The Corsican (20 page)

He was avoiding the term “leaving,” unable even to say the word. She recognized it and understood the pain it gave him. But he was thinking about it, and that was a beginning, she felt.

“We have time,” she said, reassuring him. “Pierre is only twelve. It would be another year before he would have to enter a secondary school, especially in the United States. Perhaps in that time Papa will see the need for it. He loves Pierre as much as we do. I don't think he wants this life for him.” She stroked his arm with her hand, deciding to say no more.

But she did fear what Buonaparte wanted for her son. His regular studies with his tutor had been augmented with military histories, Corsican history, all of which had been directed by Buonaparte. They spent hours in his study, using his antique soldiers to recreate battle strategies, as though they were part of some mystical religion. She feared he was training the child, preparing him for the future. And it was not the future she wanted for her only son. She had not wanted it for her husband, but she had not been able to exert her influence then. Perhaps it was too late even with her son. But she knew she had to try.

Chapter 12

He was tall and lanky, and often seemed awkward when he walked, but the burgeoning muscle tone that already showed along his body at twelve promised a lean and powerful young man would one day emerge. His blond hair was long for a boy his age, especially one living in a hot, humid climate, but it was a European tradition much admired by his mother, and one he preferred as well. He had learned years before that orientals held those with blond hair in awe, believing it was an indication of superiority, so he had decided it was an advantage he could use. He had found other similar advantages in dealing with orientals. The year of his birth, 1940, had been the Year of the Dragon, a sign—to them—of great power, and one, as his grandfather had explained, that was once an essential criterion for all emperors of China.

The orientals were crazy, he told himself, as he moved about the small roped-off circle he used each day for his karate lesson. Across from him Luc Vien, Lam's twelve-year-old son, feigned repeated attacks with his head, then moved out of reach. Luc was crazy too, he told himself. He had heard his Uncle Francesco complain repeatedly about the “crazy orientals,” and it was something he repeated to himself whenever he was frustrated by them. And Luc frustrated him now.

Luc was smaller than he, smaller in every way. But he moved like a land crab and was almost impossible to hit squarely. They had grown up together, the last six years at least, and they were almost like brothers. He had always been better at everything than Luc. Better at swimming, better at running. Everything. And then his grandfather started the karate lessons and it all changed. It made him wonder sometimes if his blond hair had stopped working for him.

The noise came from his right, and he turned his eyes to it. Max was jumping excitedly at the edge of the circle. He felt the blow to his chest and his body spun sideways as he fell, face first in the dirt.

“That's not fair,” he shouted, pulling himself to his knees. “I wasn't looking and you knew it.”

He struggled to his feet and saw his grandfather standing on the veranda watching him. Their eyes met, then his grandfather turned and walked back into the house.

“Damn,” he whispered.

“You must pay attention.” The voice was sharp and military.

He turned to face his instructor, Lu Han. The short, squat man marched toward him, hands on his hips, his body swaying from side to side. Lu Han had been an instructor with the Kuomintang army before the communists had sent them running to Taiwan. Now he was here, brought by Pierre's grandfather, and every day, for two hours, he seemed to do nothing but yell at Pierre.

Lu Han growled at him in English, the only language he knew other than Cantonese. “If this were true karate, you be dead now. Why you look at dog when you not fighting dog?”

Pierre knew better than to answer Lu Han back and just hung his head and waited for the tirade to end. It had happened before with the dog. The dog was supposed to be locked in the house during his lesson, and he wondered if his grandfather had let the dog out to see if it would distract him.
Damn
, he told himself.

Lu Han stepped back and brought his palms together, signaling that the two boys should begin again. They circled each other. Pierre's eyes remained fixed on Luc's. He knew if he watched the eyes he would not fall victim to any feint, would know when a real blow was coming. He wanted to get Luc now, so that later he could tell it to his grandfather. He couldn't lie to him about it. Somehow his grandfather always knew.

