The Corsican

by William Heffernan

  Sartene looked across at Auguste. Tears were pouring down Buonaparte’s face, mixing with the perspiration, and dropping in large blotches on his shirt. “We have to get him to the hospital,” Sartene said. “Then we have to find out who.”

  “I know who,” Auguste said. “Carbone. There’s no one else.”

  “Someone helped him,” Sartene said. “Someone had to help him. Otherwise I would have known his people were here in Vientiane.”

  Auguste stared across his brother’s body. He understood what Sartene meant. “We must get to a radio and warn Jean,” he said.

  “Those damned dreams,” Sartene said. “I knew it. I knew it.”

  Chapter 16

  Bently’s room was in an isolated wing of a large private hospital run by the Catholic church in the center of Saigon. The nuns who worked the floor had showered him with attention. He was something of an oddity. They did not get many bullet wounds, most of those going to the French military hospital near the airport, and like most nurses there was nothing they liked better than something unusual to challenge their skills.

  The wound had collapsed his right lung, but the bullet had passed through his body, and the missionary who worked near Phong Savan had been well trained and was able to stop the bleeding. He was unable to do anything for Jean. He had lapsed into coma within minutes, and two hours later he had died.

  Bently blamed himself. He should have known something was wrong. He was trained to sense these things. But Francesco had been clever, diverting his attention from the Ly warriors sitting under the trees. He hoped his own bullet had hit a vital spot. But he doubted it. The way Francesco’s body had sagged, it had looked like a leg or hip wound. Now he would probably never know. He could only hope the bastard had bled to death somewhere in the forest.

  You’re lucky to be alive, he told himself now. When he had awakened in the hospital the first thing he had seen was the pale, almost heavenly blue of the ceiling. Hell of a color to paint a hospital room, he reminded himself. You wake up convinced the next stop is the pearly gates.

  It had been three days since the surgery. He had not heard from Buonaparte. Not from any of them. He wondered if they blamed him for what had happened. If Francesco hadn’t missed Touby, he’d be dead too. And Canterina would be back in Vientiane claiming they’d been attacked by Faydang’s people. It almost seemed preferable, except for the part about Francesco.

  The small, young nurse burst into the room. She was the energetic one who worked in the evenings, the one who always moved as though someone were chasing her, her white habit swirling behind her, her beads rattling like a dozen miniature sabers. It made him tired just watching her, and the smile that was permanently fixed on her open, pretty face always made him want to say something obscene, just to see the horrified reaction it would produce.

  She rushed to his bedside, pulling the covers back gently. “Time to change the dressing,” she cooed in French.

  “Speak English,” he snapped, putting as much force in his weak voice as he could manage.

  “We’re very cranky today, aren’t we?” she said in heavily accented English.

  “I don’t know what the hell we are,” Bently said. “I know I’m feeling piss-poor, myself.”

  The nun closed her eyes and crinkled up her nose. It gave Bently the first feeling of pleasure he had known since he had awakened in the room. “You cannot shock me, monsieur,” the nun said, opening his pajama top to expose the dressing. “I had three brothers and they were all quite vulgar.”

  Bently laughed, despite himself, then regretted it as pain shot through the right side of his chest. He slowed his breathing deliberately, trying to ease it.

  “You see,” the little nun said. “God punishes.”

  “Oh shit,” Bently muttered.

  The nun yanked the tape holding the dressing, ripping away the hair that had begun to grow back on his chest. Bently yelped.

  “And so do his servants,” the nun added, smiling down at him.

  He started to object, but the nun raised a finger in warning. He clamped his jaws together.

  “You have a visitor,” the nun said, as she concentrated on the exposed wound. “Oh, this is looking very good,” she added.

  “Who is it?” Bently snapped.

  “You will see as soon as we’ve finished here,” the nun said, smiling again.

  Bently let out a sigh. He hoped it would not be Malcolm Baker. The silly ass had come to visit him one day after his surgery, and had sat there babbling for almost an hour, impervious to Bently’s pain.

