”Look for the one whose voice is crueler than the wind. . . . Find the shepherd boy. . . . It is he!” shouted the old blind lady.
My favorite novelist, Robert Ludlum, was weaving his magic through the pages of ”The Matarese Circle,” spellbinding with his mystery and international intrigue.
Ludlum`s hero, Brandon Scofield, was on a mad search for some vital information. The search was taking him to places like Bonifacio, Porto Vecchio, and Vescovato, names of towns I`d never heard of in a land I`d never been to.
Corsica? An island in the Mediterranean. That much I knew. Not much else, though.
I became curious and rummaged around my library for a map and began to scan it.
I looked at Corsica, trying to get a feel for where the story was taking place. My eyes drifted from top to bottom, taking in the towns in bold print. Family name on map
And then I saw it. A chill crept up my neck and the nerve endings in my face tingled. I turned up the shade on the lamp to shine more light on the map. It wasn`t my imagination. It was there, not an inch away from Vescovato. My name!
I am not ordinarily superstitious, but there had to be an omen in this discovery. Why else would I be led to the map in the first place? Vezzani is not a common Italian name. A seed was planted. It grew. I wanted to find this town.
Two years later, as my wife Diane and I were flying over the Atlantic in quest of Vezzani, Corsica. I thought of Scofield. He had found what he was looking for in Corsica. I wondered if I would, too.
The morning sun was low in the sky as the big steamer sailed out of Livorno harbor bound for Corsica. The air was still and sea birds screamed in the ship`s wake.
Siesta time in Bastia
Six hours later the ramp swung down and I touched Corsican soil at last. This was Bastia, the largest city in Corsica and a bustling place. But, as it was 1:30 in the afternoon, nothing was open. All work stops during the Corsican mid-day until 3 o`clock when it resumes again.
We struck south along the coast highway toward Porto Vecchio. The road wound close to the sea, but inland far enough so you couldn`t see it. The sun filtered in and out of the foggy mist. Rolling hills were covered with myrtle in bloom. To the west, mountains, craggy in their steep climb to the sky, were only murky shadows.
Vezzani was up there somewhere, in the clouds, high in the Corsican midlands. The urge to try to find it was practically magnetic. But this was October, late in the day, and that brings fogs to the high country. The mountains can be very unforgiving in that time.
So, our little Fiat continued south past acres of grapes, fast food parlors, and fields of flowers and pizzerias.
As darkness fell, lights twinkled in the distance. On a hill overlooking a marina filled with bobbing boats, was Porto Veccio, a town with a population of about 5,000.
Though tired and hungry, we had energy enough to find a room on the top floor of an old hotel, eat dinner in a small cafe nearby and fall into bed. I thought as I closed my eyes, ”Ludlum has been here. Now, I am, too.”
Ancient fortress town
The next day the road took us first to the ancient fortress town of Bonifacio. Founded in 829 A.D. during a crusade by the Tuscan Count Boniface, this city became the protectorate over the southern flank of the island for the next nine centuries.
A fortress was built high in the sandstone cliffs over the harbor. It was still there, overlooking the emerald green waters of the Mediterranean, occupied by the Foreign Legion.
The cliffside houses were still there, too, housing Corsicans who hung their laundry from the shuttered windows high above the streets. And as they had for eons, black-shawled women toted heavy loads of water, food and other survival items.
”Enough of this,” I cried. ”Vezzani awaits.”
And the Fiat turned north.
The topography changed constantly. Brush, called maquis, covered the land. As the road turned steeper, the maquis gave way to cork oak and chestnut trees, colorful in the autumn sun. That didn`t last long. The road became worse as it rose higher in the mountains. It ran through dense rain forests of pines and ferns and mossy grottoes.
Patches of snow on the higher peaks could be seen through the trees. Families of pigs shuffled across the highway. Highway, indeed. It was more like a bike trail. One mile there was forest. The next a high desert plateau. Hours and miles became confused. There was no time. There were no cars. No trucks. No houses. No people. There was only the road and the wilderness.
So near, so far
Vezzani was not far away, but the sun began to be obscured by fog, which came on rapidly, thickening to soup until the visibility was just to the hood of the car. The road was dangerous and getting worse. Diane became nervous. So did I. I had to postpone my date with the past.
On lower ground, about 15 miles away, we approached the gates of Venaco. A sign post directed us to a hotel, ”Paeshotel E Cassele-5 km.” We turned into a valley surrounded by dolomite peaks. There, by a rushing river, was a hotel made of stone and wood, a gorgeous place with gardens of flowers and vegetables.
Dinner that night was served in what looked like the main hall of a castle-not surprising, considering the name of the place.
I knew by then that if I ever wanted to see Vezzani it had to be in the morning, before the afternoon fog set in. So, the next day I woke and strolled outside to see the sunrise. The sky was robin-egg blue, and autumn colors exploded from the trees.
A town appears
Taking another road, we soon were all alone again, climbing once more along the narrow ribbons. In the distance a steeple struck a silhouette against the sky. A town was appearing on the horizon.
”Is that it?” She asked.
”Gotta be,” I replied, and promptly shot two rolls of film at the approaching village. It was truly beautiful. I had never seen anything more romantic in my life. The church loomed above red tile rooftops. Cows lowed in the pastures. Peaceful. Charming.
Then I saw it. A sign marker. ”NOCETA,” it read. Not the right place at all. Diane giggled. I took a deep breath, and headed up the road again.
The next few miles were a quiet time. Each of us was lost in thought, watching the changing topography. Then, as the road swung eastward around the mountain, I saw it at last. It sat in a grove of chestnut trees. The sign read my name and, with a lump in my throat, I downshifted the car and crept slowly into town.
The village was perched on the side of a mountain. Apples, pears, pines, and myrtle filled the air with a fragrance that was intoxicating.
I stopped at the Maerie-the French equivalent of the town hall. Actually, it was a little office on the second floor of an old stone building. The olive-skinned young woman seated at the desk greeted me suspiciously. ”Do you speak English by any chance?” I asked.
”A little.” (You have no idea how good that sounded.)
The next few hours were spent wandering around the town talking to the young woman and learning a little about life there. Ubiquitous old ladies walked bent over from years of hard work. Leathery old men had hands that looked like alligator purses-hide, not skin, covered their knuckles.
Origin of name unknown
The woman from the Maerie told me she had no idea how the town got its name and as far as she knew, no one else did, either. Moreover, no one named Vezzani lived there or ever had. She smiled warmly, though, and made me promise that if I ever found out, to be sure to let her know so the town would have a record of it.
As I drove off, I watched the village fall away in my rear view mirror and a touch of sadness gripped my heart.
Later that evening I sat outside on the patio of the hotel and took time for reflection.
The afternoon fog had come to the Corsican cordillera. It was serene, as it had to be. I had been there. It was over. Diane sat down next to me and asked why I was so silent.
What was there to say after the quest was over? There was little to say. Little to do, except find another quest. Climb another mountain. Seek another goal.
I turned to her and said, ”Damn that Ludlum. It`s time he wrote another book.”
