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Ooo...In late summer 1967, my brother János (1945–1977) and I took a moped trip to Corsica, which pushed me—then 18 years old—to my limits. Since almost all documents and photos were later destroyed in the fire that destroyed our parents' house, I have to reconstruct this adventure largely from memory. Nevertheless, everything happened as I describe it; however, it's possible that one or two of the sharks we encountered now appear somewhat larger and more menacing in my memory…
The frequent correspondence with my brother, who was studying in Rome, often led to shared adventures. This was also the case in 1966: while I commuted between my hometown of Bregenz and school in Salzburg, my brother János, three years my senior, was studying canon law and dogmatics at the Institut Germanicum et Hungaricum, silently reading his breviary daily and sometimes surreptitiously glancing at the small map he had tacked into the inside cover of the breviary.
Corsica.
My visits to my parents' house, which took place every two to three weeks, often followed the same pattern: a warm hug from my father, mother, and siblings; then a few minutes of reporting on my successes (I usually only mentioned the "other stuff" shortly before leaving, of course!). Then I would rush into the garden and poke fun at my father's moped. He was approaching 50 by then and had finally bought his first car; his moped was used by everyone who knew how to ride it. Which included me, since my sisters were girls (!) and my younger brother was still too young.
Unbeknownst to my father, I transformed myself into a brilliant mechanic in the garden, dedicating myself to sprucing up and customizing the moped. Had Father ever suspected what we boys were really up to, he probably would have given us a good thrashing. But as it was, he was happy that I was enthusiastically pursuing a constructive activity—cleaning the moped, it seemed to him—and not roaming around with a horde of beer-drinking hooligans. In reality, I disassembled the thing in a flash and took the parts to the neighbor boy, who was a gifted apprentice mechanic and generously trained me to be a (moped) master mechanic. In short, a Puch 50 became a rocket, boasting a bored-out carburetor and widened, polished fuel channels, as well as a gutted second exhaust silencer that could be released with a small foot lever (which I wisely stored at my mentor's place). Unofficial measurements showed peak speeds of around 100 km/h with a tailwind.
In distant Rome, János pored over the map, tinkering with different route options, inquiring about ferry fares, and anxiously watching the fluctuating petrol prices. He chewed his calculator in despair and probably shook his head more than once: our shared finances would leave us stranded miserably in the middle of the Corsican mountains. Meanwhile, I tirelessly filed and drilled the exhaust valve, polishing it for hours. Then I wrote to János, telling him not to get gray hairs, because I had taken on a three-week job that would fatten our coffers.
This job was something else entirely and could fill a chapter of its own; perhaps suffice it to say that we loaded household appliances into railway cars and got paid for it. The extra night shift brought me a lot more cash, but on one of the last days, I got my leg caught between the platform and the train car. My knee swelled up badly, and that ended my stint there. I couldn't really go to the doctor, since the cigarettes I bummed were probably the only legal thing on this job (to be more precise, I doubt even that now, because they were likely contraband too...). The foreman, a former Foreign Legionnaire, paid me with a gruff look and told me to get lost, after emphasizing once again that there were no electrical appliances or train cars here and that he didn't even know me.
The plan for the Corsica trip was brilliantly simple: I would ride my moped from Bregenz to Rome, where János would join me, and we would take the ferry to Sardinia and from there continue on to Corsica. Finally, we would take a third ferry to La Spezia, where I would have to drop János off at the train station for Florence on a certain date. From Florence, I would ride my moped back to Bregenz alone. We would cover approximately 2,800 km by road, sleep outdoors or in haylofts, and generally be very, very frugal.
To give you an idea: a Puch 50 moped (not two), with two boys plus a large backpack on top, no tent, no sleeping bags, and not an ounce too much. And of course, with a No. 2 exhaust. Father lent me his leather helmet; I politely declined the enormous rubber coat because of its weight and because "the sun always shines in Corsica." Besides—as Father should have known—James Dean doesn't wear a rubber coat like the Gestapo.
Clothing was one thing that needs mentioning. I must have watched too much James Dean or Humphrey Bogart, because I'd bummed a white hat from the Red Cross—or rather, a once-white, wide-brimmed hat—and a shabby, worn-out leather jacket. I also bought myself (with a heavy heart and without informing János beforehand) a pair of white jeans. Yes, white jeans! —You're allowed to grin: there I was, sitting on the white moped, with a brown leather helmet, a shabby black leather jacket, a white scarf, and white jeans: the outfit of an adventurer! —James Humphrey Rudas.
Then my alarm clock rattled at three in the morning. I loaded my backpack onto the moped, hugged my mother, and set off with a pounding heart. Towards morning, I reached Chur and rode up to the small San Bernardino Pass (the tunnel either wasn't there yet or I didn't want to go underneath it). The higher I climbed on my moped, the colder it got; the sky slowly darkened, and I reached the border guard post in the snow. The border guards were quite astonished, and while one disappeared into the office with my papers, I got off and clambered around a bit to warm up. Grinning, the other let me step under the door and then said I could help myself to some tea from his thermos. I slowly warmed up again and shook the snow off my wet, white jeans.
Late in the afternoon, I climbed the Giove Pass north of Genoa (I didn't have to go through Genoa, of course, but because I'd heard the port there was particularly great, I had to). The moped was sputtering and backfiring, and I kept getting off to clean the spark plug and try to find the cause. As I entered Genoa, it got to the point where I only made it a few hundred meters before the engine died. I looked for a garage and, after a long search, found one that was just about to close. My overachieving at school (or should I say, my not-too-frequent truancy?) was starting to pay off: speaking broken Italian, I pointed to "il Vergasero" and exclaimed, "nix funziona maladetto Scheißdreck!" (nothing works, damn it!). The mechanic pushed me aside, shook his head at the sight of my makeshift exhaust, and then said the "carburatore" was shot. Shaking his head, he indicated that someone had filed it down too much. For all I care, let the carburetor be called carburatore from now on, what do we do?
I realized what I could do with my carburetor when he simply tossed it over his shoulder into the bucket. Then he went out the back, and I trotted along behind him, beaming: he had dozens of moped wrecks lying around. He made a welcoming gesture and handed me his wrench. I nodded, went from wreck to wreck, and after a while, I had two carburetors that should fit. The mechanic nodded, took one from my hand, and shook his head: into the bucket it goes! He weighed the second one in his hand, then said a number that made my throat tighten. I rummaged in my pocket and started counting; he laughed and said: okay! He was satisfied with a banknote, then said that I could work in the front yard. I just had to put the tools back in the box afterward, then he locked the workshop and disappeared.
It took me about two hours to install the carburetor, which was a bit larger than the original and also more powerful; however, this also meant higher fuel consumption. In the dark, I took a test drive to the harbor, where, naturally, all the sailors were already in their bunks, and I couldn't see anything special except silence and darkness. Well, not exactly silence either, since suddenly several sailors were shouting wildly at me to get my carburatore moving! I continued a few kilometers south and slept in the grass on the outskirts of a village whose name contained "Mamma."
At dawn, I continued my journey, repeatedly glancing at my white-spotted jeans and feeling a pang of regret. They weren't white anymore, not entirely. But the carburetor was perfect, and the engine had its bite back, even more so than before, I thought. Somewhere on the country road to Grosseto, I tested the speed and reached about 90 km/h. Then I tried what I'd seen other Italian moped riders do: I held onto the tailgate of a truck with one hand, let it pull me along, and switched off the engine to save fuel. (Children: please don't try this at home!) The following evening, I pulled up in front of the Collegium Germanicum et Hungaricum in Rome. Sweaty, dirty, and wearing my black and white jeans.
