“I’m grateful,” Philippe said. “I always hoped one day I could do you a service.”
Sartene nodded. He did not like the man’s mustache. It was too well cared for. A vanity. “Would you like to continue that service to me?”
“Very much, Don Sartene,” Philippe answered.
“Good. You remain here and find any others of Carbone’s men who feel the same. We will be in Saigon for several days. Come and see us there. You know the hotel I own, in the city?”
Philippe nodded.
“Come there and see Auguste. He’ll give you another, smaller matter to arrange for me. If you prove yourself in that too, I’ll have an important place for you.”
A low whimpering moan came from the bedroom, followed by a sharp cry. Philippe glanced, unconcerned, at the door, then back to Sartene. “Would you like me to clean this up?”
“Don’t dirty your hands,” Sartene said. His eyes were hard, the gray iris of each appearing to glow with hatred. “Let him rot there, food for the rats that will smell him out.” He turned abruptly and started down the stairs, Auguste at his side.
“I’m not sure I trust this man Philippe,” Auguste said as they reached the bottom of the stairs.
“We’ll find out,” Sartene said. “He’s done us a service, and deserves something. Give him this Air Laos Commerciale matter. If he handles it well, we can let him run the operation for us. We can watch him easily there. Right now we have one more pig to find. If it takes a week, a year, a dozen years.”
They walked out the front door, down the overgrown pathway and out to the street. The air was cooler now. It was late March, and within weeks the rainy season would begin. As always, approaching rains could be felt, and the slight respite they would bring from the heat. The two friends walked slowly toward Sartene’s waiting car.
“Did I tell you, Auguste, I got a letter from Pierre today?”
“No. Is he well?”
“He sounds a little confused, but that’s to be expected. He’s discovering all the mysteries of a new country. It must be very difficult for a boy his age. But he says next year he will enter a military school, and that he’ll have to wear a uniform every day.” Sartene smiled at his friend. “A little soldier, Auguste. A small soldier in a foreign land. Just like Napoleon.”
END BOOK ONE
BOOK
TWO
The Stranger
Prologue
SOUTH DAKOTA, AUGUST 1953
The house was at the northern end of the small capital city of Pierre, and from his second-floor room he could see in the distance both the Missouri River and the boundless fields of wheat and hay and cattle that seemed to stretch into infinity across the broad, flat, wind-swept plain. It was summer now, hot and dry and dusty, and it left everything covered with a film of dirt, and Matt had told him that when winter came, the same flat land would also surrender to deep cold and blizzards that would gather the snow in huge drifts until it covered the tops of utility poles. He hated it now, and he was sure he would hate it then even more.
They had arrived in June, and now it was late August, but it had not taken him long to hate the place and its people. It was dull and flat and boring, and the people could not even pronounce the name of their city, his name. They called it pier, like a boat dock, even though Matt had told him it had been founded by French fur trappers, maybe even Corsicans. And like the land, the people were cruel and unyielding, and they laughed and mocked him for the slight accent he had brought with him. Even the children called him names, and he hated them most of all.
Standing in his room now, he stared out toward the river. It was the only thing about the place that gave him comfort. It was broad and muddy and it reminded him of the Mekong, of his grandfather’s house, his home.
He reached up and touched the swelling along his left cheek. It was tender, and he winced as he ran his fingers lightly against it. It had been the same as always, only this time they hadn’t stopped with the names. The other boys had gathered around him, taunting him. Then they had grabbed him and the biggest one had tried to make him say he was a frog, and when he wouldn’t he had hit him, again and again. He wished Luc were here. Then they could go and get them all. Every one of them.
There was a knock on the door, then it swung away, revealing the hulking mass of Benito seated in his wheelchair. He had two wheelchairs, one for each floor of the house, and he would move from one to the other by swinging his body onto the stairs and then, in a seated position, moving himself up or down, using only the great strength in his arms and shoulders. From the beginning he had refused any help.
