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38 Haute-Corse

38 Haute-Corse

By the time Ingrid reached the three ancient olive trees, she was moving along at a brisk pace. She paused long enough to

bid Don Casabianca's goat a pleasant afternoon—the poor thing really was quite harmless—then turned onto a footpath that carried

her up the slope of the hill and into a pine forest. The wind was getting up, promising a rough crossing to the mainland later

that night. She wondered whether the Englishman named Christopher Keller would be joining them. She had been tempted to tell

him the truth about the nature of her relationship with Gabriel—and about the job she had done in Moscow—but that was not

her place. Besides, she had a feeling Christopher had done a dirty job or two himself.

After thirty minutes of sustained effort, she realized that she had no earthly idea where she was. Pausing, she checked her

location on her phone and saw that the village was just beyond the next hill. She spotted it a moment later as she stood gasping

for air atop the ridge. The bells of the church were tolling two o'clock.

She was careful not to turn an ankle during the descent down the opposing slope and entered the village at an unhurried walk. A single street spiraled its way past shuttered houses to a broad and dusty square. It was bordered on three sides by shops and cafés and on the fourth by the church. The rectory was next door, and next to the rectory was a crooked little house.

She took a table at one of the cafés and ordered a coffee from the indifferent waitress. In the center of the square, several

men in crisp white shirts were locked in a hotly contested game of pétanque . Two sullen mothers sat on a bench beneath the limbs of a plane tree while their sons chased one another with sticks. Another

child, a girl of eight or nine, was knocking on the door of the crooked little house.

The door opened at once, and a small pale hand emerged, clutching a slip of blue paper. The girl carried it across the square

to the café. Ingrid gave a start when the child sat down at her table.

"Who are you?" she asked.

The young girl wordlessly handed Ingrid the slip of paper.

I've been waiting for you...

Ingrid looked up. "Who lives in that house?"

"Someone who can help you."

"With what?"

The girl said nothing more. Ingrid could not remove her eyes from the child's face. The resemblance was uncanny.

"Who are you?" she asked again.

"Don't you recognize me?"

"Yes, of course. But it's not possible."

"Speak to the old woman," said the child. "And then you will know."

***

By the time Ingrid reached the opposite side of the square, the woman was standing in the doorway of the house, a shawl across her frail shoulders, a heavy cross around her neck. Her skin was pale as baker's flour. Her eyes were pools of black.

She placed a hand to Ingrid's cheek. "You have a fever."

"I've been running."

"From what?" The old woman opened the door wider and beckoned for Ingrid to enter. "Don't be afraid. You have nothing to fear."

"Tell me about the girl first."

"Her name is Danielle. She lives here in the village. One day she will take my place."

"She looks exactly like..."

"Like what?" asked the old woman.

"Me," replied Ingrid. "She looks the way I did when I was her age."

"That hardly seems possible. After all, the child is a Corsican. And you, of course, are Danish."

Before Ingrid could reply, the woman drew her into the house and closed the door. A candle burned at the small wooden table

in her parlor. It was the only light in the room.

The woman lowered herself slowly into one of the chairs and pointed toward the chair opposite. "Sit," she said.

"Why?"

"A small ritual to confirm my suspicions."

"About what?"

"The state of your soul, my child."

"My soul is just fine, thank you."

"I have my doubts."

And then Ingrid understood. The old woman was the signadora , the healer of those afflicted with the evil eye.

Ingrid reluctantly sat down. On the table before her was a plate filled with water and a small bowl of oil. "Refreshments?"

she quipped.

The old woman regarded her through the candlelight. "Your name is Ingrid Johansen. You are from a small town near the German border. Your father was a schoolteacher. Your poor mother did nothing but look after you. You left her no other choice."

"Who told you those things?"

"It is a gift from God."

Ingrid gave a skeptical smile. "Tell me more."

"You arrived yesterday morning by boat from Marseilles," the woman said with a sigh.

"So did several thousand other people, I imagine."

"The boat is owned by René Monjean, the Marseillais thief who works for Pascal Rameau. You were accompanied by the Israelite,

the one with the name of the archangel. Tomorrow evening you and René will steal some documents for him in Monaco." The woman

smiled, then asked, "Would you like to know the passcode for the safe?"

"Why not?"

"Nine, two, eight, seven, four, six." The signadora nudged the bowl across the tablecloth. "Dip your finger into the oil and allow three drops to fall into the water."

Ingrid did as she was told. The oil should have gathered into a single gobbet. Instead, it shattered into a thousand tiny

droplets, and soon there was no trace of it.

" Occhju ," whispered the signadora .

"Gesundheit," replied Ingrid.

The cross around the old woman's neck caught the flickering light of the candle. "Shall I tell you when it happened?" she

asked.

"I'm guessing that I came down with it while I was in Moscow. The weather was dreadful."

"You were the same age as Danielle," said the signadora . "There was a man who lived on the same street as your family. His name was Lars Hansen. One afternoon while you were playing—"

"That's quite enough," said Ingrid evenly.

The old woman allowed a moment to pass before continuing. "You never told anyone, so your mother didn't understand why you

began to steal things. The truth is, you couldn't help yourself. You were afflicted with the occhju ."

"I steal because I enjoy it."

"You steal because you need to steal. But I have the power to make the illness go away. Once the evil has left your body, you will be able to resist

the temptation to take what isn't yours."

The signadora held Ingrid's hand and began to speak mournfully in the Corsican language. A moment later she emitted a cry of pain and began

to weep. Then she slumped in her chair and appeared to lose consciousness.

"Shit," whispered Ingrid, and tried to revive her. The old woman finally opened her eyes and said, "Don't worry, my child.

It won't stay within me long."

"I don't understand."

"The occhju has moved from your body to mine." With her black eyes, the signadora indicated the bowl of oil. "Try it again."

Ingrid dipped her finger into the oil and allowed three drops to fall into the plate of water. This time it gathered into

a single gobbet. Then the signadora performed the test herself and the oil shattered.

" Occhju ," she whispered.

Ingrid stood. "How did you know about him?"

"Who, my child?"

"Lars Hansen."

"It is a gift from God," said the old woman, and her eyes closed.

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