The porter brother had actually wanted to send me away brusquely (begging and soliciting were forbidden!), but my brother met me at the gate. I had to wait a few more days in Rome until János had finished his exams and we could finally leave. During the day, I wandered aimlessly through the Eternal City, looking at everything and everyone, and returned to the seminary in the evening—usually hungry. I wasn't allowed to sleep there, but János had found me a cheap, simple room a few blocks away. He accompanied me there every evening, since the way led through the red-light district and he was worried about my spiritual well-being, as he admitted with a grin. But the landlady (I've forgotten her name), a middle-aged woman who battled the trials of cosmetics every day, patiently escorted the Padre (that was János in his red cassock, the seminarian's priestly robe) and the Signore (that was me) to their room and had to promise the Padre every evening that she would watch over my virtue. And no sooner had he left than she returned with a large bottle of Birra Forst and said with a wink that it was on the house.
We had a big problem. On the last day, we were allowed to attend a "private" papal audience, the "private" meaning that only a few hundred (not thousands) of believers were present. The problem was, I had nothing to wear. My black and white spotted jeans were simply not papal-appropriate. János sometimes had brilliant ideas. And so it was this time: he brought me his "spare cassock," and I slipped into it; well, János was a few centimeters taller than me and also a few kilos heavier, but it would work. But my roommate Wolfgang (later my best man and then a bishop in Germany) shook his head and said we couldn't do that. Another friend, Gyuri (later archbishop of Alba Iulia, Romania), suggested we simply clean the jeans. So the two of us knelt high in front of the bathtub, scrubbing the garment with a hand brush and another brush of unknown origin, using soap after soap. The stains faded, fading until they turned light gray. The idea of taking it to a dry cleaner never occurred to us. When Gyuri, who is about my height, lent me a snow-white shirt, nothing stood in the way of my visit to the Vatican. To put it colloquially today, I might not have been in the fisherman's shoes, but I did wear the socks of a German bishop and the shirt of a Romanian archbishop.
The papal audience was uneventful. Certificates and medals were presented, and some prince or other lordship was the only one allowed to briefly kneel before the throne and kiss the ring of St. Peter. Finally, the faithful filed past the Holy Throne in a long line from the pews, were allowed a brief nod to the Pope from a few meters away, and then had to move on. The papal ear whisperer stood beside His Holiness and whispered the name, rank, and importance of each person passing by into his ear. It might seem unbelievable, but I understood perfectly what was whispered because I could (at least back then) lip-read.
"The Count and the Press..."
"God bless you, my son!"
"...and his daughter, the Contessa!"
"God bless you, my daughter!"
"Lord Greenbawm and his wife Sara!"
"God's blessing!"
"Seminarists from the Germanicum & Hungaricum seminary!"
"God bless you, my sons!"
"The Pongratz family from .. "
"Benedetto, you left one out!" His Holiness said reproachfully. Benedetto glanced at me briefly again, then whispered: "Your Holiness, the red ones are from the seminary, then comes the Pongratz family from..."
"No, the one in between, the one in the white-spotted uniform!" and there is already a hint of displeasure in the holy voice.
The eyes of the papal whisperer etched a deep hole in my shirt: "A seminarian who apparently isn't wearing a cassock, Your Holiness!"
"Benedetto, Benedetto!" The tone becomes somewhat sharper, the holy nostrils quiver: "...and, tell me, don't you smell it, it suddenly smells so strongly of cheap soap here...?"
"A madman from Vorarlberg, who usually repairs his moped in white trousers and therefore looks accordingly, on his way to Corsica, and the Pon family......"
"God bless you, my son!" interrupts Petri's great-great-grandson, then His Holiness lowers his voice and winks: "...and maybe try Rei!"
The Pongratz family was pushing and shoving, so I moved on, but I still heard His Holiness muttering to himself: "When I was young, I also..." Unfortunately, I couldn't hear the rest.
Well, maybe it wasn't quite like that, but that was the gist of it. Surrounded by all those snobs dressed up like jesters, I felt very small and worthless, hid behind the car in front of me, and repented profusely of all my sins, especially the unauthorized carburetor tampering—and even three times over! I vowed to do better and that I would never, ever, ever drink that lady's beer again. Honestly.
The next morning—that is, the morning after I had finally broken my beer vow, and long before the Roman sparrows awoke—we both knelt before the Father Spiritus (who wasn't so named because of his drinking habits, but because he was the house spirit) and received his fatherly blessing for our undertaking. Then we happily rode southwest on the gleaming moped to the ferry to Civitavecchia, which took us overnight to Sardinia.
Olbia in Sardinia greeted us at the crack of dawn with brilliant sunshine and an unfriendly official who held up our papers for at least an hour, but we stood our ground and refused to hand over any bribes. Eventually, János had had enough and produced his seminary ID card, in Latin and bearing the papal coat of arms. At that very moment, the papers were sorted, and we exchanged glances: next time, the ID card will be shown immediately!
We spent the whole day driving slowly and leisurely north. It was only an hour's drive, so we swam in a bay and grilled a slice of rye bread to go with our canned tuna. The ferry to Corsica wasn't until evening, so we dawdled all day and finally set off in the late afternoon for Santa Teresa di Gallura, the northernmost point of Sardinia, just centimeters from Corsica (look it up in an atlas if you don't believe it!).
This Santa Teresa, in case you've never been there, was back then a tiny village with not even 10 houses, a warehouse with a police station (also harbor master's office and border station) and a concrete wall left behind by the Allies, which could pass as a harbor facility if necessary (but only then).
The ferry hadn't arrived yet, but I was already savvy from the previous day and knew I had to be in the front row to get on quickly. So there we were with the moped, sorting our luggage and rattling our tickets, unaware that the village policeman and two other civilians with shotguns had positioned themselves behind us.
Suddenly we get a call: "Hands up!" For the first time in my life, I'm staring down the barrels of pistols and rifles, and I feel quite uneasy. János looks up, more astonished than scared, and tries to approach the three of them to ask what's going on, but then the policeman shouts that he should stop, you scoundrel, or else! So there we stand, hands half-raised, looking ridiculous, knees shaking (completely), and probably looking rather foolish.
The three whispered about who was going to disarm us. Giovanni, you go first! No, I have two children, do it yourself! The short, stout policeman cautiously approached and told us to open our jackets, but slowly. We followed his instructions in slow motion. He walked around us, looking and looking, then carefully felt us and called out to the other two: "You have no weapons!" János wanted to ask what was going on, but the nervous policeman shouted at him to shut up. So we remained silent; the men and the policeman stood motionless, and everyone waited. Then the policeman told us to go ahead, into the station.
One of the men goes ahead and unlocks the door, János and I stumble in behind, and then we're sitting in a small, dirty cell. Outside, a crowd has gathered, everyone cheering and shouting at once: "Now we've got them!" János and I look at each other helplessly, we hear a horn, and our ferry docks. After a few minutes, which feel like an eternity, the policeman comes into the station and starts talking frantically on the phone. János listens and translates for me that we are the dreaded bank robbers who robbed the bank in Palma this morning and shot a security guard. Then he says, quite matter-of-factly: I had no idea how dangerous we actually are.
Our ferry, which had filled up with people, cars, and goats over the past half hour, gave three pitiful toots and then cast off. In my mind, I tore up our tickets and wondered what we would do for the next two days until another ferry from this company ran. And how we would ever be able to fill this huge hole in our travel budget.
The sheriff calls one colleague after another, recounting in increasingly lengthy variations how he and Giovanni and Guido, well, actually just he and Giovanni, no, actually he alone, had apprehended the dangerous murderers.
The phone rings again, the lawman answers. Apparently, it's a general on the line, because he jumps up and salutes the invisible man. Yes, there are two of them. A short one and a tall one, yes, both bald. I breathe a sigh of relief, because I have bushy, thick hair, a James Dean lookalike. No, the tall one is bald. I shrink back down. Yes, a leather jacket. White trousers, yes, but very dirty. No, they've thrown away the rifles. I feel a choking sensation in my throat, I ask János if garroting is only fashionable in Spain or also in Sardinia. He says, shh, and garroting isn't practiced anywhere these days.
