Chapter Seven: Living with the Dead

James Bond changed into the clothes Marc-Ange had provided him with. It was a simple white shirt that buttoned up the front and had billowing arms made of a heavy woven fabric that scratched at his skin like a luffa sponge. The pants were large as well; a dull, tan earth tone that secured about his waste with a tie cord. For his feet, there was a pair of brown walking shoes, which met the demands of the terrain well, as long as he didn't venture too deep into the maquis, or too high up the mountains.

A room had been prepared for Bond on the third storey of his father-in-law's home. With the last vestige of light dwindling away, Bond had been thankful to find electric lights awaited him, as well as a very modern bathroom off of his bedroom. His first move upon entering the room was to check the window, swinging it wide open to allow the evening air to breeze in. This high up, even in July, the mountain breeze was cool and made the light drapes dance back from the sill.

He was looking down over a back street that separated Marc-Ange's home from another row of housing, and then the outside wall. In the fading light, Bond could see an empty field beyond the wall, at the edge of which, stood a few low, broad buildings resembling stables, or possibly barracks. There were lights on inside these as well. Bond made a mental note to ask Draco about them, given the opportunity this evening.

Although the deep maquis was distant, there was still a fresh, green smell to the air, air delightfully free of the mechanized background chatter of most of the western world. The only sounds coming to him as he stood next to the open doorway were the night insects, the sounds of tables being set up out front of the house, and the chatter of the village children who still ruled the streets.

Bond ran some cold water in the bathroom (hot and cold water, another blessing) to splash on his face. He thought of shaving the stubble that was beginning to gather on his chin, but decided against it. Better to look a little rough and fit in. With his dark hair and the clothing that had been provided, he wouldn't stand out too much until he opened his mouth. Although his French was excellent, and he could easily pass for a Parisian, the Corsican accent was difficult to emulate, and the Corsican language, that odd mesh of Italian, French, and a half dozen other tongues, was a mystery to him. He ran his wet hands through his hair a few times, and then brushed it back. Standing away from the mirror, he thought he resembled a poor man's Errol Flynn, sans the moustache.

He'd felt strange climbing the stairs of the huge house, his new clothes folded in his arms. His father-in-law was a loving, exuberant man, and yet, the place was empty. He had little doubt he and Marc-Ange were the only ones there. This was a powerful man, who was obviously well liked by the loyal villagers who shared the compound, but his home was not filled with family in a culture where nothing mattered more. His wife and only daughter, dead, and no grandchildren to scurry about the tiled floors of his mansion. Bond felt another pang of guilt; was part of this legacy his fault as well? Teresa might very well have lived if Bond had just walked away from her that first night, lived and raised a family that could have made this man truly happy. Bond let the old thought creep into his head as to what his and Tracy's children may have looked like had they been given the time.

There was something different to Marc-Ange this time, however. Toussaint had mentioned the Capu's recent happiness, and now Bond had witnessed an extra verve to the man he'd never seen before. Was it possible the wily old Corsican had found someone to share his Amour de vie with? He didn't sense a female touch, or smell, to the house, and yet, this was no guarantee. Although quite the bandit d'honneur in his younger days, the older Capu was more conservative. Maybe he was taking his time. This brought a rare smile to Bond's face.

"What are you doing up there, James?" Marc-Ange called from the bottom of the stairs. "You take more time to get ready than a woman. The musicians are set to play, and the people grow hungry."

Bond took in the street that greeted him and Marc-Ange as they stepped out the front door. In addition to a huge, blazing roasting pit off to the right, there were oil lamps everywhere; glass bowls of every colour imaginable. They lined the tables set in a circle on the stone paved streets, they were also strung from cords which criss-crossed overhead the entire setting, and they were set on staffs around the perimeter. The colours of the lamps decorated the white facades of the houses and the grey stones of the wall with flickering, stained glass beauty.

Toussaint may have been a little liberal in his estimate of the village's population, Bond found, for there were well over two hundred people gathered about the scene, standing in circles or seated at the numerous tables. So far, the two of them hadn't drawn much attention.

Bond turned to his father-in-law, only to find the older man observing his reactions.

"We are a simple people, James, but we still appreciate the things that are best in life."