Luc moved quickly to his right, feinted to his left, then struck out with his right foot. Pierre moved back to his own right and caught a glancing blow along his left knee, hard enough to send a sharp pain shooting up into his hip. Instinctively he struck out with the heel of his left hand, catching Luc on the forehead. The blow was not a strong one, but Luc was still off balance from the kick, and he fell back on the seat of his pants. Pierre recovered and went to him, but Luc spun up and moved to his right and was gone.

Lu Han clapped his hands once and they stopped. “Enough for today,” he snapped.

The boys turned and bowed. Lu Han bowed in return.

Pierre let out a long breath. Lu Han turned and started up to the house. He would report to his grandfather now, Pierre knew. He looked angrily at Luc. “I'll get you for that,” he whispered.

“For what?” Luc's flat, moonlike face remained passive, his eyes blinking, confused.

“You know for what.”

Luc broke into a grin. “You shouldn't look at your dog,” he teased.

“Damn you.” He lunged at the smaller boy, but missed again.

Luc giggled, spun around and ran toward the river. Pierre raced after him with Max at his side. They practiced in cloths that were wrapped tightly around their loins like bathing suits, and when Luc reached the dock he dove into the water and swam out to the center of the river. Pierre dove in behind him, followed, after a moment of indecision, by the Weimaraner.

“You wait till I get you,” Pierre shouted as he broke water.

Luc turned, treading water, then giggled again before diving. He was immediately invisible in the brown, murky water, and Pierre remained in place, waiting for him to surface. He heard Luc giggle behind him and turned. Luc had gone under him and had surfaced ten yards back toward the shore. Pierre started after him, but Luc reached the dock first, pulled himself up, and stood there kicking at Pierre's hands as he tried to get a hold. The dog swam next to Pierre in the water, barking.

“Oh, shut up, Max. You've caused enough trouble today,” he shouted at the dog.

Luc laughed again, then leaned down and held out his hand. He pulled Pierre onto the dock, then fell down beside him. Each remained quiet, breathing deeply. After a few moments Pierre turned and punched Luc on the arm.

“Ahh. What you do that for?” Luc groaned.

“You know why.” He turned his back on him. “You made me look stupid in front of my grandfather.”

“I didn't know your grandfather was there,” Luc said.

“You did too.”

“No, I didn't. I was watching you …” He paused before adding: “Like I was supposed to.”

Pierre turned and balled his fist again.

“Hey, stop it,” Luc said, flinching away. Over the past six years of playing together Luc's French and English had become as good as Pierre's Lao. But mostly they spoke English; the tribesmen who worked for Pierre's grandfather understood only Lao and some French, and speaking English allowed the boys to have secrets that would not be reported back to the adults.

The dog ran up on the dock and began shaking itself, spraying both boys with water.

“Stop it,” Pierre shouted.

“It was all his fault anyway,” Luc said. “I thought you said you were going to keep him in the house when you practiced.”

“Somebody let him out,” Pierre said, thinking again how it was probably his grandfather, intentionally or not. “I don't know why everybody makes such a big thing about it anyway. It's just a sport.”

“Not according to Lu Han,” Luc said.

“What does he know? If he and his men were so good, why did they get thrown out of your country?” Pierre said.

“You got thrown out of your country,” Luc said.

“I did not. We left because my grandfather wanted to. We could have stayed. Besides, my mother's French, so that makes me half French.”

“You'd better not let Benito hear you say that,” Luc said.

“I can say anything I want,” Pierre insisted.

“I bet you won't say it to him,” Luc said.

“If I want to I will,” Pierre said, knowing he never would.

Pierre struggled to his feet. He didn't want to talk about it any longer. He knew being Corsican was important. It was important to all of them, especially his grandfather. “You want to swim some more?” he asked.

Luc shook his head. “Let's go get dressed and see if we can catch something.”

Pierre grinned. “We could catch a snake and put it in my Uncle Auguste's room,” he said. Auguste was terrified of snakes, never taking the time to see if they were poisonous or not. A month earlier the two boys had captured a baby python, no more than three feet long. When Auguste had found it in his room, he had panicked and taken a pistol to it, blowing a hole the size of a piaster in the floor.