  He had been sent to the private hospital because of his cover as a businessman, Baker had explained. As if he gave a shit where he had been sent. He just wanted out now. Some R&R in Hong Kong or Tokyo. Then back to Pearl and finally the States. Just out of this fucking place once and for all. Four years of war and not a nick, he told himself. Not even a good case of malaria. Then you go and get yourself shot up in some shitty mountain village trying to protect the goddam opium crop. And just weeks before you’re scheduled to be shipped out.

  The nun finished replacing the dressing and rebuttoned his pajama top. Her eyes were dancing with the pleasure of her work, and he wished he could fill a bedpan to make her less pleased with herself.

  “You’re not going to tell me, are you?” he said.

  “Tell you what, monsieur?”

  “Who the hell is here to see me,” he snapped.

  “You will see,” she said, turning quickly like a dancer and hurrying toward the door, habit fluttering behind, rosary beads rattling together.

  Bently stared up at the heavenly blue ceiling. There were traces of mildew from the heat, where the ceiling met the wall, and he wondered if there would be mildew in heaven as well.

  When Buonaparte Sartene entered the room, Bently was shocked at the man’s appearance. Buonaparte was in his late fifties, but he looked older now, much older. His face was drawn, haggard, the eyes sunken in his head. He did not seem as erect as he always had, his shoulders seemed slightly stooped and his suit was rumpled. He walked slowly to the bed and took Bently’s hand gently, then bent down and kissed his forehead lightly. When he stood again there were tears in Bently’s eyes.

  “I know,” he said softly. “You mustn’t blame yourself. There was nothing you could do.”

  “You know, then?” Bently said. “Tell me about it. All of it.”

  Sartene drew a chair up beside the bed and sat. He patted Bently’s hand. “It was Francesco and Carbone,” he said. “They tried to kill me the same day. But they only crippled poor Benito. He’ll be in a wheelchair the rest of his life. And the doctors say it won’t be a very long life, either. It was Francesco’s plan, badly done by two fools who worked for Carbone.”

  “Where’s Francesco now?” Bently asked, hoping he would hear that the bastard was dead.

  “Somewhere in the north. With Faydang, we think. But we’ll find him. If it takes the rest of my life, I’ll find him.”

  There had been no harshness in Sartene’s voice, no anger, nothing. The voice was just resigned, Bently thought.

  “What about Carbone?” he asked.

  “He’s in hiding, somewhere near Hanoi. There’ll be a war now between us. He’ll ask others to help him seek a peace, but no one will. He’ll die just as Jean died.”

  The memory of Jean’s death flashed through Bently’s mind, the agonized contortions of his face. It was the worst death he had ever seen. Tortured. “I wish I could be there to see it,” Bently said.

  “No, it’s best that you go now. This war will be costly for all of us. It will take many years to heal the wounds.” Sartene thought of the men, the Guerinis’ men, who were already on their way from Marseille at his request. Much would change for the milieu, for all of them.

  He smiled weakly at Bently. “Jean was going to leave, you know. He was going to take Pierre away to school. Either to Europe or America.”

  “No, he wasn’t, Buonaparte.” Bently listened to hi
mself lie to the man, knowing he had to.

  “What do you mean?” Sartene asked.

  “We talked about it. Only a few hours before …” He didn’t finish the sentence. “He told me about his talk with you. He said he’d decided it was wrong to leave you.”

  “He said that?” There were tears in Sartene’s eyes now, as well as Bently’s. He had never seen emotion in Buonaparte before, never even a hint that he was capable of it.

  Bently just nodded.

  “I argued with him the night before,” Sartene said. “My last words to him. Angry words. When he left me I didn’t even look at him. Then that night I dreamed. Terrible dreams. I should have known.” He paused, staring down at the floor, gathering his words. “He was right about Pierre,” he finally said. “Even more now. He must leave here.”

