The Corsican (18 page)

“I'm not your sweet Madeleine, Francesco. I'm not your sweet anything.”

The harshness in her voice made him smile, truly this time. “Of course you're not. You're Jean's.”

“I'm my own. I choose to be Jean's,” she said, her eyes angry now.

“You make it sound not very permanent,” he said.

“It's very permanent, because I want it to be.”

Her breasts were rising and falling rapidly. He looked down at them, and she drew the book up, covering herself.

“You don't like Jean, do you?”

He laughed, now treating her like a child. “How silly of you to say that. He's like my brother. And Buonaparte is like my father. We're a family here, Madeleine. Even little Pierre calls me uncle.”

“I'm very glad to hear that, Francesco.” She moved past him without difficulty this time, saying goodnight as she did.

He watched her leave, her body seeming stiffer than it had before. He smiled to himself as she disappeared out the door. Patience is a terrible thing, he told himself. He put the rest of the jackfruit in his mouth, then spit the seed into his hand, finally dropping it into an ashtray on the table. He hoped she would take care of herself in the years ahead. Not let herself get fat and ugly. Just save herself.

He walked to Sartene's desk and eased himself into the leather chair behind it, extending his hands and allowing them to run across the smooth teak of the desk top. He leaned back and looked about the room. It was foolish to sit here. He knew that. If Buonaparte came in the vision would remain in his mind and fester. But he was upstairs with that spoiled brat of a grandchild. He smiled to himself. Little Pierre. No doubt the next in line after Jean. Emperor Buonaparte. He leaned forward and placed his hand on the middle drawer of the desk, testing it. Locked. He tugged gently at the lobe of his ear. Good fortune to you, Jean. Good fortune to all of you. Build up the opium business. Build it and build it and build it. But not for Jean. And not for that fucking little brat.

Francesco laughed softly, then stretched the muscles in his back. Bedtime, he told himself. Time for the sleep of the angels.

Chapter 10

By dawn sixty of Touby's men, augmented by the forty Mua warriors, had encircled the village of Xieng Khouang. Jean and Bently had spent the previous afternoon instructing the Ly force until they were satisfied they would follow the battle plan. Then they marched, under the cover of night, the twenty miles to Faydang's village. Throughout the march Touby had been a mixture of glee and self-doubt, keeping up a constant prattle, reassuring himself, Bently decided. He had argued that a warning should not have been sent to Faydang. That a massacre of the village would have been preferable. But he would settle, they knew, for Faydang's swift retreat into Viet Nam. Such a fearful retreat would give him even more prestige than an outright slaughter, even if it would not provide the sense of security he wanted. Buonaparte had explained that he wanted Faydang left unharmed. He was the only other strong leader among the Meo. And Touby was not immortal, and certainly not trustworthy. There could come a time when he would have to be replaced, and Faydang was the only option for the present.

Sartene's care in ensuring Faydang's survival had been excessive. Touby's uncle was a wily adversary, and his network of spies within Touby's ranks gave him adequate warning of any plan to move against him. Within hours of the arrival of Bently and Sartene, Faydang was apprised of the situation. He knew of Touby's elevation to the mock rank of colonel, of the planned increase in the opium tax, and of the Corsican interlopers' newfound dominance of the opium trade. As Touby's men trained for the attack, Faydang planned his own survival. The villagers of Xieng Khouang were told to sleep in the jungle that night. And when the attack began at dawn, Faydang and his followers were already retreating, their only resistance coming from a handful of snipers hidden in trees outside the village, left there to die as a face-saving gesture.

Bently and Sartene were side by side when the gunfire erupted behind them.

“Merde,”
Jean grunted, spinning and firing his Thompson submachine gun wildly into the trees.

He jumped up and ran forward firing from the hip. Bently shouted at him, but his voice was obliterated by the gunfire. He raced after him, overtaking him within twenty yards, and threw his body at the back of Jean's legs, knocking him to the ground.