The sheriff nodded on the phone. They have everything with them, it's them, for sure! No, not the rifles, and not the money either, but a huge backpack, he'd already examined it. Just tourist stuff. And a white motorcycle, yes, he'd confiscated that. It's parked in front of the house, Brigadier.
No, white, not black. With foreign license plates, they must have stolen it. No, a black motorcycle, oh, I see.
I perk up my ears. The fenders are made of white plastic; that can't be black painted over, I can prove it.
The fat, sweating policeman rummages through our papers and reads out our details. Then he says it can't be right, the shorter one certainly isn't 17, definitely older. Suddenly he hesitates. Hesitates, then says: "Brigadier, the tall, bald one has a strange ID card with him, 'Colleggio' and so on, a papal coat of arms. A very nice forgery." His Italian-accented Latin almost makes me laugh.
János says through the bars, "Call them, Signore, I'll give you the number!" The policeman waves him to be quiet, then listens into the receiver and grumbles, "Very well, what's the number?" János closes his eyes and retrieves the stored data from the card: patiently he repeats number after number, which the fat man then repeats in turn, and the invisible man apparently writes down. János calls out to ask for Padre Spirito, but the call has already ended.
The policeman approaches and asks, somewhat uncertainly: "So, is all of this correct?" János explains everything to him, recounting in detail the preparations for our trip, and it seems to me that the portly man is now more inclined to believe us. Then János says he can check; our ticket for the ferry to Olbia is still there. The policeman takes the ticket, calls the port of Olbia, and becomes serious again when he looks over at us.
"You arrived early this morning," he said, "that's only half an hour from here. Where were you all day?" "No, don't tell me, I know: from Olbia it's only two hours to Palma. You robbed the bank there and shot the security guard, then spent two or three hours in the mountains burying the loot and the guns. From there you drove back here in two or three hours to escape to Corsica."
He grabs the phone to give his brigadier another dressing-down. He pauses as János says, "My ID is real, you'll see!" It sends our sheriff squirming, pacing back and forth, muttering to himself. Then he goes out and leaves us alone.
János and I try to calm down and discuss the situation, which isn't actually all that rosy. He says that no one at the seminary answers the phone at this time; it's already after closing time, and everyone is probably already in the dormitory.
The hours slip by, I'm desperate because I can hear the village children outside tinkering with my moped and I imagine that by morning only a bare skeleton will remain. Every few hours the sheriff comes again, brings water and some strips of pizza around midnight, then disappears again to continue the party at the village inn.
János and I sit on the cold floor, dozing in the semi-darkness, and sometimes I mutter something about Chateau d'If and Abbé Faria, until he tells me to stop spinning my mind, that everything will be sorted out sooner or later...
Eventually, the guardhouse will be locked from the outside, and we will be left to our fate.
In the morning, the phone rings incessantly, but no one is there to answer it. János grins at me and jokes, "Pronto! Pronto!"—which is Italian for saying hello. It takes at least fifteen minutes for the policeman to arrive. We excitedly explain that the phone has already rung several times.
He calls his station, but it wasn't them. Finally, finally, the doorbell rings. It's the Brigadier. The short, stout policeman salutes, listens, shrinking smaller and smaller. Yes, Brigadier, yes. - Yes, yes.
After being placed on the ground, he slowly comes to our grid.
He plants himself out in all his small breadth before us, looks as serious as the robber chieftain Hotzenplotz, and bounces on his toes. Then he takes the keys in his hand and unlocks the gate, opens the gate wide, and points outside: "You are free!"
We step uncertainly outside, I gaze at the bright morning sun and think how beautiful Sardinia is. He comes out behind us and launches into a tirade: that the men had been caught during the night, that the brigadier had called Rome and had Padre Spirito roused from his bed by a patrol car because no one had answered the phone, that they had also found the black motorcycle, the rifles, and all the loot, and that he now believes us that we are Austrian tourists.
Then he invites us to sit at the table outside the guardroom; there's coffee and a roll. We chew and listen to his dramatic account of how the real robbers were captured—a wild shootout, by my soul!
János interrupts him at some point and says that we won't have another ferry until tomorrow evening and that our tickets have expired. I interrupt János and say that our backpack is gone and apparently the side mirrors as well. After a quick check, I'm relieved to find that everything else is still attached. The policeman (I've forgotten his name, but he introduced himself over coffee) gets up and calls out a name across the street. Then he sits down with us again and says we'll figure it out.
A small, scruffy boy slowly walks down the street, greets us, and looks serious. The policeman chatters away rapidly in a language I don't recognize. The boy initially looks annoyed, then nods and runs off. We continue talking; the policeman says everything will be alright and asks if we know Rapid. János shakes his head, I guess it's a football team, our policeman laughs and says, "Yes, but they got a real beating," and I nod, without knowing what the idiot is talking about. Time passes, our ship is gone, the tickets too, the moped is wrecked, and he's still talking about football.
There's a rustling behind him, and two little gnomes drag our backpack over. I want to jump up, but the law tells me to sit down again. The gnomes bolt as fast as they can run. Then there's another rustling, and a lad my age appears behind the lawman, places two mirrors on the ground, and disappears again without looking at us. I beam, because this is real magic. While I'm putting the mirrors back up, János and the lawman go into the inn, returning after a while, beaming with joy. The day is saved. A barge will cross to Corsica around noon and take us along for free. Since we hardly have any money, the policeman has offered to buy the "Capitano" a large drink, so that works out perfectly.
Hours later, we heave the moped onto a small, sturdy-looking cargo ship, the ever-increasing swell causing the vessel to pitch and roll, and I imagine the moped sinking into the waves a hundred times. After some effort, everything is stowed away. The captain gets his drink at the village inn, while János and I wait impatiently on the ship. The wind picks up, the waves grow larger, and János is already quite pale. I tie the moped to the wildly pitching vessel, which is now traveling at 27 knots, and frantically wonder whether I'm just feeling hungry or if I'm getting seasick. From the inn comes the captain's cheerful, booming laughter, then we hear him shout "Un altro!" (One more!).
The captain's shrill whistle hurt my ears almost more than the clatter of the rusty gears as he maneuvered the boat back and forth to bring us out of the port of Santa Teresa di Gallura. "The Pipers of Tralee," or perhaps just a Corsican freedom song—who could have said?
The brave little barge chugged along, its diesel engine chugging, through the strait between Sardinia and Corsica, which is about 14 km wide – or less if you're talking nautical miles. The captain was in good spirits; he'd bravely swallowed the fare and now seemed to be trying to compensate for the missing loudspeakers with some rather merrily whistled sea shanties from the Sardinian mountains – after all, we do care about our guests' well-being, don't we? We didn't understand his Sardinian, and he didn't understand our textbook Italian either, so he devoted himself to the engine and the music. János and I retreated to the bow, far away from our musical steam-powered chauffeur.
János looked terrible, pale and wan around the nose, clutching the wooden railing with one hand, staring intently into the distance, gagging. I listened to my body, astonished that this could be the fabled seasickness, and pondered the matter. What if it wasn't seasickness after all? What if I was simply hungry? After all, my breakfast had fallen victim to working on the moped. János, my good János, had even made me a double-decker of white bread and Sardinian cheese before we'd set off and tucked it into my jacket while I tinkered with the moped. I thought about it for a long time, then decided it could only be hunger—I don't get seasick, not me!