  He stopped again, looking up at Bently. “This opium thing is wrong. I knew it was wrong. I always knew. But I committed myself to it anyway. Opium is king here now. The true kaitong is that plant, not any man. It’s good that you’re getting away from it. It destroys everyone it touches.”

  “You should get away too,” Bently said.

  Sartene shook his head. He smiled slightly, and it seemed to emphasize the sagging in his cheeks. “I have obligations to people, and I can’t let them suffer because I have been hurt. But there is something you can do for me, Matthew. You have no obligation to me. I want you to understand that. I ask you only as a friend, who will be indebted to you all his life, no matter what your answer is.”

  Bently knew he did not care what the request was; he knew he would do it if he could. The guilt he felt over Jean’s death was real, no matter how hard Buonaparte tried to absolve him.

  “Take Pierre to America with you,” Sartene said. His voice was filled with pain at having to speak the words. “Take his mother too. And also Benito, if you can.” He clasped his hands in front of him almost as though he were praying. “It will not be safe here for the boy, and this place is no longer good for Madeleine. I would like you to raise Pierre as your own son, if you can. Teach him to be a man. Help him. Benito can teach him about Corsica; he can continue what I’ve tried to begin. Then someday he can come back to me if he chooses. But only if he wants to.”

  “I’m sure he’ll want to,” Bently said, knowing he was not being truthful again.

  “Perhaps,” Sartene said. “But perhaps not.” He smiled. “I know you care for Madeleine. I’ve seen it in the way you looked at her. And I know you’ve always dealt with those feelings honorably. She respects you and she knows you care for Pierre.”

  “Do you think she’ll want to leave?” Bently asked. He was too weak, too surprised by the request for it to excite him. But he knew it would later. When it became real to him.

  “I think she wanted it before, and now she’ll want it more than ever.”

  “I can arrange the immigration matters,” Bently said.

  “Only for Benito,” Sartene said. “I’ll arrange papers for Madeleine and Pierre. They will show that she has been in your country for many years, and that Pierre was born there. I don’t want my enemies to be able to find him. And I want him to have the benefits of your country. All the benefits. He speaks English well enough, and he will do as I tell him. You will have to explain this to your family and friends some way. But if you agree, I’ll leave that to you.”

  “I agree, Buonaparte. Of course I agree.”

  “Good.” Sartene looked at him for several moments. “Many of my assets will be transferred to your father’s bank. The income from them will support my family.” Bently began to object, but Sartene stopped him. “It’s theirs as well as mine,” Sartene said. “And I’ll want to make other investments from time to time. Through you, if you want. Through others you suggest, if you feel you don’t want to deal with money that comes from my businesses.”

  “I helped establish the worst of those businesses, Buonaparte. How could I object?”

  Sartene stood and patted Bently’s hand again. “Thank you. I’ll make the arrangements, and then I’ll come to you again. You can always come to me. For anything you ever need. Anything.”

  When Sartene had gone, Bently lay staring at the ceiling. He was tired, but he could not sleep. He understood what Sartene’s final words meant, and he also knew he would never seek his help. Jean’s words spoken in the dusty, squalid little village kept returning to him, playing over and over in his mind.

  I want it for Pierre. I want him to love his grandfather. But I want him to be independent too. I want him to have a will as strong as my father’s, so he can make his own decisions… .

  “That I can try to do, my friend,” Bently whispered to himself. I only hope to Christ I don’t fail you in that too, he thought.

  Madeleine had never been religious, but she had need of religion now. She sat in the dark, morbid, threatening study, the rosary beads balled tightly in her clenched fist. They had been in her hand constantly since the news came of Jean’s death. They were in her hand when she finally forced herself to sleep each night, and they were still there each morning when she awoke. She had been praying to God that this old man would not also find a way to kill her son as well.

