“When I return, will you have dinner with me?”
“In your rooms?” She forced her eyes to widen slightly.
“I thought it would be more …” He struggled to find the correct word.
“Discreet?” she offered.
“For lack of a better word, yes.”
“I’m afraid I shall be out of the city then,” she said.
“Oh, I see.” There was obvious disappointment in Peter’s voice. “May I ask where you’re going?”
She smiled at him. “Of course. I am going to Vung Tau, what the French used to call Cap St. Jacques. It was once my home, and my mother is still there. She is very old now, and I wish to visit her.”
“I’ve heard about the city,” Peter said. “I’m told it rivals the Riviera as an ocean resort.”
“Yes, it is most beautiful,” Lin said, her eyes distant, almost as if recalling more pleasant days. “And it is the one place in my country where the war does not exist. Both sides use it as a rest area.” She smiled. “Odd, isn’t it? Enemies each using its beauty to refresh themselves, then returning to continue killing each other.”
“I would like very much to see it,” Peter said. He hesitated, then continued. “Perhaps when I return in two days. If that is possible, how would I find you there?”
Lin looked down, then back at him. When she did she was smiling. “My mother’s name is Ba Trang Do, and her home is well known in the city.”
“If it is possible, would you be offended if I called on you there?”
Her eyes remained on Peter’s face. “We shall see when you return, captain. But now you must help me carry flowers.”
Chapter 27
Peter drove the rented car west, along the road that led to his grandfather’s plantation. The trip evoked memories, even though everything seemed different. No, not just different. Smaller, out of scale. The road seemed narrower, and closer to the Mekong River than he remembered. The river too appeared duller, dirtier, far less exciting than it had been to a twelve-year-old.
He glanced into the bush, at places where he thought the sentries might be. He saw none, but was sure they were still there. He had been told as a child they were protection against the Pathet Lao, and the bandit tribes who occasionally raided outlying homes. Now he wondered if that too had been a part of the charade, something needed to keep the truth from a child, to obscure the dangers that had always surrounded his family.
When the road ended at the two narrow paths, Peter took the most southerly, and continued until it opened onto the broad plain. There he stopped the car to pause and remember. To the south was the river, and the dock where he had played as a child. To the north, the house—always a safe harbor—shaded by the mangosteen trees on either side. Everywhere else the forest, dense and immovable.
He drove on to the front of the house, got out and looked back toward the river; a sense of truly returning home seized him for the first time. Days of playing with Luc, of chasing Max, his dog; of playing pranks on Auguste, and always being caught.
When he turned back to the house, his grandfather, dressed in a white suit, stood on the veranda looking down at him. Peter stared back at him, at this man who had kept him safe all these years. A smile spread across his face, and Peter bounded up the stairs.
“Grandpère,” he said, engulfing the old man in his arms.
Buonaparte Sartene kissed Peter on both cheeks and hugged him with surprising strength.
“Welcome back to your home, Pierre,” he whispered in Corsican.
He stepped back, holding Peter by his shoulders, and looked him up and down just as he had in Saigon, as though he still could not believe he was back. He turned. Auguste had come up behind him. “Look at him, Auguste. We sent away a skinny boy, and now this giant of a man has come back to us.” He turned back to his grandson. “You are almost as broad as your father was. God, how I wish he could see you now. Here. Home again.”
Peter began to speak, but found himself without words for the moment. “It’s very good to be here again, Grandpère,” he finally managed. “I have wanted it for so long.”
“Listen to him, Auguste. See how he still speaks his native tongue. Benito did well with him.”
“I would never forget my heritage, or my family, Grandpère,” Peter said.
Buonaparte kissed him again, then encircled his shoulders with one arm and led him toward the front door. “Come inside, Pierre. We must drink, we must eat, we must talk.”
They entered the foyer, and Peter came to an abrupt halt as he watched a gray mass of fur and bones amble unsteadily down the hall.
He pointed a finger at it. “Grandpère, that isn’t Max, is it?”
“Of course it is,” Buonaparte said. “I think that stupid old dog has been refusing to die until you came home. He’s twenty, if he’s a day.”
Peter knelt down and scratched the dog under its snout and along its neck, as he remembered it liked. Max wheezed with satisfaction and licked his hand. Peter looked back at his grandfather. “And Luc, is he here?”
Buonaparte smiled. “Yes, Pierre. Unfortunately he’s in the north today. As I told you in my letters, he’s my driver now. Although each time I ride with him, I think he’s an assassin sent to kill me.”
Auguste laughed. “He’s become an old woman, your grandfather,” he said. “You’d think he was some old nun, still guarding her virginity.”
Buonaparte tossed his head toward Auguste with mock contempt. “Do you remember him being such a bastard? Or has it happened since you left?”
Peter laughed, then stood and looked around the foyer, and into the adjoining rooms. “Nothing’s changed at all. Everything is just a little older.” A sense of apprehension took hold. It was as though the old house had reinforced how much of his own past—his family’s past—was still hidden from him. “There’s much I want to talk about. And there’s much I have to know.” Peter’s final sentence was firm and serious.