János's ears twitched nervously as I reached into my jacket pocket and heard a rustling sound, but he bravely suppressed his curiosity and didn't look over. Slowly and carefully, I unwrapped the bread; it was rocking so terribly, and sometimes a little seawater splashed up, so I had to be careful not to make it salty! The pungent smell of the Sardinian cheese (which, unlike Corsican cheese, was never used as an explosive) assaulted my nostrils at first, only to then unfold into a cacao-olfactory cloud of all the scents and smells of the highlands. The cloud of aromas must have hit János like a blow from a club, because he flinched and hunched his shoulders. While I opened my mouth wide, very wide, to sink my teeth into the juicy biplane, poor János also opened his mouth wide to offer a sacrifice in a high arc to the sea god Neptune and the wind god Rasmus.
Of course, I remained hungry, because János' accusing, lamb-like glare abruptly halted my snack. The sandwich rustled back into my jacket pocket and stayed there until we reached Corsica, at its southernmost town, Bonifacio. Corsica, here we come!
Bonifacio is a village perched atop several high chalk cliffs, its harbor nestled in the cleft between them. Nothing particularly remarkable so far—an eagle's nest on rocks, very close to the sky, simply beautiful. And mainland, above all. The miserable rocking ceases, a rope is thrown to the pier and secured; one is glad to have land under one's feet again, even if it is barren and rocky. But the joy is short-lived when the soldiers, appearing as if from nowhere, begin arguing with the captain. Shrugging, he repeatedly points at us, babbling away while chewing a cigarette, nodding his head, and spitting into the harbor.
Case closed. A barge with two stowaways; your papers, please! Now it's my turn to translate, with my three years of school French, and my first surprise is how sloppily these legionnaires speak their own language, and above all, how fast! It sounded quite different in school, Professor! - It certainly wasn't my translation, but suddenly we're sitting on the back of a larger jeep, helpful hands heave the moped up, then we head up the steep road to the barracks in the fortress. "We're going to see the centurion," says the decurio, "he has to decide, after all, he's the centurion and I'm just the decurio!" Unfortunately, I think of yesterday and try, groping and stammering, to find out if they're looking for bank robbers again (I say: robbers of a bank, for lack of the proper term). Well, perhaps I shouldn't have tried that. The decurio hisses into his radio again as we drive uphill past some Corsicans riding donkeys. "I already have a feeling where we'll be spending the night," János murmurs resignedly, burying his face resignedly on his crossed forearms. I whisper back, "...but there is one good thing about it; with this incline, one of us would definitely have had to get off and push!"
Presumably, the Bonifacio fortress is a beautiful tourist attraction. Presumably. We drive into the fortress's barracks courtyard, which looks like any barracks courtyard in the world. Otherwise, we see nothing of Bonifacio. Oh yes, perhaps we do: the large clock in the long, bare corridor where we sit on a wooden bench and wait, wait, wait. The decurio, probably promoted to centurion during the long wait, often walks past us, nodding sternly each time; the legionaries, perhaps by now also promoted to decurio, march through the corridor once without even glancing at us; then finally, the centurion appears, who has probably only been waiting until he was promoted to general or at least rear admiral.
"Nonsense!", says János, "he just finished his siesta and then had dinner."
In short, a well-rested and well-fed general has its advantages: we can hear him laughing all the way down the hall as he talks on the phone with his counterpart in Santa Teresa di Gallura, whom we know very well. [Perhaps something like this: "Hello, my dear servant, you can call off the search, I've got your bank robbers!" - "No, we've got them!" - "Why? They're sitting with me, a fat bald guy and a tall skinny one, we fished them off a barge..." - "No, we've got the right ones, the ones with you are two harmless Austrian lunatics on a moped..." - "Oh, come on, tell us..."]. Then he comes out into the hall, grins, hands us back our passports, and says that our adventure with the Sardinians is very funny, he has to tell his wife right away, and waves us on that we can go now.
The decurio from earlier greets us in the courtyard and says it's probably too late to continue driving; if we like, we can spend the night in the former—now empty—stables. After briefly glancing into the yawning, dark emptiness with its inescapable bars, we exchange a quick look and politely decline. No, thank you, we'd rather sleep outside! The soldier is surprised, shrugs, and allows us to spend the night in the courtyard when János asks him.
One night in a cell in Sardinia, one night in the barracks courtyard in Corsica; that's quite a record. We sit bundled up against the snow, leaning against the moped, dozing towards morning. Several times during the night, shouts ring out, boots clatter: changing of the guard!
In case I haven't mentioned it yet: we naturally wanted to drive the route of the "Rallye des Mille Virages"—the Rally of a Thousand Curves—from Bonifacio to Bastia, counter-clockwise, just like Juan Fangio once did. So, the next day we set off. After a quick celebratory lap through the steep streets of the mountain town, we headed northwest towards Propriano, which lies halfway to the capital, Ajaccio. We wanted to see two things there: the nature reserve near the Bruzzi Islands and the Calanques of Roccapina. You probably know what islands are, but the Calanques need some explanation: they are bizarre rock formations, cliffs that rise vertically above the sea. (Well, okay: some people also use the term Calanque to refer to those fjords that have carved their way deep into the mainland between the actual Calanques...). The most famous calanque is the one on France's southern coast, 13 km from Marseille, near the town of Cassis – there, Europe's highest cliff edge, the Calanque du Cap Canaille, rises to over 500 meters above sea level (today it's a paradise for free climbers). Second place goes to the Calanque of Piana in Corsica (we'll be visiting there later); it's not quite as imposing, but it still climbs and descends about 400 meters...
In the sixties, free climbing didn't exist yet, or at least we weren't familiar with the sport. However, János and I (usually together) had been exploring the mountains of Vorarlberg; many a real mountaineer could only shake their head silently and/or despairingly when they saw us city kids, armed with Mom's hemp rope (yes, the one for hanging up laundry!), scrambling around in the mountains. Of course, we had no idea about real climbing; we were simply hikers who occasionally scrambled over an easy rock face, especially when our parents weren't watching. Our last climbing adventure was ascending the Tschengla rock, located directly below the Pfänder cable car in Bregenz. That's when Mom's hemp rope, and her patience, finally ran out. [Whenever I later rode the cable car up there, I shuddered every time, because now I'm a father myself, and my stomach churns when I imagine my children up there...]
Okay, where were we? At the Calanques. Hardly anyone knows the third set, the ones by Roccapina. For self-respecting free climbers, they're far too unspectacular; they're not 500 meters high, not 400, no, maybe not even 40 meters, and not even vertically sloping. But for us amateurs, they're just right. And, as János naively pointed out, "...if you fall, just get away from the rock, push off! And make sure you fall into the water..."
[From a purely film-academic point of view, the following dialogue would have to be inserted here:]
"Have you ever tried that?" - "No."
"Did you believe back then that this could work?" - "Yes."
"Do you believe that this can work today?" - "No."
We spent the whole day in the Bruzzi area and were a little disappointed because the famous islands were just tiny islets – and there weren't any shipwrecks to be seen! But that's precisely what they were famous for: the clever Corsicans of centuries past used false lighthouses to lure ships to the Bruzzi. – I wonder if they were among Bill Gates' ancestors? – Well, we weren't discouraged, because the nature reserve is beautiful, and we also discovered that the best swimming and diving spots are right next to the "No Swimming" signs. Those clever Corsicans!
Dinner: cold – we didn't dare light a fire in the nature reserve. Sleeping in the pine thicket: a dream! We saw stars, thousands upon millions of megatons of stars! We competed to see if the moving object was a satellite or a comet, only to realize with some disappointment that there must have been an airport nearby. However, it was also the first truly uninterrupted night's sleep, completely without prison bars. My brother, I love you, sleep well, you too!
In the morning, we drive a few kilometers along a tiny, narrow coastal path, through increasingly dense undergrowth, to the Calanques. With a few quick adjustments, we disable the moped, hide it under the bushes, and cover it with pine branches. Clad only in swimming trunks and carrying my father's camera (a Makina bellows camera), we head out onto the Calanques. Up close, 40 meters is quite a throat-squeezing height. Before we climb, I pull a thorn out of János's foot; we had clearly underestimated the maquis (that's what the low scrub is called here).