When he entered the room, Pierre looked over his right shoulder, keeping his swollen left cheek from Benito’s view. His uncle was smiling, as always, and he pushed the wheelchair forward until he was next to Pierre at the window.
“So. Why are you hiding here?” Benito asked.
“I’m not hiding. I just came up to my room to read for a while, and I started looking out the window.”
“That’s good. I thought you were hiding.”
“Why would I be hiding?”
Benito eased himself up in the chair and leaned forward, as if looking down toward the ground for something. “I thought maybe you didn’t want anybody to see the bruise on your face, that’s all.”
Pierre squeezed his lips together in exasperation and exhaled heavily through his nose. Benito was just like his grandfather. He saw everything, especially when you didn’t want him to.
“Did you fall down?” Benito asked.
Pierre considered adopting the lie, but knew it would be useless. He shook his head.
“Then somebody must have hit you, huh?” He waited, watching Pierre nod his head. “Did you hurt your tongue too?” The boy stared at him; his nose wrinkled into a question. “Well, you keep nodding your head like some stupid doll. You’re a man, Pierre. Use your mouth like one.”
Pierre’s face became sullen, and he looked back out the window. “Somebody hit me,” he said.
“Why?”
“He didn’t like the way I talked. He wanted me to say I was a frog”
“A frog?” Benito bellowed the question.
“It’s what they call French people.”
“Did you hit him back?”
Pierre shook his head, then caught himself. “No,” he said.
“Why not? You should have hit him just for calling you French.”
“There were too many of them.”
“Oh.” Benito pressed his lips together and slowly began nodding his head. “So they tied your hands, and your feet, and they taped your mouth so you couldn’t bite them, eh?” Pierre looked to his left, away from Benito. The beating had been bad enough, humiliating enough. Now he could feel his stomach tightening under Benito’s questions. “So what are you going to do?”
Pierre shrugged his shoulders, but did not look back at his uncle.
“What?” Benito said. “I couldn’t hear you.”
“I thought I’d just avoid them. Keep out of their way.” Pierre’s voice was almost a whisper and he kept looking away to his left. His body jerked to his right and was spun roughly around to face Benito.
“You’re going to hide?” Benito’s voice was soft and gravelly, but it came out like a soft bellow. His lips were curved up in his perennial smile, but his eyes were like coals and seemed to glisten with anger. He stared at Pierre for several seconds, then loosened his grip on the boy’s arm. “Go sit on your bed. I want to talk to you.”
Pierre swallowed hard and walked quietly to his bed and sat on the edge of the mattress. He was tall for his age, skinny and awkward, and when he sat his shoulders hunched forward.
Benito pushed the wheelchair toward him and stopped so close to the boy their knees were almost touching. Then he leaned forward until their faces were little more than a foot apart.
“Maybe you are French,” he said.
The boy’s jaw tightened, and he glared back at his adopted uncle. “I
am not. I’m just as much Corsican as you are.”
Benito raised a bearlike hand. “You get fresh with me, I’ll give you a bruise to match the other one.”
Pierre could feel the fear race through his stomach, and he tightened the muscles against it, and kept his eyes hard on Benito’s.
A slight trace of humor seemed to play across Benito’s lips, then disappeared. He sat back in his chair and folded his huge hands across his protruding stomach.
“I’m going to tell you something about Corsicans,” he said. “Then we’ll see if you understand it.” His fingers were interlocked, and he began to tap his thumbs together, almost as if timing his words with each tap. “In Corsica,” he began, “vendetta is a very important thing. If a man’s honor is attacked, it is a very serious matter. And it requires a very serious action to overcome the offense. Otherwise the man who is offended is nothing.” Benito unclasped his fingers and began gesturing with his right hand, using it like a backhand slap to emphasize his words. “Sometimes the offense is imagined. But that doesn’t make it any less real. Then the person who is accused is also wronged by the accusation itself.” He held one finger up in front of Pierre’s face. “In Corsica, when a man learns that someone is coming to attack him, a certain ritual is followed. On the day the attacker is coming, the man rises from his bed, and he washes himself, and he shaves, and he puts on his best clothes. Then he walks into the square in his village and he waits for the person who is coming for him. And only one of them walks away from that square.”