"Where in God's name did all the tables come from? I can't imagine you just called a caterer." There were about thirty wooden tables in the circle, each with its own lamp, plates, and dining ware.

"The families each bring their own kitchen table, along with at least one meal item, and an ample supply of wine."

A sea of faces slowly began to turn toward the two men who still stood at the entrance of Marc-Ange's home. As the conversations slowly died down to near silence except for the chattering of the children, Marc-Ange raised his arms above himself and silenced the remaining voices with gestures of quiet. So much for keeping a low profile, thought Bond.

"My friends," Marc-Ange said loudly in French. "My son has come to visit me from England. This brings much joy to my heart, as does your honouring us so with this feast. All I ask is that you treat him as one of your own, and share with him the same love you share with me."

There was a cheer of acknowledgement from the crowd, and a few shouts of greeting directed toward Bond. He smiled and nodded in return.

"And men, watch you daughters, lest you find you have an English son-in-law of your own." Laughter erupted from those gathered. "Now," the Capu concluded. "Let us eat together."

As they descended the final steps, several of the villagers came up to clap Bond on the back and shake his hand. James would have taken this as an attempt to win good favour with Marc-Ange, but there was genuine affection in the eyes of those who greeted him.

The five-man band, replete with guitars and light percussion equipment, began to play from somewhere near the roasting pit, and the party began in earnest. At some point a glass of rosé was thrust into his hand, a glass that would never be empty throughout the evening.

The villagers had taken a cue from Marc-Ange's address and were all speaking French.

Toussaint was one of the first to pump his hand, and the old, leathery Corsican surprised Bond by introducing him to his own family with an out-stretched arm.

"My wife, Emma," the woman was even more wrinkled than her husband, but greeted Bond with kisses to both cheeks which he returned in kind.

"I raised Teresa from the time she was a little girl," she told him, tears standing in her eyes. "After her mother left us. They tell me you killed this man Blofeld with your bare hands, I just hope he is in Hell and knows what he took from all of us."

Bond hugged her and gave her thanks. The truth, he knew, was that men like Blofeld killed without thought. They had no more sympathy for those they murdered than they would for an insect they stepped on while walking down the street.

Several of the parents that approached him were more than zealous in introducing him to their unmarried daughters of proper age. Bond showered them with compliments, all the time watching Marc-Ange laughing at, and winking to, him.

Finally, after twenty minutes of hand pressing, back clapping, kissing, and embracing, he and Marc-Ange took their places at, true to his word, Draco's kitchen table, which had been brought out to join the circle. Bond's mind was overwhelmed with more than a hundred names and faces, attempting to commit all to memory.

The unmarried women of the village, most of whom Bond had been introduced to, were now buzzing about, swooping down and filling glasses like a flock of seagulls feeding on bread crumbs. Bond's glass had garnered special attention, and seemed to be refilled after every draught he took.

"If their intention is to get me drunk," he told Marc-Ange. "It isn't necessary. They are an attractive lot."

Marc-Ange laughed.

"You are correct. Corsican women are devoted and beautiful. You see in them the comeliness of the French and Italians, but the Corsican heart beating within is the true prize. This is a world that doesn't understand devotion any longer, but here, things are the same as they've always been. I truly don't care if I ever leave this place again. All those years I spent living in France," he spat on the ground after the last, disgusted. "it taught me to appreciate what I have here."

"But then why did you marry an Englishwoman?" Bond couldn't help but point out the irony. The women were now passing out long baguettes to each of the table settings. As the guest, Bond was served first, the woman who handed it to him held the bread for a moment after Bond had taken it. Bond looked up into a beautiful, dark oval face with rounded lips and brilliant green eyes. She winked at him and gave a laugh before moving on to the next table.

Marc-Ange watched all of this with good humour.

"If you grow up on a fine vineyard, always drinking the best vintages the world has to offer, then a Coca Cola may taste exciting and exotic to you. It is hard to have perspective as a young man. But I don't say this to insult my dear wife, God rest her soul. Her heart would have made a fine Corsican, although it was hard to keep her happy here. She took a bandit, and helped make him into a respected, educated man. Much like my daughter, I had a taste for the English. I guess I still do."

The last caught Bond's attention, and he was going to comment upon it, but a steaming bowl of what smelled like ambrosia was placed in front of him by the beauty with green eyes.