After just half an hour of climbing, I'm completely fed up. But a glance at my brother, who's stubbornly continuing on, gives me renewed strength: no, if he can do it, then so can I! Every now and then I stop, guide him a little further forward or backward, and take a photo. What sounds so easy here was actually a hair-raisingly cumbersome affair. A bellows device like that isn't just heavy, it also needs two hands to unfold and operate (with the third hand, you'd be holding onto the rock, if you had one). And the film is expensive. So no half-hearted snapshots; you have to carefully consider every shot, the framing has to be just right, János has to be in good spirits, with the sea and the steep cliffs dropping away, so I have to lean further forward—no, backward—and—a cry from János, and I catch myself just in time. Phew, that was close!
János also takes a few pictures of me, and during the handover, the camera is repeatedly in mortal danger. Until the clever little younger brother (that's me) comes up with the idea of swapping the person instead of awkwardly handing over the camera.
So the device is wedged into a crevice in the rock, then A climbs on and B reaches the device. This works quite well, because climbing is easier without the device. We scrambled around there all day, found a deep spot in the small fjord that juts into the Calanques, and jumped into the water from a height of 3-4 meters – pure swimming fun!
For the next two days, we lazed around the Propriano area, swimming at the rocky beaches of the Gulf of Valinco or scrambling through waist-high undergrowth to reach some dilapidated windmill ruin or farm. The latter proved to be a reliable source of food; our money was worth more to the farmers than in the city.
We gradually made our way towards Cap de Moro, a barren and rocky area that offers, above all, a magnificent view of the Bay of Ajaccio. There we sat, watching the boats and admiring the sea: it was truly much larger than Lake Constance, and far more breathtaking.
János still had some ace up his sleeve; he'd vaguely hinted in Rome that there would be something special in Ajaccio, but he hadn't revealed anything to me. We looked out over the gulf, and far in the distance, west of the city, we could see the Îles Sanguinaires, the "Bloody Islands." János kept glancing there, asking if I couldn't see the lighthouse on the middle island; and with dreamy eyes, he murmured: "It must be wonderful there, I want to go there!"
At first, I didn't take it literally. We rode into Ajaccio, and I was already looking around on the outskirts of town to see if there were any affordable places to stay. But János tapped me on the shoulder and shouted in my ear that I should continue along the coastal road by the sea, yes, into the center, along the promenade.
In the middle of the promenade, he commanded, "Halt!" János walked towards a palace, grinned at my bewildered face, and rang the bell. The doorman opened the door and let us in. While we took care of the moped and unloaded our luggage, János whispered that we could now stay in the archbishop's palace for a few days—so that was what he had kept from me in Rome! The archbishop wasn't there, but that was okay; at least we could sleep in proper beds and have a real breakfast. We planned to stay one or two nights, explore the city, and then continue our journey.
And so it was. Or almost. On the very first evening, János directed me about 10 km west from the city to a headland called Pointe de Parata. There, at the foot of an old Moorish (actually: Genoese) lighthouse, we sat, sipping water thoughtfully from a canteen (an earlier form of sundowner) and gazing across at the Îles Sanguinaires, their silhouettes against the sunset. I didn't need to be a clairvoyant to guess my brother's thoughts. From Pointe de Parata, it was a good 2 km to the largest island, with smaller rocks (islands would be an exaggeration) strung out in the water like pearls on a necklace. And I thought I saw a small white dog running around under the lighthouse on the main island, backlit by the sun. The light-colored building in front of it must be a restaurant, right? (By now, it should have been clear that we had to plan the entire trip without Dumont or Marco Polo, otherwise things would probably have turned out quite differently...)
We didn't say much; on our previous expeditions, we'd never had to debate the how and what for long. Yes, swim over to the small rock, rest on it. Pocket a few coins to maybe buy a drink at the restaurant on the main island. Swim back after a stroll. We exchanged a thoughtful glance, then nodded in unison: so be it!
The next morning – at the crack of dawn – we drove back to Pointe de Parata. A beautiful, bright, and clear morning. When we arrived at the Moorish tower, we had a brief moment of shock: the place, deserted and empty the previous evening, was now teeming with people. A film crew was working on the tower itself, shooting a love scene (a pirate kisses a scantily clad woman before swinging up the tower with a knife between his teeth, and repeats this a dozen times in a row!). I pulled out my camera and photographed the historically significant tower (somehow the pirate's impossibly long legs also ended up in the picture, strange, very strange!). The cameraman took my camera and was quite astonished: built in 1939! We are undecided for a while (János is thinking about where to hide the moped, and I am wondering what the pirate might look like without makeup), then János spots a group of bushes where we can hide the moped and change our clothes.
With only a few coins (from the restaurant!) and a small pocketknife (from the white dog!) tucked into our swimming trunks, we set off. The sea is like glass, there's not a breath of wind, so we make good progress. It takes a while before we reach the first small rock and take a break. Then on to the next, and so on, until we (almost) reach the main island. By now, a strong wind has picked up, creating some waves. Swimming "against" the current is becoming arduous, so we have to take breaks in the water; while one of us rests, the other treads water and holds the first; then we switch. The closer we get to the main island, the more a suspicion grows in my mind: the lighthouse isn't one at all, but one of those Moorish round towers, and the restaurant is dilapidated, windowless, burned out, and beyond repair.
I'm not saying anything yet; we're still fully occupied with swimming and resting. The wind picks up even more around midday, and we barely manage to reach the eastern shore of the main island. János carefully climbs ashore in front of me, then we sit down and rest. I say, "Now I know why the island is called 'the Bloody One,'" and point to our feet: the dark red porphyry rock is as sharp-edged as coral, and our soles are bleeding from tiny cuts. We discuss the lack of a lighthouse, a restaurant, and drinks; we decide to swim along the leeward northern side of the coast to the lighthouse. No one can walk barefoot on the island; they would completely ruin their soles.
So we swim along the island, just a few meters away, the midday sun beating down mercilessly. As we approach the tower, it turns out to be a ruin (it's called Tour Genoise, by the way, the Genoese tower). No white dog, no restaurant, and climbing it on this steep coast is out of the question. We rest in the water and swim back a little way. We rest in the shade of a huge boulder and sit there for about an hour. Not a word of disappointment passes our lips. Not a word.
The return trip is easier, as the wind is blowing from the southwest and we're swimming with the waves. But my knee (the one that got pinched) is starting to hurt and swell. I'm taking more frequent breaks now; János is worried about whether I can manage swimming with only one leg, but I prove him wrong that I can grit my teeth: we reach Pointe de Parata again at sunset. Exhausted and panting, we sit on the beach, take our first sip of water since morning, and watch the sunset. As we dig the moped out again and get dressed, he complains of pain in his shoulders. I look at him and discover finger-thick, watery, swollen blisters from the burns.
Half an hour later, we rang the doorbell at the brother's house and lay down. An hour later, I ran downstairs in despair and tried to explain to the priest on duty that János had blisters on his shoulders, a terrible headache, and a fever to boot. After ages, the doctor (that's really what he was called) was summoned. He treated János with burn ointment and a syringe, shaking his head at us fools who had spent a whole day unprotected in the water in the blazing sun. I had redness but no pain, and yet he still smeared the ointment on me. I cowardly avoided the syringe. [Years later, at a high school reunion, one of János's classmates—I think it was the well-known Vorarlberg ski racer Udo Albl—told me that he had been diving in the Ajaccio area around the same time and that you had to be very careful of the sharks there. I was at least as pale as János when he told me!]
