Corsican Jazz 4
by Zulfikar Ahmetovic
Back to the old house. Back with the big menacing dogs, back with the sheep.
Some water, some food, some rest.
Me splashed into a worn huge armchair.
Some nap.
Then Jeannot talking to me, soft toned. Almost not to be overheard by Ange.
His own amazing good English.
“We’re all like relatives, here. There are things that might ease you in understanding why we’re helping you here, I mean helping your club so to call it.
We all have businesses to keep running.
We all go way back.
I was a soldier, I told you.
All soldiers get their hands bloodstained. Sooner or later.
I’m still a soldier, but for my own group only.
Look at me, mr out of nowhere coming up with a huge load of - say - useful devices, with some good money to compensate us for the efforts we’re going to endure”.
He lit a Gitane, passed another one to me.
We smoke, silently.
“Look at me, look at this aging shepherd of mine.
After all I did, do you really believe these sheep and dogs is all what’s left to me in this life?
We all guys won’t make it to paradise after kicking off this temporary world.
Me I have a couple of seaside resorts on the island where I can’t step foot freely.
Also an apartment in NY where I can’t obviously travel to, back from my own youth misdeeds.
Think you’ve seen that old movie starring Gene Hackman.
French Connection we were”.
He blinked.
“I was a kingpin of heroin smuggling back in my days. I even own that nightclub in Ajaccio… that’s where it all began for my friend here.
I’d like to spare him some sorrow so that’s why I’m telling you some of this.
To let you understand we have our deepest reasons to help you through this task of yours. And of the Company that owns you deep into your bones.
My friend here had a nice girlfriend in Ajaccio.
She was the daughter of that old lady you met while on the road to this rundown mansion of mine.
She was nice and young.
She wanted to rule the world.
But she grew up in a small small village in the mountains.
This island of ours is a small universe by itself.
She was engaged to Ange, I had a nice job for her in my nightclub.
She was at the cloakroom, good tips and all.
Plus chances to meet nice people vacationing here.
Then that officer came up to the scene.
He couldn’t have approached her, that is to say.
We’re a sort of a family indeed. She knew it. She was Angel’s girlfriend.
That guy simply couldn’t approach her.
But someway she stepped into a weird situation she had not contributed to.
And that officer snuffed her. In a bad way too,
In a way that deeply hurt me.
So that’s a reason to help you.
We want him to pay for this.
That’s why I’ll pull that trigger on him.”
Jeannot had a far looking sadness in his eyes.
I bet there was much to be told, still I didn’t intend to force him.
Ange was laying on a sofa. Deep in his sleep. Snoring.
Jeannot kept talking.
“Look a him, now. This brokenhearted cousin of mine. Don’t even think it’s just pain.
It’s revenge he needs.
It’s revenge we all need.
The officer had military judges on his side.
They set up a fake enquiry.
They put him 2 hrs drive away from the killing place and time.
He simply walked away. Graciously. Like nothing happened.
They put the whole load of it on a loner out of his mind.
An addict.
They forcefully had him admit his guilt.
They put him in the same prison block where one of Yvan Colonna’s enemies was.
They had him smashed to brain death with a tube. A still breathing vegetable of his is all that remains.
Case closed. Period.”
I nodded.
A bit amazed by the confidence.
Like there was much more behind.
“And this sorrowful cousin of mine used to be a hand of God bank robber by the way.
Welcome into what still exists of our group, Zulfy from Jugoslavia, or whatever your real name is.
We used to be the Brize de Mer.
Back then.
We’re survivors with a deep wish of revenge.”
I had to make my move.
Now or never.
I asked him some proof of what he said.
He nodded, stood up, went down a ladder and came up with a bunch of old local newspapers.
Handed them to me.
Titles
Articles.
He looked at me reading French as if it was my own language.
Skipping through pages.
Names, places.
That officer came up and disappeared.
His name hidden.
Just initials (F. L., to remember).
Plus a little bit of news withholded after page 2.
The girl from Corsica was not the only one victim.
There was another name.
A non French name.
A male’s name.
That soon disappeared from the pages.
Like if some garbage to be disposed.
I faked it went unnoticed by me.
To be continued
