Corsican Honor

by William Heffernan

  Alex grunted. “Thank God for powerful relatives,” he said.

  “I am glad you did not,” she said.

  “Oh?”

  “I think it is better now. I had no knowledge of men then. I think I would have been clumsy and foolish.” She listened to his silence, knowing he did not know how to respond. “Did you know my mother knew how I felt? How much I cared for you?”

  “Did it upset her?”

  “No. I think she understood. She told me you would have to leave. That it was good how I felt, but that there would be someone else for me to love.”

  “She was right,” Alex said, stroking her back again, knowing the memory of the man she had found would cause her pain.

  “Yes,” Michelle said. She was quiet for several moments. “She was right about that,” she said at length. “It was right for me to wait.”

  “Remember the good things you had with him,” he said. “Don’t let the rest replace it.”

  She stroked his chest, harder this time, as though making sure he was truly there. “Can you do that, Alex? Can you remember your wife that way?”

  “No,” he said. “There was too much other pain before she died.”

  “And yet you still want to avenge her death.” It was not a question, not offered as one.

  “Yes. Don’t ask me to explain. I don’t think I could. Maybe it’s just hating the man who did it.” He drew a long breath. “I don’t just want to kill him. I need to.”

  The telephone rang before she could respond, and Alex freed his arm from around her and swung his legs out of the bed.

  She listened to his voice, soft at first, then crisp and brittle, and she could feel the pain coming from him. Her heart began to beat faster.

  He replaced the receiver, but didn’t turn to face her.

  “I have to leave,” he said.

  “What happened? Tell me.”

  “They killed Antoine,” he said. “I have to go there.”

  She felt her breath catch, felt the tears filling her eyes. She didn’t think she would be able to speak.

  “I’m coming with you,” she said. Then she began to sob.

  Antoine’s body lay under a blanket to shield his gutted corpse from the morbidly curious throng that had gathered behind the cordon of police who had sealed off the area. Alex and Michelle pushed past the police, guided by two of Meme’s men, who explained they were relatives who had been called for by the Padrone.

  There was only one now, Alex thought as he made his way to Meme’s side. One Padrone. One Patriarche. One Paceri. All the various titles given to the men who carried the gold medallion of the milieu, marking them to its members as Un Vrai Monsieur, a man of honor. And one uncle, Alex told himself. It was the only title he had ever cared about.

  “They have slaughtered him,” Meme said, his face a mixture of tears and rage. “They have slaughtered your Uncle Antoine.”

  Alex wanted to place his arms around the man, but instinctively knew he should not. He understood that Meme could not be allowed to appear weak. Not in front of his men. Not before the public or the police. His tears were acceptable, as was his rage. But his power and his authority must not appear to be diminished.

  Michelle rushed to him and was comforted by Meme. He stroked her hair and spoke softly to her. “You should not be here,” he said. “This horror is not for your eyes.”

  “I want to be with you,” she said. “As you and Antoine were once with me.”

  He nodded, but his eyes were distant. He continued to stroke Michelle’s hair.

  “I would like you to call Cervione,” he whispered. “Call the priest at the cathedral. And call Colette. Tell them we will bring Antoine home to them tomorrow.”

  Michelle nodded her head against his shoulder, but found she could say nothing.

  Meme beckoned to one of his men with his head. “Take her to my house,” he said. “Take men with you, and stay with her.” His eyes bored into the man, telling him that no further harm must come to his family.

  The look in the man’s eyes told Alex that would not happen.

  Meme took Alex’s arm and led him toward the body. The police moved aside. There was little to investigate. What had happened had occurred many times in the past. The weapons in the car had been discovered and had been seized. But charges could only be made against those who were already beyond punishment. Jo-Jo Valeria had been taken to a hospital, and he had told the police he had been walking along the street and had been hit by a stray bullet. There were no witnesses to prove the lie.

