The Corsican (12 page)

Guerini's eyes flashed with mirth. “You think so, Buonaparte? Then I will still need them. God will pay a heavy ransom to get that rascal back.”

His laughter ended in a wheezing cough, but he motioned them away as they moved closer to him to help. After several minutes the wheezing subsided and his face became serious.

“Tomorrow morning you will take me back to the mountains of Corsica and put me in the ground,” he said. “Now I just want you to listen.” He was breathing in shallow gasps, and the strain of his words showed in his eyes. “We've had a good life in the mountains and here in Marseille,” he said weakly. “We didn't get rich, but we didn't live under the heel of anybody's boot. But things are different now. The days of the bandit are gone. Now everything is done by bigger and bigger organizations, like this one Paul Carbone has here.” A coughing spasm rocked his body, then stopped abruptly, almost as though the dying man had willed it. He cleared his throat and looked at each of them. “You have a wife now and two children, Antoine. And you too, Buonaparte, have a son. If you're men, you must work the rest of your lives for them, not for yourselves. Mémé, when you marry, it will be the same, and you should start to plan for that now.”

“How, Papa?” Antoine's voice was choked and his eyes were brimming with tears.

A faint smile crossed Papa's lips. “I spoke to this man, François Spirito, who works for Carbone. He's agreed that you can each work in his group.” He saw displeasure flash across Mémé's face and waved his hand at him for patience. “It will be a good thing for now,” he said. “But don't do it too long. Just until you learn, however long that takes. When you've learned and have money, then you should start your own group. Never trust these Marseille Corsicans. They're more French than anything else. But use them now.” Another coughing spasm seized him, but he fought it off as he had the last. “And while you work for them, make money of your own. This thing now they have in America, this law that says a man can't drink. There's money in this thing. If you take wine and cognac from the French, these thirsty Americans will make you rich men.” He jabbed a finger at Sartene. “Listen to my admiral. He'll know how to get it there.” He smiled. “You're Antonio's admiral now, Buonaparte. He's the head of our family now. You and Mémé must help him, as good brothers should.”

Papa Guerini was true to his prediction, and the following day they began the long journey back to Corsica to bury him in the foothills of Mount Cinto. He was buried still wearing his beret, with his sword cane and his
lupara
lying next to him in his coffin. For the first time in many years, Buonaparte Sartene wept.

The work for Spirito was difficult, often degrading. Papa had been right—these Marseille Corsicans were much like the French. They looked upon the Guerinis as simple bandits, ignorant peasants from the hills, who should be used only for the simplest of tasks. Antoine was assigned the duties of an enforcer, dispensing violence to those who resisted the black-market and smuggling activities of the
milieu
. Mémé and Buonaparte were assigned to hijacking and the menial distribution of stolen goods. To Antoine and Mémé it was an insult, both to themselves and to the memory of their father. Only Buonaparte accepted it with pleasure, knowing the best way to learn a thing was at its roots.

He explained his reasoning to his brothers one Sunday afternoon, when the wives had taken the children out into the streets after the family meal was finished. The three men sat at the large kitchen table drinking wine, Antoine and Mémé expressing their anger over the two years they had worked for Spirito with no sign they would ever be given more authority within the
milieu
.

“You forget Papa's words,” Sartene said softly. “We are dealing with Frenchmen who call themselves Corsicans. Now we only have to learn how they do what they do, and earn enough money to do it for ourselves someday.” He gestured broadly with his hands. “Last year we made thousands of francs in our dealings with the Americans. This year we'll sell even more liquor to them, and the year after that even more. Spirito knows of our business and he knows it's our right as long as we do our fluty to him. What he doesn't know is how much money we're making. We still live poorly and he thinks we're peasants. He has no idea we save this money for our future.” He smiled at Antoine, whose burly, flat face was red with wine and anger. “Papa once told me that when the hound has a cold, the fox hides best right under his nose.”

