“Look, look,” the boy shouted, pointing off to his right.
Out toward the center of the river a slender green form glided smoothly just below the surface of the water.
“A snake,” Sartene said. “Very bad and very poisonous. Even the crocodiles don’t eat them.”
The boy lifted the stick to his shoulder again and made shooting sounds. “If any crocodiles come I’ll shoot them too,” the child said.
Sartene ruffled the boy’s hair again. “You’re very bloodthirsty today, Pierre,” he said.
He looked back, into the field. The Weimaraner he had imported from Germany for the boy came out from behind the house and loped into the field, its nose close to the ground. The dog moved in one diagonal, then switched course, following another, sweeping the ground with its nose like a living vacuum cleaner. At a large rock it stopped to sniff, rejected it, then moved on to another, where it lifted its leg and urinated, its mouth open with satisfaction. When it had finished, the dog trotted back to one of the mangosteen trees standing on each side of the house and settled down to the comfort of the shade.
Sartene took a handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his head. The dog has more sense than I do, he thought. He took the boy’s hand again and pointed to the large ghostly gray lump of fur that was now the dozing dog. “Let’s go play with Max,” he said, knowing it would be the easiest way to cajole the child out of the sun.
Pierre freed his hand and burst ahead, running at full speed toward the dog, which, hearing his calls, jumped to its feet and began prancing excitedly in place.
Sartene had brought the dog from Germany at considerable expense as protection for the child. The area, like all of Southeast Asia, was infested with snakes, and while most of the many poisonous varieties remained in the bush, the Asiatic cobras often ventured into the open and were occasionally found near occupied dwellings. The Weimaraner was a classic hunting dog, a pointer used most often to hunt birds, and when in the open its nose was always to the ground seeking out the scent of other creatures. It was a relatively new breed, intended originally to hunt elk, yet mixed with the Spanish pointer to ensure gentleness. The end result had been an animal of extraordinary fearlessness and exceptional loyalty to its master.
Sartene smiled to himself, thinking about the animal now. Its striking gray color and stark, amber eyes gave it an eerie look, and despite its playfulness the Laotians who worked for Sartene were in awe of the creature and referred to it as the devil dog.
When he reached the mangosteen tree, Pierre and Max were involved in a tug-of-war over the stick, the dog wanting it to be thrown in a game of fetch and the boy resisting. Pierre laughed hysterically as the ninety-pound animal yanked him about.
“Give him the stick, Pierre,” Sartene said. “He will bring it back to you.”
The boy released the stick and the dog raced away with it clamped between its jaws. Twenty yards out into the field, Max stopped abruptly and spun around, waiting for the boy to follow. Sartene took the boy’s hand again and held him. The dog began to prance in place and whine for action.
“Let’s go to the back of the house and see how the work on the garden is coming,” Sartene said.
“Make Max come,” the boy demanded.
“He’ll come. Don’t worry.”
They started around the side of the house, the dog raced by them, the stick still fixed in its mouth. When it reached the rear of the house it skidded to a halt, spun around and repeated its prancing, whining demands. At the rear of the house, they climbed the steps to the veranda and seated themselves in two deck chairs. The dog followed, then, realizing its chance for a game had ended, dropped the stick and settled itself at the boy’s feet.
Before them, workmen moved about preparing the ground for what would soon be a Japanese garden. A few yards from the veranda a half-dozen Laotians worked inside a large irregularly shaped cut in the earth, mixing and spreading clay.
“When will they finish the pond?” Pierre asked.
“Very soon now.”
“Then we can put fish in it?”
Sartene nodded.
“Big fish?” Pierre’s voice went up an octave at the thought.
“Little fish that will become big fish,” Sartene said. “Like you.”
“Why can’t we have big fish right away?” Pierre insisted.
“It’s easier for the little fish to get used to a new place to live.”
“Oh,” the boy said.
