo Andria von Norbert, and the words figlio amato, 1884.

  “Beloved son,” I said. “Wow. This must be the child of Greta and Paolo. Is that right?” I asked Diamanta. She nodded. “But your grandmother said that Greta didn’t show up,” I reminded her.

  “Years later,” Diamanta explained. She led us out of the hut, and she sat on one of the low stone walls that flanked it. She had left the door to the hut ajar. Squinting a little in the sunlight, gazing up at us, she continued the tale of the Lion.

  “You see, after Paolo died, his parents and brothers kept the Lion in the house. Meanwhile, back in Germany, Paolo’s son, Aldo, was raised by his mother, Greta, as if he were the legitimate son of her rich old German husband. When Aldo grew up to be a young man, his mother told him the truth about his real father. Aldo insisted he must meet Paolo, so his mother agreed to go with him to Corsica. She did not know that Paolo had died so long ago, until she came to this house, and learned the truth. But, the voyage and the shock were too much for Greta, and she died here and was buried next to Paolo.”

  “And—the Lion?” Jeremy asked. “What happened to it?”

  “Aldo, the son, asked to buy the Lion so that he could keep it as a memorial of his parents. My family was poor then, and Paolo’s brothers agreed to sell it. Aldo returned to Germany, with the Lion.”

  “But,” I said, “Aldo is buried here.”

  “Yes,” said Diamanta, “because when Aldo went back to Germany without his mother, the von Norbert family blamed him for her death. And now that everyone knew whose child Aldo really was, his stepfather disinherited him. His rich stepbrother, Rolf, was always envious of the love that Greta had for Aldo, and he was heartbroken over her death. So, Rolf took the Lion, claiming it rightfully belonged to his family. Aldo stole it back from him, and ran away back here to Corsica, just as his own father had done.”

  “And the Lion was kept here ever since?” I asked.

  “No,” said Jeremy, “what about the auction in Frankfurt in 1890?”

  Diamanta looked at him appreciatively. “You are quite right,” she said. “Aldo married and raised his own family here. He had twin grandsons. They were restless young men, tired of being poor. They wanted to sell the Lion, even though the village mazzera told them it would be a terrible mistake, taking the Lion away from here, for it would be like stealing the soul of their grandfather, and they would both die within a year.”

  At the mention of the mazzera, Jeremy elbowed me. I had to ask.

  “Diamanta,” I said hesitantly, “is your grandmother a mazzera ?”

  “Oh, no!” she replied. “My grandmother has the second sight, but she is not a mazzera. There’s a flower-lady, down by the pier, who is.”

  “Oh!” I said to Jeremy. I remembered that the Count had told us that a woman put a curse on him just before he left Corsica. Only he thought she was a beggar.

  “But what happened to Aldo’s grandsons in 1890?” Jeremy asked Diamanta.

  “The twins ignored the mazzera’s warning, and took the Lion to a dealer in Frankfurt, who agreed to sell it at auction for them. But, that very week, one of the brothers was murdered in the streets for his pocket money. The other one took this as a sign, so he demanded the Lion back from the auction, and he fled, bringing the Lion home with him. Ever since then, once a year, on the night of the dead when our ancestors ‘return’ to inspect their graves, the family carries the Lion to Paolo’s grave, to prove to his spirit that the Lion still resides here. They lock it in the crypt on that night, to appease Paolo’s soul. The next morning, they unlock the grave and return the Lion to the house for safekeeping. But as you know, after that photograph came out, with all the publicity, the Lion was stolen right out of our house.”

  “You’ve seen this Lion?” Jeremy asked. Diamanta nodded.

  “Oh, yes. It always had a place of honor in this house, with its own cupboard. I remember each year, dressing up for the procession from the church, with candles and flowers, and the eldest male in the family would carry the Lion from the house to this grave. And the next morning he would bring it back here.”

  “Did you ever look ins
ide the Lion?” Jeremy asked. She shook her head.

  “No, that was not possible, for it was sealed shut.”

  I reached into my purse for the sketchpad and pencil. “Diamanta, ” I said, “could you tell me exactly what the Lion looks like?”

  Intrigued, she described it, watching the pad as I sketched it out. Little by little, it took a form and shape. Standing on all fours, big wild mane, tail, ferocious face . . .