Father Medicus comes several times to check on János. By morning we're feeling somewhat better; the priest gives us a long and only partially comprehensible lecture (or has the fool ever tried swimming in the sea wearing a wide-brimmed hat?!). The ugly, weepy blisters are carefully lanced and bandaged. János has to stay in bed for three days. We're crestfallen, as our travel plans are completely derailed. And, would we even be allowed to stay that long? János had only negotiated with His Excellency the Archbishop from Rome for one or two nights; there was no mention of four or five days! Father Medicus looks stern and remains firm; he'll take responsibility for it.
I'm now trying my hand at being a nurse, as best I can. Fetching water. Bringing food. Emptying the chamber pot. Fluffing the pillows. Feeding him semolina porridge by the spoonful. I bravely sit hour after hour beside János's bed, twiddling my thumbs. We discuss at length his future as a priest, and later my career aspiration of becoming an astronaut. I'd need a lot of math for that, yes. And the binary system, calculating with zeros and ones, vital for survival in space. So János teaches me how to add and subtract with my fingers (they're called digits). When it comes to multiplication, which he, as a genius, has mastered just as well as binary division, I completely give up. Outside, the birds are chirping, the children are laughing brightly, and down below, on the promenade, beauties in miniskirts are strolling. And there I am, hunched over in a spartan, dimly lit hospital room, listening to someone explain how to remember the carry by bending your little finger.
"Now go, go!" says János. I make him coax me for a while—no, I can't do that, you just can't do that—but then I give in and disappear, exploring the old town, the beach promenade, and the beauties strolling there in the sunshine. Oh, how long ago it was since the Signora brought me that dreadful beer to my room! Sighing, I return to my brother. Celibacy isn't for me, really!
On the third day, Father Medicus carefully bandaged the burns, remarked that it was far too early to leave, and added sadly that he knew we were unstoppable. We thanked him, said goodbye to each priest individually with long handshakes and solemn farewells, then saddled up the moped and set off. But we only made it to the end of the promenade, where children, tourists, and ethereal beauties were frolicking on the sandy beach. We decided to enjoy a long swim before continuing our journey.
The very idea of going into the water with my blisters was pure folly. But then again, I could have just stayed in Bregenz in front of the TV, couldn't I? So, off with the clothes, and into the water I went! I could feel the gazes of the fairy-like figures, my chest puffed out, and my trousers bulged (sorry, but that's how it was!). And, like the peacock I was, I strutted a few meters across the sand and expertly dove headfirst into the waves. Flat, as is proper for shallow water, half belly flop, half dive. And then, with my arms underwater, I immediately pushed myself back up. I surfaced and immediately checked to see if the beauties had been watching!
Yes, of course they did, and appreciative glances flickered out from under wide-brimmed sun hats; I looked over at them gratefully. I saw János stand on a small boulder, then climb onto a higher one and try to dive headfirst into the water. I shouted and yelled: "No! János! Don't jump! Not like that!" but it was too late. He flew in a wide arc like an eagle over the water, dug deep into the sand of the shallow water, and stood up, bewildered, in the knee-deep water: his forehead was scraped, and bright blood was running down his face. I ran to him and examined him in a flurry of activity: thankfully, nothing serious. But he was bleeding quite a bit! Again and again, dazed and completely bewildered, he asked why he could do it and not me?! I explained to him that I had practiced diving into shallow water before and that my dive had only been an act. Because of the girls, I add sheepishly.
My handkerchief is now soaked with blood; I frantically try to think of what I can do. My gaze falls on the archbishop's palace. János follows my gaze and shakes his head, no, we can't do that!
Absolutely! I'm now his mother and father; I energetically grab the resisting boy and lead him across the street, impatiently ringing the doorman's bell. The question chokes in his throat when he sees János covered in blood. He immediately calls Father Medicus.
Priests are only human, I'm learning that quickly. Even the dazed János pales at the Corsican curses the priest is now unleashing. Seriously, these brain-dead tourists! They can't even go an hour without bandages and painkillers! Well, at least János only suffered a superficial scalp cut and didn't fracture or even get a concussion. While the priest applies a proper bandage and then a turban to my brother, I swear to myself that we would immediately drive another 20 or 30 kilometers so that—even in the worst-case scenario—we wouldn't find ourselves in the humiliating situation of having to ring his doorbell a third time.
The kind-hearted Samaritan surveyed his work once more, nodded with satisfaction, and decreed that we must spend another night here; only after he had examined János again in the morning could he be certain that he didn't have a concussion. So we returned to our room, I fetched the moped and luggage from the beach, and had to tell the sympathetic ladies there how poor János was doing. They asked and asked, and I urgently needed to get back to the palace, so I promised to be right back. This, of course, meant that I hastily stowed away the luggage, moped, and the dazed János, and then rejoined the elves on the beach. - I owe it entirely to the long-practiced art of stealth among the Bregenz Indians that I was able to pass by the doorman unseen and catlike at night (theoretically, because all the sneaking and sweaty heart-pounding was for nothing: the gate was open, the doorman's lodge empty, and he was blissfully snoring in front of the crackling television...).
This happened on the very first day of the second half of our trip, and we were still in Ajaccio. At that point, we should already be in the highlands; the originally planned route led via Vizzavona to the old capital, Corte, and then westward past the foot of the 2708m high Monte Cinto to Porto and Piana, back to the sea, to the Calanques of Piana, and back onto the Mille Virages route. During our (definitely) last breakfast in the archbishop's kitchen, we debated back and forth, finding it hard to accept a change of route, as it would mean admitting partial failure. On the other hand, we had unexpectedly spent four days in Ajaccio without seeing much of the city and should have already left the Calanques behind us by now. However, we would save a bit of money on petrol, which seemed advisable given this thirsty Genoa-built carburetor. So we decided to "only" drive along the coast and forgo the trip to Corte, but not the Calanques near Piana.
Without looking left or right, we hurriedly left Ajaccio heading north, stopping only at the Gulf of Sagone for a long swim. János still seemed quite frail, and besides, a few disagreements needed to be settled amicably. Couldn't I have thought of bringing sunscreen? Spending a whole day in the water was bound to lead to sunburn, so why hadn't anyone considered that? Did my jump really have to be so spectacular and showy? And—worst of all—what was going on between those old women and me? There was that young friend in Bregenz, wasn't there?!
I countered that I didn't get sunburned because I wasn't weighed down by excess fat (an unfair reference to my then-athletic 60 and his already considerable 90 kg, approximately). And which of us is bald, who scalps themselves in the sand, who has to compulsively copy everything the little guy does? And you don't understand about the ladies, my brother, there's nothing to confess, and that's that! - Only vague remnants of this conversation remain in my memory; forgetting will have its advantages.
All day we swam in the area north of Cargese, lazed in the sun, and polished off several cans of tuna that had traveled from the Atlantic to Bregenz and from there by moped to Corsica in the Mediterranean, finally reaching their destination here. Gradually, I brought up more serious matters; our calculations regarding petrol prices and finances were completely wrong, and our funds were dwindling alarmingly despite our most frugal spending. It must have looked rather odd, two lads camping out in the middle of nowhere, with nothing better to do than meticulously re-examine the travel accounts. Then János sighed and said, "That's right, we're running into trouble." He'd call a fellow student who lives in Calvi first thing tomorrow morning to see if we could visit him; he might be able to help us out of our predicament.
The next morning we drive high up into the heart of the Calanques, spend the whole day climbing around and gazing down at the blue sea. We don't dare to recklessly challenge these enormous cliffs and stick carefully to the narrow goat paths. Sometimes we crawl out onto one of the ledges and stick our heads over the abyss. Sometimes János throws a stone down; we count the seconds and try to calculate how far it must have fallen. In this beautiful, peaceful landscape, our disagreements suddenly seem very far away, as do our worries about the travel budget.
