The Corsican by William Heffernan

remark had been intended as a condescension.
    â€œNo,” Sartene had said. “I’m afraid I don’t have the advantage of a benefactor. As I said, things are not good in Europe now.”
    â€œDo you come to me for financial help, then?” Carbone had asked.
    Sartene had shaken his head. “I found a bit of good fortune toward the war’s end,” he had said. “It will be enough to help me earn my bread in a modest way. I’m here as a courtesy to you and to express my hope that if matters of mutual advantage come my way, we might do business together.”
    Carbone had extended his hands in a benevolent gesture. “I am always willing to help a fellow Corsican,” he had said. “Especially if it profits me as well. Will you stay here in Saigon?” His eyes had narrowed slightly as he asked the question.
    Sartene had shaken his head again. “I am going on to Vientiane. There’s more opportunity there to work without great competition, and at present my plans are small by your standards.”
    Carbone had smiled and nodded his approval. He was unaware that Sartene had already purchased business properties in Saigon and would undoubtedly remain ignorant of it for a long time. Too long for his own good, Sartene had thought.
    Carbone had heaved his heavy body from the chair and walked around the desk, still holding the medallion in his hand. Sartene had also risen, and as Carbone had reached him he had taken Sartene’s elbow and begun guiding him toward the door.
    â€œI want you to know, Don Sartene, that you can always come to me if you need my help. We’re alone here among these yellow heathens, and if we don’t help each other they’ll swallow us up like so many crumbs on a table. But fortunately for us they’re a stupid people, easily taken advantage of. They work and die for pennies.”
    When he had opened the door he had seen Francesco sitting in a chair in the hall. Sartene had brought Francesco with him so Carbone would know there were hard, young Corsicans beneath him, just in case he was cleverer than he appeared and decided to react harshly.
    â€œAnd who is this?” Carbone had said, raising his eyebrows.
    â€œFrancesco Canterina,” Sartene had said. “One of our countrymen who has come with me to earn his bread.”
    Carbone had looked at Sartene closely. “And how many of you are there?” he had asked.
    â€œOnly myself and my son and three others,” Sartene had said. Not too many, but still enough, he had known.
    â€œIt’s good,” Carbone had said, still wary. “A man should have countrymen around him he can trust.”
    Carbone had taken Sartene’s hand, returning the medallion with it as they shook farewell. He had waved his hand in an expansive gesture. “If you’re going to stay in Saigon a few days, go to any of my restaurants, any of my bars, and you’ll be my guest,” he had said.
    â€œYou’re very kind,” Sartene had said. “Everything that I’ve heard about you is true.”
    When they had left Carbone’s house, they had walked silently for several minutes.
    â€œIs he as much a donkey as he seems?” Francesco had finally asked.
    Sartene had nodded. “But donkeys have a nasty kick,” he had said. “We’ll let this one slumber in its stall for now. Later, when he wakes up, he’ll find his farm has been sold while he was asleep.”
    Over the next few months Carbone had made various inquiries about Sartene’s activities and had found little with which to concern himself. Sartene, in fact, had done little in those months. He had purchased a small bar in Vientiane, arranged some modest currency transactions with contacts in Hong Kong and established an insignificant protection network with some small Laotian gambling dens. All of it had been the work of a smalltime operation, exactly as Sartene had intended it to