Benito sat back in his chair and continued to stare at the boy. Pierre’s eyes were still firm; there was no fear in them. There’s a lot of Buonaparte in this child, he told himself. And he thinks, too. Just like his grandfather.
“There always seem to be a lot of them together,” Pierre finally said.
“They can’t always be together,” Benito said.
“The one who hit me, he’s big. He’s sixteen.”
“In the garage there are some small lead pipes. The sides of the knees. The sides of the elbows. Big men can be made very small, very quickly.” Benito grunted and pushed his chair back, then began to rub his stomach. “I’m hungry,” he said. “I think I’ll go downstairs and eat something.”
Benito was seated in the small kitchen alcove, chewing on a piece of chicken. It was a half hour since he had talked to the boy, and now he heard him coming down the stairs and going out the door that led to the attached garage. Benito smiled when he saw Pierre walk into the rear yard, climb on his bicycle, and pedal toward the road. He was dressed in a blue suit and he had put on a necktie.
Matt Bently entered the kitchen in time to see Pierre pedaling away. “Where’s Pierre going?” he asked.
Benito turned and smiled up at him. “He had some business to take care of in town. I don’t know what. But I don’t think he’ll be very long.”
Matt laughed softly. “It must involve a little girl. He’s pretty dressed up.”
“Could be,” Benito said, smiling again.
“Well, I hope so. The little guy’s had a pretty rough time so far.”
Benito grinned at him again. “I think things are going to get better very soon,” he said. “Very soon. You’ll see.”
Madeleine came to the kitchen doorway and stopped. She had heard her son’s name and Benito’s voice, and the combination of the two had drawn her. She stopped in the doorway and forced any sign of concern from her face.
“Did I hear you talking about Pierre?” she asked.
Matt turned and smiled at her. “I just saw him going into town all dressed up.” He nodded toward Benito. “Benito thinks our young man has discovered girls.”
She looked down at Benito, noticing there was a slight smile on his lips, one that did not carry to his eyes. “Is that what you think?” she asked.
Benito shrugged and inclined his head to one side. “It is only a guess,” he said. “Young boys can be very secretive.”
Madeleine nodded, her eyes momentarily blank. “Yes, they can,” she said. Especially when they’ve been taught so well.
September 12, 1953
Dear Luc,
I started military school this week, and so far it’s been pretty good. We have to wear uniforms and march and do things like that, but most of the kids are pretty nice and nobody takes it seriously. Except the cadet officers, that is. They’re older than we are, and they really like to scream and yell when somebody does something wrong. Like turning left when they’re supposed to turn right. That part of it’s dumb, but we have a lot of fun anyway. But it’s still not like home. The land, at least this part of it that I’m in, is really flat. Even the woods are flat. No mountains or anything. But they have an awful lot of animals, and Matt says I can go hunting with him in a few years. They don’t have any good animals, like elephants or tigers. But the deer are really big. A lot bigger than the barking deer that live around Grandpère’s house. There are two kinds. White-tail deer that weigh almost two hundred pounds, and mule deer that are even bigger. Out west they’re supposed to have mountain lions that are like tigers, only smaller, and really big bears, ten times bigger than the small bears in Laos. The only other big animal around here is a thing called a bison. It’s like a water buffalo, only bigger, but they won’t let you hunt it. It’s really strange here. You have to have a license to hunt things, even birds. The people here have rules for everything. I told one kid here how Corsicans don’t believe in rules, and he looked at me like I was the one who was crazy. Matt says I’ll get used to it, but I’m really not sure. He and my friends even call me Peter now instead of Pierre. But it’s really hard to be an American, and I have to make them believe I always was one, and that only my mother came from Corsica. I still wish we could all come back to Laos and live with you and Grandpère. Grandpère writes to me every week, but it’s not the same. Don’t tell him or Auguste that I said that, Brother Two. I think Grandpère would be upset if he thought I didn’t like it here. I guess it cost him a lot of money to send me. He was right about one thing, anyway. The schools are better than the lycèe in Vientiane. Those problems I had with some of the kids that I wrote to you about before are all over now, but I still wish we could be together.
