Corsican Jazz 1
by Zulfikar Ahmetovic
Some days back.
Some weeks back.
World: topsy turvy all along.
Wars. Killings. Civilians. Kids. Blood and dirt all over the corpses. No good ones to entrust, no bad ones to hate in depth, at least on my gypsy side.
My Italian friend's half jewish, no way to mistake whose side he stands on.
No rules to break anymore.
No allies, no friends.
It's just us and them, kill and try not to get killed.
Pure chaos. Dangerous, exciting.
Old times Yugoslavian wars.
Deep into my bloodlines.
Flaming up my spirit.
Brinks again, not bored. Meet him at a different place. A huge - perfect steak, sirloin. Graciously aged, seasoned (spices, salt).
A small restaurant next to my friend's home, next to where I sleep to be clear.
He fully relaxed. Talking spanish to the cook, a cuban expat - maybe he works for him, feature him just a contact, maybe even a double face. Both of them, little exchanges, bank of favors
Brink slipping a thick envelope out of his worn briefcase into the half full grocery bag he told me to carry with me,
His spanish sort of weird to me, almost cuban, yankees don't manage credible spanish accent usually. Make him sound pure caribbean.
Let me think of Meyer L and Sam G ooold times, feature him a kid in the job back then, nooo, he's seasoned now but too young for those enterprises.
Maybe just a house in Florida, a cuban wife, a dog there. Both of them not givin' a damn for his whereabouts.
We went up to the apt, I put the envelope under the sink, a small recess.
He told me "We take a stroll, pick up a decent bag."
Some streets up, then down, beyond the old district.
Some more hundreds of yards, to Rosello.
A side street, nobody around. An old van. He opened the rear doors, came out with something sort of heavy, wrapped up in old fabric.
He put into my bag.
"That's for Mario's people here, and for their friends across the sea. Fifty fifty. This stuff, that cash."
Later on all alone, driving the once red Polo, deep night all around.
Nobody in sight. Say Mario instructed his Polizia and Carabinieri liaisons not to be around.
Say they told their locals too.
The thick envelope - money, the heavy fabric-wrapped package - 6 more handguns plus the 2 I had before, all of them S&W plus ammos, the revolver, the Beretta, the switchblade knife.
Down to Palmadula, then to Argentiera, dirt roads, the abandoned house.
T4, M91, the big Crna Strela, handguns, ammos.
Enough to spend half of my life behind bars, a good chance to get snuffed someway before release.
Then back to Sassari.
As Brinks told me explicitly.
The Beretta, the switchblade, the short nose revolver on me. Huge jacket I wear.
Phone N.3 went off. Not Brinks. Mario.
Call me hostage.
Drive to Tempio, don't take the coast road.
Then to Aggius, then to Trinità, road to Badesi.
I think the last heist, two cash-loaded armored cars, feature me jailed then snuffed, such an easy take.
I drove, i guessed cops along the coast road.
I passed lone houses, small villages. Dark countryside, no lights in sight. Some names indicated at crossroads. Villages. Small ones.
Couldn't help me out thinking of my Italian friend E.
Those places reminded my Italian friend's friend and her huge property in the area.
Quizzical friend of mine he is.
Russian potential buyers. What the Hell in his mind. His hard to guess deeds.
Darkest night of nights. Cloudy skies. Not even the stars to be seen.
Low lights on. Drive, no hurry.
Some sort of light starts appearing from East.
Almost there.
A closed bar road front. A car in the parking lot-
Drive slowly. Drive carefully. Both hands well in sight on the steering wheel.
Two man standing by.
No cops, thanks God.
It's Gavino and Pietro.
I slow down, almost stop.They gesture me to follow them on.
Some miles down to the sea.
A small beach, three men waiting for us, a dinghy next.
Short words between them, like speaking the very same dialect. I'd never had those three for french guys.
I pass Gavino half of the money, I pass Pietro four S&Ws.
I pass the rest of the money and the other four S&Ws to their buddies.
I move he M91s, the Crna Strela and the T4 pack on the dinghy. Nobody helping the gypsy.
Gavino, Pietro and the three Corsicans greet each other like cousins.
They don't introduce me but our guy from the continent.,
We leave.
Water around. Some waves splashing onto the dinghy.
Sun day light soaring around,
I hold to some sort of knob, they notice me, chuckle.
They light cigarettes, one of them hands me a Gitane.
Gypsy stuff. Nice to me.
I say grazie, they nod.
I's Antoine, it's Pierrot, it's Jacky.
Me Zulfy, I won't hide.
Pierrot - tall, wiry, all wrinkles, a boxer's nose almost turned sisty, unfolds a bottle.
We cheer. Strong stuff. Filoferru they say. Rakija I say. Then we land.
A thick guy standing by a worn Land Cruiser pick-up waiting.
Pierrot says "He's Ange. Your guardian Angel from now on, his name is a destiny. Do whatever he tells you to".
Good english, almost american english. Those devilish people of the islands, I think.
