The Corsican (28 page)

Sartene stood and patted Bently's hand again. “Thank you. I'll make the arrangements, and then I'll come to you again. You can always come to me. For anything you ever need. Anything.”

When Sartene had gone, Bently lay staring at the ceiling. He was tired, but he could not sleep. He understood what Sartene's final words meant, and he also knew he would never seek his help. Jean's words spoken in the dusty, squalid little village kept returning to him, playing over and over in his mind.

I want it for Pierre. I want him to love his grandfather. But I want him to be independent too. I want him to have a will as strong as my father's, so he can make his own decisions…
.

“That I can try to do, my friend,” Bently whispered to himself. I only hope to Christ I don't fail you in that too, he thought.

Madeleine had never been religious, but she had need of religion now. She sat in the dark, morbid, threatening study, the rosary beads balled tightly in her clenched fist. They had been in her hand constantly since the news came of Jean's death. They were in her hand when she finally forced herself to sleep each night, and they were still there each morning when she awoke. She had been praying to God that this old man would not also find a way to kill her son as well.

Listening to him now, her fist squeezed the beads more tightly, forcing the sharp edges of the crucifix deep into the soft flesh of her palm. But she could not feel the pressure or the pain. She could only feel the words slashing at her like knives; carried by that soft, rasping, torturous voice; hidden by the gentle expression in the eyes, the calm, imploring gestures. But the words had blood on them, and she could almost see them coming at her, coming for her son. The old man was talking about danger. Danger for Pierre. Why does he say those things? she kept asking herself. There is no danger for Pierre. There should never be any danger for Pierre. Pierre's a child, a child, a child. …

Buonaparte watched the glazed expression return to her eyes. She was drifting from him again, as she had each time he had tried to speak with her since Jean's death. There was no strength to the woman; her solution to the threat was to hide from it. He drew a deep breath, waiting for her to return. Auguste had urged him to be patient, to give her time. But there was no time. Not if Pierre was to be safe.

He had been standing in front of her, but now moved to the chair opposite the one in which she was seated. He drew it close and took her clenched fist in both of his hands.

“Madeleine.” His voice was soft but jarring, intentionally so.

She jumped slightly, lips trembling, and looked at him. Slowly he opened the clenched fingers of her hand, allowing the rosary beads to fall into her lap. He stroked the palm of her hand, feeling the deep red indentations in her flesh.

“You're going to hurt your hand,” he said softly. He held her hand between each of his and pressed softly. “You're going away from here. With Pierre,” he said.

Her eyes blinked; her lips moved soundlessly. She looked at him, her whole face a question. “Away?” she repeated.

“Yes. You and Pierre and Benito. Colonel Bently is going to take you where it is safe. Where no one can harm Pierre.”

“When, Papa? When?” She was back now and she was squeezing his hands as she had squeezed the rosary beads before.

“In a few days.” She began to object, but he shook his head, stopping her. “But there are conditions, Madeleine.”

The fear returned to her eyes again; her lips began to move uncontrollably. “Papa, I'll do anything. Anything, Papa. Pierre must be safe from these people.”

“He will be, Madeleine. If you do as I tell you.” He watched her nod her head. Like some foolish child, agreeing to anything to avoid a spanking, he thought. Her lack of strength annoyed him, filled him with concern for Pierre's future. “Now, listen to me closely,” he began again. “Colonel Bently will take the three of you to the United States, to his home in South Dakota. It is one of the states in the center of the country.” She was nodding her head again, eager for more information, eager for the place he was offering her to hide. “There will be no danger for Pierre,
if
you do as I say.” He waited, allowing the suggestion to play through her mind. She was bobbing her chin like a child again. “He will take you there as his wife. You don't have to marry, unless you choose to. But everyone must believe you are his wife, and Pierre is his son. Otherwise there will be immigration problems. And there will be danger.” He hesitated again, letting the final word settle in her mind. “No one must ever know Pierre's name is Sartene, or that you were ever in Southeast Asia. A believable story and documents will be arranged. All you must do, you and Pierre and Benito, is tell that story to anyone who asks. Money, everything you need, will be provided. But if you fail to keep your silence you will endanger Pierre's life. You must believe this.”

Buonaparte's voice had grown cold, hard, and his eyes seemed to look through her, as if searching for some inner flaw he knew was there. She shivered uncontrollably.

“I'll do anything, Papa.” Her mind kept repeating the word “anything,” over and over, as if it was some talisman that could protect her son, keep him away from this man, away from his words and the blood on them.

Sartene looked at her, his face now impassive. “There is still the condition I must insist on,” he said at length.

Madeleine's face twisted as though she had been kicked. She was breathing rapidly. “What?” It was the only word she could manage.

“Pierre must never forget he is a Sartene,” he said softly. “He must never be told about our illegal business interests here, or the truth about his father's death. But he must never be allowed to forget he is a Corsican. Benito will see to that. It is why he is going with you.”

He watched her recoil, her shoulders drawing into her neck, her lips trembling again, her fingers interlocking and squeezing together in her lap. He could feel the anger rise within him. He was giving up the one thing he loved, the one thing that mattered in his life, and now this Frenchwoman wanted it to be forever. For the first time in his life he felt as though he could strike a woman. He waited for the feeling to pass.

“Someday,” he began, “if Pierre wants to return …” He paused, redirecting the thought. “When he becomes a man I want him free to choose if he will be a Corsican. I do not want him turned against us because of what he has been told. So you will tell him nothing. If you agree to this, he can be raised in the United States under Benito's guidance. If you violate this condition, I will bring him back here.” He watched her eyes, watched the doubt grow there about his ability to keep his threat. He allowed a small smile to form on his lips. “The papers you will have will be false. You will be in the United States illegally. Any attempt you make to legalize your status there I will consider a violation of our agreement. And my people will come and take Pierre in any way they can. Don't doubt my ability to do this.” Sartene's voice had remained calm and cold. He let his eyes play against her now. “You must also never tell Colonel Bently about our arrangement. That also would violate the agreement. For my part, I will not see Pierre again, unless he chooses to return to me. That is the pain I will carry.” He stared into her face again, his dark, piercing eyes seeming like small dots coming at great speed from a long distance. “Do you agree?”

