City of War (45 page)

The innkeeper was actually almost friendly, but not until he gave us a lecture on American foreign policy and what a
fool Reagan was. The guy seemed to have memorized the Democratic talking points from the 1984 election, so I didn’t have the heart to tell him the Gipper was dead.

But if the civics lesson was the price of admission for the comfortable sea view rooms and the extraordinary food, it was worth it. The Maison’s dining room was twenty-six-year-old Paolo Adianio’s first kitchen, and since we were the only guests in the hotel—and Americans—he laid it on.

Paolo was from Civitavecchia, a ferry ride across to the Italian coast, and he was experimenting with putting Roman accents on traditional Corsican dishes. He called it Etruscan-Corse, and after the first bite of the first appetizer—sardines stuffed with brocciu and grilled in olive oil—I knew I had to get him to Beverly Hills as soon as possible. His food was as exceptional as that at Tacitus, and I needed someplace to go where I hadn’t bled on the tile.

Jackie had been right about the wine, though. And Paolo said he didn’t have the budget to improve the Maison’s cellar. Fortunately, there was plenty of Pietra, a local chestnut beer, which we followed with Corsican espresso and icy shots of Cedratine.

I had Paolo bring me a bottle of one of Bruzzi’s reds so I could see the label. Much to my disappointment, no hyena.

When I hit the bed, if it creaked, I didn’t hear it.

By the time Eddie found his feet and wandered down to the beach the next morning, I’d already pounded out a mile and a half in the chilly water, and whatever residue clinging to me from the night before was gone. I’m always amazed by the Med. Though it’s bordered by some of the most ecologically irresponsible nations on earth, sometimes it’s as pristine as Santa Barbara. Better yet, no sharks. Oh, they’re there, but they’re not particularly aggressive. The one time I did have to deal with one, I punched him in the nose, and he shot away like I was the town bully.

We had breakfast on the Maison’s terrace. Double-yolk eggs, Corsican ham and baguettes with fresh butter. Evi
dently the money we’d spent on dinner and the tip we’d left the service staff had gotten everyone’s attention, because when we checked out, the owner didn’t mention politics once as he walked us to our car.

The night before, I’d shown Paolo the picture of the unknown artist, and he’d drawn a blank. Now as we put our overnight bags in the trunk of the Citroën, I handed it to the Maison’s owner. He shook his head no and thrust the picture back at me so fast that I almost asked him to take another look. Then I saw the man’s face. He wanted no part of whoever it was. I was also sure he wasn’t going to tell anyone about it. He was terrified.

Of a painter? What the fuck was this?

Corsica is the most mountainous island in the Med, and 70 percent is national park, so the best roads are along the coast. But like most of Europe, they haven’t grasped sign-age. Essentially, it’s we know where we’re going, so fuck you. Eddie drove while I pondered a map that only occasionally matched reality, and we regularly shouted at each other like we were married.

We entered the dramatic, cliff-clinging city of Bonifacio about an hour before sundown, and its electrifying splendor awed even the hard-bitten Eddie. “How in the hell can these people not see what they’ve got here?”

“Old World hardheads,” I said. “Americans get excoriated for ignoring tradition, but at least we don’t get bogged down with bullshit. Over here, if your great-grandfather had a hard-on for somebody, you have to piss in his salad. And if you try to break tradition, the enemy won’t talk to you anyway, plus you go on the shit list with the rest of your family.”

Eddie shook his head. “We could change all that with a couple of California developers. The only thing that slows them down is a grave. By the time the locals got back from lunch, they’d have these old buildings converted to condos
and be running tract houses right up that fuckin’ mountain. Bingo, brand-new culture.”

Again I wanted to avoid a commercial hotel, and a bed-and-breakfast was out of the question, because someone as powerful as Bruzzi would be advised of every stranger who hit town. Having been to Corsica twice before, I knew there were homes for rent, mostly villas favored by wealthy French and Italians. The trick was finding someone who could show us one without turning on an air raid siren.

Because I’m so conspicuous, I sent Eddie into a bar next to a closed real estate office where we’d seen luxury rental property photographs in the window. Half an hour later, he came out with a well-dressed guy about thirty-five, who’d obviously had a couple of drinks and couldn’t have been more affable.

