The Corsican (21 page)

“I don't understand what you mean,” the boy whispered.

Sartene nodded. “I see. I'll try to make myself clear.” He leaned forward, his forearms on the desk, drawing closer to his grandson. “I assume Auguste has done something to offend you, and that you felt the need to avenge that offense. I just want to know what it was so I can understand who was in the right, that's all.”

Pierre looked down at the floor, then sideways at Luc. He desperately tried to think of something Auguste had done. He knew there was no hope. “Nothing, Grandpère,” he finally said.

“Nothing. Nothing at all.” He sat back, raised his hands, then allowed them to fall helplessly in his lap.

“I'm sorry,” Pierre whispered.

“Well, that's fine,” Sartene said. “But now Auguste has a grievance against you, and I can't ask him not to do anything. His manhood may require it.”

There was a long silence before Sartene continued. “But before we decide on that, we must deal with Luc,” he said. “Your family serves us here, Luc. And so far they have served us well.”

“Perhaps we should send him back to the hills,” Auguste interrupted.

“No,” Pierre said, his voice still a whisper. “It was my idea,” he added, louder now.

A wave of trembling swept Luc's shoulders. “It was my idea too,” he said.

“See,” Auguste said. “They protect each other.”

Sartene lowered his head, covering his mouth with the fingers of one hand. He looked up again, keeping his eyes from Auguste, knowing he had to if he was to avoid giving himself away. “Well, what will you do with them?” he finally asked.

“Since they didn't actually harm me, I don't feel I have to harm them,” Auguste answered. “I'd be willing to accept some payment instead. Maybe that dog, Max. I always thought he was a good dog.”

“No, Uncle Auguste,” Pierre said.

Auguste continued to stare straight ahead. “Maybe just some service I need. I'll have to think about it, Buonaparte. But right now I want them to get that damned beast out from under my bed. And to clean up any mess it's made.”

Sartene waved the back of his hand at the two boys. “Go do as you're told,” he said. “Auguste will need time to decide how to deal with this.”

Pierre gave him a pleading look. Sartene looked from one boy to the other.

“I can't do anything,” he said, making sure each boy knew he was speaking to both. “If Auguste were my enemy, or an enemy of any in our group, then it would be different. Then I could protect you from him.” He shrugged his shoulders in a gesture of futility. “But he is one of us, so I must respect his need for vengeance. So go. Go.”

When the two boys reached the door, they found Pierre's father about to enter.

Jean ruffled Pierre's hair. “Where are you going?” he asked.

“I have to do something for Grandpère,” Pierre said, rushing past his father with Luc at his heels.

Jean leaned out the door and watched them retreat down the hall, then returned to the room, closing the door behind him. “What's happened?” he asked, looking from his father to Auguste. Both men's eyes were dancing with pleasure.

Sartene raised a finger, then could contain himself no more. He and Auguste burst out laughing. Jean looked at them as if they had lost their minds.

“Those little bastards,” Auguste said, before bursting into laughter again.

“What?” Jean said.

“I caught them putting a monster lizard in my room,” Auguste said, struggling for breath.

“How big?” Jean asked.

Auguste stretched his hands apart, almost as far as they would go. “A damned dragon,” he said. “If I'd found it in my bed tonight, I would have had a heart attack.”

“I'm sorry, Auguste,” Jean said, trying not to laugh. “I'll see that Pierre is punished.”

Sartene waved his hand back and forth. “No. Give him a little hell, but let Auguste and me have our fun. We just had a trial here. I should have called for you, but I never thought of it. We were enjoying it too much. He thinks now that Auguste has the right to seek vengeance from him.”

Jean shook his head. “Corsican games,” he said.

“Let old men have their fun,” Auguste said. “What harm can it do?”

“You know,” Sartene said, “it reminds me of something that happened when I was a boy in the hills with Papa Guerini.” He laughed to himself, warming to his own story. “Papa was asleep in his hut, and Mémé and I, we found this field mouse outside. Well, we snuck into Papa's hut, and we put the mouse under his blanket, then went outside to wait and see what would happen. All of a sudden the mouse starts to run up Papa's leg, headed straight for his balls. What a roar he let out. Then he comes running out of the hut and he sees Mémé and me. Christ, he chased us for half a mile, waving his sword over his head.” He stopped, wiping the tears from his eyes. All three men were laughing.

