Corsican Jazz 2
by Zulfikar Ahmetovic
Ange opened a hidden compartment inside a large fuel tank on the side.
He gestured me to place there my guns, the two M91s and the Crna Strela with its extra long barrel, the T4.
He had extra tanks - all of them full - on the cargo bed.
He checked my Italian documents, "You don't look Italian" muttered. He squared me unkindly. "Bet you're Turkish."
"I'm no Turkish at all. I'm half breed gypsy, say I'm gypsy. That's why I'm dark. My late father was, hm, was all American boy, but he fled my mom when she got pregnant. My gypsy grandpa took his eyes off with his very own knife, slit his guts open and dumped the body where no man could look for it, before my blue eyed father might manage to set foot into his plane back home. Make me proud of. Think you'd be the same, by the way. That's why my eyes are so blue."
He patted me "We share the same views, man."
He told me to jump onto my seat, "Got water in these bottles. Plus bread and figatelli. Bet you'll -get some sleep, kid. You look weary, we've a long way ahead."
He started the engine, had a bit to work with clutch and gears, then we started.
After some ten miles on paved roads he turned into a dirt but wide enough one.
Sea was soon left away. He drove into the mountains, quietly, no cigarettes, no emotions. Just a job to do, I guessed.
Time flowing. Sun now high in the sky. I drank some water. Mountains, higher and higher in front of us. Woods all around. Yes, less pines than home, chestnut trees everywhere, somewhat the landscape resembling my own Bosnia, Ange's drive - quiet, constant - lulled me half asleep.
Sometimes we passed through hamlets. Sometimes we passed by some shepherd and his goats and his sheep, Say home to my skin.
Around noon he turned into the backyard of a lonesome house, stopped the engine.
"Friends," he said.
To me, we were just in the middle of nowhere,
An old lady in a black scarf peeping out of a windowpane. Two men came out and greeted Ange.
He pushed me in front of them, we shook hands, no names made.
Ange took the figatelli and the bread, we all shared, "Bet you can eat pork, am I right?" he told me.
We started eating, no unnecessary words.
Silent meal.
And engine from somewhere, getting close. Some old Daewoo, a bald guy in his mid forties. Sunglasses, a scarf to cover his chin.
Ange told me "You've a parcel for my bud here".
We opened the hidey-hole.
T4 now in the Daewoo. Bald guy gone, sunglasses and scarf still on. Say T4 gone. No need to know what for.
Ange's bud started talking, sort of italian, sort of sardinian, I had to concentrate to understand, but didn't want to seem too curious, I'm the foreigner, I'm having dark deals with those guys. Never upset them. It's their own land here.
Excellent figatelli, I reckon, had some bites too much. No bread, just nicci. Chestnut flour. The old lady with the black scarf on handed me some, she said "L'aghju fattu" sort of "I did them". We drank water. No alcohol.
Soon I couldn't help dozing.
Sometime later Ange shook me awake, "We can't travel at night." I nodded. I stood up.
The old lady came by Ange, she hugged him. He hugged her.
He said "We'll take revenge."
She said "It was done from within."
He said "I know. There's some rotten apple inside us."
She said "Do it please."
He promised.
She said "They took your beloved away, too. Whoever she was."
He lit a Gitane, first time I saw him smoking. His gaze wandering across the trees,
He started the engine, I was up into my seat.
One of the two men jumped on the cargo bed, the youngest one. Mid twenties. A double barrel across his shoulder and a wooden stick, Ange drove off.
Miles away, no words. Ange's gaze - he'd suffered a loss. Guess his girlfriend abducted, forced away, maybe snuffed.
Woods, mountains. Some game by the road. Once a wild boar, once a deer.
Some dark pigs, apparently wild.
Three hours drive, no single word spelled out.
Scattered small farmhouses, mostly uninhabited.
The young guy back banging on the roof all of a sudden. Ange turning the Land Cruiser into an opening among the trees, young guy jumped off, started covering the tyre tracks with fallen leaves and tree branches. Ange turned the engine off. We couldn't see the road from there. Young guy back, his double barrel off the shoulder. I took my Beretta, handed Ange the revolver, kept the knife.
After a while engines came up, big diesel ones. A convoy, a short one as they passed by. Two trucks, a jeep. We waited still.
Then young guy said "Andemu."
Two hours later we stopped by an old farmhouse. Rotten shutters, broken window panes except for a room.
Ange told me "We offload your stuff here."
Young guy came up with an old man, a shepherd, all of his goats all around the house by now. Two big, ugly dogs guarded the herd.
"We got cheese, we got bread, we got water. We'll stay here for some days," Ange said.
"Yves, pudete andà in casa è dì à a to mamma ch'ella averà u sangue ch'ella deve avè".
Young guy had a name by now, when he left.
