The Corsican (6 page)

The child ran toward the veranda, stumbled and fell, got up and ran again with even more abandon than before.

“Grandpère,” he shouted as he reached the house and stared up at them. “Come play with me, Grandpère.”

Sartene grunted in a feigned harshness and shook his head. “I'm too old to play in this heat,” he said.

The child held a long stick in one hand and waved it back and forth frantically. His eyes were a deep blue, and they implored his grandfather to do as he wished. He had the face of an angel, Sartene thought. Very much like his French mother.

“What's that you have in your hand?” Sartene asked.

The boy looked at the stick and his small face became very serious. “It's a gun,” he said. “If we see a tiger I'm going to shoot it.”

“Ahh, I see. You want to hunt tigers today.” Sartene moved past his son and started down the steps of the veranda. “I think it's too hot to hunt tigers,” he said. “They will all be asleep under a nice shady tree. But if you like we can go for a walk.”

The boy extended his hand, and Sartene took it, then turned to Jean. “Would you like to come with us?” he asked.

“No, I think I'll go in the house and see how my wife is terrorizing the workmen. If we're not careful she'll change everything.”

“Let her change what she wants. Don't be fooled by the myth that men are masters of their homes.”

The boy was pulling at his arm, eager to go on. They moved away from the house, toward the river. Sartene walked slowly, taking into account the child's smaller legs. But the child's exuberance was too great, and he pulled away, ran ahead, then turned and ran back to his grandfather, urging him to hurry.

Sartene ruffled the boy's blond hair, then squatted and took him by the arm.

“You must learn to take your time, Pierre,” he said. “A man who moves slowly and steadily has time to look about him. Eventually he gets to the same place as the man who rushes ahead. But he knows more about where he has been and what lies behind him. So he's wiser than the man who hurried.”

He held on to the child's arm, keeping his face toward him. “What's behind you now?” he asked.

The boy twisted his head and looked back over his shoulder. Across the plain, at the edge of the dense forest, a Laotian man stood next to a large, low-hanging nipa palm, its leaning trunk and feathery leaves offering both concealment and shelter from the sun. There was a rifle slung over his shoulder.

“That's just Lam,” the boy said. “He's always there.” He turned back to his grandfather and shrugged his small shoulders, as though the fact was of no consequence.

“But you didn't see him, because you were in such a hurry.”

“But I
know
he's always there.” The boy raised his eyebrows as he spoke, as if he were being patient with his grandfather.

Sartene repressed a smile at the precocious six-year-old. “But what if he wasn't there? What if a tiger had come and frightened him away?” He emphasized the word “tiger” and watched, amused, as the child's eyes widened. “Because you hurried, you would not have noticed that he wasn't where he should be and that there might be danger.”

The boy freed himself from his grandfather's grasp and turned toward the forest, raising the stick to his shoulder like a rifle. “If a tiger comes I'll shoot him,” he said.

Sartene stood and took the boy's hand again and started again for the river.

“I know you would,” he said. “But you must always be sure you see the tiger before he sees you. And to do that you must always take care to see what goes on about you.”

They walked on toward the river and the wide twenty-foot dock. Along the dock a large motor launch sat motionless in the flat still water. An identical launch was kept in Vientiane. The launches were used by the family only when the monsoon rains made the road to the house impassable. At other times the boats carried merchandise integral to Sartene's business interests, trips that normally occurred at night.

“Grandpère, can we take the boat back to the city today?” the boy asked.

“Why, Pierre? Don't you like the car?”

“I like the boat better.”

“If you wish. Someone else can drive the car back.”

Sartene ran his hand across the top of his head. The midday heat had reached its zenith, and he knew they should not remain out much longer. Across the river the air shimmered, making the opposite bank look as though it were being viewed through badly made glass.

“Look, look,” the boy shouted, pointing off to his right.

Out toward the center of the river a slender green form glided smoothly just below the surface of the water.