"My God," he said. "This smells like heaven."

"It is Cabrettu a l'istrettu, it is a kid stew, filled with the herbs of the maquis. I hope your repressed English palate is ready for a shock."

James Bond took a sip of the broth, and his appetite roared to life. The soup was spicy, but thick with flavour. He tore off a piece of baguette, and attacked the dish voraciously.

"Save some, James," Marc-Ange informed him. "Everything we eat tonight will be traditional Corsican. I told them to give you a taste of the land."

For the first time since Houston, Bond felt himself beginning to relax. The rosé was full and kept on coming. Before the first course was done, his head was swimming and he was talking and laughing with the people of the surrounding tables as if he'd been there all his life.

Next up were rolls stuffed with goat, lamb, and black bird that Marc-Ange called Stifatu. Following the lead of the people at the tables about him, Bond picked up a roll with his hands and bit into it. The band had ceased playing by now, and they too had joined in the meal and wine.

A pair of village men were carving the pigs Bond had smelled roasting all evening, and the bounty was delivered to the tables by the girls. They were at a distance, but he could swear that he recognized one of the young carvers. He attempted to place the man, but drew a blank. Besides, he decided, there were so many new names and faces, everyone looked familiar.

"The swine are brought in from the Castagniccia where they have been raised on chestnuts," Marc-Ange informed him.

The pork was smoky and had a sweet, nutty quality to it. Bond had eaten and drank more than he had known was wise, but the sense of community and safety here was compelling enough that he was willing to let his guard down, or at least give it a rest.

Toussaint and his family were seated at the table directly to Bond's left. In addition to Emma, there was also a daughter, Michele, who still lived at home. Toussaint had made no secret of what fine wife material she would be. Bond placed the girl's age in her late twenties, practicably an old maid by Corsican standards. Le Pouff had also introduced his son, Jaques, who had a family of his own, and was seated at the table at the left of his parents'.

James Bond was as close to inebriated as he allowed himself to become. Even though it was summer, the air was becoming chillier as a breeze worked its way over the high walls of the compound. The hair rose on his arms and an involuntary shiver shook him for a moment.

"The mountains provide our air conditioning," the always-observant Marc-Ange told him. "Once everyone has had a chance to make peace with their meal, and have a few more glasses of wine to aid in digestion, the dancing will begin. A little physical activity will warm your blood nicely."

"I feel more like sleeping after that meal. It may be best if I were to just retire early." What Bond truly wanted to say was he didn't feel much like prancing about like a fool, especially so soon after Sam. But Marc-Ange would have none of his denials.

"That is nonsense, James. It would be an insult to these people to deny them your presence after such a fuss was made over your arrival. Dancing with a good Corsican woman would help you forget the cold, and whatever else may need forgetting. The dead don't care what you do, all you will accomplish in mourning, is not living yourself."

And so he was resigned to an evening of living it up.

He drank, he ate, and he said the right things to the sea of jovial faces. As the hour grew later, and the last of the day's light retreated to the west leaving the scene to the lights of the lamps, and the brilliant, unpolluted view of the stars above, some of the older villagers drifted by Marc-Ange's table to bid the Capu a good evening. The ever-present army of children also began to disappear as their parents escorted them to their early bedtimes, although their faces would later appear again in their bedroom windows, once the dancing began.

Once the meal was done, as the musicians began to stretch their fingers, Marc-Ange prodded James into saying a few words to the crowd.

As he rose to his feet, checking his balance along the way, Bond looked to the roasting pit, where the two cooks were cleaning the spits after having stripped the last of the pork away from the bones. The young man whom Bond found so familiar was looking over the crowd as well as he performed his duties, apparently searching for someone.

The crowd acknowledged Bond with a greeting of claps and whistles, and he silenced them with the same motioning of the arms that had been so effective for Marc-Ange. As he gave his simple words of thanks, he kept a trained eye on the man by the pit. One great advantage of his SIS training was being able to watch without giving his attention away from the crowd.

The young man had apparently found his own object of attention as his gaze had locked onto the green-eyed angel who had been serving Bond. Even from this distance, Bond could recognize the look of longing in the young man's eyes, and assume the man was readying his personal dance card for the evening. There was a slight tweak of competition in Bond's heart, for the flirtatious girl was certainly a beauty, and had aroused more than just his attention.

