The Corsican Read online

  Papa stopped speaking, taking time to look deeply into Buonaparte’s face. “Is this, then, the life you choose?”

  Buonaparte’s lips formed a soft, understanding smile. “Yes, Papa. It’s the life I choose. I’ll help you make the French regret they made our circle so small.”

  Papa threw back his head and bellowed like a wild bull. “Good,” he shouted. “Fuck the French, then, if they have no sense of humor.”

  The courtship was an arduous and nerve-racking process for the would-be bride and groom. They were allowed to meet only on Sundays and then only when the family was present, and on those occasions it was not considered proper for them to speak directly to each other. Instead, Maria spoke to her mother, who repeated the words to Buonaparte. He, in turn, followed the same ritual, using Papa Guerini as his intermediary. After a month had passed, they were allowed to go for walks and speak directly to each other, but always within the view and hearing of relatives who followed closely behind. Touching of any kind was forbidden.

  They were married in January 1919, in the small village of Cervione, twenty-five miles south of Bastia, at the home of a friend of the Guerini family. It was a safe village for the Guerinis, one that would provide adequate warning of movement by the police. But as usual the police lived in blessed ignorance of the Guerinis and the wedding feast continued past midnight without interruption.

  During the feast Papa and Antoine became very drunk. It was a great day for each. Antoine had married a year earlier, but his wife had been forced to remain in Bastia, because she would have been left alone and unprotected at their camp when the men were away on business matters. Now, with Maria there as well, Antoine could have his wife and the one son she had already borne him with him at the camp. For Papa it meant the presence of his grandson, a fact that so pleased him he was drunk by midafternoon and dancing so wildly that his beret had fallen unnoticed to the ground.

  Buonaparte and Maria left the feast late in the afternoon by donkey cart for the long, slow journey back to the encampment on Mount Cinto. When they arrived they found the family had built them a small thatched hut, like the one used by the men. A short distance away was a third hut, which would be occupied by Antoine and his family after the newlyweds had been given adequate time to learn about each other.

  The first night together surprised and pleased Sartene. He had expected his wife to be frightened, timid, and he came to her gently as they stood inside the hut.

  She pushed him away. “First you go to the cart and get the sheet I brought for the bed,” she said.

  He reached out to her again. “The sheet isn’t important to me,” he said, misunderstanding her meaning.

  “It’s important to me,” she said, pushing him away again. “Tomorrow my mother and aunts will come to take the sheet back to the village. They would be ashamed if a bloodstained sheet was not given over to be washed.”

  He smiled at her, embarrassed by his naiveté, and went quickly to the cart. When he returned she spread the sheet carefully on the bed, then, keeping her back to him, asked him to help her undress. As the clothing fell away, exposing her smooth olive skin, she turned to him, her eyes fired by passion. This time when he reached for her there was no resistance, only a pressing of their bodies, so uncontrolled it both thrilled and frightened him.

  It was an excitement that remained with them in the months to come, and by the following November, one year after they had first met, she delivered a son. But the delivery was cruel, the child much too large, and the doctors in Bastia warned that another birth would certainly mean her death.

  From that time on Sartene practiced abstinence, except for the few days of her menstrual period. She had come to mean too much to him, and he knew that his obligation as a man was to protect her and his son above all else.

  With the end of the war, black-market goods became the lifeblood of Europe, and the Guerinis changed with the times and made smuggling their primary business activity. Buonaparte, now in his early twenties, quickly became a major part of that effort. His knowledge of the seacoast and of boats overcame a major drawback for the mountain-dwelling Guerini clan, and Papa jokingly dubbed him “admiral” of his navy.

  Within a year, business grew beyond all their hopes, and Marseille became the base of the Guerinis’ new operation, its rough, violent docks a new training ground for Sartene and his “brothers.” Like most Corsicans, the Guerini clan lived in the Corsican ghetto near the docks, a series of narrow streets lined with tenements, each building connecting to the next like an elaborate network of tunnels that thwarted the periodic searches of the police.

  “When the hound has a cold, the fox can hide most easily under his nose,” Papa had proclaimed, adding that the large noses of the French were “always filled with snot. If their pricks could smell we would be in trouble,” he had explained. “It is the only part of his body a Frenchman pays attention to.”

  And he was proved right. The French never found him. Death found him first.

  In 1921, Papa Guerini lay mortally ill and the three Guerini brothers gathered at his bedside to receive his final benedictions. Antoine and Mémé were now in their early thirties; Buonaparte was twenty-seven. All three had matured into hard young men, nurtured by the mountains and then seasoned by the cunning and cruelty needed to survive the endless bloodbath that was Marseille.

  Lying in his bed, his face a pale gray with the approach of death, Papa Guerini still possessed the impish joviality that had always filled his eyes. His now gray beard lay on his chest outside the covers and his black beret was fixed firmly on the top of his bald head. Next to the bed, leaning against a nightstand, the sword cane and lupara were within easy reach.

  Standing there, Sartene looked down at the weapons, then back at the old man he had learned to love like a father. Papa caught the movement of his eyes and smiled weakly through his beard.