“A snake,” Sartene said. “Very bad and very poisonous. Even the crocodiles don't eat them.”

The boy lifted the stick to his shoulder again and made shooting sounds. “If any crocodiles come I'll shoot them too,” the child said.

Sartene ruffled the boy's hair again. “You're very bloodthirsty today, Pierre,” he said.

He looked back, into the field. The Weimaraner he had imported from Germany for the boy came out from behind the house and loped into the field, its nose close to the ground. The dog moved in one diagonal, then switched course, following another, sweeping the ground with its nose like a living vacuum cleaner. At a large rock it stopped to sniff, rejected it, then moved on to another, where it lifted its leg and urinated, its mouth open with satisfaction. When it had finished, the dog trotted back to one of the mangosteen trees standing on each side of the house and settled down to the comfort of the shade.

Sartene took a handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his head. The dog has more sense than I do, he thought. He took the boy's hand again and pointed to the large ghostly gray lump of fur that was now the dozing dog. “Let's go play with Max,” he said, knowing it would be the easiest way to cajole the child out of the sun.

Pierre freed his hand and burst ahead, running at full speed toward the dog, which, hearing his calls, jumped to its feet and began prancing excitedly in place.

Sartene had brought the dog from Germany at considerable expense as protection for the child. The area, like all of Southeast Asia, was infested with snakes, and while most of the many poisonous varieties remained in the bush, the Asiatic cobras often ventured into the open and were occasionally found near occupied dwellings. The Weimaraner was a classic hunting dog, a pointer used most often to hunt birds, and when in the open its nose was always to the ground seeking out the scent of other creatures. It was a relatively new breed, intended originally to hunt elk, yet mixed with the Spanish pointer to ensure gentleness. The end result had been an animal of extraordinary fearlessness and exceptional loyalty to its master.

Sartene smiled to himself, thinking about the animal now. Its striking gray color and stark, amber eyes gave it an eerie look, and despite its playfulness the Laotians who worked for Sartene were in awe of the creature and referred to it as the devil dog.

When he reached the mangosteen tree, Pierre and Max were involved in a tug-of-war over the stick, the dog wanting it to be thrown in a game of fetch and the boy resisting. Pierre laughed hysterically as the ninety-pound animal yanked him about.

“Give him the stick, Pierre,” Sartene said. “He will bring it back to you.”

The boy released the stick and the dog raced away with it clamped between its jaws. Twenty yards out into the field, Max stopped abruptly and spun around, waiting for the boy to follow. Sartene took the boy's hand again and held him. The dog began to prance in place and whine for action.

“Let's go to the back of the house and see how the work on the garden is coming,” Sartene said.

“Make Max come,” the boy demanded.

“He'll come. Don't worry.”

They started around the side of the house, the dog raced by them, the stick still fixed in its mouth. When it reached the rear of the house it skidded to a halt, spun around and repeated its prancing, whining demands. At the rear of the house, they climbed the steps to the veranda and seated themselves in two deck chairs. The dog followed, then, realizing its chance for a game had ended, dropped the stick and settled itself at the boy's feet.

Before them, workmen moved about preparing the ground for what would soon be a Japanese garden. A few yards from the veranda a half-dozen Laotians worked inside a large irregularly shaped cut in the earth, mixing and spreading clay.

“When will they finish the pond?” Pierre asked.

“Very soon now.”

“Then we can put fish in it?”

Sartene nodded.

“Big fish?” Pierre's voice went up an octave at the thought.

“Little fish that will become big fish,” Sartene said. “Like you.”

“Why can't we have big fish right away?” Pierre insisted.

“It's easier for the little fish to get used to a new place to live.”

“Oh,” the boy said.

