Corsican Honor

by William Heffernan

  Gault had been shaving, and he stumbled down the stairs in his underwear upon hearing the screams of his wife, his face still partially lathered, his legs looking like two frail white sticks that had not seen sunlight in years. He was only thirty years old, but he looked suddenly older upon seeing the men who confronted him.

  Antoine pushed his wife into a chair, then turned and wrenched the straight razor from Gault’s hand, spun him roughly around like a child, then took him from behind in a great bear hug that pinned his arms to his sides.

  Meme came forward, a long, needle-like stiletto flicking open in one hand. The hand shot forward, the wrist twisting and snapping, slicing open Gault’s left cheek and cutting the nose so its lower portion hung to one side on a flap of skin. Then he plunged the knife into his left shoulder, twisting it, then drawing it down the length of his upper arm.

  Gault screamed in anguish and horror, and Antoine released him and allowed him to fall to the floor in his pooling blood.

  Neither of the Pisanis had spoken a word, and they turned now and left the house to the echoes of Gault’s sobs and his wife’s screams.

  The strike was over. On March 13, the government announced that despite a continuing boycott by communist strikers, nine hundred dockworkers and supplementary troops had restored normal operations on Marseilles’s waterfront.

  It was also the death knell for the communist-led labor coalition and the Communist party in Marseilles. In the next election Gaston Defferre would be elected mayor, and he would rule over the city for more than thirty years.

  And the Pisani brothers would rule over the Marseilles docks as a reward for their role in crushing the strike. And with that new power they would control the majority of shipping entering and leaving France for the next four decades.

  And most of all, it was another coup for Piers Moran. The strike had been crushed in slightly more than a month, only two weeks longer than the 1947 debacle. Washington was elated, and Piers’s star was truly in the ascension. He had just turned thirty years of age.

  The Pisanis held a great celebration at The Parakeet club, which had been repaired and completed with the changes Colette had suggested. Even the glassware had been replaced at Meme’s order, and it was now a finer quality, and would remain so for as long as it lasted.

  Colette was at the Pisani house in Corsica. The initial surgery had gone as well as could be expected, and she would have to wait before more reconstruction could be attempted. She had insisted on keeping house for them—to earn her bread, she said—and Meme had agreed to her wishes and had given her a generous salary. He had also had all the mirrors removed from the house.

  Colette had not seen Piers again. He had written, had sent flowers, but he had never again visited the hospital. She understood. It simply confirmed all she had ever thought about herself.

  The party was well attended. The members of the milieu and the city’s new political powers all came to pay homage to the Pisanis, who, it was known, had been given complete control of the waterfront by their American friends.

  Piers arrived with another man, a tall, swarthy American with eyes that seemed a mirror image of Meme’s.

  After greeting everyone present, Piers asked the brothers to join him and his friend in the small office at the rear of the club.

  There, Piers explained that he was leaving Marseilles, was being placed in charge of CIA operations for all of France. It would force a move to Paris, he said. But it was something that could not be helped. He only hoped the distance would not alter their friendship. He was assured by the brothers that this could never happen.

  He then introduced the man with him and explained that he had performed a great service for the OSS during the war and now sought a favor in return.

  Meme nodded. He understood completely. It was the way things were done.

  “Our friend has run into some difficulty in Italy,” Piers said. “There were certain services being performed there that are no longer possible. The Italian government—under pressure from my government, I’m afraid—has placed some severe restrictions on its pharmaceutical industry. And it has made it impossible to have … certain commodities processed there. We would like you to consider performing that function here in Marseilles,” Piers said.

  Meme looked at the other man for further explanation. The man nodded. He did not speak French, but the Pisanis’ English was good enough for him to be understood.

  “I have the ability to have opium delivered from Turkey,” he began. “And I understand you gentlemen have the ability to bring anything through the Port of Marseilles that you want.” He gestured with both hands, indicating his admiration of the Pisanis’ power.

  “I need this opium processed into number four heroin, and I would like to have it done here by men of respect and trust. I am told that you are such men, and I believe that.”

  The man leaned forward, his hands clasped before him as a gesture of sincerity. “Associates of mine in America have spoken with friends in Sicily, and have been assured you are men of great honor. So we want to form an alliance with your faction—become partners in a way—and I can assure you there will be profits for all of us if you agree.”

  Meme nodded, then shrugged. He had heard of this man, knew he was a serious person. “The only problem I see is that we know nothing about operating this type of refinery,” he said.

  “This is not a problem,” the man said. “Any chemist can do this. And I’m told the war has made beggars out of many here. Security is the problem,” he said. “And my people have no way of providing that in France.”

  Meme glanced at Antoine and received a supporting nod. “Then we have no problem,” he said. “And our faction will be happy to serve you if we can agree on a price.”

  Piers leaned forward, imitating the other man’s gesture. “I can assure you that’s a matter you need not concern yourself about,” he said. “If there are ever any problems—about anything—you can bring them directly to me. Whether my office is in Paris or Washington or wherever. You have my word on that.”

  Meme looked at the other man for confirmation. It was always best, he knew, to settle potential disagreements before they happened.