“Meet Julien Borreau,” Eddie said, smiling. “Property manager extraordinaire, and hell on a bottle of cognac.”

Julien shook my hand through the car window. “Mr. Buffalo said you want to do some fishing and you’re interested in a place that is very nice and very private.” He appraised the battered Citroën. “Are you sure you can afford it?”

He had pronounced Eddie’s name “BOOF-a-loo,” and even though his speech was slightly slurred from drinking, his accent was mainland. A transplant.

I laughed. “It was either this or a Fiat with no hood. How’d you end up on Corsica, Julien?”

He grinned. “Every time I open my mouth, it gives me away, doesn’t it? Started out as a thief. In Paris. Got pinched and did a turn in the Legion. Mustered out here. Everybody’s so fuckin’ busy being suspicious, you keep your nose clean you can make a good living dealing with the foreigners the locals won’t talk to. Bother you?”

Not only didn’t it bother me, I had to give Eddie an A. In a country of socialist xenophobes, he’d managed to find a friendly, if slightly tipsy, former criminal—maybe retired, maybe not—who was only interested in money. And being
Parisian, he probably wasn’t wired to Bruzzi. “Julien,” I said, “we’re in your capable hands.”

He turned and went into his darkened office. A few moments later, he was back with a set of keys and got in next to me. Eddie sat behind him. He directed us along the coast road, and with the sun now all but set, Bonifacio’s skyline was dark except for a few random lights. As we passed a burned-out building on the beach, I asked, “
Qu’est-ce que ça?
”

Julien seemed to have to decide how to answer. Finally, he shook his head. “L’Hotel Eden. Forty-six lives. What is it you Americans say? Poof?”

“Poof?”

“Yes. A bomb. Three bombs, actually. The wedding of Lazzaro Santagatta. The most popular Nationalist leader. The police say it was terrorists, but everybody knows it was the man who owned the hotel. The one who invited Santagatta to have his party there. Gaetano Bruzzi.”

I played dumb. “Why would anybody blow up his own property?”

“
Cafoni
,” Julien half-whispered, half-spit. “Mafia. What the fuck do they care about anything except keeping things the way they are? Divided. Vendettas everywhere. An independent Corsica would bring Corsican prosecutors…Corsican judges. And so they support everyone…and then they kill the ones who become too powerful.” He paused, then lowered his voice. “And they kill the people who get in the way.”

I knew that tone. Whatever the sadness was in this man, it was deep and raw. I changed the subject. “I thought Les Executeurs were who everybody was afraid of.”

Julien became immediately suspicious. “How do you know Les Executeurs?”

“My lawyer told me to be careful of them. That they are dangerous. And they like to cut people.”

The Frenchman relaxed. “Your lawyer is stupid. They are
fantoche
…puppets. Here, there is only Bruzzi.”

“Sounds like you don’t much care for him.”

He waved his hand. “I neither care nor don’t care. I just earn a living.”

I glanced in the rearview mirror and saw Eddie looking back at me. He slowly raised his forefinger and drew it across his throat.

Two miles out of town, Julien directed me off the main highway onto a narrow lane. As soon as we turned, overhead lights came on, and we twisted through thick woods until we were stopped by an eight-foot, wrought-iron gate supported on a pair of gray stone columns topped with copper eagles. Julien jumped out and dialed a code into the keypad affixed to the left column. The barriers parted, and instantly, more lights came on, showing a winding cobblestone drive leading upward at a steep angle.

Like its in-town brethren, the three-story stone house was cut into the mountain, only this one sat alone surrounded by trees. Unless someone down below was standing on his roof with a pair of binoculars and had just the right angle, it would be impossible to know anyone was here. I parked in the circular drive, and Julien went inside and started turning on lights.

The interior was also stone. Fifteen-foot ceilings, walk-in fireplaces and tall French doors off every room leading onto a wide veranda overlooking the coast. There was even an indoor-outdoor swimming pool and a full exercise room.

“Not too fuckin’ bad,” said Eddie as he headed toward the ebony bar. “Cognac, Julien?”

“Absolutely,” Julien answered, “then I want to show you something.”

Snifters of Paradis Extra in hand, we followed Julien across the courtyard to a stone stairway leading down the cliff. A motion sensor turned on lights built into the steps, and we descended.