Put another lizard in Auguste’s room. If you don’t you’re a coward. Write soon, Brother Two.
Your brother,
Pierre
The shotgun was a 12-gauge, pump-action Remington with a full choke, a perfect weapon for the pheasants that abounded in the plum thickets and cornfields of neighboring farms, and a perfect gift for Peter’s fifteenth birthday.
Standing with Matt in a field at the rear of the house, Peter ran his hand over the smooth walnut stock, feeling the high polish of the wood. Matt knelt beside him, adjusting the settings on a manual trap machine that would soon hurl clay targets out into the field.
“This is really a terrific shotgun,” Peter said. “I hope we can go out and try for some birds soon.”
Matt looked up at him and grinned. Peter was already five feet ten inches tall, and his large-boned frame carried 150 pounds of hard lean muscle, a far cry from the gangling twelve-year-old he had brought home from Laos. And there was a confidence about him now, something that had grown steadily.
“A new weapon takes time to get used to, and it’s only terrific if you can hit something with it,” Matt chided.
Peter grinned at him. It was an easy, boyish grin that seemed to imply some personal secret. “When we go out, you find them, and I’ll shoot them for you,” he said, looking down at the ancient shotgun that lay on the ground next to Matt.
Matt glanced at his old hammer-action double-barreled shotgun, then back at the boy. “You just remember, smart-ass, it’s the shooter, not the weapon, that gets the job done.”
Peter laughed softly. He enjoyed the man-to-man byplay that Matt now offered him, and the status of near equals it gave him. “No kidding, Matt. I really do appreciate the gun,” he said.
Matt winked at him. �
��You earned it, tiger. The grades you managed this year were no small deal at that school of yours.”
Matt made a final adjustment on the trap machine, concentrating on the angle of flight he wanted to produce. Over the past year, he had realized how much Peter had begun to feel like his own son. He had married Madeleine after their first year in the United States, a quiet wedding in a neighboring state, to avoid jeopardizing the cover story devised by Sartene. But it was only in the past year that the boy had warmed even slightly to him. Now they were friends, more like brothers really from Peter’s viewpoint, but to Matt, very much the son he would have liked to have had.
“Get ready,” he said.
He released the first clay target and it veered off to the right toward a nearby road. Peter’s body pivoted in one fluid motion, the shotgun against his right shoulder, the barrel tracking the movement of the target. He lowered the weapon without firing, and looked back at Matt.
“Well, at least you know when not to shoot,” Matt said. “Now if I can figure out how to adjust this damned thing, maybe we can find out if you can hit anything with that fancy new piece of firepower.”
Matt grinned at him, then turned back to readjust the trap machine. There had been a look of disappointment in the boy’s eyes when the target had flown toward the road, denying any shot. It was part of the intensity he seemed to give everything. There was still a great deal of the boy in him. But it was a great deal less than in most boys his age. And that, Matt knew, was due to Benito. They talked incessantly about Corsica and its traditions; about the need for Corsicans to do things well. They were things that seemed to dominate the boy’s mind, ideas that produced a fierce sense of loyalty to his heritage, and Matt wondered if it would diminish in the years ahead, and if so, to what degree.
“I wish the fields around here weren’t so full of all those sandburs,” Peter said. “Then we could use a dog like Max to hunt with. He used to point birds all the time back home.”
Matt winced slightly. It was almost as though the boy had been reading his mind. “Yeah, it would make things a lot easier.” Matt kept his eyes on the machine. “You still miss Laos and your grandfather, don’t you?”
The Corsican Page 23
