Corsican Gold: An Archaeological Thriller (A Darwin Lacroix Adventure), page 1
Corsican Gold
A Darwin Lacroix Adventure
Dave Bartell
Copyright © 2021 by Dave Bartell
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
ISBN 978-1-7328626-7-8
1
Darwin Lacroix lay on a bench, watching the sky grow pale. As the last of the stars winked out, he shivered despite hugging a blanket against his tightly drawn hoodie. Below decks, the ferry’s massive engines churned the Mediterranean Sea en route to Corsica.
Turning his head port side, he studied the black mountainous silhouette that trapped the sunrise on the island’s far side. Now an administrative region of France, the former Genoese island lay nearer to Rome than Paris and Darwin knew it kept a ferociously independent streak.
The dawn breeze washed over the vessel, and he sniffed to catch the scent of maquis, the island’s dense vegetation, but they were too far out. Instead, he conjured its woody fragrance, a heady combination of rosemary, juniper, sage, and lavender, but infused with an indigenous plant that gave off a sandalwood aroma.
The smell kindled memories of his grandparents’ mansion in Ajaccio harbor, today’s destination. Built during the height of the Lacroix shipping empire, its three floors and basement were a child’s delight for exploration and hide-and-seek. His always busy brain untangled as he envisioned the more carefree time.
Darwin had traveled all over the world as a child of archaeologist parents, but blindfold him and drop him in Corsica and, in one sniff, he would know where he was. He breathed in again, but only got sea air and diesel fumes from the funnel high overhead. Still, the daydreams pulled at him until his stomach growled from the thought of his grand-mère’s cooking.
The engine’s vibration dropped, signaling the ferry was about to arc into the harbor. He sat up. Rolled the blanket and made his way to the galley, where the staff hurried between customers.
“Bonjour,” said Darwin.
“Bonjour,” replied a woman behind the counter. Her eyebrows knitted together as she looked at him.
He caught her glance and, looking in the mirror along the bar’s back wall, brought up a hand to smooth the unruly mop of dark-brown hair. He remembered now forgetting to go to the barber in London.
“Un triple cappuccino, s’il vous plaît,” he said.
“Tripler?”
“Oui. Et, un pain au chocolat.”
She shrugged and turned to the espresso machine. The baristas in Darwin’s London coffee shops had become used to the peculiar request, and, as the steam hissed, he replayed the reason for this last-minute visit to Corsica. He and his dad had argued over Darwin wanting to take a gap year after having just completed a double major in philosophy and history.
His father, Olivier, had proposed a graduate degree in archaeology, but Darwin felt it narrowed his focus too much and had told his dad, “I want to keep my options open.” His mother, Carmen, the peacemaker between the headstrong men, suggested he visit his grandparents in Corsica. “Your grandmother’s health is declining. She’d love to see you.”
Olivier Lacroix had grown up in Ajaccio, Corsica and gone to university in Paris. He and Carmen Mendoza had met while on an archaeological dig in her native Puerto Rico. The couple first settled in Paris and, later, achieved professorships at prestigious London universities: Carmen as a neurolinguist and Olivier as an archaeologist, specializing in ancient Rome.
The server placed his order on the counter and moved to the next customer. “Merci,” said Darwin. He walked aft, pushing through a swinging door and sitting on the same bench. He sipped the fiery liquid as Corsica’s coastline swept past. Its verdant slopes gave way to a rocky shoreline interspersed with coves and beaches. Homes and small hotels hugged the coast and grew denser as they passed the Sanguinaires islands and turned into Ajaccio harbor.
The ferry’s horn blasted, announcing its arrival. At once, the familiar fragrance of Ajaccio swept over the rail mixed with the savory undercurrent of the maquis. Darwin inhaled deeply. Home.
2
He finished the cappuccino as the medieval citadel slid by, its days as a fortress long past. Corsica’s southwest mountain range splayed toward the sea, forming a natural harbor at Ajaccio, the island’s capital city where the Lacroix family had headquartered its shipping business in the late 1600s. The company had prospered by deftly catering to the competing factions that tried to rule Corsica and to Napoléon Bonaparte, born in Ajaccio, who gave rich contracts to his friends, the Lacroixes, during his campaigns. A rumor still circulated that when Napoléon’s fleet laid over in Corsica after its discoveries in Egypt, not all the treasures made it through to Paris.
Darwin remained on the upper deck, avoiding the ever-aggressive seagulls looking to steal a meal, while the ferry’s bow engines maneuvered the craft into port. He waited a few more minutes after docking to avoid the rush to disembark. Had he been in a hurry, he would have flown from Nice to Ajaccio. After watching a jet take off from the airport next to the harbor, he headed down the gangplank.
Partway across the quayside car park, he ducked under the guide rope toward the marina where dozens of working vessels shifted their fresh catches into waiting lorries. Closer to the shops and restaurants, the pleasure craft occupied the pricier berths and the docks that swept outward to hundreds of sail- and powerboats. Ajaccio’s waterfront had layered a modern façade over its old-world charm in the way a tourist destination pretties itself to attract holiday-goers seeking a simpler time but with all the big-city amenities.