  Meme lifted the sheet and revealed his brother’s mutilated body. Alex stared at it, then looked away.

  “It was the German,” Meme said, his voice barely under control. “Jo-Jo told us. He was badly hurt and could do nothing.” He looked away himself, allowing the sheet to fall back. “He said Antoine fought to the end. That he almost killed the Boche bastard with his bare hands. But that someone else killed him and saved the German pig.” He turned to Alex, his eyes filled with a perverse pride. “The police said he was shot eleven times, and still he fought. My brother was a dur to the very end of his life.”

  Alex could say nothing. His lips moved, but his mouth felt numb, useless.

  “Tomorrow I will take him home to Cervione,” Meme said. “Home to Corsica, where he belongs now.” He stared at Alex, his eyes glittering, black as coal. “Do not fear, Alex,” he said. “We will not forget this Montoya bastard. My men will be there awaiting him, following him, seeing where he goes and who he is with. And when I have buried my brother I will go after them all. I will paint France with their blood if I have to.” His entire face seemed to glow with hatred now. “And I will not forget the one who betrayed my brother. That one will die at my own hand. And he will wish, with his last thought, that his mother had never conceived him.”

  CHAPTER

  41

  Cervione

  The music rose in the small cathedral, filling every corner, the sweet soprano voices of the village children floating from the choir in the rich, melodic language of the island. The priest, old and weathered, sat in a side chair, alb and surplice folded about him, biretta atop his head, eyes closed, listening to the voices of the children, perhaps even praying.

  Placed before the steps leading up to the altar, the bronze casket that held Antoine Pisani lay atop a funeral bier, the lower half covered with the flowers of the maquis, the upper half open, revealing the peaceful, cosmetic repose achieved by a Bastia mortician.

  The cathedral was full, with many standing in the rear, others spilling out into the small village square. The men who had hunted with Antoine were seated directly behind the family—Meme, Michelle, Alex, and Colette—followed by men of the Pisani faction. On the opposite side were others of the village, seated ahead of myriad factions within the milieu, whose members had traveled from Bastia and Ajaccio and Marseilles, men who shed no tears but who sat and calculated what advantage, if any, the funeral they were attending might bring.

  Meme sat stoically, his eyes hard on his brother’s remains. His men had been ordered to carry no weapons, to do so openly, blatantly, in a gesture of defiance that spoke of his power and the unassailability of his surviving family. But few doubted there were those at hand prepared to slaughter any attackers before they could leave the mountain village.

  Michelle held Meme’s hand, stroking it, as much to comfort herself as him. Colette, older than Alex remembered, her ruined face hidden behind a veil, clutched Alex’s arm, her occasional gasps and sighs speaking of the loss she felt for the man she had harangued through much of her life.

  It was an unaffected ceremony, lacking any grandiloquence, and it spoke of power born of simple origins that had not been forgotten. Alex thought his uncle would have liked it, and he recalled the day he had brought him to this same church and roared with laughter as a village ancient, knife in hand, had chased two French fools and their stupid dog into the street. The gentle, and brutal, giant of a man who could soothe a
child’s fears and cut a throat all on the same day and see no conflict in his mind, nor feel one in his soul. It had created an imbalance in his own mind that Alex knew he would never resolve, and had long before decided he would never attempt.

  Piers Moran had not come, nor had any member of the American intelligence community, all sending telegrams instead, expressing their sympathy and pleading the speed of the funeral as their excuse. The older politicians of Marseilles had sent representatives and an abundance of flowers, uncertain of the Pisani power now but still not wishing to offend, yet remaining away themselves, unwilling to be tarnished by men whose money and muscle they had accepted throughout the years. But they were not missed, Alex thought—except perhaps his father. Antoine himself would have preferred a gathering of old hunting companions, and the people of the village who had called him Patriarche, and the children, and those of his faction who had shared the violence that was so much a part of his life.