A hundred feet later, we walked out onto a lighted, private beach recessed so deeply into the hillside that privacy was total. Riding at anchor a few feet offshore were two Aquascan Q20 inflatables with twin Mercury 250s on each. Eddie
acted like he’d just seen a bare-breasted mermaid. He didn’t even bother to take off his shoes before wading out to the nearest one and climbing in, cognac splashing.

“Goddamn, Rail, we’ve gotta go out right now. Come on, Julien,” and he kicked a 20-footer to life.

Julien was grinning, obviously pleased with himself. The Q20 is a two-seater, so I told him, “I’ll pass, but I should warn you, Eddie doesn’t understand careful.”

Julien laughed. “Couldn’t be any worse than the guys in the Legion.” He headed into the water and expertly climbed aboard. Unlike Eddie, he never spilled a drop.

I watched as they disappeared into the night in a deafening roar, then turned and headed back to the house.

An hour later, I heard Eddie come into the cove, engines at full throttle. A few minutes after that, he and Julien came through the patio doors, laughing and desperate for a drink. We sat on the large sectional sofa facing the Med, and I handed Julien a check for twice what he’d asked for a one-month rental.

When he looked at me questioningly, I said, “Like I said, we’re going to do a little fishing. But I don’t want to sign a lease. The extra’s for you, and if we leave early, you can keep the difference too.”

Julien had the check in his shirt pocket and was raising a toast before I put my pen away. After we sipped, I took out the photocopy of the picture of the artist in his studio and handed it to him. “Ever see this man before?” I asked.

I can’t describe the look that crossed the young Frenchman’s face. It was like something out of Stephen King. Without a word, he dropped the picture on the coffee table, stood and started toward the door. Then, remembering he had my check, he turned and thrust it back at me, his voice terse. “You may stay the night, but you must leave tomorrow. Now, please drive me back to town.”

“Suddenly you don’t like us?” I asked.

“Bonifacio is not a modern city. The people who come here to fish bring their own equipment. They also do not rent places like this. But your business is your business.” He pointed at the picture on the table. “Except when it concerns that.”

“Sit down, Julien,” I said. “And hold onto the check.”

He hesitated, then sat, took out a cigarette and lit it. Eddie went to the bar, brought back the bottle of Paradis Extra and poured him three fingers. Julien ignored it.

“You’re the second person who has reacted to this picture. Who is it?”

“Are you with the American government?” he asked.

“No,” I answered.

“Not the CIA?”

“Of course not.”

He took a deep breath. “There have been people who have come here before…for information about Gaetano Bruzzi. They disappeared…into the mountains.”

“This is personal, Julien.”

“Then you are the kind of foolish no one can cure.” He took a breath and pointed to the picture. “That is Gaetano’s brother, Tiziano Bruzzi. They call him
Il Pazzo
.”

“The Crazy One.”

“People say he is the greatest artist in all of Corsica, maybe even in all of Europe, but he is not right in the head. He cannot speak, and he must wear diapers.”

The artist’s smile had been bothering me since I’d first seen it, and somewhere my subconscious had been wrestling with why. Now the tumblers started falling into place. “What does he paint?” I asked.

“Mostly, he copies famous works. Degas, El Greco, Cézanne, anyone really. Perhaps if you held Tiziano’s side by side with the originals, the differences would be obvious, but I don’t think so. They are very, very exact.”

“I’m still working on the diapers,” said Eddie. “Was he in an accident?”

“He would have been born that way,” I said. “He’s an autistic savant. Socially non-functioning, but artistically brilliant.”

“A what?” said Eddie.

“Remember
Rain Man
?”

“Sure, great flick. I love Dusty.”

“His character was based on a real guy named Kim Peek. Kim’s genius was numbers and quantities. He also memorized ten thousand books.”

“I remember every piece of ass I’ve ever had,” said Eddie. “What’s that make me?”

“If you remember their names, it makes you God,” said Julien.

We all laughed, and I said to him, “Nice to have you back among us.”

“I am interested in hearing more about
Il Pazzo
,” he said.

I thought back to the extraordinary imagery Hood had arranged for the Tretiakov paintings. If you were just making a record, you could do it with any reasonably good camera. But Hood needed more. He had to be able to see the brush strokes, the color nuances…and the flaws.