“But how long do we have to hide?” Mémé growled. He was smaller than Antoine, with a craggy face and fast-receding hairline that made him look more like a store clerk than the truly violent man he was.

Sartene shrugged. “What's time, Mémé? Each day my stomach tells me the time. Breakfast. Dinner. For more complicated things, my brain tells me.”

“My brain tells me we should strike out on our own now,” Antoine snapped. He stood and began pacing the small kitchen, his movements and bulk seeming very much like Papa's at that moment.

“We could do that,” Sartene said. “And if you, my brothers, decide, I'll be with you.” He waited, watching the words calm Antoine.

Mémé, to whom he was much closer, watched him intensely, knowing more was yet to come.

“If we do this, Spirito will cut us off from his protection with the police and the politicians. Right now we don't have the money to buy our own, so anything we do will be small. If we wait until we have the money, we don't have to worry about mat. If Spirito wants to stop us then, he'll have to use force, and that would violate all the principles of the
milieu
. Right now, we're like the ten-year-old boy who picks up the gun and seeks vengeance for his father's death. What he does is right. But if he waits until he is grown, remembering all the time what he must do, then his vengeance is more certain.”

“Buonaparte is right,” Mémé said. He stood and walked to his older, larger brother and placed a hand on his shoulder. “I don't like it either, but he's right.”

“But how long?” Antoine asked, staring angrily at Sartene. “How long do we swallow our pride for these
Frenchmen?
” He used the final word as an ultimate insult.

“How long is long?” Sartene asked, smiling. “If I said one year, that would seem too long. If I said ten, that would also seem too long. Last week I read in the papers about an Irish writer named Joyce. He spent seven years writing a book. The paper said the book was very difficult to understand and that this writer says people who read it should spend seven years doing so.”

“So he's crazy, like all writers of books,” Antoine said.

“Maybe so,” Sartene said. He looked at Mémé. “Your new wife is pregnant,” he said. “When the child is born, will we expect him to walk the very next day?”

Mémé began to laugh. He looked up at his older brother. “How do we fight our little admiral?” he said. “He always makes too much sense.”

Antoine shook his head and lumbered back to his seat, sat heavily and cradled his face in both hands. “I know you're right, Buonaparte. In my heart I know it. It's just that these fucking
Frenchmen
make me so damned mad.”

The question of “how long” in fact did become ten years. It was 1933 before the Guerinis broke from the Spirito faction of the Carbone
milieu
. Even then it was a year or two earlier than Sartene would have preferred. But prohibition had been repealed in the United States, drying up their outside revenue, and to wait longer, they had decided, would be of little practical value.

The decision to break away caused initial difficulties with Spirito. At first he simply withdrew his protection, as they had expected. But when he realized they had bought their own with hidden resources, he became angry and sent men against their business interests.

The Guerinis reacted calmly. Spirito's men simply disappeared. This was Sartene's doing. Antoine had been in favor of open warfare. Buonaparte, with Mémé's support, argued that scattering the landscape with corpses would only bring the police to everyone's door. So the violence was handled quietly, and within a year it had not only brought Spirito to his senses, but had also brought many men into the newly formed Guerini faction.

But the
silent war
, as it came to be known within the Corsican community, also produced personal hardships for Sartene and his brothers. As a simple matter of protection, they had sent their wives and children back to the quiet, protected village of Cervione. This was especially hard for Antoine and Buonaparte, whose sons were sixteen and fourteen, respectively, ages when they should be at their fathers' sides, learning valuable lessons for the future.

For Buonaparte it also meant a bitter separation from Maria, and despite his frequent trips to Corsica, it made him even more reclusive than he was by nature.

The years that followed were prosperous for the Guerinis and for Sartene. Antoine and Mémé became known as men of power within the Corsican community and began to assume the lifestyles that went with that power. Buonaparte, by comparison, shunned any recognition, preferring to live and work quietly, so much so that his brothers had jokingly dubbed him “the monk.”

