The Rose Café Read Online Free PDF Page B

I work over there all day.” He lifted his head toward the barbershop. “I am tired at night.”
    â€œI saw you come out of the shop,” I said.
    â€œI work. As to the others …” He tilted his head and rolled his eyes.
    We talked on for a while from table to table while he sipped his pastis, all the while keeping an eye on the game of boules. At one point, one of the old men retired from the game and joined the barber, and they chatted for a while in French and then switched to the Corsican dialect.
    One of the reasons I liked living in Europe was that I was interested in languages. I was in the habit of eavesdropping on whatever conversations were going on in whatever language, even those I didn’t understand. Corsican (which shares a lot with the old Genoese dialect) was difficult, but I had at least learned that it was a lot like Italian, save that all the o ’s were u ’s. When I was there, nearly eighty percent of the people still spoke Corsican, although almost everybody also spoke French, the official language of the island. Nevertheless, most would identify Corsican as their first language, even though they used French every day. Early on, I learned that if I wanted to ingratiate myself with the older local people, I could switch to my broken Italian, whereupon they would often answer in dialect and soon lose me.
    I liked the interchange, though, and up in the little towns in the hills, I could often raise an amused appreciation among the old men lounging in the cafés by throwing in a few words in the local dialect.
    When the two men at the table next to me switched to Corsican I listened all the more carefully, trying to pick out phrases. Then I realized that they were talking about me.
    The older man broke off at one point and looked over.
    â€œ Eh! Americane ,” he winked, “ bourn boum .” He made the sign of dropping bombs, fluttering his hands downward. “But never mind,” he said, switching to French. “That’s all over now.”
    He rose and went back to the game, patting my shoulder as he passed.
    â€œHe’s from Bastia,” the barber said. “During the war the city was occupied by the Germans. In the autumn of 1943, they pulled out. After the Germans left, everybody comes out on the streets and starts to dance and drink. Big celebration. Everybody happy—finally, eh? Then, while they’re all out there dancing, the American bombers come in from Italy and let fly. Boum ! They thought the Germans were still there, you see. It was a disaster.”
    He rose, said he must be going, and shook my hand.
    Just as he was about to walk off, the tall man in the white suit rounded the corner and passed close by our table.
    â€œ Eh, Barbiere ,” he said in dialect as he passed. “How are you, old man?”
    â€œVery well, sir,” the barber said in French, “thank you very much. And you are well, I trust. And things go well at the villa?”
    â€œYes, yes, yes, all’s well,” said the tall man airily.
    He had smooth, tanned skin and very blue eyes that seemed to have an internal light of their own, and when he spoke, he looked down kindly at the dark-haired, hunched figure he was addressing. “You’ll let me know, will you?” he said, mysteriously.
    â€œBut of course, monsieur,” said the barber.
    We watched the tall man stride away across the square.
    I couldn’t help wondering, as we watched him leave, if he was one of the powerful local capu I had heard about, the notorious underworld figures, either French or Corsican, who control networks of smugglers and shady financiers, and maintain secluded havens in certain remote Corsican villages. This man seemed far too classy for such a role, as if the trifling concerns associated with money were below him. But for whatever reason, it was clear that he was accorded a great deal of respect from the locals.
    â€œHe’s a good