  Listening to him now, her fist squeezed the beads more tightly, forcing the sharp edges of the crucifix deep into the soft flesh of her palm. But she could not feel the pressure or the pain. She could only feel the words slashing at her like knives; carried by that soft, rasping, torturous voice; hidden by the gentle expression in the eyes, the calm, imploring gestures. But the words had blood on them, and she could almost see them coming at her, coming for her son. The old man was talking about danger. Danger for Pierre. Why does he say those things? she kept asking herself. There is no danger for Pierre. There should never be any danger for Pierre. Pierre’s a child, a child, a child. …

  Buonaparte watched the glazed expression return to her eyes. She was drifting from him again, as she had each time he had tried to speak with her since Jean’s death. There was no strength to the woman; her solution to the threat was to hide from it. He drew a deep breath, waiting for her to return. Auguste had urged him to be patient, to give her time. But there was no time. Not if Pierre was to be safe.

  He had been standing in front of her, but now moved to the chair opposite the one in which she was seated. He drew it close and took her clenched fist in both of his hands.

  “Madeleine.” His voice was soft but jarring, intentionally so.

  She jumped slightly, lips trembling, and looked at him. Slowly he opened the clenched fingers of her hand, allowing the rosary beads to fall into her lap. He stroked the palm of her hand, feeling the deep red indentations in her flesh.

  “You’re going to hurt your hand,” he said softly. He held her hand between each of his and pressed softly. “You’re going away from here. With Pierre,” he said.

  Her eyes blinked; her lips moved soundlessly. She looked at him, her whole face a question. “Away?” she repeated.

  “Yes. You and Pierre and Benito. Colonel Bently is going to take you where it is safe. Where no one can harm Pierre.”

  “When, Papa? When?” She was back now and she was squeezing his hands as she had squeezed the rosary beads before.

  “In a few days.” She began to object, but he shook his head, stopping her. “But there are conditions, Madeleine.”

  The fear returned to her eyes again; her lips began to move uncontrollably. “Papa, I’ll do anything. Anything, Papa. Pierre must be safe from these people.”

  “He will be, Madeleine. If you do as I tell you.” He watched her nod her head. Like some foolish child, agreeing to anything to avoid a spanking, he thought. Her lack of strength annoyed him, filled him with concern for Pierre’s future. “Now, listen to me closely,” he began again. “Colonel Bently will take the three of you to the United States, to his home in South Dakota. It is one of the states in the center of the country.” She was nodding her head again, eager for more information, eager for the place he was offe
ring her to hide. “There will be no danger for Pierre, if you do as I say.” He waited, allowing the suggestion to play through her mind. She was bobbing her chin like a child again. “He will take you there as his wife. You don’t have to marry, unless you choose to. But everyone must believe you are his wife, and Pierre is his son. Otherwise there will be immigration problems. And there will be danger.” He hesitated again, letting the final word settle in her mind. “No one must ever know Pierre’s name is Sartene, or that you were ever in Southeast Asia. A believable story and documents will be arranged. All you must do, you and Pierre and Benito, is tell that story to anyone who asks. Money, everything you need, will be provided. But if you fail to keep your silence you will endanger Pierre’s life. You must believe this.”

  Buonaparte’s voice had grown cold, hard, and his eyes seemed to look through her, as if searching for some inner flaw he knew was there. She shivered uncontrollably.

  “I’ll do anything, Papa.” Her mind kept repeating the word “anything,” over and over, as if it was some talisman that could protect her son, keep him away from this man, away from his words and the blood on them.

  Sartene looked at her, his face now impassive. “There is still the condition I must insist on,” he said at length.

  Madeleine’s face twisted as though she had been kicked. She was breathing rapidly. “What?” It was the only word she could manage.

  “Pierre must never forget he is a Sartene,” he said softly. “He must never be told about our illegal business interests here, or the truth about his father’s death. But he must never be allowed to forget he is a Corsican. Benito will see to that. It is why he is going with you.”

  He watched her recoil, her shoulders drawing into her neck, her lips trembling again, her fingers interlocking and squeezing together in her lap. He could feel the anger rise within him. He was giving up the one thing he loved, the one thing that mattered in his life, and now this Frenchwoman wanted it to be forever. For the first time in his life he felt as though he could strike a woman. He waited for the feeling to pass.