"I can see the musicians are ready," Bond was closing as the girl grew near with her apparently bottomless jug of wine. "Many of you here, knew my wife, Teresa. I live in a world far away from this place, with only a few pictures and my memories of her. But with Marc-Ange, and all of you here, it makes her seem much closer. I thank you for that, even more than I thank you for this wonderful meal."

As James sat down and quickly dispatched his glass of rosé, the crowd responded with more clapping. Marc-Ange was slyly grinning at him.

"One day in Corsica, James, and you have already begun to exhibit more heart. Either that, or you're beginning to soften with age."

This were not welcome words to Bond's ears. Sentiment equalled sloppiness in his profession. He'd given in to it before, after Tracy's death, and has almost lost himself, and his life, because of it.

He slapped Marc-Ange on the back, "More than likely, it's just the drink."

The older man laughed and shook his head as if to say he knew better.

The musicians laid their tuned instruments aside, and began to sing a ballad in harmonious polyphony, the distinctive musical tradition of the Corsican people. Couples began to join hands and slip between the tables and into the ring created by the diners. Wishing to hide from his own sentimentality, Bond thankfully turned away when someone tapped his shoulder from behind.

He turned to look into the face of his angel. Her long dark hair was pinned above her head in a loose bun, displaying a long, beautiful neck. Her tan peasant dress was sloped to reveal a shoulder. Her skin was lighter than most Corsicans, and seemed to breath luminescence in the pulsing light of the coloured glass lanterns. Bond found the urge to bury his face in that skin somewhat disturbing when juxtaposed with the thoughts of his wife that had filled him moments earlier. But if there had been a lesson he'd learned today, from the gravestones on the hill to Marc-Ange's words, it was, that in Corsica, the dead were never that far away, and that the best way to honour them was to go on living yourself.

She smiled at him in response to his quick perusal of her athletic, well-sculpted figure. The girl reached out and brushed the comma of black hair that had fallen over his eye back into place.

"Would you honour me with your first dance, Monsieur Bond?" Bond turned to Marc-Ange Draco, who shrugged his shoulders and laughed.

"I would honour you in any way you would like," Bond replied, rising to his feet. "But please, call me James. And you are?"

The girl had taken his hand in her delicate fingers and was beginning to tug him along.

"My name is Marie-Claude, you know, like the ballerina," with this, she giggled and pulled him forward again.

"Marie!" a male voice called from behind them.

The woman and Bond turned together. It was the man from beside the fire, but up close there was no mistaking his features, and Bond was confronted with yet another Corsican ghost.

"Che Che?" Bond stuttered, knowing he was speaking the name of a dead man.

In what seemed a task requiring great effort, the young man looked away from Marie to Bond.

"Yes," he replied in perfect, well-educated English. "I am Che Che, but a different one than you would remember, Mr. Bond."

This was for certain, for the Che Che Bond had known had been spread over the top of Piz Gloria in a vicious explosion during their raid of Blofeld's base.

"He is his father's image, is he not?" Marc-Ange chirped from the table a few feet away.

That he was. He towered over Bond, at a muscular six and a half foot tall, and had the same yellow-brown eyes and splayed ears. He even had the elder's horribly bent, broken nose. His hair, like most Corsicans, was jet black, and he had dark, olive-coloured skin. Le Persuadeur had not been a beautiful man, and his son was his spitting image.

"And the young lady whose hand you're holding is his fiancée," Che Che added.

Up to this point, Marie-Claude had gone silent, lost in the English language, which was clearly unknown to her, but the word "fiancée" was French enough for her ears.

"Intentions, do not count, Che Che! I have not accepted your proposal, and to shut me out by speaking about me in Englis is not going to prod me in the right direction," Marie was shouting now, as only the hot-blooded women of the Mediterranean can. Bond had always found the tempers of Corsican, Italian, and Greek women added spice to their beauty. And their wrathful indignation was almost always a conscious, passionate display, like a male peacock spreading his plumage.

So Bond watched with inner amusement as Che Che, a powerful, giant of a man, took a step back from the girl.

