JК
The English Assassin :: Silva Daniel
Страница: 37 из 209Indeed, he tore around the island with a certain fatalistic abandon that had earned him the reputation of being something of a madman. At the moment he was racing along a windswept highway on the western edge of the island through a thick blanket of marine fog. Five miles on, he turned inland. As he climbed into the hills, the fog gave way to a clear blue afternoon sky. The autumn sunlight brought out the contrasting shades of green in the olive trees and Laricio pine. In the shadow of the trees were dense patches of gorse and brier and rockrose, the legendary Corsican undergrowth known as the macchia that had concealed bandits and murderers for centuries. The Englishman lowered his window. The warm scent of rosemary washed over his face.
Ahead of him stood a hill town, a cluster of sand-colored houses with red-tile roofs huddled around a bell tower, half in shadow, half in brilliant sunlight. In the background rose the mountains, ice-blue snow on the highest peaks. Ten years ago, when he had first settled here, the children would point at him with their index fingers and pinkies, the Corsican way of warding off the evil eye of a stranger. Now they smiled and waved as he sped through the town and headed up the cul-de-sac valley toward his villa.
Along the way he passed a paesanu working a small patch of vegetables at the roadside. The man peered at the Englishman, black eyes smoldering beneath the brim of his broad hat, and signaled his recognition with an almost imperceptible wave of his first two fingers. The old paesanu was one of the Englishman’s adopted clansmen. Farther up the road, a young boy called Giancomo stepped into his path and waved his arms for the Englishman to stop.
“Welcome home. Was your trip good?”
“Very good.”
“What did you bring me?”
“That depends.”
“On what?”
“On whether you watched my villa for me while I was away.”
“Of course I did, just as I promised.”
“Did anyone come?”
“No, I saw no one.”
“You’re quite sure?”
The boy nodded. From his suitcase the Englishman removed a beautiful satchel, handmade of fine Spanish leather, and handed it to the boy. “For your books-so you won’t lose them on the way home from school anymore.”
The boy pulled the satchel to his nose and smelled the new leather. Then he said: “Do you have any cigarettes?”
“You won’t tell your mother?”
“Of course not!”
The men pretended to rule Corsica, but the real power lay in the hands of the mothers. The Englishman handed the boy a half-empty packet.
He slipped the cigarettes into his satchel. “One more thing.
Ahead of him stood a hill town, a cluster of sand-colored houses with red-tile roofs huddled around a bell tower, half in shadow, half in brilliant sunlight. In the background rose the mountains, ice-blue snow on the highest peaks. Ten years ago, when he had first settled here, the children would point at him with their index fingers and pinkies, the Corsican way of warding off the evil eye of a stranger. Now they smiled and waved as he sped through the town and headed up the cul-de-sac valley toward his villa.
Along the way he passed a paesanu working a small patch of vegetables at the roadside. The man peered at the Englishman, black eyes smoldering beneath the brim of his broad hat, and signaled his recognition with an almost imperceptible wave of his first two fingers. The old paesanu was one of the Englishman’s adopted clansmen. Farther up the road, a young boy called Giancomo stepped into his path and waved his arms for the Englishman to stop.
“Welcome home. Was your trip good?”
“Very good.”
“What did you bring me?”
“That depends.”
“On what?”
“On whether you watched my villa for me while I was away.”
“Of course I did, just as I promised.”
“Did anyone come?”
“No, I saw no one.”
“You’re quite sure?”
The boy nodded. From his suitcase the Englishman removed a beautiful satchel, handmade of fine Spanish leather, and handed it to the boy. “For your books-so you won’t lose them on the way home from school anymore.”
The boy pulled the satchel to his nose and smelled the new leather. Then he said: “Do you have any cigarettes?”
“You won’t tell your mother?”
“Of course not!”
The men pretended to rule Corsica, but the real power lay in the hands of the mothers. The Englishman handed the boy a half-empty packet.
He slipped the cigarettes into his satchel. “One more thing.