  And he would have liked Ludwig’s head sitting atop a stake outside the church, Alex told himself.

  The priest spoke briefly in the rolling, rhythmic Corsican language, and celebrated the Mass for the Dead, and those present filed quietly past the open coffin, leaving the family behind to watch the lid lowered one final time and to follow it into the street.

  There was no hearse, no cortege of cars. Antoine was carried on the shoulders of men with whom he had drunk and laughed, out through the village and along the dusty road that ran above the maquis, and finally to the vault on the sprawling grounds of the Pisani Cervione home.

  Michelle walked ahead, holding Meme’s arm, Alex and Colette behind them, Alex unsure who was supporting whom as the veiled older woman marched on ageless legs along the road she traveled every day to tend to the needs of the Pisani household.

  He had not seen her since childhood—he had been told to stay away from the Pisani house for his own safety when he had hidden in the mountain village years before. She was in her early sixties now, and seemed much more frail than he remembered. And he wondered if she still tended her garden—sure she would have fought giving it up—and he remembered their game of hide and go seek, and of the vague and disturbing words she had spoken to him when he had left her that last time.

  He recalled his father’s nervousness whenever she was near, and he thought he understood it now. She had been his father’s lover during his halcyon days in Marseilles, and the thought both surprised and pleased him, leaving only the question of why his father had abandoned her in her disfigurement, offering neither solace nor emotional support. But it fit his father’s nature, he knew. To reject that which was not as perfect as he would have it. But it was something Alex would rather not accept about his father.

  They stopped at the large stone burial vault, the line of mourners gathering across the casket from them, and the priest gave a final blessing, sprinkling the bronze coffin with holy water. The sun was steady and hard, but the breeze that came up from the maquis pushed the heat away, bringing with it the scents of juniper and buckthorn, lavender and wild thyme, and it reminded Alex of his walks with Michelle, who stood beside him now, and of his boyhood hunt with his uncle and the great pig they had killed together.

  Alex felt his throat catch with the loss of the man, but he fought it back, telling himself he would not be a “pants pisser” at Antoine’s funeral. The memory of the words brought a faint smile to his lips, and he knew he would remember him for that, and for the affection and friendship he had showered on him, and would dismiss the other parts of his life to the realm of ignored reality.

  The casket was carried through the solid iron doors of the vault and placed on a stone bier to one side. Alex allowed his eyes to remain on the coffin until the heavy doors were swung shut, closing Antoine away.

  As the doors closed, Alex felt Colette squeeze his hand, still watching as a key was turned in the lock.

  “You will not have to fear this place as you did as a child,” she whispered. “Antoine is here to guard it now.”

  Somehow the thought of that gave him peace of mind.

  Meme received his guests in the house, providing food and drink for those who had come to offer respect to his brother. He sat alone on one side of the vast sitting room that faced the sea, and others remained far away so those who chose to—both villagers and members of the milieu—could have a private word with him to offer their support and regret.

  Marcel Francisci was among the mourners, and he went to Meme, sitting in a chair provided, and spoke with him for several minutes. Meme’s face remained impassive throughout the conversation, and Alex marveled at both men’s composure, playing out their separate roles in a morality play headed for future violence.

  Later, after the last of those who wished to speak with Meme had moved away, Alex went to his uncle and asked what Francisci had said.

  Meme’s face showed nothing as he spoke, only the coal black of his eyes hinted at the hatred that simmered inside.

  “He wanted me to know the loss he felt,” Meme said. “He told me the years of rivalry meant nothing when a great man of the milieu was lost to all.” A small smile played on Meme’s lips. “And he warned me he thought Antoine had been betrayed, and that the one who had done it was still among us.” The smile disappeared. “He said he told me this as a gesture of friendship and respect.”

  “Did he give you a name?” Alex asked.

  “Oh, yes,” Meme said. “He gave me the name I already knew. He is throwing the betrayer to the wolves to be eaten.”