He angled across the rail station, crossed Cours Napoléon, the harbor boulevard onto the main neighborhood street, and, a block later, turned right on Rue des Orangers to Maison Lacroix. Built in 1783, the three-storey structure featured a stone facade on its lowest floor, topped by straw-gold stucco. The sun cast a shadow from the portico and already radiated the day’s heat from the terra-cotta roof.
He opened the front door, calling out in Corsican, “Bonghjornu, sò qu, good morning, I’m here.”
“Darwin!” came his grand-mère, Marguerite’s voice from deep in the house, along with a rich coffee aroma. She met him in the hall coming out of the kitchen and, after kisses, threw her arms around his neck. He noticed she felt thinner but was still strong. “I’ve missed you so,” she said, stepping back to study his face. Her green eyes, while moist, still gleamed brightly. His grand-père Emelio squeezed in, mashing Darwin in a lung-emptying embrace.
“It’s great to see you,” he said, slapping Darwin’s back. “You must be hungry. I know your appetite. C’mon, breakfast is ready.”
Darwin scooped up a plate of food and carried it to an outside table laid with a bright cotton cloth. He took a couple of bites of omelet before the ravenous cauldron in his belly demanded faster intake. Two minutes later, he returned to the kitchen for more.
3
After breakfast and a shower, Darwin rejoined his grandparents on the back patio to begin a casual day reconnecting after an absence. They peppered him with questions about school, his sister just beginning her university studies, and his parents. He answered everything, enjoying the chance to speak freely without the interruption and judgment he experienced with his mom and dad. Here, in Ajaccio, Emelio and Marguerite were content with having him be himself. They had lived their entire lives in Ajaccio, meeting when she had arrived with her diplomat father in 1956. After marrying in Paris and traveling early in Emelio’s career, they had settled into a quiet life in Corsica. During a pause in the conversation, Darwin looked across the garden and tried to imagine the old Corsica where news came by ship with long gaps between exchanges.
Later that day, Darwin walked with his grand-mère to shop for dinner, carrying the basket that she loaded as they visited the various stands in the covered market. When nearly completed, they stopped in a pâtisserie where Marguerite satisfied her sweet tooth with a raspberry tart.
Darwin held her chair as she sat at a café table outside. Dappled sunlight spilled through the trees, and a light breeze caused the shadows to dance on the teak slats. While Marguerite sighed at a mouthful of her pastry, he sipped his coffee and gazed at people milling about the square.
“I have a suggestion for you,” she said after swallowing.
“About?” He returned his attention to her.
“I hear your frustration. Young life offers so many choices, and it’s heart-wrenching to pick one door that leaves others closed. Your father and grand-père mean well, but you are the one who must choose. And, remember, it’s not an either-or choice. Taking a gap year only delays graduate school, not eliminate it.”
“I know, but…” He paused, his brain sucked into a tornado of possibilities.
“Follow your heart. Not what others want for you. Your mother didn’t tell you what to do. No, she sent you on a journey. Let me recommend another for you.”
He listened as they finished their pastries and, then, they bought red mullet from the fish seller and stopped in the boulangerie for baguette fresh from the oven. As they strolled back to Rue des Orangers, his grand-mère slipped an arm in his. He felt lighter even as she leaned on him for su
4
The following morning, Darwin set off on Marguerite’s suggested journey to visit a Lacroix family friend who was the lead archaeologist at a Palaeolithic site near Filitosa. Hélène had worked sites in southern Corsica going on four decades and his grand-mère had said, “She can give you an unbiased perspective.”
Darwin began the day by walking through the gate left perennially ajar in the back garden of the home of Mateo, Emelio’s lifelong friend. The well-worn path between their houses testified to each spending half his time visiting the other. He paused to take in Mateo’s lush roses, whose fragrance rivaled any Parisian parfumerie.
The vibrant floral canopy danced with foraging bees. The air thrummed like a bow drawn slowly across a double bass. A hand went reflexively to his left ear at the memory of a boyhood sting while hiding among the flowers before he moved on, past the house, to a detached garage that opened onto the street.
“Bonghjornu, Mateo,” Darwin said to the old man, lovingly polishing the windscreen of a lemon-yellow Citroën 2CV that gleamed like the day it rolled off the production line.
“Bonghjornu, Darwin.” Mateo embraced him, then stepped back while squeezing Darwin’s shoulders in a powerful grip. “Look at you. A grown man. When did I see you last? Hmm. Too long.”
Darwin flushed. It had been three years.
“Ah, never mind. You’re young. There’s nothing in Corsica for you. People come for a holiday and leave the living to us old people.”
Mateo reviewed how to operate the car, and Darwin patiently let him describe the steering column shift and sensitive clutch. “It’s like making love to a woman. You move carefully but with a confident touch.” He laughed at a line Darwin had heard more than a few times.
“Where will you go?” asked Mateo.
“Filitosa.”
“Ah, the menhirs? Emelio said you might follow in his footsteps. Not much money in archaeology, though.”
Darwin gave an evasive answer knowing that Mateo could talk the paint off walls. Eager to get under way, he asked, “When should I bring the car back?”