Sartene glanced at his grandson. Like a little old man, he thought. But like a little fish he too had quickly adjusted to his new home, almost as though there were no difference between Corsica and Laos. For his son, Jean, and his daughter-in-law, Madeleine, it had been more difficult. Also for himself, and it had been a full year before he stopped yearning for the cool evenings in the hills and the dramatic rock-strewn beaches of his home. Now this was home, or soon would be. Still he had brought touches of Europe with him. The structural design of the house, which should have been made of stone, if stone existed. The furniture now stored in a Vientiane warehouse. The paintings. The hundreds of classical records and more than three thousand books, all of which would be used to educate the child seated next to him.
Pierre jumped up from his seat and went to the railing, laying his forearms on top of it, then resting his chin on his hands. He stared across at the oddly shaped structure being built on the other side of the soon-to-be pond, tilting his head to one side, then the other.
“Grandpère. What is that little house for?”
“When it’s finished it will be a Buddhist shrine.”
The boy turned and stared at him, wrinkling up his nose. “What’s a Buddhist shrine?” he asked.
“It’s like a small church, Pierre. The people here are Buddhists, most of them anyway. It’s their religion, and shrines are very important to them.” Sartene, as he always did, spoke to the boy in simple language. There would be time later, in the years to come, to explain the complexity of matters to him.
“Does that mean we’re Buddhists? Mama said we were Catholics. Are we Buddhists now because we live here?”
Sartene laughed quietly. The child’s logic was flawless. A year ago he had taught him to play chess, and his mind had proved to be mathematically precise. “No, Pierre,” he said. “We are still Catholics.”
“Then why are we building a Buddhist church?”
“A shrine, Pierre,” Sartene corrected. “It is not for us. It is for the Laotians who work for us.”
“You mean like Lam?”
“Yes, like Lam.”
“I don’t like Lam,” the boy said. His jaw had become firm and determined.
“Why not, Pierre?”
“He never laughs and he doesn’t like Max.”
“He’s just afraid of Max,” Sartene said. “He’s never seen a dog like Max before, and that frightens him. Lam is from the mountains, and they are very superstitious people there.”
“I still don’t like him,” Pierre said. “Why do you have to build a church”—he hesitated, then corrected himself—”a shrine, for him?”
“It’s not just for Lam, Pierre. It’s for all the Buddhists who work for us.”
“But why can’t they build one for themselves?”
“They can, on their own land. But I chose to build one for them on my land. I do it out of respect for their beliefs, so they can pray here if they wish.”
The boy’s brow furrowed, and Sartene made a circular gesture with his hand that brought the child to his side. He placed a hand on Pierre’s lower back and patted it softly.
“A man should always honor his friends and those who work for him,” he said. “He does this by speaking their language and respecting their customs and beliefs. It’s a sign of respect. Some men try to force those people to change their ways, to accept new ways of doing things, new beliefs. But they’re fools to do that, and they never have the loyalty or the friendship of the people they try to change. You should learn thi
s and remember it all your life. You must give respect if you expect to get loyalty from others.”
Pierre stared at his grandfather. His face was serious, and Sartene could almost see his mind working as he tried to understand what he had been told.
“You mean like how I call Auguste and Benito and Francesco ‘Uncle,’ even though they really aren’t my uncles,” the boy said at length.
Sartene smiled and his eyes brightened with pleasure. “Yes, exactly, Pierre.”
He had patted the boy’s back a little harder, and Max jumped to his feet and pushed his body between them. He raised his head, using the top of it to push Sartene’s hand away.
“Max thinks you’re spanking me,” Pierre said, giggling. “He doesn’t like it when anyone hits. Watch.”
Pierre struck out violently at his grandfather, stopping his hand before it touched him. The dog became excited and pushed him away from his grandfather with his snout and nipped lightly at the arm causing the blows. Pierre giggled uncontrollably.
“Pierre. Stop that or that foolish dog will bite Grandpère.” Madeleine had come through the rear door and stood staring down at her son, her arms folded severely across her bosom. She was tall and slender, with long blond hair and blue eyes like her son, and despite her voice there was no severity in her delicate features.
