contrasting shades of green in the olive trees and Laricio pine. In the shadow of the trees were dense patches of gorse and brier and rockrose, the legendary Corsican undergrowth known as the macchia that had concealed bandits and murderers for centuries. The Englishman lowered his window. The warm scent of rosemary washed over his face.
Ahead of him stood a hill town, a cluster of sand-colored houses with red-tile roofs huddled around a bell tower, half in shadow, half in brilliant sunlight. In the background rose the mountains, ice-blue snow on the highest peaks. Ten years ago, when he had first settled here, the children would point at him with their index fingers and pinkies, the Corsican way of warding off the evil eye of a stranger. Now they smiled and waved as he sped through the town and headed up the cul-de-sac valley toward his villa.
Along the way he passed a paesanu working a small patch of vegetables at the roadside. The man peered at the Englishman, black eyes smoldering beneath the brim of his broad hat, and signaled his recognition with an almost imperceptible wave of his first two fingers. The old paesanu was one of the Englishman’s adopted clansmen. Farther up the road, a young boy called Giancomo stepped into his path and waved his arms for the Englishman to stop.
“Welcome home. Was your trip good?”
“Very good.”
“What did you bring me?”
“That depends.”
“On what?”
“On whether you watched my villa for me while I was away.”
“Of course I did, just as I promised.”
“Did anyone come?”
“No, I saw no one.”
“You’re quite sure?”
The boy nodded. From his suitcase the Englishman removed a beautiful satchel, handmade of fine Spanish leather, and handed it to the boy. “For your books—so you won’t lose them on the way home from school anymore.”
The boy pulled the satchel to his nose and smelled the new leather. Then he said: “Do you have any cigarettes?”
“You won’t tell your mother?”
“Of course not!”
The men pretended to rule Corsica, but the real power lay in the hands of the mothers. The Englishman handed the boy a half-empty packet.
He slipped the cigarettes into his satchel. “One more thing.”
“What’s that?”
“Don Orsati wishes to speak with you.”
“When did you see him?”
“This morning.”
“Where?”
“At the café in the village.”
“Where is he now?”
“At the café in the village.”
Orsati lives a stressful life, thought the Englishman.
“Invite the don to my villa for lunch. But tell him that if he expects to eat, he should bring along some food.”
The boy smiled and scampered off, the leather satchel flailing behind him like a banner. The Englishman slipped the jeep into gear and continued up the road. About a half mile from his villa, he slammed on his brakes, and the jeep skidded to a stop amid a cloud of red dust.
Standing in the center of the narrow track was a large male goat. He had the markings of a palomino and a red beard. Like the Englishman, he was scarred from old battles. The goat detested the Englishman and blocked the road to his villa whenever it pleased him. The Englishman had dreamed many times of ending the conflict once and for all with the Glock pistol he kept in his glove box. But the beast belonged to Don Casabianca, and if he were ever harmed there would be a feud.
The Englishman honked his horn. Don Casabianca’s goat threw back his head and glared at him defiantly. The Englishman had two choices, both unpleasant. He could wait out the goat, or he could try to move him.
He took a long look over his shoulder to make sure no one was watching. Then he threw open his door and charged the goat, waving his hands and screaming like a lunatic, until the beast gave ground and darted into the shelter of the macchia. A fitting place for him, thought the Englishman—the macchia, the place where all thieves and bandits eventually reside.
He got back into his jeep and headed up
Ahead of him stood a hill town, a cluster of sand-colored houses with red-tile roofs huddled around a bell tower, half in shadow, half in brilliant sunlight. In the background rose the mountains, ice-blue snow on the highest peaks. Ten years ago, when he had first settled here, the children would point at him with their index fingers and pinkies, the Corsican way of warding off the evil eye of a stranger. Now they smiled and waved as he sped through the town and headed up the cul-de-sac valley toward his villa.
Along the way he passed a paesanu working a small patch of vegetables at the roadside. The man peered at the Englishman, black eyes smoldering beneath the brim of his broad hat, and signaled his recognition with an almost imperceptible wave of his first two fingers. The old paesanu was one of the Englishman’s adopted clansmen. Farther up the road, a young boy called Giancomo stepped into his path and waved his arms for the Englishman to stop.
“Welcome home. Was your trip good?”
“Very good.”
“What did you bring me?”
“That depends.”
“On what?”
“On whether you watched my villa for me while I was away.”
“Of course I did, just as I promised.”
“Did anyone come?”
“No, I saw no one.”
“You’re quite sure?”
The boy nodded. From his suitcase the Englishman removed a beautiful satchel, handmade of fine Spanish leather, and handed it to the boy. “For your books—so you won’t lose them on the way home from school anymore.”
The boy pulled the satchel to his nose and smelled the new leather. Then he said: “Do you have any cigarettes?”
“You won’t tell your mother?”
“Of course not!”
The men pretended to rule Corsica, but the real power lay in the hands of the mothers. The Englishman handed the boy a half-empty packet.
He slipped the cigarettes into his satchel. “One more thing.”
“What’s that?”
“Don Orsati wishes to speak with you.”
“When did you see him?”
“This morning.”
“Where?”
“At the café in the village.”
“Where is he now?”
“At the café in the village.”
Orsati lives a stressful life, thought the Englishman.
“Invite the don to my villa for lunch. But tell him that if he expects to eat, he should bring along some food.”
The boy smiled and scampered off, the leather satchel flailing behind him like a banner. The Englishman slipped the jeep into gear and continued up the road. About a half mile from his villa, he slammed on his brakes, and the jeep skidded to a stop amid a cloud of red dust.
Standing in the center of the narrow track was a large male goat. He had the markings of a palomino and a red beard. Like the Englishman, he was scarred from old battles. The goat detested the Englishman and blocked the road to his villa whenever it pleased him. The Englishman had dreamed many times of ending the conflict once and for all with the Glock pistol he kept in his glove box. But the beast belonged to Don Casabianca, and if he were ever harmed there would be a feud.
The Englishman honked his horn. Don Casabianca’s goat threw back his head and glared at him defiantly. The Englishman had two choices, both unpleasant. He could wait out the goat, or he could try to move him.
He took a long look over his shoulder to make sure no one was watching. Then he threw open his door and charged the goat, waving his hands and screaming like a lunatic, until the beast gave ground and darted into the shelter of the macchia. A fitting place for him, thought the Englishman—the macchia, the place where all thieves and bandits eventually reside.
He got back into his jeep and headed up
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