“It’s possible,” said Keller candidly. “But don’t worry, your secret is safe with them.”
“I don’t have the luxury of not worrying. As for the British,” said the don, “they’re not to be trusted. You’re the only inhabitant of that dreadful island I’ve ever cared for. If only they’d stop coming here for their summer holidays, everything would be right with the world.”
“It’s good for the island’s economy.”
“They drink too much.”
“A cultural affliction, I’m afraid.”
“And now,” said the don, “you’re one of them again.”
“Almost.”
“They’ve given you a new name?”
“Peter Marlowe.”
“I prefer your old name.”
“It wasn’t available. Poor chap’s deceased, you see.”
“And your new employers?” asked the don.
“Every bed has lice,” said Keller.
“Only the spoon,” replied the don, “knows the pot’s sorrows.”
With that, a companionable silence settled between them. There was only the wind in the laricio pine and the crackling of the macchia-wood fire, which perfumed the air of the don’s large office. At length, he asked why Keller had returned to Corsica; and the Englishman, with an indifferent movement of his head, implied he had come for reasons having to do with his new line of work.
“You were sent here by the British secret service?”
“More or less.”
“Don’t speak to me in riddles, Christopher.”
“I didn’t have an appropriate proverb at my fingertips.”
“Our proverbs,” said the don, “are sacred and correct. Now tell me why you’re here.”
“I’m looking for a man. A Moroccan who calls himself the Scorpion.”
“And if I agree to help you?” The don tapped the leather cover of his ledger.
Keller said nothing.
“Money doesn’t come from singing, Christopher.”
“I was hoping you might do it as a personal favor.”
“You abandon me, and now you want to utilize my services free of charge?”
“Is that a proverb, too?”
The don frowned. “And if I can find this man? What then?”
“My friends in British intelligence think it might be a good idea for me to go into business with him.”
“What line of work is he in?”
“Drugs, apparently. But in his spare time he supplies guns to ISIS.”
“ISIS?” Don Orsati shook his head gravely. “I suppose this has something to do with the attacks in London.”
“I suppose it does.”
“In that case,” said the don, “I’ll do it for nothing.”
8
Corsica
The average life span of Capra aegagrus hircus, otherwise known as the domestic goat, is fifteen to eighteen years. Therefore, the old goat belonging to Don Casabianca, a notable who owned much of the valley adjacent to the Orsatis’, had most definitely overstayed its earthly welcome. By Keller’s calculation the beast had been consuming valuable oxygen for more than twenty-four years, much of it in the shade of the three ancient olive trees that stood just before the sharp left-hand turn in the dirt-and-gravel track that led to Keller’s villa. A nameless creature with the markings of a palomino and a red beard, it blocked the path whenever it saw fit, denying access to those of whom it did not approve. For Keller, a mainlander with no Corsican blood in his veins, it harbored a particular resentment. Theirs was a long-simmering contest of wills, and more often than not it was the goat that had got the better of it. Keller, on many occasions, had contemplated ending the standoff with a well-placed shot between the goat’s malevolent eyes. But that would have been a grave mistake. The goat enjoyed the protection of Don Casabianca. And if Keller were to harm one hair on its wretched head, there would be a feud. One never knew where a feud might end. It might be settled amicably over a glass of wine, with an apology or restitution of some sort. Or it might go on for months or even years. Consequently, Keller had no choice but to wait patiently for the goat’s passing. He felt like a shiftless son who counted his inheritance while his wealthy father, purely out of spite, clung stubbornly to life.
“I was hoping,” said Keller morosely, “to avoid this scene.”
“He had a scare in October.” Giancomo tapped a finger impatiently on the steering wheel. “Or maybe it was November.”
“Really?”
“Cancer. Or maybe it was an infection of the bowels. Don Casabianca brought in the priest to administer last rites.”
“What happened?”
“A miracle,” said Giancomo, shrugging.
“How unfortunate.” Keller and the goat exchanged a long, tense look. “Try honking the horn.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“It might work this time.”
“Obviously,” said Giancomo, “you’ve been away for a while.”
With a heavy exhalation, Keller climbed out of the car. The goat raised its chin defiantly and stood its ground while Keller, fingertips squeezing the bridge of his nose, pondered his options. His usual tactic was a full-frontal assault of shouted invective and waved arms; and in most cases the old goat would cede its ground and flee into the macchia, the hiding place of scoundrels and bandits. But on that morning, Keller had no stomach for a confrontation. He was travel-weary and a touch seasick from the ferry. Besides, the goat, battered old bastard that he was, had had a rough time of it lately, what with the cancer and the problem with its bowels and the extreme unction performed by the village priest. And since when did the Church countenance the dispensation of holy sacraments to cloven-hoofed bovidae? Only on Corsica, thought Keller.
“Listen,” he said at last, leaning against the hood of the car, “life is too short for this sort of nonsense.” He might have added that life is just as long as it takes to pass by a window, but he didn’t think the goat, who was just a goat after all, would understand the analogy. Instead, Keller spoke of the importance of friends and family. He confessed that he had made many mistakes in life and that now, after many years in the wilderness, he was home again and almost happy. He had but one unresolved relationship, this one, and it was his wish to set it right before it was too late. Time the conqueror could not be kept at bay forever.
At this, the goat tilted its head to one side in the manner of a man whom Keller, many years earlier, had been hired to kill. Then it took a few steps forward and licked the back of Keller’s hand before retreating to the shade of the three ancient olive trees. The sun shone brightly upon Keller’s villa as Giancomo turned into the drive. The air smelled of rosemary and lavender.