  “And don’t forget the monkey,” she said. My pencil stopped. I paused.

  “What monkey?” Jeremy asked.

  “Oh, it had a funny little monkey in its mouth,” Diamanta said. “The body was sticking inside, so you really only saw the arms and the head and the face. You know of course who the monkey resembled. ”

  As calmly as I could, I said, “No, who?”

  “Why,” Diamanta said, “Napoleon Bonaparte, of course.”

  I resumed sketching, following her instructions so that we ended up with the monkey sticking out of the Lion’s mouth like a mouse in the mouth of a great cat. Diamanta said in amusement, “I was always told that the Lion was the Pride that had swallowed Napoleon, so that he lost his empire and was banished.”

  “And, the Lion itself?” I asked. “Did he look like anyone in particular? ”

  “I never knew who he was supposed to be until all that publicity from the photograph,” she said. “It’s Beethoven, isn’t it? But I didn’t have a chance to look at it again and see, because by then, it was gone.”

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  Diamanta’s brother was nowhere to be found when we were ready to leave. He had taken the car and disappeared. After conferring with her relatives, Diamanta told us that an elderly uncle would take us most of the way back to town; he lived halfway there and had a donkey cart that he used when touring his farm.

  He was a very, very old man with a face like a wizened prune. He wore a straw hat and a rumpled suit. But he was cheerful enough as we climbed onto the buckboard, and soon we were bumping along the road.

  “This,” Jeremy said, “is what comes of not hiring a rental car wherever you go.”

  We had arrived in Calvi in the afternoon, so now, as we descended toward town, I could see that the sun was already beginning to slip into the sea. Diamanta’s uncle hummed to himself until the road forked and he stopped the cart. After we dismounted, he tipped his hat to me and turned the donkey cart away toward his farm.

  “Do you suppose that the Count knew he had a family connection here in Corsica?” I asked Jeremy.

  “Who knows?” he said. “He apparently never contacted Diamanta’s family. And why would he have bothered with Mortimer if he knew?”

  “You know,” I said, “the whole thing is finally starting to make sense to me. This Paolo, being a Corsican, might also have been disillusioned with Napoleon . . .”

  “Well, judging from the fact that he made a monkey out of him,” Jeremy said, “I vote that yes, this Paolo bloke was for Corsican independence.”

  We were passing by thick clusters of trees—lemon, juniper, myrtle, chestnut, and the prized strawberry tree that supposedly promotes longevity; and the air was filled with the scent of herbs like bay and rosemary. At times the shrubbery beside the road was so dense that I could hear crickets, even though it was still daylight. At other times there were wide open stretches of sand and desert scrub.

  Jeremy was fiddling with his phone. “Can’t get a signal at all,” he said disgustedly. “I was going to tell Claude we’re on our way—”

  He was interrupted by a loud, popping sound that echoed across the open fields.

  Now, look. I can’t actually say I’ve ever been shot at before. Hell, I don’t even know if I’ve ever really heard a gun go off, except on a movie set. And those are blanks. Even so, I can say that I knew right now, for certain, that someone not very far away had just fired a gun. And, I think it’s a pretty good guess who the target was. Us.

  Jeremy had the same idea, of course, because he’d dragged me off to the side of the road and into the shrubbery, then flung himself on top of me on the ground. I heard another shot, and another.

  Then there was silence. We waited. A long time. During which I tried very hard not to think about scorpions, and about how if they sting you, you can die a very unpleasant death because there is no real antidote. I’ve never seen an actual scorpion, only on TV. But crouched there in the sandy soil in a dense thicket of prickly brush, I reckoned there was a distinct possibility of meeting up with one. Provided, of course, that a snake didn’t get there first. Not to mention, of course, the gunman.

  All of this crossed my mind while we lay there waiting. Jeremy was still on top of me. A grown man, even one you love, is a very heavy item.

  “Penny,” Jeremy whispered finally, “are you all right?”

  And, idiotically, what I said was, “Yes. Hey, was that a gun?”

  “Yes,” Jeremy said. He waited, then decided it was okay to climb off me. He raised himself up and said, “Let’s get out of here.”

  But when we returned to the road, another shot was fired. This one landed in the road ahead of us, judging by the dirt and dust spewing into the air. Jeremy grabbed me by the shoulders and this time we went plunging into the brush, away from the road.