  “Why?” Alex asked. “Is he afraid you will trace the man back to him?”

  “No. I doubt he has ever spoken with him. This was Ludwig’s man. And Montoya’s. It is because he fears Ludwig and Montoya will give this pig our faction as payment for his treachery. And it is something he wants for himself.”

  “So if you kill the traitor, you serve his ends,” Alex said.

  Meme nodded. “And Francisci can take that victory to his grave with him.”

  Alex did not ask who the traitor was. He knew his uncle would tell him when it was necessary that he know.

  “When will you kill him?” Alex asked.

  Meme looked toward the windows and the sea.

  “He is being prepared for death even as we speak,” he said.

  Marseilles

  The two ambulance attendants presented the transfer papers to the head nurse. They were signed by the hospital administrator, although the man had never seen them, and explained that Jo-Jo Valeria was to be taken to a special orthopedic clinic outside Nice. The two men, both members of the Pisani faction, were from Paris, and were not known to Valeria, and when they placed him on the gurney, he was smugly gratified at Meme’s concern for his well-being.

  That sense of satisfaction ended when the ambulance pulled into the long drive of the Pisanis’ Marseilles home, and Valeria found himself staring into the barrel of an automatic pistol.

  “What is this? Where are you taking me?” he demanded.

  The man with the gun said nothing. He simply leaned forward and spat in Valeria’s face.

  When the ambulance stopped, the driver came to the back door and opened it, then yanked Valeria off the stretcher, oblivious to the pain it caused.

  “Walk, pig,” he snapped.

  Valeria grimaced, then stared up at the Pisani house, and his expression gradually changed to one of terror.

  “Where am I going?” he tried again.

  “Into the basement,” the driver said. “You can wait there for your Padrone. And you can think about how you are going to die.”

  Cervione

  Alex walked about the grounds with Colette. Most of the guests had gone now, and she had told him she wanted to show him the many flowers she had planted since he had last been there.

  “Antoine and I fought about the flowers every time he saw them,” she said. “He used to tell me there were enough flowers in the maquis, and that they were more beautiful than these ‘French flowers’ I was brin
ging to his garden.” She laughed, and the sound was light and gay, making her seem like a young girl, Alex thought.

  “I think if I did not plant the flowers, he would have complained about that. It was his nature to fight with everyone. Especially me. And I loved to give it back to him. It made me feel less like what I am: a woman who cares for others because there is nothing else for her to do.”

  “I think he did it because he loved you,” Alex said. “It was the only way he could express it,”

  Colette nodded her head slowly, digesting his words. “Yes, and I loved him. I loved both of them. They made me as a sister to them. An old, spinster sister who cared for them.” She laughed again, at herself this time.

  Alex guided her to a bench and they sat facing each other.

  “You loved my father too, didn’t you?” Alex asked. He was not sure why, but felt the moment was right for it.

  Colette looked at him for several moments. It was impossible to read the reaction on her two-sided face, but her eyes seemed to grow distant for a moment, he thought.

  “Yes, I loved him,” she finally said. “But you must not think badly of him for that. It was a strange time then, right after the war ended.”

  Alex knew she was saying those words for him, not to excuse his father, and he felt great affection for her, for her gentleness.

  “I was a poule, you know, back in those days.” She had said it suddenly, almost as though she were afraid she might not if she waited. She shrugged. “I was very young, and I came from a hard family, and I thought it was a way to escape them and to get money for myself. To have a life I wanted to be very exciting. Like in the movies, you know? Fine clothes. Fine restaurants. Handsome men.” She laughed again, softer this time. “The young innocent girl led into a life of sin. It is like that old cliché eh? The whore with the heart of gold.” She wagged a finger at him. “But it was not like that. Oh, I stole from the mecs every chance I got. Just like all of us did. And if there was a scheme to make money, we were all the first in line. But those were the old days, and they were what they were. I make no excuses for myself.”