She heard the words, and felt her body convulse. She pressed her teeth together to keep her jaw from trembling. “Yes, Papa,” she finally said. “I agree.”

The boy was alone in his room with the dog. He was seated on the bed, his back against the headboard, his knees drawn up to his chin. The dog's head rested on the bed, its strange, eerie amber eyes staring up at the boy. When Sartene entered the room, the boy looked at him, then back at the bed. Sartene walked to the front of the bed and stood there until the boy looked up at him again. When he did, he smiled at the boy.

“How are you feeling, Pierre?” he asked.

“Why are you sending me away?” The boy's eyes were cold and hard, holding a strength and bitterness far too old for his years. Sartene had seen it often before, during his youth in Corsica. The young forced to bear too much pain too soon.

“So you can grow up to be an educated man,” he answered.

“I can get educated here,” Pierre said.

“It will be better in America. Better for you. The war here is going to get worse. In America you will be safe, and it will be easier for you to learn all the things you must know.”

“I don't care about the war. I want to stay here with you.”

“It is what your father wanted, Pierre.”

“I don't care. Why'd he have to crash his plane, anyway?” His chin began to tremble as if he was about to cry, but he fought to control it.

Sartene felt the ache in his stomach. “He didn't mean to, Pierre. It was an accident. He loved you very much, and he wanted only what was good for you. Now I must see that his wishes are followed.”

“Then why can't you come too?”

Sartene walked to the window and looked out into the plain. He kept his back to the boy, not wanting him to see the pain he knew his eyes would reveal. “There's the family business, Pierre. I can't abandon all the people who depend on us to earn their bread.”

The boy said nothing, and Buonaparte continued to stare out past the cross pane of the window, his mind drifting back to his own youth, to his conversations with Papa Guerini. He had been right, Sartene told himself. Even then he knew the truth of the years to come. Fate has condemned us to be criminals. And those we love must live with that fate as well. For a moment he allowed himself to wonder if it could have been different, and if it could have been, would he then have been able to keep his grandson with him, or if not, leave with him, without having every police agency in the world watching his movements. Perhaps then he could even have told the child the truth about his father's death. Or perhaps there would have been no need. He forced the thought of Jean from his mind. Fate is such an uncompromising bastard, he told himself.

He turned from the window and walked to the bed and sat next to Pierre, reaching out and running his hand along his blond hair. “I only do what is best for you, Pierre. And I only do it because I love you.”

Pierre's eyes brimmed with tears, and he fell against his grandfather's chest to hide them. Sartene stroked the boy's back and kissed the top of his head. “It's all right to cry, Pierre. There is no shame in tears, when they come from the loss of someone you love.”

He eased the boy back and lifted his chin with one hand, forcing the child to look up into his face. The tears moved slowly along Buonaparte's cheeks. “I miss your father too, Pierre. We had too little time together over the years. There were problems when he was young, and then, later, there was another war that kept
us
apart. Sometimes I think God has a special vengeance against Corsicans. Perhaps our love for each other is too great for Him to accept.” He smiled softly at the boy. “But just as your father and I were together again, so will we be. I promise you.”

The boy stared up at him, his eyes still filled with tears, then he fell back into his arms, sobbing. Buonaparte held the boy, rocking him back and forth.

“You will come back one day, Pierre. Now there is only us. You must never forget your life here, or your Corsican heritage. And you must always believe that one day we will be together again.”

The boy clutched at him. “I don't want to go, Grandpère. I want to stay here. I don't want Colonel Bently to be my father.”

He stroked the boy's head. “He won't be your father, Pierre. He's just going to pretend so we can escape the stupid American immigration laws.”

“I'll tell them when I get there, and then they'll send me back.” Pierre's face was still buried in his grandfather's chest, muffling his voice, and together with the sobbing it made him sound much younger than twelve.

Buonaparte eased him back and gently brushed the tears from his eyes. “You are not a child anymore, Pierre. You are a young man, a young Corsican man, and you must act like one. Together we must do what is good for our family. You must learn and you must grow strong, so one day you can come back and help me with our businesses here.” He smiled at the boy again. “Do you understand me?” Pierre looked down and slowly nodded his head. “And you must do as I say, Pierre.” He watched as the boy nodded his head again.

“When can I come back?” Pierre asked.

Buonaparte felt the tightness return to his stomach. Too many years from now, he told himself. “When you are a man, and you have learned what you must know. You must go to a good university, and you must go into the American army. You must never let yourself become a part of that army. You must simply take what knowledge you can from them. Then when you come back you will be ready to learn from me, and together we will be stronger than ever before.” He squeezed the boy to him. “We are Sartenes, Pierre, and we are Corsicans. Someday you will understand all that that means.”

“Will you come and visit me?”

The boy's question struck out at him, driving away the euphoria he had willed upon himself. If only I could, he thought. The irony of it assaulted his senses to a point that it almost seemed comical. I, he thought, who love you more than life. If I came to you it could destroy all your chances, perhaps even your life itself. Fate, you bastard. He stroked the boy's back, then began to pat it gently. “It's a long way, and I'm not as young as I used to be, Pierre.” And the police, he thought, would follow these old bones anywhere.

“But what if you die before I come back?”

Buonaparte laughed softly, then kissed the top of the boy's head. “I won't die, Pierre. Not until after we are together again.”