“We’re only playing, Mama,” Pierre said, still laughing.
“That’s not playing. That’s teasing. Now take the dog and play out in the grass with him.”
“Yes, Mama.” The boy pouted and looked to his grandfather for intervention. Sartene only shrugged and inclined his head to one side, and the child let out a long sigh, then picked up his stick and marched noisily down the stairs. Max followed him happily.
Madeleine sat next to Sartene. She withdrew a delicate handkerchief from the pocket of the sun dress she was wearing and reached over and patted his brow. She shook her head. “You let him wear you out,” she said in a mildly scolding voice.
“He could wear out the devil himself,” Sartene said.
“And you spoil him,” she added.
Sartene nodded. “Yes, but he has many years ahead when he will not be spoiled. You think I spoil him too much?”
“No, Papa. Not too much for him. Too much for you.” She looked at him with warmth as he waved his hand, rejecting her argument. She had called him “Papa” from the first, at his request, and although she was slightly intimidated by him, there was also a deep and honest affection between them that had grown out of a mutual love for her son.
“How is our home coming?” Sartene asked, more to escape her pampering than to seek information.
“It will be very beautiful, Papa. All except your study. I wish you’d let me do something there. That heavy paneling will make the room so dark it will be like a grave.”
Sartene wagged a finger at her. “The house is yours to do with as you wish. The study is mine. I’ll keep the door closed so it doesn’t offend you.”
She rolled her eyes, then stood and walked to the railing. “Now I know where Pierre gets his stubbornness,” she said.
Sartene ignored her and joined her at the railing, and together they watched the boy play wildly with the dog.
Behind them Jean lumbered out onto the veranda, and Sartene turned with the sound. His son’s large frame moved heavily. Thank God the child has his mother’s grace and her looks, he thought. His son, though he loved him deeply, had the heavy, dark features of his maternal grandfather, and with it the dour expression of the mountain people of Corsica. Madeleine was from Marseille and had the delicateness of the French, something she had passed on to Pierre. He had not approved of his son’s marriage to a non-Corsican at first, but his grandson’s birth had taught him he was wrong.
Jean glanced at his wristwatch. “It is two-thirty, Papa. We’re to meet the American in Vientiane at three.”
“Yes, I forgot. I promised Pierre we would take the boat back today. You and Madeleine can drive back in the car, and then you and the others can entertain our guest until I arrive.”
Jean nodded, and Sartene looked hard at his son before continuing. “Discuss no business with this man until I arrive,” he added. “Our friends in Saigon tell me he’s with the OSS, and my experience with those people has not been good.”
Madeleine turned to go with her husband, and Sartene took her arm, stopping her. He reached out and touched her cheek. “I promise I won’t spoil him on the trip back,” he said.
She withheld a smile and raised her chin slightly. “You’ll promise, but you’ll spoil him anyway,” she said.
The house in Vientiane was old and spacious and had once belonged to a wealthy French exporter who had been executed by the Japanese during the war. The office where Sartene conducted his business was in the rear of the house and opened onto a walled garden. Had it not been for the boy, the house would have suited his needs. But the garden was small, and within a few blocks of the colonial quarter where the house was located, the filth and stench of the city were overpowering.
The others were gathered in the office when Sartene entered. He had put on his suitcoat and, despite the trip in the open boat, appeared cool and refreshed. The American, an OSS colonel named Matthew Bently, was seated by himself in a leather wing chair. There was a drink on the table next to him, and Sartene noted that it appeared untouched. The others had seated themselves opposite Bently, and when Sartene entered they stood. Bently followed suit, stepped forward, and extended his hand.
“Monsieur Sartene, I’m Matt Bently. Thank you for agreeing to meet with me.”
Sartene nodded, shook Bently’s hand, then motioned for him to sit. Jean stepped away from the chair directly opposite Bently, where he had been sitting, yielding it to his father, then walked to the large desk in the center of the room and leaned back against it. Auguste, Benito and Francesco returned to their chairs after Sartene was seated.