Brought in by the scene, and the chance for some local gossip, a small crowd had begun to gather. Bond realised what was a beautiful distraction for him, was obviously the love of this young man's life, and he was beginning to look for a way to bow out before the young man lost too much face. Bond knew well, it was never a wise thing to cause a Corsican undue embarrassment; besides, he was indebted to Che Che's father who might still be alive if it hadn't been for Bond's lust to bring Blofeld down.

Very aware of the watching eyes, Che Che tried to recover.

"Marie, whether you have agreed, or not, you have told me of your love, and have returned mine. You may dance with your handsome stranger all night, but shouldn't you save the first dance for the man who will be your husband?"

Marie-Claude seemed to weigh this for a moment, taking in the attention of the crowd, and obviously having fun with the situation while Che Che was agonizingly twisting in the wind.

"Why not a contest for the young lady's attentions?" Marc-Ange suggested with a grin.

Bond rolled his eyes, and resisted the temptation to kick his father-in-law. But Marie's face lit up with excitement; the idea of two men competing for her favour was obviously very appealing to the girl.

The gathering had grown larger now. Several of the dancing couples had stopped and joined the assembly, which numbered now thirty people or more, and they cheered at the proposal of a contest.

"A test," Marie shouted, and the crowd responded. She turned and whispered something to Toussaint's daughter who stood up from her table and ran off delightedly into the dark to fetch something.

Che Che shook his head, but now wore a determined look on his face. He shrugged his shoulders at Bond, as if to say there was little he could do.

Bond now welcomed the situation, however. This was his way out. All he had to do was lose whatever game was at hand, and Che Che could have his dance, and regain his stature. He never welcomed losing, but his lusty thoughts for Marie had been replaced by lusty thoughts of a good night's sleep in a firm bed. Too much wine and good food were beginning to catch up with him.

Michele returned with a live hen tucked under an arm. This was not a heavy, egg-laying bird, but a thin, free-range chicken, the same kind that had been skittering about the streets when Bond had first ridden into town that afternoon.

Marie took the offered bird and held it high to the crowd's delight.

"The game is simple," she declared. "Whoever returns with the hen, will accompany me this evening." She winked at Bond vivaciously; making it obvious to everyone the winner might look forward to more than a dance.

Bond was more concerned about Che Che now, who appeared to be steaming as his beloved played the part of a trollop, even if it was clear she was just trying to goad him on.

The girl threw the bird into the air and the crowd cheered yet again. Neither man moved, at first, as the hen struck the ground, and rather than bolting, just stood there and began to make short work of some of the table droppings from the meal.

Instead, Che Che turned to Bond, and offered his hand to him.

"I apologise in advance, Mr. Bond," he once again spoke in English. "I have nothing but respect for you, but I must win this."

Bond, impressed, reached out his own hand, and was about to tell this new Che Che to call him "James" when the other man used that unpredictable, Corsican quickness that made them so adept at hand-to-hand and knife fights to grab the agent's pro-offered hand. He lifted it high in the air while walking under their joined arms and twisting Bond so the agent's arm was driven up behind his own back. It was a basic move, and one for which Bond knew a dozen counters, but it was performed so quickly there was no time to respond. The muscular Corsican then proved his strength by grabbing Bond's left shoulder with his left hand, while still pinning the smaller man's right arm behind his back with his own, and throwing the agent cleanly over Toussaint's family table and out of the circle.

The crowd roared their approval as Bond came crashing down on the far side of the table, only to find himself laying on top of Emma, Toussaint's wife, who had cushioned his fall.

Bond started to apologize, but before he could say more than a couple of words, Emma kissed him on his cheek that was only inches from her own. "Fear not, James," she informed him. "Corsican women are tough, now go get him."

Bond turned back to the circle in a three-point stance. Having lost face of his own now, and being more than slightly inebriated, he had now decided he would compete for the young lady's attentions after all.

The bird, now pursued, had bolted, and Che Che was close behind. Bond rose from his stance like a hurdler and leaped over the upended table and back into the chase.

The band had changed their pace to a faster version of the traditional song A ghjallina to keep pace with the action. The remaining dancers, oblivious to the contest, began to dance more animatedly, almost polkaing to the faster melody.

The chicken, following instinct, sought shelter amongst the forest of the dancer's legs.