The coming of World War II brought an end to prosperity for the Guerinis and other factions within the
milieu
. In the years to come it would devastate their resources, which would not be reclaimed until the postwar period. It also brought imprisonment for Buonaparte Sartene, when he was caught late in 1939 running guns to Corsica, which he believed would soon fall victim to an Italian invasion. The French, however, believing all Corsicans would always side with anti-French forces, dealt with the matter harshly. After a perfunctory trial, the following spring he was sentenced to seven years in the prison at Marseille.

Maria Sartene entered the small, cramped, sterile room with her chin high, seemingly unaffected by the humiliating search to which she had just been subjected. She was thirty-eight now, with touches of gray in her deep-black hair, but she moved with the same strength and grace that had first attracted Buonaparte in the mountains of Corsica twenty-one years earlier.

Buonaparte had been allowed one request before beginning his sentence, and had asked for time alone with his wife. He had not asked to see his son, Jean, who was now twenty. The less the French knew about him the better, he had decided. Now, watching his wife enter the room, he was filled with pride. They can kick us, he told himself, but they can never make us weep.

The room was on the first floor of the old prison, and the walls were made of stone and it was cold. Maria moved quickly to him, and he could feel her trembling slightly as they embraced.

“Are you cold?” he whispered, still holding her.

“No,” she answered. She stepped back, her hands resting on his chest. “Seven years,” she said. Her eyes became suddenly fierce. “The bastards.”

He guided her to a long wooden bench against one wall, then sat next to her, holding both of her hands in his.

“The suffering doesn't bother me,” he said softly. “I can deal with it as it comes. And I know you will be cared for by Mémé and Antoine. What bothers me is this damned war that's racing down on us.” He looked at her firmly. “I don't want Jean involved in this. I don't want him to be used by the French. They spit on us until they need us to bleed for them. Then, when we're through bleeding, they spit on us again. I don't mind their spit. To men like that we're criminals, and always will be. Fate has condemned us to that. But I will not let my family be used by these bastards.”

“If there's fighting, Jean will want to fight.” There was no resistance in Maria's voice. It was purely an observation about her son.

“He can fight with Corsicans if the island is invaded. But you tell him I said he must not let them take him into their army and use him like so much garbage.” He squeezed her hands. “There are business matters that will have to be looked after while I'm in this place. Let him do some of these things. But guide him. He doesn't have your wisdom.” He released her hands so he could make a circular gesture with his own. “Let him think he's making these decisions by himself. But point him in the right direction. Counsel him. Right now he's so busy with this young Frenchwoman he wants to marry, he won't even notice.” His voice had taken on a tone of distaste as he mentioned the woman.

“She's a good woman, Buonaparte,” Maria said.

“Yes, but she's not strong. A strong man needs a strong woman. Only weak men need the other kind, so they can have someone to dominate.”

“What would you know about it?” she said. “You married the first peasant girl you saw in the mountains.” There was a slight smile on her face. “A little movement here, a little movement there, and you were like some poor goat, being led to slaughter.”

“But I was lucky. At least you knew how to cook,” he snapped.

“Cook!” She snorted. “In those first years I could have fed you sheep droppings and you wouldn't have known the difference.”

He laughed softly, then leaned to her and kissed her forehead, allowing his hand to run gently along her cheek. “The time will pass,” he whispered. “Then there will be many years together.”

“Who knows?” she said. “Maybe the Germans will come and set you free.”

“All that will mean is that our faces will be washed by German spit instead of French spit,” he said. He gripped her hands again. “This is why you must keep close watch on business matters. We will need money when this war is over. I want a new life for all of us then, and I have plans for it. But you must be careful of the police. They'll be watching you.”

“The police always watch, but they never see anything,” Maria said. She stroked his cheek. “Don't worry, my Buonaparte. Everything will be cared for.” She smiled. “Don't forget, I also learned at Papa's knee.”