We spent the night in Porto Bay, sleeping wonderfully in a dilapidated little stone hut and gazing up at the stars through the missing roof. In the evening, János had called his friend Pierre in Calvi to let them know we were coming; we received a most warm welcome!
The next day we drive north again, chatting with a shepherd during siesta in three languages (French, Italian, and Corsican, which only he speaks) and learning a lot about his life as a shepherd. We share canned tuna, salami, and Corsican cheese so sharp it knocks your socks off. I'm fascinated by the enormous Corsican folding dagger the old man uses to cut white bread and cheese. From that moment on, I know I wouldn't return home without one.
To be honest, the time and the route between Piana, Ile Rousse and St. Florent have largely been forgotten; although I'm itching to throw in a proper tall tale here, or at least try to, I'll exceptionally stay on the straight and narrow and only report what is still there in memory - at least a little bit.
Somewhere along this stretch, as we skillfully navigate the wild curves of the poorly maintained, narrow coastal road, I jerk the handlebars: a long, thin snake crosses our path. I struggle to keep the overloaded moped on the road despite the high speed. János shouts in my ear: "Did you see it?!" and I growl back over my shoulder, asking if he really thinks I was zigzagging for no reason at all, huh?!
Later – I think a few days later – we had our (only) breakdown in Corsica: I felt the rear wheel start to wobble, slowed down, and stopped. The rear tire was flat. No problem, since I had brought plenty of tools as a precaution, so we got to work together, like a well-oiled machine. After unloading the luggage and putting the bike on its center stand, I started to unscrew the axle and immediately stopped: there was something wrapped around the wheel hub and the chain guard. It was probably just an old rag, I thought, and pulled it out.
János picks it up, and then we both get a shock: it's the remains of the snake that didn't make it and wrapped itself around the rear wheel and chain guard. I'm quite pale and skip my snack that day.
We won't see much of Calvi, because right at the edge of town, János directs me left into the mountains, where, after some searching and wandering, we find the small village where Pierre lives. I only remember that Pierre, whom I assumed was a fellow student, turned out to be one of the university professors from Rome, was already a few years older than us, and was vacationing here at his parents' house. He wanted to go with János in the dusty Renault to the next largest village, or rather, suburb of Calvi, to visit someone; I have the honor of taking his niece (I think) along in the back seat and following the two grown men as best I can.
Before any false impressions arise, I'd better mention right away that I was already familiar with the stories of shotgun-wielding Corsican fathers back then, that my niece Renée didn't speak any of the languages I knew properly, and was also much younger than me, more like 12 than 13. She begged and insisted, chattered and babbled on Pierre until he gave in and, shaking his head, translated his irrevocable decision into a request. Secretly, I was proud to have something special with the moped and agreed immediately.
While Pierre, János, and Renée disappeared into the rectory, I politely declined their offer and said I would wander around and have a look at the place—parish talk wasn't for me today. I wandered around a bit, returned to the main square, and discovered a stone bench encircling the church, where several old men sat, calmly gazing at the heat of the square. (Later, when I was reading the Corsica Asterix volume with my son, I was surprised to see the same old men there again.)
I sat down at a respectful distance, but someone approached me and gestured for me to come closer. In a trilingual mix of the two languages I knew, we chatted about where I was from and where I was going. What kind of moped was that? "No, you don't say, all the way from Austria to here, and so fast—they saw me speeding up!" "Giuseppe, right? He's got one of those too, but it only goes in first gear. You could overtake it on foot, at least you could, with your young feet!"
And what a pretty young wife I have! "She's very young," one of them grumbles. "No, she's not my wife, I'm still a student." "Oh, it must be difficult, sitting in school as a married man, surrounded by all those children. No, I'm not married, she's not my wife!" "Well, my boy, that's the same for all of us; first we can't do enough crazy things just to get them, and then once we've had them long enough, we can't get rid of them, can we, Giovanni? You don't want your old lady anymore either?" A roar of laughter ensues. I protest, but it's completely useless. My school French and equally good Italian apparently don't penetrate their presumably battery-free hearing aids. If they even know what those are. Batteries, I mean.
In the political part that followed, I kept my mouth shut as best I could. I nodded when they complained that the French had always oppressed the Corsicans. I nodded again when they said that "under the prefect" such things hadn't happened (whoever the prefect might be). That the French had been raging terribly ever since the prefect was gone (aha, dead, presumably). But the youngsters would bomb the French out of Corsica, yes indeed, and that was certainly in the prefect's interest, since he himself had been a savage back then, hadn't he? (I nodded vaguely, doubting the right to be wrong). And then they asked me, indignantly, whether I thought it was right that the French had exiled the prefect and let him die there—on the distant island of St. Helena?!
How many sheep does my father have? Does he make the cheese himself or does he go to the cooperative? Somewhat resignedly, I explain that we don't have a single sheep and that Father doesn't produce cheese, but tinkers with electronics in the basement workshop (as a hobby; or, how else am I supposed to translate "export merchant" for Corsican hearing aids?). The old folks nod thoughtfully and shake their heads. Yes, yes, so-and-so tried it too, but the machine-made cheese is no good; so-and-so would have to take it all the way to Marseille, nobody here would buy it. I nod and grin, saying that Corsican cheese really is something special. They thaw out; one of them fumbles in his pocket and pulls out a cheese wrapped in paper. With red ears and beads of sweat on my forehead, I chew on my sample—this time irrevocably and mercilessly, the famous explosive! Someone hands me a bottle as I gasp for air. The sharp, bitter cider has never been more welcome than now. My father should reconsider the machinery in his cheese shop and maybe go back to making the cheese by hand; that's what we all do here. I nod silently, not daring to breathe. Because of the explosives.
The conversation then continued without my participation; the stranger was informed that the prefect had been the Great Corsican, born in Ajaccio (August 15, 1769), and that he had ruled half the world. But the French! No, they can't even make proper cheese, wouldn't you like another piece? And so on and so forth. I breathed a genuine sigh of relief when Pierre, János, and the niece finally came out again and I could say goodbye to the old folks.
Before we set off, Renée was quite cheeky, chattering and gesturing in sign language that she was expecting at least a rocket ride: vroom, give it some gas! OK, I nodded internationally. - After our arrival, she jumped out of the saddle and ran towards Pierre's car, which was just arriving, gesturing wildly and letting out a torrent of words: how great it had been and how we had ridden like maniacs; her arms and hands eloquently described the ride on the rocket, the scattering goats, and the goatherd who saved himself by bravely leaping into the ditch. I grinned at János, who understood a bit more of her rambling and didn't seem to approve of my ride. Father Pierre gave me a friendly pat and said: "Tu es con, tu sais?" which I would translate, with a touch of self-deprecation, as: "You rode like a maniac, you know?"
Pierre's sister generously packs us bread, cheese, and a hard salami—the provisions will last us for a few days. We continue our journey without asking Pierre for money, visiting Calvi's old town and the famous castle. We drive around the area near the village of Île Rousse for a bit, taking in the sights. I recalculate everything, making sure the return fare (in Italian lire) remains untouched, rummage around for the last few pennies, and together with János, I buy a beautiful Corsican folding knife for myself—the smallest and cheapest they had, but a Corsican one nonetheless. Probably not the smartest decision, but very emotional. Very István.
We arrived in St. Florent on our penultimate evening, a small and very Corsican-looking town in the bay of the same name. There was a funfair on the beach. We ate our last of the provisions and wandered around the fair; a miniature Prater amusement park in the heart of Corsica. Our eyes sparkled; we felt like children again. The last attraction on the north beach was a tent with music and an open-air dance floor. Many young people our age were on the dance floor. We sat on the sidelines and watched them; my neighbor and I kept smiling at each other.