Mateo shrugged. “Keep it. I’ve no place to go. Park at Emelio’s. I know where to find you.”
5
The Citroën, having been warmed up while Darwin walked over, drove smoothly down Mateo’s street and past Rue des Orangers. While waiting for a break in traffic, Darwin glanced at a video crew at the quayside car park and, on a whim, pulled into the marina. After parking, he approached a boat where three men were loading gear. The boat’s captain stowed waterproof boxes below deck and came back to the stern.
“Bonghjornu,” said Darwin.
“Bonghjornu,” grunted the captain as he secured dive tanks. The other men parked the van.
“It looks like a fair day to be on the water.”
“Always is, in summer. That’s how we pay the bills all winter. Are you looking for a boat? Mine’s hired, but my cousin has a fine boat and is an expert diver.”
“No. I’m visiting family and was curious about the filming,” said Darwin.
“A local, then?” The captain eyed him with knitted brows. “Don’t recall seeing you about.”
“My grandfather’s Emelio Lacroix.”
The man stopped and studied him before asking, “Darwin?”
Darwin nodded, and, now all smiles, the guy jumped onto the dock. “I remember when you were this tall,” he said, holding a hand over an imaginary little boy about a meter high, then thrust it toward Darwin in a handshake. “Marc Denis.”
“Mr. Denis? I haven’t seen you in years,” he said, taking the man’s hand.
“We moved to Bonifacio for a while. It’s nice, but my family’s here, so we came back,” said Marc.
“How’s your son, Gilles?” asked Darwin, remembering the small dark-haired boy with a fearless disposition.
“He’s fine. But life on Corsica was too slow. He flies jets for NATO now.”
“That’s fantastic. Do you think he’ll come back when he’s older?”
“His mother and I hope. And with a military pension, so he can live. The Air Force just promoted him to Captain,” he said, beaming. “What are you doing these days?”
“I just finished my university degree.”
“Congratulations. You always were the smart one of Gilles’s friends. So you’re back for the summer?”
“Just a brief visit. What are they shooting?” Darwin nodded toward the van.
“A documentary. Like we need more tourists,” Marc scoffed. “Today, they want to see the caves past Capu di Muru.”
“Let me give you a hand with that,” said Darwin, grabbing one handle of a large ice chest and lifting it onto the boat.
Marc secured the cooler in the stern as Darwin walked forward and stood on the bow, bracing himself in the swell kicked up by the Toulon-Ajaccio ferry. He had missed being on the water and stretched out his arms, taking in the tangy harbor.
“Hello?” called a female voice with a newscaster’s British accent.
“Hello,” Darwin replied, edging along the gunwale toward the stern.
“Marc said you were interested in our documentary?” said the woman. She was a head shorter than Darwin, slender, with a dazzling smile and blonde hair drawn in a tight ponytail. Aviator-style sunglasses hid her eyes, and Darwin imagined them blue as his gaze rode the slope of her tanned neck down a mildly sunburned shoulder.
“Just a curious local. I’m Darwin,” he said.
“Chloe Fox Parker. Pleased to meet you. How local?” She pushed the glasses atop her head and confidently extended a hand.
“I don’t live here currently, but my family’s lived in Ajaccio for a couple hundred years, in the old section of the city.” He noted her eyes were a warm brown.
“I’d say that’s local. Do you know these waters?” asked Chloe.
“Not as well as Marc, but I sail and explore,” said Darwin.
“Don’t let him fool you,” said Marc, walking back up from the cabin below. “He and my son disappeared every day in summer and came back with stories of caves and secret hideouts.”
“Really?” she said and looked over at a woman yelling into her mobile. “Ugh. It starts.” Chloe muttered an expletive, then turned back to Darwin. “Listen, we need to shove off, but could we meet later? I’d like to hear more about this part of the island.”
“Sure.” His voice stumbled at a sudden fluttering in his chest.
“We’ll be back at about four. How about eight? Give me your mobile number.”
He did, and said to Marc, “It was great to see you again, Mr. Denis. Say hi to Gilles for me.”
“Will do, Darwin,” said Marc, firing up the engine.
Darwin turned to leave, but looked back as Chloe cast off the rope. She caught him looking and beamed radiantly. He closed the distance to the Citroën with a bounce in his step and would return to that spectacular vision all afternoon.
6
Fifty minutes into the journey south to Filitosa, Darwin’s butt ached. While the bright-yellow Citroën had personality, its ancient suspension transferred every bit of the rough pavement straight through the thin seat. In addition, its tin-can construction amplified the road noise.
The drive had begun by rounding the airport across Ajaccio harbor and meandering the rolling hills of southwestern Corsica, where the maquis dominated the landscape. The day warmed, drawing out the island’s herbal fragrances and he peeled back the car’s soft top. At one point, fresh pavement eased the back pounding, but nearing the ancient site, the road-to-Hades feeling returned.
He had seen little traffic, mostly the occasional lorry on its way to the farmers’ markets in Ajaccio and, every few kilometers, a two-wheeled lane peeled from the main road. This part of Corsica contained sporadic homes with dirt tracks down to spectacular beaches, but that were more easily reached by boat.