“Well, at least we know where he gets it from,” Jean said. Then: “Right now I have to talk to you about this meeting with Lyfoung.”

“All right, all right,” Sartene said. “Auguste, you go torture the criminals while I talk business with this humorless son of mine.” Auguste started for the door and Sartene called after him. “Come back later and tell me what you did,” he said.

The two boys sat on a log at the edge of the forest, each looking paler than usual.

“Do you think they'll send me away?” Luc finally asked.

“If they do, I'll go with you,” Pierre said defiantly. “And he'd better not try and take Max either.”

“I hope they don't tell my father,” Luc said.

Thoughts of his own father crept into Pierre's mind. He would have to face him as well. He could see no immediate end to the punishments at hand.

“How come you didn't see him?” Pierre asked, hoping to affix blame on Luc.

Luc simply shrugged, too intent on his own inner visions of banishment to even notice. He looked up, and across the plain saw Auguste starting down the steps of the house. “There he is,” he whispered, as if his voice would carry the entire distance and give them away.

“Let's get out of here,” Pierre said, slipping off the log and stepping back into the bush. “Hurry.”

They went ten feet into the bush, keeping their eyes on Auguste. “If we stay out of his way, maybe he'll just forget about it,” Pierre said.

“You think he will?” Luc asked.

“Not really,” Pierre said. “But maybe he won't be as mad later.”

“Maybe he'll get madder if he can't find us,” Luc said.

“Damn,” Pierre whispered. He looked mournfully at the smaller boy. He seemed to have become even smaller. “Come on,” Pierre said finally. “We might as well go and get it over.”

The two boys walked slowly into the plain and started toward Auguste. Max raced ahead of them, impervious to the dangers for which each boy was prepared.

Stupid dog, Pierre thought. It'll serve you right if he takes you away.

Jean had told Madeleine about Pierre's mischief and the game that his father and Auguste were now playing out. She had smiled, but had said nothing, and as he lay next to her now in the darkness of their room, Jean was troubled about the possibility of taking Pierre away from his father. He wondered if she truly understood the love the older man felt for the child. But he knew she was right too. Sending Pierre to the
lycée
in Vientiane or Saigon was no solution to his need for more education. He had come home bruised and battered from the colonial school he had attended years before, and had repeatedly been punished by the headmaster for starting fights with the children of the French officials who had taunted him. His father had likened it to Napoleon's school days in France, and had given Pierre a book to read that contained portions of the emperor's schoolboy diary and letters written to his brother in Corsica. Sartene had been angry about the abuse, but in some ways, Jean knew, he had almost seemed proud of the comparison. He drew a breath, thinking of it again, and Madeleine reached out and ran her hand along his chest.

“Is something troubling you?” she whispered.

He shook his head, then realized it could not be seen in the darkened room. “I was just thinking about what we talked about. About sending Pierre away. I understand the need for it, but the idea of taking him away from my father is hard. You should have seen them today, my father especially. The only time I see him enjoy himself is when he's with the boy.”

“All the more reason for him to come with us,” she said. She knew the words were an unspoken confirmation that they would all leave. It was what she truly wanted if possible, but she also knew saying it openly would produce resistance. He was quiet again, and she feared he had noticed the implication. She stroked his chest again and drew closer to him. “There's time. At least a year,” she said, remaining close.

Fifteen minutes later his breathing pattern had changed and she could tell he was asleep and she allowed herself to relax. Earlier that evening she had overheard her father-in-law talking with her son. It had been about his karate lesson that afternoon, and she had heard her son complain that Luc had not fought fairly. Sartene's voice had been gentle with the boy, but again there had been the never-ending instruction. She recalled his words again.

“You should know two things about fighting,” he had told the boy. “The first is to avoid it whenever possible. The second is that only the loser ever concerns himself about what was fair.”