János glances at the dance floor, I scoote over a bit and make contact. Corsican? No, from France, Nicole. Ah, my brother and I are from Austria. By moped. The white one, over there. Nicole is impressed. She's friendly, speaks slowly and in simple words. My French doesn't sound so stilted anymore, I dare to speak more fluently. I tell her what, where, how, and why. She's on her graduation trip, from the Lyon area. She's going to study medicine, living in a student apartment with a friend. The whole class passed, and now they're staying for a few more days. Those people on the dance floor, those are her classmates. I'm completely clueless and just say: aha!
"They have lovely music," Nicole says, glancing back at the dance floor. "Yes," I say, nodding several times, "the music is good, but it's from a tape." "You can still dance to it," Nicole says, and I'm still stuck. Slowly, like a bead of sweat, a thought creeps into my mind, and I brush it aside. Then Nicole asks if I don't want to dance. I explain that I've always played in the band and therefore can't dance. She laughs at me, then leads me onto the dance floor. A benevolent god takes pity on me and puts on one slow, languid dance after another. János sits rather forlornly in the sand, gazing up at the stars when he's not watching us dance. Nicole doesn't seem to be having much luck, having to charm a real dancer like me. I give it my all, but all our attempts end the same way: in a tightly entwined, languid dance.
That has its advantages, too. We can whisper in each other's ear, I can hear my heart pounding in my chest, feel Nicole with all my senses, and realize it's been ages since I last drank Signora's beer. I perceive us as a single body, divided in two by bothersome fabric; sweaty bodies, tentatively and curiously exploring each other as they rock and sway. I hear Nicole giggling and whispering, wondering if all those awful Austrians are as daring as I am.
Apparently, one can also dance on a long wire, not just sit; at least, I reply that I consider myself rather shy. Nicole laughs and says she's a puce (a flea, damn it, why a flea?) and looks me in the face. I say a flea, I don't understand that; I know Libra or Gemini and also Scorpio, but a puce (a flea), no, I don't know that, and my dance partner looks at me grumpily, as if I'd said something terrible. Nicole is silent, then she whispers, asking if I don't understand, a puce, a pucelle (a little flea, then, a little flea).
Here and now, I demand a complete rethink of French lessons in our schools; we learn what a metro is, a bourdaloup, or a topgallant staysail, yes, but not what the French understand by "pucelle": Nicole discreetly dances me out of the throng to the less lit edge of the dance floor and hugs me tightly, then whispers in my ear that a "puce" is when you've never had sex with a man. Jeanne d'Arc, the Pucelle d'Orléans, the Maid of Orleans. Do you understand? I nod silently, and we sway, closely entwined, to the beat of "Yesterday, all my troubles seem so far away," my mind racing with thoughts: why is she telling me this, and what does it all mean...?
We dance in silence, I'm heartbroken because I've just fallen in love and tomorrow it will all be over. I tell Nicole that our trip is over and we'll be leaving tomorrow morning, for Bastia, to catch the ferry to Italy. Nicole asks if we're really leaving already, I nod, and then we both cry. John Lennon finishes at some point, Paul McCartney continues: "She was just seventeen, and you know what I mean," and we jump around like crazy, like everyone around us. Nicole stops and says she can't dance anymore. Not now, when everything is so incredibly sad.
Nicole from Lyon and István from Bregenz take a few steps to the sandy beach, to the edge of the sunbeams, sit beneath a billion stars, listen to the gentle lapping of the waves, and whisper softly, whisper, and cry. István from Bregenz kisses Nicole from Lyon, gently pulls her into the sand, and embraces her. János from Rome slowly approaches, coughs softly, and says to István from Bregenz: "Come on, we have to go!" and to Nicole from Lyon: "Il faut nous partir (we have to leave)!"
Blinded by tears, I exceptionally let János drive. We drive a few kilometers towards Punta Mignola, where we had already scouted out a good spot to camp near a castle ruin during the day. We don't talk much. János starts by saying he's sorry, but I growl at him to finally leave me alone. We both know he's right, but my heart is almost bursting with grief and lovesickness.
The next morning, the sun doesn't wake us until it's already quite high in the sky; we've both slept soundly and without dreams. Silently, János prepares some bread, silently I secure the steel spring that keeps slipping off the exhaust pipe and needs to be tightened several times a day. Then we sit facing each other, and I suffer under János's sad gaze. Oh well, I playfully punch him on the arm with a grin: "Must be tough for you, traveling with an asshole like me!" János smiles tentatively at first, then we both laugh. Years later, we still wink at each other whenever someone mentions a sand flea in Corsica.
We ate our last provisions for breakfast and drove past St. Florent to the mountain pass road that climbs over the Col de Teghime to almost 1300m and from there descends back to sea level in the port city of Bastia, where the ferry to Italy awaited us. We've already ruled out the round trip to Cap Corse with its extensive chestnut and walnut forests. No time and no money left.
After the last gas station, at the first hairpin bend with a rest area and panoramic view, I pull over. We check our luggage, travel funds, and gas tank again: everything seems pretty meager. Our provisions are gone, our travel funds are empty except for our "Italian reserve," and the tank, well, the tank! I shake my head and say that we might have enough fuel to get up the hill, but going downhill we'll have to drive electrically (that is, without the engine) to make it to the port. János says we can't linger too long today, because we can't buy provisions again until we get to Italy. That would mean 24 hours "without."
A tourist standing next to us approached us. He was also from Austria, he said, and that old black Mercedes with Vienna license plates was his. He asked where we were from, and so on. Good heavens, by moped, from Bregenz to here! That was a huge distance! He had come by ferry from Marseille; the crossing was incredibly expensive, but he had saved up for a long time for this trip and could finally afford it; but by moped, no way! It quickly became clear that he was a friendly and easygoing man who meant no harm, quite the opposite: after questioning us at length, he said he had overheard us discussing things, and he wanted to give us (so many) francs to ensure we got home safely. He calculated aloud that this should roughly cover two tankfuls of fuel plus a decent snack.
At first we thought it was a joke when he casually blurted it out, but then he reached into his pocket and counted out some bills. Without hesitation, he pressed the money into my hand; when János asked him how we could pay it back, he said, "Oh, come on, you'll surely meet someone who needs it someday, just like you do today, so just give them something!" Then he got into his car, said, "God bless you and drive carefully!" and sped off.
We remembered this man for years afterward; that was true neighborly love in action! But for the moment, we drove the short distance back to the gas station, filled up the tank, and bought groceries for two days. Then we drove up the mountain, at that time (after the Koppen Pass near Hallstatt) the second steepest mountain pass in Europe. At the top, on the pass where an old cannon commemorates one of the decisive battles for the liberation of Corsica, we rested and looked once more at Corsica, which can be seen almost in its entirety from up there.
János rummaged through his papers again, found the passage about the Col de Teghime, and read aloud who had fought whom there. It was a wonderful end to our trip; we had successfully completed something important to us, and the sun was shining, especially brightly today for a man in a Mercedes heading south towards Porto Vecchio. Yes, my friend, I've recognized you many times since then, paid off my debts, and am still working on it! I looked down at St. Florent, down there where the old church stands in the water, almost forgetting Nicole, my little flea from Lyon. János continued reading, bringing a part of Corsica's history to life.
From Bastia, the ferry took us to La Spezia, and from there – due to a ferry delay – we made a real mad dash to Florence, where I literally got János to the train at the last minute. I remember it like it was yesterday: the last 70 km took me exactly 58 minutes; we were checking our watches almost every minute, time was so tight before departure.
And just as precisely, I have forgotten, absolutely forgotten, how my journey from Florence to Bregenz went; I still discover fragmentary remnants of memories of an overnight stay in a farm near Merano and the next day the visit to my school friend Walter S., who lived in Nauders on the Reschen-Scheideck Pass.
But the rest is forgotten. Forever.
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Ooo...