  “Just in case the police beat the devil to my door,” he whispered.

  “Maybe St. Pierre, your namesake, will come instead. Papa,” Sartene argued.

  Guerini’s eyes flashed with mirth. “You think so, Buonaparte? Then I will still need them. God will pay a heavy ransom to get that rascal back.”

  His laughter ended in a wheezing cough, but he motioned them away as they moved closer to him to help. After several minutes the wheezing subsided and his face became serious.

  “Tomorrow morning you will take me back to the mountains of Corsica and put me in the ground,” he said. “Now I just want you to listen.” He was breathing in shallow gasps, and the strain of his words showed in his eyes. “We’ve had a good life in the mountains and here in Marseille,” he said weakly. “We didn’t get rich, but we didn’t live under the heel of anybody’s boot. But things are different now. The days of the bandit are gone. Now everything is done by bigger and bigger organizations, like this one Paul Carbone has here.” A coughing spasm rocked his body, then stopped abruptly, almost as though the dying man had willed it. He cleared his throat and looked at each of them. “You have a wife now and two children, Antoine. And you too, Buonaparte, have a son. If you’re men, you must work the rest of your lives for them, not for yourselves. Mémé, when you marry, it will be the same, and you should start to plan for that now.”

  “How, Papa?” Antoine’s voice was choked and his eyes were brimming with tears.

  A faint smile crossed Papa’s lips. “I spoke to this man, François Spirito, who works for Carbone. He’s agreed that you can each work in his group.” He saw displeasure flash across Mémé’s face and waved his hand at him for patience. “It will be a good thing for now,” he said. “But don’t do it too long. Just until you learn, however long that takes. When you’ve learned and have money, then you should start your own group. Never trust these Marseille Corsicans. They’re more French than anything else. But use them now.” Another coughing spasm seized him, but he fought it off as he had the last. “And while you work for them, make money of your own. This thing now they have in Amer
ica, this law that says a man can’t drink. There’s money in this thing. If you take wine and cognac from the French, these thirsty Americans will make you rich men.” He jabbed a finger at Sartene. “Listen to my admiral. He’ll know how to get it there.” He smiled. “You’re Antonio’s admiral now, Buonaparte. He’s the head of our family now. You and Mémé must help him, as good brothers should.”

  Papa Guerini was true to his prediction, and the following day they began the long journey back to Corsica to bury him in the foothills of Mount Cinto. He was buried still wearing his beret, with his sword cane and his lupara lying next to him in his coffin. For the first time in many years, Buonaparte Sartene wept.

  The work for Spirito was difficult, often degrading. Papa had been right—these Marseille Corsicans were much like the French. They looked upon the Guerinis as simple bandits, ignorant peasants from the hills, who should be used only for the simplest of tasks. Antoine was assigned the duties of an enforcer, dispensing violence to those who resisted the black-market and smuggling activities of the milieu. Mémé and Buonaparte were assigned to hijacking and the menial distribution of stolen goods. To Antoine and Mémé it was an insult, both to themselves and to the memory of their father. Only Buonaparte accepted it with pleasure, knowing the best way to learn a thing was at its roots.

  He explained his reasoning to his brothers one Sunday afternoon, when the wives had taken the children out into the streets after the family meal was finished. The three men sat at the large kitchen table drinking wine, Antoine and Mémé expressing their anger over the two years they had worked for Spirito with no sign they would ever be given more authority within the milieu.

  “You forget Papa’s words,” Sartene said softly. “We are dealing with Frenchmen who call themselves Corsicans. Now we only have to learn how they do what they do, and earn enough money to do it for ourselves someday.” He gestured broadly with his hands. “Last year we made thousands of francs in our dealings with the Americans. This year we’ll sell even more liquor to them, and the year after that even more. Spirito knows of our business and he knows it’s our right as long as we do our fluty to him. What he doesn’t know is how much money we’re making. We still live poorly and he thinks we’re peasants. He has no idea we save this money for our future.” He smiled at Antoine, whose burly, flat face was red with wine and anger. “Papa once told me that when the hound has a cold, the fox hides best right under his nose.”

  “But how long do we have to hide?” Mémé growled. He was smaller than Antoine, with a craggy face and fast-receding hairline that made him look more like a store clerk than the truly violent man he was.

  Sartene shrugged. “What’s time, Mémé? Each day my stomach tells me the time. Breakfast. Dinner. For more complicated things, my brain tells me.”

  “My brain tells me we should strike out on our own now,” Antoine snapped. He stood and began pacing the small kitchen, his movements and bulk seeming very much like Papa’s at that moment.

  “We could do that,” Sartene said. “And if you, my brothers, decide, I’ll be with you.” He waited, watching the words calm Antoine.

  Mémé, to whom he was much closer, watched him intensely, knowing more was yet to come.

  “If we do this, Spirito will cut us off from his protection with the police and the politicians. Right now we don’t have the money to buy our own, so anything we do will be small. If we wait until we have the money, we don’t have to worry about mat. If Spirito wants to stop us then, he’ll have to use force, and that would violate all the principles of the milieu. Right now, we’re like the ten-year-old boy who picks up the gun and seeks vengeance for his father’s death. What he does is right. But if he waits until he is grown, remembering all the time what he must do, then his vengeance is more certain.”