  Lucky Luciano rose and shook both of the brothers’ hands. “Price will never be a problem between us,” he said.

  CHAPTER

  27

  Cervione, Corsica, 1957

  Piers Moran arrived in Cervione with his son, Alex, who was now ten years old. His elder son, Richard, was away at boarding school in the United States, and Piers decided to bring Alex with him for the annual boar hunt the Pisanis were to host.

  Alex had won the brothers’ hearts two years earlier—especially Antoine’s—when he had accompanied his father to the housewarming of the Pisanis’ new home in Marseilles. He had been told then to call them “uncle” and had happily obliged, since he had no uncles of his own. Both Piers and his wife, Cynthia, were only children.

  The previous year, when Piers had brought Richard to the hunt, Antoine had been clearly disappointed and had asked why Alex had not come. Then, later, he had heard Richard telling his father, in a disparaging way, that he had seen Antoine pissing off the balcony of the house. It was true, and Antoine saw nothing wrong with it, but since Richard obviously did, it made him a mouchard, a squealer, and Antoine could not abide that in anyone, even a child. But Alex was his pote, his pal, and Antoine was sure the boy would have pissed off the balcony with him. And then kept his mouth shut about it.

  “Ahhhh!” Antoine roared as they stepped from the car that had brought them from the airport. “Here is my little nephew.” He scooped Alex up in his arms and kissed him on both cheeks. “Are you ready to shoot a great pig?” he demanded. “One even bigger than me?”

  Alex’s eyes widened a bit at the thought of it. “Are they really bigger than you?” he asked.

  “Some of them,” Antoine said. “Fatter anyway.” He laughed. “Some of them weigh more than three hundred pounds. Even I
am not so fat.”

  He returned Alex to the ground, and the boy glanced at his father. “Can I?” he asked.

  “The boy will hunt with me,” Antoine insisted. “He will be safer than in his mother’s arms.”

  “It will be good for you,” Piers said. “But I think you may be too young for your own gun.”

  Alex seemed uncertain by the mixed answer, but quickly recovered and grinned. He turned back to Antoine and received a quick, surreptitious wink. It was as though his “uncle” was saying, Wait, when we are out in the maquis there may be a surprise for you.

  “When will we go? After the pigs?” Alex asked. There was a touch of awe in the boy’s voice.

  “Tomorrow morning, before it is even light,” Antoine said. “Do you think you can get up that early?”

  “Yes,” Alex said, wondering if he would sleep at all that night. “I’ll be up whenever you say, Uncle.”

  Antoine smiled down at the boy. He was a handsome lad, with soft brown hair and green eyes flecked with gray, and Antoine thought he looked more like his mother than Piers, though he had met the woman only once. The boy was thin and gangly, as were most boys his age, but he was tall and had wide shoulders, and Antoine knew he would grow into a strong young man one day.

  He looked at Piers, still smiling. “It is about time you brought my nephew to shoot pigs with me,” he said. “Now come into the house and have a pastis, and relax. Meme waits to talk business with you, and I will take Alex into the village to see what there is to see.”

  The house was a large stucco building with a red-tiled roof, not dissimilar to the Pisanis’ home in Marseilles, only smaller. It was close to the side of the mountain, just behind and to the south of the village, and it was surrounded by a high stone wall, and reached only by a long, winding drive. The house stood on higher ground than the wall, and from the great terrace that ran along the front and one side, there was a clear view of the distant sea.

  Corsicans seemed to need a view of the sea, wherever they lived, Piers thought as he sat on the terrace sipping the licorice-flavored pastis. He wondered if it was due to their history of constant invasions—a need to see who was coming at them next—or simply to have an escape route always in sight.

  Meme was seated next to him, and he asked him, jokingly, which it was.

  “Both,” Meme answered. “But for escape we would always choose first the mountains and the maquis. There a man would never be found, unless he wanted to be. And then …” He used his thumb to make a cutting gesture across his throat.

  In a large garden below the terrace, Piers caught sight of a woman gathering vegetables. She was dressed in oversized clothing, with a full skirt that hung down to her ankles, and her head was covered with a scarf. But he was certain it was Colette.

  He drew in a breath. She had not been here on his previous visits to the house, and Meme had always explained, without being asked, that she was away, visiting relatives in Lyon or seeing her doctors in Marseilles. Piers had been grateful then that she was absent, and he had assumed Meme had planned it that way.

  “Is that Colette?” he asked, his eyes still on the woman.

  “Yes,” Meme said. “Did you wish to speak with her?”

  “No,” Piers said. “I think it’s best I don’t.”

  Meme looked out toward the sea. He was disappointed in his friend, felt a lessening of respect for him. But it was not his business, and a Corsican never criticized a guest in his home.

  “How are things going for you in Marseilles?” Piers asked, changing the subject.

  “Ahh, Francisci nips at our heels,” Meme said. “But they are small nips and not worth killing over. But someday we will have to deal with him. But it will not happen until he thinks we are weak enough.” He turned to Piers and offered an uncharacteristic wink. “The trick will be to make him think we are weaker when we are not. Then the other factions will believe he got what he deserved.”