“Stay put,” he shouted, then, rising up on one knee, opened fire with short bursts of his own weapon, until a Lo warrior fell spinning from a distant tree.

He sat back alongside Jean, breathing deeply as the gunfire gradually subsided around them.

“You've got to learn about jungle fighting, buddy,” he said, grinning to ease the scolding. He stood, glancing about until he saw what he wanted, then walked to his left and picked up a rock the size of a football. “Come with me,” he said. “But stay behind me.”

He walked slowly, testing the ground ahead with his foot. After five yards he stopped short, turning his head back to Jean. “Now watch,” he said. He hefted the rock, throwing it a few yards ahead of him, and watched as it crashed through the false layer of thin bamboo strips that had been covered with leaves. The covering gave way, exposing a hole six feet in diameter. At the base of the hole, heavy bamboo sticks had been driven into the ground, their sharpened ends pointing up in every conceivable direction, the knifelike tips coated in buffalo dung so even a scratch might prove fatal without medical treatment.

Jean exhaled heavily.

“Punji sticks,” Bently said. “You'll also find those damned things tied in clusters and attached to long poles hanging in trees. They're set off by trip wires and come flying down, and …” He slapped the palm of one hand into the other for emphasis. “Very messy,” he added.

In the distance a piercing scream came from the forest. Bently wasn't sure if one of his men had found one of the devices or was simply giving a
coup de grace
to a wounded Lo warrior. He doubted it was the latter. The Meo, like most Southeast Asians, preferred beheading, believing it forced the soul to leave the body prematurely, thereby denying entrance to heaven. Coming across a beheaded member of your own force had great psychological impact on an opposing army. The probability of beheading also made a man fight to the death rather than risk capture.

Jean took his arm, drawing him back. “You won't mention this?” he said.

Bently threw an arm around his shoulder and turned him back toward the village. “You're a helluva tough guy and a brave one, Jean,” he said. “It's not your fault you haven't fought here before. Christ, during the war some of the best men we had got chewed up by those things. Jungle warfare's different from any other kind. There are just too many ways to kill somebody, outside of bullets and bombs and landmines. There's just too much cover.”

Back in the village, Touby was holding court, strutting about in his uniform, basking in the praise of his men. When the fighting began Bently had not seen him, and he doubted Touby had been anywhere near it. He stepped forward and clasped Touby by the shoulder.

“Well, colonel. A great victory,” he said, making sure his voice carried to Touby's men.

Touby nodded. “The frightened dog has run away,” he said, then,
sotto voce:
“Let us hope he stays there.”

Jean had come up beside him. “He will if he's smart. We'll be setting up radio contact with you. And we can be here in two hours if needed.” Jean's eyes carried an intended warning, along with the reassurance.

“Now we'll burn his village to the ground,” Touby said. “Just like the prince's house.”

“Don't burn it,” Bently said softly. “Occupy it. Then he'll have nothing to come back to, and you'll be closer to the frontier and have better warning if he tries to move back in force. You'll also be headman of two villages, not just one.”

Touby bobbed his head, grinning. “Yes. And there'll be more opium,” he said.

“And a place for your growers to live,” Bently added.

“And more taxes,” Jean said.

They laughed, and Bently had no doubt a bond had been formed, be it tenuous or not. He would report as much to his masters in Saigon.

They remained in Touby's village that afternoon for the celebration that marked his victory, the first over Faydang that had not involved mere political manipulations by the French. The chubby new colonel was feeling very much his own man, calling upon the young women to perform traditional dances, directing special food to be prepared, and staging a knife-throwing tournament among his men. Jean had sent the Mua back to the airstrip, not wanting them to become competitive with the men of the Ly clan, not wanting to risk any confrontation between the hated factions.

Bently admired his decision. Jean wasn't cunning, as his father was; he lacked the shark's instinct so obvious in the older man; but he
was
smart in his own methodical way. Bently also liked the fact that Jean wasn't a carbon copy of his father. Knew he could not be and accepted the fact, even though it bothered him.