Madeleine rolled over on her side, her back to her husband now. It was not what she wanted her son to be taught, she told herself. It was not the life she wanted for him.

Chapter 13

The request for a meeting in Saigon had thrown Antonio Carbone into near panic. He was still the unquestioned leader of the Saigon
milieu
. He still earned an annual fortune from the illicit piaster-gold market between Marseille and Saigon, Saigon and Hong Kong. And he still maintained his control over the gambling and opium dens run by Saigon's Binh Xuyen river pirates. He lacked control only over the source of local opium and, because of that, remained a minor force when compared to Buonaparte Sartene. And as such, he continued to earn his bread at Sartene's indulgence. He had only to look out the window of his study and see the faintly charred remains of his once dynamite-blackened driveway to be reminded of the fact.

The request from Francesco Canterina had been straightforward enough. “A business meeting to our mutual advantage,” it had said. And the place, the exclusive Continental Palace Hotel, which Carbone owned, had been a gesture of good faith. But still, perhaps, a trap, he told himself.

Francesco had arrived one day before the meeting was to take place, and had registered at the hotel under a false name. It had been another gesture, to give Carbone ample time to determine whether he had come secretly and alone. Yet there had still been concern. It could prove to be a test by Sartene, an excuse to take away the little that had been left to him.

They met in the late morning, in the large suite Francesco had taken. Carbone arrived with four aides, who remained outside the door. As always, he was resplendent in a white suit, set off by a garishly flowered necktie that seemed to rest on his large protruding stomach like a wayward garden. Francesco greeted him warmly, respectfully, and noticed at once that his deep-set eyes were filled with suspicion, his thin mouth, usually curved up at the edges as if hiding some great and humorous secret, now even and tense. He smiled to himself, knowing he was dealing with a frightened man, even more frightened than he had expected.

They sat opposite each other in two straight-backed chairs drawn closely together. Francesco wanted intimacy, and he spoke quietly, only slightly above a whisper, to emphasize the fact.

“I came here to tell you my feeling that the day of Buonaparte Sartene is past,” he began.

Carbone stiffened slightly, his suspicions heightened. He raised one hand, stopping any further words.

“Tell me, my friend, why I shouldn't go straight to a telephone and call my good friend and tell him what you've just said.”

Francesco smiled. “You'll always have that option. You could listen to my proposal, even agree to it, and still pick up your telephone when I'm gone. You could even agree, wait to see if my plan works, and then, if it fails, join forces with Buonaparte and help him get his vengeance.” He smiled again. “Or you could work with me and reclaim your right as
paceri
of all the
milieu
of the region. For now I only ask you to listen.”

Carbone laughed, his fleshy cheeks shaking. The laughter stopped abruptly and his eyes narrowed. “You offer me the moon and the stars and no danger. You think I'm a fool?”

“If I thought that, I wouldn't be here. You think this might be some kind of trick by Buonaparte.” Francesco shook his head. “Buonaparte doesn't play tricks. His strength is that he knows ahead of time what people will do. In the message I sent you, I asked you not to discuss this meeting with two men in your group. Did you keep it secret from them?”

Carbone nodded, his eyes becoming even narrower under his bushy eyebrows.

“They're Buonaparte's spies,” Francesco said. “I give you this as a gift. You have ways of finding out if it's true.”

“Go on,” Carbone said.

Francesco leaned back in his chair and gestured with one hand as he spoke. “We both know that the opium growth in North Viet Nam is controlled by the Viet Minh. The French have allowed the Meo there to be cheated, and because of that they've lost the loyalty of the tribesmen. Even so, the amount grown in North Viet Nam is small compared to what's produced in Laos, Burma and Thailand. Up to now, more expensive opium has been available from China and Iran. But as you know, since 1950 the Chinese have sealed off their borders. They're convinced the Americans will help the Kuomintang invade from the south. Two years ago, Iran exported two hundred and forty-six tons a year. But under pressure from the west, that has now dropped to less than a hundred tons, and is expected to go to less than half that within the next year or two.”