  “Run like hell,” he said, pushing me ahead of him so he could keep me in his sights. “Head for the sea.”

  It didn’t look that far away. And actually, it wasn’t. However. Running on a dirt road is simple enough. Running through all manner of prickly scrub, shrubs and trees is quite another story. All along the way it seemed as if branches were grabbing at me and deliberately trying to slow me down so I’d be sure to get caught. My breath was coming out in wild gasps and my heart was pounding so hard that I thought my chest might explode. It was getting dark now, very quickly as it does on islands. I could hear the sound of cicadas filling the air.

  I gasped with relief when we reached a paved road. And suddenly, there we were in the heart of the village, walking down a steep hill. With lots of people around us. But we must have looked like two maniacs.

  For awhile, neither one of us spoke. It was enough of a heroic task just to recapture our breath. Panting, we studied each other. Clothes torn, faces smudged, hair insanely askew. Scratches bleeding on our arms and legs.

  “You all right, Penny?” Jeremy asked, looking worried.

  “Sure,” I panted, trying not to think about how terrified I still was. Jeremy took out his handkerchief, and gently wiped my cheek and then my arm and leg, where I had scratches and cuts that were bleeding. I felt dazed and lightheaded from running pell-mell in the sultry heat.

  “Who was shooting at us?” I demanded indignantly, as if I was talking about somebody stealing a parking space instead of merely trying to blow our heads off.

  “Someone who wanted to scare us into never coming back,” Jeremy said.

  “Well, he succeeded,” I said. “You think it was that neighbor that Diamanta told us about, the one she suspects stole the Lion?”

  “I think it’s whoever is in cahoots with Mortimer, and probably the same crowd that stole our yacht,” Jeremy said darkly. “However, I am beginning to wonder if there wasn’t also a more immediate member of Diamanta’s family involved as well.”

  “Her brother?” I asked.

  Jeremy said, “I guess we have to consider all possibilities.”

  We were trotting along a very narrow street now, built on a steep hill, just a short walk from the harbor. We slowed down as we approached a peach-colored stucco building that was so pretty, it was hard to believe that this was the sailors’ bar. Several motorcycles were parked in front of it. Some tough-looking men were sitting on chairs at a table in front of it, playing cards and drinking. The bar was the kind which has several doors that function like big windows and can be left open in the hot weather, so that the whole indoor area becomes visible from outside, and you can peer in and see people sitting at their tables or barstools. We hovered outside.r />
  I whispered, “I can’t believe our nice little Count came here to do business.”

  “Hang on,” Jeremy said. “Do you see what I see?”

  I peered in. A little boy was doing grown-up work, sweeping the floor with a broom that was taller than him. A worn-out looking woman was carrying a tray of glasses to the bar. A fat man was emptying a bag of ice into a bin at the bar. The chairs and tables were very simple, filled only with male patrons, some who appeared to be respectable locals, possibly the shepherds who came down from the interior; but there were also plenty of tough-looking sailors and military types.

  “Over there,” Jeremy said, “at that table by the street.”

  And there was Rollo, in his Panama hat, drinking beer with a brown-haired Englishman in a white shirt and hemp-colored linen trousers. I could not hear what they were saying; only the rise and fall of their accented English voices. It had to be Mortimer. The expression on his face was hard and unpleasant, even though he was smiling.

  “You go back to the yacht,” Jeremy said. “And tell Brice to fetch the first-aid kit. I’m going to sit at the other table and see if I can hear what they’re saying. I just want to make sure that Rollo isn’t double-crossing us.”

  “I’m not leaving now!” I said. The woman who was working at the bar glanced up, saw me and gave me a suspicious, disapproving look before she turned to serve another customer. “Splitting up is always a terrible idea,” I objected in a lower voice.

  “There are no women in there. You will draw the attention of everybody in sight,” Jeremy insisted.

  While we lingered there arguing, Rollo and Mortimer stood up and went into a back room together, behind the bar, disappearing from sight.

  “Great. Thanks a lot,” Jeremy said.

  At that moment, one tough guy playing cards drove his fist on the table, then stood up and tore his cards in half, as if he’d been dealt a dirty hand.