Over the course of the celebration, the same group of young women were again presented to them by their host. Each had declined the honor the previous day, but now, after the tenseness of battle, Bently felt more inclined. He half-jokingly suggested to Jean that they avoid offending their host and partake.

“If I went home with some disease, Madeleine would not be amused,” Jean said stoically. He raised his eyebrows. “I'd wake up some morning and find a knife through my heart. She's not Corsican,” he added. “But almost.”

The C-47 left the Phong Savan airstrip shortly before dusk, as the sun slipped behind the jungle foliage, changing the lush green to a rainbow of shimmering colors. Bently and Jean sat together, behind the cockpit, Bently staring out the window, enjoying the beauty that stretched out below them.

Beautiful but deadly, he thought. So different from South Dakota, different really from anything he had previously known. Yet he had been here so many years it was difficult to think of this place as foreign. Southeast Asia grew on you, invaded your being, much the same way the tropical forest swallowed up everything. You could clear a piece of land, cut a road, but the forest was always there, inching its way back, ready to reclaim what had been taken away as soon as the usurper relaxed his vigilance.

He turned to Jean. “How do you like it here? In Laos, I mean?” he asked;

“It's good. I like it well enough. It takes time to get used to.” Jean thought for a moment. “It's a hard place,” he said at length. “But Corsica was a hard place, too. France also, after the war. Like you Americans say, war is hell.” He chuckled over his small joke.

“I guess Europe got clobbered pretty bad,” Bently said. “At least that's what I've been told.”

“Yes. I saw some of it,” Jean said. “But we didn't stay very long. My father went back to Corsica to visit my mother's grave. She died during the war. But from an illness, not the fighting. Then he spent a brief time in Marseille with friends, and then went on to Switzerland. He left me to make the arrangements for our emigration with the French authorities. I think he had enough of them during the war.”

“He puts a lot of trust in you,” Bently said.

Jean tilted his head to one side. “I wish he felt he could put more,” he said. “But it's hard for him. He's used to doing things for himself, for others. He has difficulty letting people do things for him.” Jean turned to face Bently. “He's a very strong man,” he said. “I don't think he ever doubts himself.”

“All men doubt themselves,” Bently said. “It's human nature.”

“Not Papa. His life has been a series of struggles. And he has always won those struggles.”

Bently sensed that Jean would like to be more specific, but knew he could not. The Corsican belief in secrecy, of not speaking of personal matters to outsiders, was legend. “Were you close to him when you were a boy?” he asked. He felt safe with the question. They had been in battle together, fought side by side, and he knew from experience that that created a unique bond between men.

Jean shook his head. “He was away much of the time. But he tried to be with us as often as possible. When he was there it was good. But I would have liked it to be more. What about your father? Did you have a lot of time with him?”

“No. Business took up most of his time, and on weekends he had his country club, which was good for business, too.” Bently glanced out the window trying to bring his father's face to mind. “He's a banker,” he said. “Lately he's been writing me, telling me I should go back home and be a banker too.”

“Where's home?” Jean asked.

“Pierre, South Dakota.” The name was pronounced
pier
, and Matt explained the difference between the spelling and the pronunciation. “It's dead in the middle of the country, what we call the midwest.”

“Pierre. Just like my son's name. It is a large French community?”

“No. But it was named by French fur trappers who once worked the Missouri River. One probably named it after
himself
.”

“That's just like a Frenchman,” Jean said.

“Be careful. Your wife's French.”

“She's a Frenchwoman. That's very different.” He smiled at Bently.

It was a good smile, Bently thought. It softened him, let you see a little of what was inside. “She's very beautiful,” he said. “I envy you.”

“Most men do,” Jean said. “She's very good to my son, also. And very loyal to my family.” He paused, as if deciding whether to continue. “Papa was not pleased when I told him I wanted to marry her. He wanted me to marry a Corsican. Blood is very important to him. He's old-fashioned that way. But he was wrong and he knows now that he was. He never admitted it, but I can tell.”