  Piers knew that within the milieu, even the most powerful faction could not attack another, weaker one, without risking broad reprisals. A weaker faction could attack a stronger if it was a question of economic survival, and equals could attack equals for the same reason. But in each case, attacking factions would have to accept the consequences of their actions. It was a question of justice, or rather the Corsican view of it, Piers told himself.

  “And how does it go with our Italian friends in the United States?” Piers asked.

  “We have no problems with them. The money comes as it always has. If anything, there is too much of it.” He shook his head. “So much money is difficult to hide.”

  “I can help you with that if you need it,” Piers said.

  Meme nodded. “I have my books here if you wish to look at them,” he said.

  “No,” Piers said. “I have no need to see them.” He knew it would be an insult to accept Meme’s offer. It would question that what he said was true.

  “Tell me something,” Meme said at length. “Does it not bother you? This heroin in your country? If it were here, in Corsica, I would kill the men who brought it.”

  “In my country, it is only used by the blacks, what the Italians call the melanzanes, the eggplants. And some musicians,” he added as an afterthought.

  Meme nodded. “We have them in Marseilles also,” he said. “The one are like animals, the other are crazy.”

  Antoine walked along the dusty road, his arm around Alex’s shoulder, stroking and patting him, and pointing out anything he thought might be of interest to the boy. Neither he nor Meme had ever married, and had no children they knew of, but that had been a conscious choice because of the life they lived and the violence that surrounded it. He liked children and often wished he had chosen a different path because of it.

  As they walked, Antoine stopped to speak with everyone they passed, and those he spoke with called him Patriarche. Alex asked him why.

  “It is an honorary title, offered out of respect,” Antoine said. “It is the most important thing a man can have in his life, this respect. It is more important than money, than power, even than life itself.” He squeezed the boy’s shoulder. “You must always remember that, if you remember nothing else.”

  When they reached the village, Antoine led him up a cobblestone street that rose on a steady incline to the small village square. There was a couple walking ahead of them, dressed in garish summer clothing and trailing a small white poodle behind them on a leash. Antoine gestured toward them with his chin. “Tourists,” he whispered. “A Corsican would never own such a silly dog. We want dogs that will chase the pigs. But you will see that tomorrow.”

  They stopped outside a church, the stucco facade painted a dark yellow, with large, slab stone steps leading up to massive wooden doors.

  “Our cathedral,” Antoine said. “It was built in 1580 by Alexander Sauli, the bishop of Aleria, and it is named for St. Erasmus, the patron saint of sailors. Bishop Sauli was beatified—that means someday he may be made a saint by the pope, and he must have been a very rich man, because it is said he built the cathedral with his own money.” He looked down at the boy and winked. “He had the same name as you,” he said. “Maybe you will be a saint one day.” He laughed. “Better you should have as much money as old Sauli.”

  He led Alex around to the side, and they entered the cathedral. The tourist woman had entered ahead of them, the man waiting outside so the dog could lift its leg against a nearby building.

  Antoine stopped inside the door, dipped his hand into the holy water font, and blessed himself. Alex did the same, although he was not Catholic and didn’t know why he was doing it, other than respect for his uncle. Antoine understood and stroked the boy’s head.

  They walked up the center aisle, past the lady tourist, and stopped ten yards from the altar rail, where an old man knelt in prayer. The church was small inside, unlike the cathedrals Alex had seen in Paris, and it was badly in need of paint. It was a poor church, he decided, but he thought it was very beauti
ful.

  His attention was drawn back to the altar by the old man, who had risen and turned. There was a fierce look of anger on his face, and he reached into his pocket and withdrew a knife, opened it, and made a cutting motion across his throat. The old man seemed to be staring at them, and as he started forward, Alex instinctively jumped back. Antoine simply turned his head to look behind, unconcerned.

  The other tourist had followed his wife into the church, bringing the dog with him. Now he was running, his wife behind him, screaming in French for her life, the dog yelping as it was dragged along, and leaving a trail of urine in its wake.

  Antoine threw back his head and roared with laughter. “The French,” he said. “They have this unmistakable wish for death.”

  They left the cathedral, and Alex could see the couple racing down the hill, the old man tottering as fast as he could behind them. The knife was still in his hand.

  “Will he kill them?” Alex asked.

  “Only if he catches them,” Antoine said. “And he is too old, and they are too frightened.”

  They entered a cafe filled with men of varying ages, and Antoine walked to the small bar, accepting the greetings of all. The men also called him Patriarche, and he introduced Alex as his nephew, explaining that he was from America and could not speak Corsican, but spoke French very well. The men immediately switched to French.

  “These men will hunt with us tomorrow,” he told Alex. He turned to one of the men. “Show him your scars, Michel.”

  The man called Michel obliged, raising his shirt to reveal long, jagged scars along his ribs, then lifted his pants leg to show a large gouge in his calf. “Cochon,” he said. Pig. “They are mean bastards.”

  Alex’s jaw had dropped, and Antoine rubbed his head and laughed. “Tomorrow,” he said. “Tomorrow, I predict my nephew here will shoot the largest pig of all.”

  Several of the men grunted and nodded agreement. “I believe it,” one said. “But we must make sure the pig does not eat him first.”