Buonaparte raised his hand. “I know, Pierre. And you will. But first we will eat, and talk like a family. Then I will tell you what you must know.”
Two hours later they were seated in Sartene’s study. It too seemed smaller to Peter. But also familiar. The portrait of Napoleon, the toy soldiers, the vast array of books, dealing mostly with military history.
Peter and Buonaparte faced each other from two soft leather club chairs; Auguste sat alone on a small leather sofa a few feet away.
His grandfather seemed so much older, Peter thought. So frail. Even more so than in Saigon. But the eyes and the bearing were still devastating. The way he held his head, still commanding, just as Peter remembered. He had always been forbidding and yet loving at the same time. All of that was still there, and he thought it always would be.
Sartene sipped at the coffee he had brought with him from the dining room, and Peter noticed his hand was still steady, despite his age and obviously weakened state.
He smiled across at his grandson. “Now you are eager to know many things.” He smiled again as Peter nodded, then shrugged his shoulders slightly. “That is good, Pierre. I’m only unhappy you had to wait so many years to hear the truth from me. But now I’ll correct that.” He sipped the coffee again, still looking at Peter, his eyes harder now.
“What you hear may trouble you greatly. I cannot help that. Now it’s important that you know. Important even for your own safety. But before I begin, I want you to know two things. First, I’ve done much in my life that I would have done differently if I could. But still I am not ashamed of anything I have done. Second, you must never repeat what I will tell you. It’s no one’s affair but ours. I don’t ask your promise in this, because I know the fact that I wish it will be enough.” He paused and smiled. “Do you want something to drink? What I have to tell you will take several hours.”
Peter shook his head. His mouth was dry in anticipation of what he was about to hear. But he wanted no delay, no interruption once it began.
Sartene nodded an
d leaned back in his chair. “I will begin when I was a young boy in Corsica. I will tell you about the murder of my sister, about my adoption by a very good man, and my involvement in the milieu.” He stopped and smiled at Auguste. “How I met this man under unfortunate circumstances, the war in Europe, and how we came to be here.” He looked at Peter sternly now. “Then you will hear of our activities in this place, the reasons for them, your adopted father’s involvement in the business that ended in the murder of your true father, and the vendetta that followed.” He paused again, using his finger for emphasis. “A vendetta that still continues, and which makes life for you here very dangerous.” He smiled, allowing his eyes to soften. “Now we begin. First, when I was a young boy, my name was not Buonaparte Sartene.”
Three hours later, standing on the veranda, looking out at the quiet beauty of his grandfather’s Japanese garden, Peter felt drained. The long story of his grandfather’s life, his own heritage, continued to flash into his mind in bits and pieces. The death, the killing, his grandfather’s constant, struggle to carve a place for himself, his family—this “earning his bread” that he spoke about again and again. And the vendetta that still continued, and made Peter’s life now so dangerous. Despite all of Benito’s training, much of what Peter had heard was foreign to him. The people larger than life. Yet, somehow, inside himself, Peter felt it, thought he understood it. When his grandfather had finished, they had broken off the conversation to allow Peter to collect his thoughts. Now staring out at the garden, his mind was still awash.
His grandfather came up behind him, and Peter turned and smiled. He loved the man. Always would. And he knew his grandfather was right in not being ashamed of his life. You could not idly judge a man whose life grew from experiences you could never hope to understand.
“Dinner will not be ready for an hour, Pierre. It’s cooler now. Would you like to walk in the garden?”
“Yes, Grandpère, I would. It’s a very beautiful garden.”
Sartene laughed softly. “I heard you had a great love of flowers, and that you met a woman who is equally fond of them.”
They descended the stairs slowly and walked into the garden.
“How do you hear all these things?” Peter asked.
Sartene laughed softly again. “I know about many things,” he said. “I have spent much time, much money, making sure I know things. I found early in my life that a man is only taken advantage of when others know things he does not. Don’t you remember your military history? The importance of spies? Napoleon was never a great general. He was a great spy. He knew his opponent, and that made him difficult to defeat.”
“But he was defeated,” Peter said.
“Everyone is defeated at one time or another. Everyone is, at one time, put in a position where his choices are limited if he is to survive on his own terms.” He stopped and took hold of his grandson’s arm. “And you have to live life on your own terms as much as possible. Otherwise you become some puppet, dangling on strings pulled by others.”
They began to walk again, slowly circling the pond and the lotus and water hyacinth growing out from its edges. Peter thought of the defeat his grandfather had told him about just hours earlier. The agreement Sartene had been forced to make that allowed Francesco to live so Peter would be safe.
“You haven’t asked me how I feel about what you told me,” Peter said at length.
Buonaparte saw a toughness in his grandson’s eyes. “How you feel is something you will decide yourself. I don’t ask you for understanding, Pierre. I ask for your love. You will always have mine, and whatever protection that love can give.”