“I’m very sorry I was late,” Sartene began. “We were out looking at a new house I’m building, and my grandson wanted to return by boat. His mother says I spoil him, and I’m afraid she’s right. I hope you’ll forgive the rudeness.”
“Your son was a fine host,” Bently said.
Sartene studied the man closely. He was tall and muscular, with hard gray eyes and a face that seemed steeled by the harsh life of a professional soldier. He was dressed in civilian clothes, but that was not uncommon these days. What Sartene had learned from friends in Saigon spoke well of the man, even though he was part of the same organization as the other American, the fool he had fought with in the mountains of France.
Sartene placed the fingers of one hand against his lips, then moved the hand forward toward Bently.
“You said in your letter you had some business you wanted to discuss with me.”
Bently glanced at the others in the room, then back at Sartene.
“In business matters I trust these men completely and seek their advice,” Sartene said.
Bently smiled. “It’s merely a question of witnesses. Normally my organization avoids that whenever possible.”
Sartene nodded. “I respect that. But you don’t have to worry about that here. You have my word. We’re all Corsicans and we serve as witnesses for no one. Any breach of trust would be an offense against me, and I assure you that won’t happen.”
Sartene’s words had an icy chill about them, and Bently noted that the others in the room had averted their eyes as he spoke them.
“I accept your word, of course,” Bently said. He leaned forward in his chair. “As I’m sure you’re aware, sir, I took the liberty of inquiring about you prior to my request, as I’m sure you inquired about me, following it.”
Sartene gestured with both hands. “A wise man always knows who he’s speaking to.”
The statement made Bently uneasy. He felt like a child who had stated an unnecessary fact which had required a patient reply from someone older and wiser. Bently was thirty-two, only a half-dozen or so years older t
han Sartene’s son, he guessed. He had been through much during the war in the Pacific and even more since its end. He had attained the rank of lieutenant colonel, and yet in this man’s presence he felt inexperienced, almost immature. He knew of Sartene’s wartime background, and earlier he had noticed the extensive volumes on military history in his study. None of it helped.
Nervously he brushed at a speck of dirt on the knee of his tan cord suit, then reached up to his neck, checking the position of the knot in his tie.
“I only say that as a preamble to something else,” he said. “I’m here because my government feels you can do us a service, which will be of great benefit to us and, I hope, to you as well.”
Jean emitted a low grunt, and Sartene looked at him sharply. He turned back to Bently and smiled, nodding his head for him to continue.
Bently glanced at the others in the room. They all were strangely silent. It was like going to church to confess and finding five priests staring at you, he thought.
“As you know,” Bently began, “the communist forces here, who were our allies during the war, have begun an all-out effort to control the region. For obvious reasons we don’t want that to happen. We believe they would be as dangerous to the west as the Japanese, and would eventually produce the same result.”
Sartene nodded, but said nothing.
“The key to their control, to anyone’s control, really, involves the region’s major resource. Opium. The communists know that if they control its growth and distribution they’ll have the loyalty of the hill people who produce it and the government officials who profit from it. And they know they’ll also have a source of income that could finance their effort to take over the region.”
Bently paused, awaiting some response from Sartene. When none came he continued.
“At present our intelligence tells us that the communists both in Laos and Viet Nam are trying to work a deal with a countryman of yours in Saigon, Antonio Carbone. We also believe he has close ties with a gentleman in Marseille by the name of François Spirito, who is suspected of having collaborated with the Nazis in France. We’re also told that you have a longstanding friendship with the Guerini brothers, who are the dominant faction of the Corsican milieu in Marseille. What we hope is that you’ll agree to compete with Mr. Carbone for control of the opium and in doing so deal with people not aligned with the communists. There would be substantial profit in this for you and you would operate under the tacit protection of my government and the colonial government of France. We’re well aware that you have the facilities to move quantities of merchandise, primarily gold and currency, and feel that adding opium to these items would not be difficult for you.”
The Corsican Page 5