Sartene glanced at his grandson. Like a little old man, he thought. But like a little fish he too had quickly adjusted to his new home, almost as though there were no difference between Corsica and Laos. For his son, Jean, and his daughter-in-law, Madeleine, it had been more difficult. Also for himself, and it had been a full year before he stopped yearning for the cool evenings in the hills and the dramatic rock-strewn beaches of his home. Now this was home, or soon would be. Still he had brought touches of Europe with him. The structural design of the house, which should have been made of stone, if stone existed. The furniture now stored in a Vientiane warehouse. The paintings. The hundreds of classical records and more than three thousand books, all of which would be used to educate the child seated next to him.

Pierre jumped up from his seat and went to the railing, laying his forearms on top of it, then resting his chin on his hands. He stared across at the oddly shaped structure being built on the other side of the soon-to-be pond, tilting his head to one side, then the other.

“Grandpère. What is that little house for?”

“When it's finished it will be a Buddhist shrine.”

The boy turned and stared at him, wrinkling up his nose. “What's a Buddhist shrine?” he asked.

“It's like a small church, Pierre. The people here are Buddhists, most of them anyway. It's their religion, and shrines are very important to them.” Sartene, as he always did, spoke to the boy in simple language. There would be time later, in the years to come, to explain the complexity of matters to him.

“Does that mean we're Buddhists? Mama said we were Catholics. Are we Buddhists now because we live here?”

Sartene laughed quietly. The child's logic was flawless. A year ago he had taught him to play chess, and his mind had proved to be mathematically precise. “No, Pierre,” he said. “We are still Catholics.”

“Then why are we building a Buddhist church?”

“A shrine, Pierre,” Sartene corrected. “It is not for us. It is for the Laotians who work for us.”

“You mean like Lam?”

“Yes, like Lam.”

“I don't like Lam,” the boy said. His jaw had become firm and determined.

“Why not, Pierre?”

“He never laughs and he doesn't like Max.”

“He's just afraid of Max,” Sartene said. “He's never seen a dog like Max before, and that frightens him. Lam is from the mountains, and they are very superstitious people there.”

“I still don't like him,” Pierre said. “Why do you have to build a church”—he hesitated, then corrected himself—”a shrine, for him?”

“It's not just for Lam, Pierre. It's for all the Buddhists who work for us.”

“But why can't they build one for themselves?”

“They can, on their own land. But I chose to build one for them on my land. I do it out of respect for their beliefs, so they can pray here if they wish.”

The boy's brow furrowed, and Sartene made a circular gesture with his hand that brought the child to his side. He placed a hand on Pierre's lower back and patted it softly.

“A man should always honor his friends and those who work for him,” he said. “He does this by speaking their language and respecting their customs and beliefs. It's a sign of respect. Some men try to force those people to change their ways, to accept new ways of doing things, new beliefs. But they're fools to do that, and they never have the loyalty or the friendship of the people they try to change. You should learn this and remember it all your life. You must give respect if you expect to get loyalty from others.”

Pierre stared at his grandfather. His face was serious, and Sartene could almost see his mind working as he tried to understand what he had been told.

“You mean like how I call Auguste and Benito and Francesco ‘Uncle,' even though they really aren't my uncles,” the boy said at length.

Sartene smiled and his eyes brightened with pleasure. “Yes, exactly, Pierre.”

He had patted the boy's back a little harder, and Max jumped to his feet and pushed his body between them. He raised his head, using the top of it to push Sartene's hand away.

“Max thinks you're spanking me,” Pierre said, giggling. “He doesn't like it when anyone hits. Watch.”

Pierre struck out violently at his grandfather, stopping his hand before it touched him. The dog became excited and pushed him away from his grandfather with his snout and nipped lightly at the arm causing the blows. Pierre giggled uncontrollably.

“Pierre. Stop that or that foolish dog will bite Grandpère.” Madeleine had come through the rear door and stood staring down at her son, her arms folded severely across her bosom. She was tall and slender, with long blond hair and blue eyes like her son, and despite her voice there was no severity in her delicate features.

“We're only playing, Mama,” Pierre said, still laughing.

“That's not playing. That's teasing. Now take the dog and play out in the grass with him.”