Within ten minutes the boys were dressed and searching the edge of the forest that bordered the broad plain. Pierre had a burlap sack hitched to his belt to carry their prize back to the house. Max moved ahead of them, head sweeping from side to side, nose to the ground, occasionally breaking off when a rat or ground toad was flushed from cover.

After two hours they gave up on snakes and settled for a four-foot-long monitor lizard they found sleeping next to a rotting log. It took them fifteen minutes to subdue the angry reptile, mostly because Max kept interfering, trying to bite the frightened creature and getting slapped with its tail with each effort.

“We'll have to be careful going back to the house,” Luc warned. “If any of my people see it, they'll take it away.”

Pierre nodded. He knew the lizard was considered a delicacy among the Meo.

“I don't know how you people eat those things,” he said. He had eaten lizard once, not knowing what it was. It had tasted like a cross between poultry and frog's legs, only chewier. When he had discovered what he had eaten, he had felt ill.

“It's good,” Luc said. “Almost as good as snake.”

They moved casually, as innocently as they could, across the plain toward the house. Pierre had tied a vine around the neck of the sack and now dragged it behind him in the knee-high grass, pushing Max away with his foot as the dog repeatedly tried to circle them to get at it. Ten yards from the house, where the grass was cut to ground level, they broke into a run, stopping at the mangosteen tree that stood along the side of the house.

Auguste's room was on the first floor, off the veranda, opposite the tree. Pierre placed a finger against his lips, then leaned toward Luc's ear.

“I'll lift you and you go and look inside and see if he's there,” he whispered. “If he's not, I'll come up with it and put it inside.”

Luc placed his hand over his mouth to suppress a giggle, then, with Pierre's help, climbed over the veranda. He was back at the railing in a moment, waving Pierre ahead. Pierre climbed over the railing, dragging the sack with him. The two boys tiptoed to the French doors outside the room, then crouched down. The door was partially open, and Pierre opened it farther, then poked his head inside. When he pulled his head out he was biting his lip and his eyes were dancing. Quickly he untied the sack, grabbed it at the bottom and swung it inside, shaking it until the lizard flopped out on the foor.

Each boy felt a hand grab the back of his neck at the same moment. Simultaneously they were lifted from the floor. When Pierre glanced over his shoulder he saw Auguste staring down at him. Auguste stuck out his foot and kicked the door open, just in time to see the lizard crawl under his bed.

“You,” he said. “And it was you who put that damned snake in my room.”

Pierre's eyes widened, not sure what would happen next. Auguste just stared at him, then at Luc, whose dark complexion had suddenly gone gray. Behind him Max began to whine his dissatisfaction, and Auguste released them, knowing the dog would not tolerate much more.

“We will discuss this with your grandfather,” Auguste said. His voice was a growling whisper, and it seemed more threatening to Pierre than if he had been shouting.

The two boys stood before Sartene's desk. The study was imposing, threatening to a minor degree. It was intended to be so. It was foreign territory, even for those who had been there many times; very much the private terrain of one man. The dark paneled walls, even at midday, muted the light; the heavy teak desk was a distinct barrier. The paintings and books that lined the walls were very much the personal property, the individual taste of the occupant. Even when he joined his grandfather at the long table of antique soldiers and horses and cannon, Pierre often felt they were things he should not freely touch.

Standing in front of Sartene now, with Luc beside him, he felt a sense of boyish doom.

Sartene's face was grave, disappointed, as he heard Auguste's complaint, and he remained silent when his friend had finished, looking from one boy to the other.

“So, you don't like your Uncle Auguste. You want to harm him, or cause some poor ignorant beast to harm him. I understand that.” He leaned back in his chair and gestured with one hand toward Auguste. “I've heard his complaint, and now I want to hear yours.” He watched Pierre's lips move, then stop. “I couldn't hear you, Pierre,” he said softly.