Che Che excused his way into the crowd in pursuit, trying to gently pry his way between the couples, but Bond would have none of it. He ploughed into the crowd and leapt onto the back of the larger man, sending both of them sprawling to the ground, a sea of bodies falling about them.

The crowd moved along with them to keep a better eye on the action, but oblivious to Bond, several newcomers had joined the villagers.

He regained his feet quickly, as Che Che struggled beneath him. Bond looked about for the bird, spotting it skirting beneath the tables on the far side of the circle, making for the relative safety of a small grove of olive trees growing along the perimeter wall. The lamps ended at the trees, and if the bird made it beyond them, Marie-Claude would just have to dance by herself this evening.

Bond bolted for the tables between him and the bird, quite aware of the heavy foot falls raining down directly behind him.

With an audience of more than a hundred now, not counting the children at their windows, following the action, Bond leaped into the air once again, planning to clear the tables as he'd done a few moments before. The chicken was less than fifteen feet away, catching its breath beneath the first olive tree at the edge of the clearing.

Instead of clearing the tables, two vice-like hands grabbed onto his trailer leg while he was still airborne, and awkwardly twisted and snapped his body about in mid air. He screamed as his back and leg were jerked about like a bent wire, and the crowd gasped at what had once been playful fun, but was now taking a vicious turn.

Still airborne, Bond was swung back around in a 360 degree circle, his own momentum being used against him, and was thrown over the tables, clearing them much less gracefully than he'd originally intended.

Even in pain, Bond had still been sharp enough to catch the new face in attendance, as he'd been swung about. There was a lithe looking red head with short-cropped hair that couldn't have looked less Corsican if she'd been wearing mouse ears and EuroDisney T-shirts. She was attired in solid black garb and wore a Kalashnikov Saiga-410 semi-automatic shotgun slung over her shoulder. She had a scowl on what would have otherwise been an attractive face. She had her hands on her hips, her whole body an expression of disgust. Bond recognized the girl from her file, Feale McCann, one of the IRA's higher-ranked assassins, standing amongst the people of Mounte Paese as if she had been born and raised there. His last thought, before striking the ground in a semi-conscious heap, was that he'd been delivered unto the enemy.

Bond couldn't move, much less rise, to defend himself, but his eyes were still open, recording the events before them.

He could see Che Che push the tables aside, still in pursuit of the hen, but now taking his time, clucking gently and snapping his fingers at the unhurried bird. There was no need for a chase with the competition disabled.

Someone ran up to Bond from the side and knelt down next to him, it was Marie. She was crying and whispering apologies to him. She had only been playing, she assured him, and no one was supposed to get hurt. She loved Che Che, but Corsican men could be so crazy sometimes.

Bond was starting to come to his senses and raised an arm to the quiet the girl.

"Behind you," he groaned.

Marie turned and screamed. McCann had drawn a flat-bladed throwing knife, and cocked it back with a straight arm, as any well-trained individual would. It was a Colt 18, a fine weapon, Bond's groggy mind registered, and one he'd used himself. The blade was held perfectly horizontal between her thumb and forefinger.

Though still defenceless, Bond didn't close his eyes; he wanted to see his death coming.

The arm came forward and the knife slid perfectly from her fingers. A nice throw, was all Bond could think, very professional form.

The weapon sliced through the air, sailing by Che Che's shoulder, and pinned the neck of the hen against the base of the olive tree where it twitched and sputtered for a few moments before surrendering the ghost.

Che Che turned back to face the woman with his own expression of disgust.

"Feale, what the hell did you do that for?"

The woman strode forward in a purposeful fashion. She pulled her knife from the tree, and picked up the dead chicken. Wiping her blade clean on the feathers, she walked over to where Marie sat, bent over Bond.

Marie-Claude was quickly wiping away her tears as the other woman stood above her like a disapproving goddess. Feale McCann dropped the nearly beheaded chicken at the other woman's side, and then turned to go.

Bond was confused as all hell, but before he could analyse the situation too much, McCann turned back around, walked over to where he lay crumpled, and pulled back her foot, issuing a vicious kick to his already bruised rib cage.

James Bond clenched his eyes at the pain, and heard the Irish woman's footfalls stomping away.

When he opened his eyes again, Marc-Ange's horizontal, but still-grinning face filled his entire field of view. "James, meet my little ball of hate."