  “Buonaparte is right,” Mémé said. He stood and walked to his older, larger brother and placed a hand on his shoulder. “I don’t like it either, but he’s right.”

  “But how long?” Antoine asked, staring angrily at Sartene. “How long do we swallow our pride for these Frenchmen?” He used the final word as an ultimate insult.

  “How long is long?” Sartene asked, smiling. “If I said one year, that would seem too long. If I said ten, that would also seem too long. Last week I read in the papers about an Irish writer named Joyce. He spent seven years writing a book. The paper said the book was very difficult to understand and that this writer says people who read it should spend seven years doing so.”

  “So he’s crazy, like all writers of books,” Antoine said.

  “Maybe so,” Sartene said. He looked at Mémé. “Your new wife is pregnant,” he said. “When the child is born, will we expect him to walk the very next day?”

  Mémé began to laugh. He looked up at his older brother. “How do we fight our little admiral?” he said. “He always makes too much sense.”

  Antoine shook his head and lumbered back to his seat, sat heavily and cradled his face in both hands. “I know you’re right, Buonaparte. In my heart I know it. It’s just that these fucking Frenchmen make me so damned mad.”

  The question of “how long” in fact did become ten years. It was 1933 before the Guerinis broke from the Spirito faction of the Carbone milieu. Even then it was a year or two earlier than Sartene would have preferred. But prohibition had been repealed in the United States, drying up their outside revenue, and to wait longer, they had decided, would be of little practical value.

  The decision to break away caused initial difficulties with Spirito. At first he simply withdrew his protection, as they had expected. But when he realized they had bought their own with hidden resources, he became angry and sent men against their business interests.

  The Guerinis reacted calmly. Spirito’s men simply disappeared. This was Sartene’s doing. Antoine had been in favor of open warfare. Buonaparte, with Mémé’s support, argued that scattering the landscape with corpses would only bring the police to everyone’s door. So the violence was handled quietly, and within a year it had not only brought Spirito to his senses, but had also brought many men into the newly formed Guerini faction.

  But the silent war, as it came to be known within the Corsican community, also produced personal hardships for Sartene and his brothers. As a simple matter of protection, they had sent their wives and children back to the quiet, protected village of Cervione. This was especially hard for Antoine and Buonaparte, whose sons were sixteen and fourteen, respectively, ages when they should be at their fathers’ sides, learning valuable lessons for the future.

  For Buonaparte it also meant a bitter separation from Maria, and despite his frequent trips to Corsica, it made him even more reclusive than he was by nature.

  The years that followed were prosperous for the Guerinis and for Sartene. Antoine and Mémé became known as men of power within the Corsican community and began to assume the lifestyles that went with that power. Buonaparte, by comparison, shunned any recognition, preferring to live and work quietly, so much so that his brothers had jokingly dubbed him “the monk.”

  The coming of World War II brought an end to prosperity for the Guerinis and other factions within the milieu. In the years to come it would devastate their resources, which would not be reclaimed until the postwar period. It also brought imprisonment for Buonaparte Sartene, when he was caught late in 1939 running guns to Corsica, which he believed would soon fall victim to an Italian invasion. The French, however, believing all Corsicans would always side with anti-French forces, dealt with the matter harshly. After a perfunctory trial, the following spring he was sentenced to seven years in the prison at Marseille.

  Maria Sartene entered the small, cramped, sterile room with her chin high, seemingly unaffected by the humiliating search to which she had just been subjected. She was thirty-eight now, with touches of gray in her deep-black hair, but she moved with the same strength and grace that had first attracted Buonaparte in the mountains of Corsica twenty-one years earlier.

  Buonaparte h
ad been allowed one request before beginning his sentence, and had asked for time alone with his wife. He had not asked to see his son, Jean, who was now twenty. The less the French knew about him the better, he had decided. Now, watching his wife enter the room, he was filled with pride. They can kick us, he told himself, but they can never make us weep.

  The room was on the first floor of the old prison, and the walls were made of stone and it was cold. Maria moved quickly to him, and he could feel her trembling slightly as they embraced.

  “Are you cold?” he whispered, still holding her.

  “No,” she answered. She stepped back, her hands resting on his chest. “Seven years,” she said. Her eyes became suddenly fierce. “The bastards.”

  He guided her to a long wooden bench against one wall, then sat next to her, holding both of her hands in his.

  “The suffering doesn’t bother me,” he said softly. “I can deal with it as it comes. And I know you will be cared for by Mémé and Antoine. What bothers me is this damned war that’s racing down on us.” He looked at her firmly. “I don’t want Jean involved in this. I don’t want him to be used by the French. They spit on us until they need us to bleed for them. Then, when we’re through bleeding, they spit on us again. I don’t mind their spit. To men like that we’re criminals, and always will be. Fate has condemned us to that. But I will not let my family be used by these bastards.”