“I know that, Grandpère.” Peter’s eyes had become soft, reflective. “I think I’ve always known that.” He hesitated and looked out across the garden. “When Benito first told me that things were …” He paused, searching for a gentler phrasing. “… different than I’d been told as a child, I was upset, confused. But after Benito died, I thought about it, about my life here with you, about our family. Then your letter came, explaining that what was done was for our good, my good. I accepted it then, and today, after hearing the reasons for it, I know I was right.” He turned back to his grandfather. “I don’t think you could have told me anything today that would have changed my feelings toward you, or my family. Even if they were things I could not accept for myself. The feelings are just too strong. They’re the reason I’m back.” A small, thoughtful smile came to his lips. “And to do what has to be done.”
Sartene reached out and touched his grandson’s arm, then let his hand fall away. “Yes. Now that you are back, that is something you will not be able to avoid.” He looked at his grandson with great warmth. “Learning what you did at such a young age, I would not have blamed you if you had chosen a different path.”
Peter smiled, recalling days long past. “I was taught by Uncle Benito that you can run from a threat, and allow the fear of it to follow you. Or you can face it, and be rid of it one way or the other.”
Sartene nodded. “But Francesco will not face you that way, Pierre. He has no sense of honor, and fear has followed him for many years, and that fear makes him dangerous.”
“But he deals in opium, doesn’t he?” Pierre asked.
Sartene’s eyes narrowed. He could sense the direction of Pierre’s thoughts. “More than ever,” he said. “At first opium production went through the Opium Board, at least most of it. Now those who deal in it have begun processing it into heroin within the region. Primarily here in Laos and in North Viet Nam. Francesco works in North Viet Nam, under their protection, and that of the Viet Cong when he is in the south.” He ran a finger along the length of his nose. “Why do you ask about this?”
“I met a man a few days ago. He works for an American wire service, and he’s interested in the narcotics problem in Saigon and among the military units stationed here. The idea struck me that if I found out more about Francesco’s operation, and then used this man, I might be able to force him out of hiding. He would have to stop me before I did too much damage.”
Sartene shook his head. “It would be a bad thing, Pierre. Bad because it would expose you to great danger from others as well as Francesco, and Francesco will be dangerous enough by himself.”
“I could use my own military status for protection,” Peter said.
Sartene looked back at the pond and was quiet. “You don’t know who’s involved in this thing, Pierre.” He spoke the words flatly and without emotion.
“But you do, don’t you?” Peter said.
“Yes, I know.”
“Will you tell me?”
Sartene shook his head. “It’s not your business to know, and it’s not mine to tell.”
Sartene felt his grandson stiffen. He had told Pierre the basic facts of the agreement he had made to keep him safe. Just speaking about it had left Sartene with an overwhelming sense of humiliation. Now he realized he would have to explain the details of that agreement. Sartene continued to stare across the pond as he spoke.
“Earlier, in my study, I told you how the communists came to me six months after I sent you away, and revealed that they knew where I had hidden you. But in exchange for your safety, they insisted on more from me than my assurance that I would not send people into North Viet Nam after Francesco.” Sartene drew a deep breath as if preparing himself for pain. “You see, Francesco was important to them. He could develop their opium market, reach buyers in the south not available to them. He had access to export routes. So as part of the bargain, the communists demanded my word that the people he did business with in the south would also be safe from me, that I would never do anything against them. So, to keep you safe, I was forced to give the pig who murdered my son two things. His safety in the north, and the right to earn his bread under my nose.”
Peter could not see his grandfather’s eyes, but his voice carried all the pain he knew he would find there. “It must have hurt you very much, Grandpère.”
Sartene nodded, then s
hrugged his shoulders. “I softened it by making them agree to leave the Meo in peace, and that part of the agreement, at least, has done some good.”
Peter placed a hand on his grandfather’s shoulder. “But the agreement should be over. I’m back, and there’s no need to protect me.”
“It’s over for you, Pierre. But the communists kept their word to me, and I must continue to keep my word to them. That is why I cannot tell you who these others are. The Meo, and everyone who works for me, have a right to expect that I keep my word.”
Peter put his hands on his hips and joined his grandfather in staring out into the pond. “If what I’m planning to do is going to hurt you, or your business, I’ll find another way.”
Sartene looked across at his grandson and nodded his approval. “I’m not involved with these people, Pierre. I was never involved with heroin. Opium, yes. But I haven’t been involved in that since a little after your father died. I still have great influence with the people who grow it, and I supply certain accommodations to those who deal in it. This I do so my other business interests are not interfered with. But I’m not directly involved. Your father’s death made me understand many things. Opium was one of them.” He drew a long breath. “And these people who do it cannot hurt me. But they can hurt you.”
“By helping Francesco?”
“Yes. That much I will tell you. But only because you have to know that to protect yourself. If Francesco Canterina learns you are here, he may simply try to hide from you. And then you will have to find him.” He raised his finger. “But if he learns who you are, and that you are trying to eliminate the way he earns his bread, then he will seek the help of these others to kill you. And no matter how good your training, don’t underestimate these other men. Francesco may want you dead just because you’re my grandson, and because he is afraid to come after me. But for these others, a great deal of money is at stake, and because of that they could be even more dangerous to you.”
The Corsican Page 33
