Tag Archives: Mother Tongue

The Scented Isle ~ in photos and words ~ Caporalino

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Excerpt from MOTHER TONGUE by Karen Stephen

I tapped my breaks as the first building in the tiny village came into view, a two-story house whose rear of rough, moss-covered stone lurked behind a façade of beige stucco. My gaze lingered on the checkerboard of cast stone at the point of demarcation. I felt an odd pulling sensation in my chest, as if someone was watching me from behind the white shuttered windows, each one tenderly surrounded by filigreed carvings. I imagined walking up to the oaken front door and lifting the brass knocker. The blare of a horn broke the spell and I drove on.

Caporalina house

Crawling along on Google Maps, I found this house in the village of Caporalino along N193 in Corsica and felt it was perfect as the dwelling that catches my protagonist’s eye when she first arrives on her mother’s native island.

 

The Scented Isle ~ in photos and words ~ Granite knob

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Excerpt from MOTHER TONGUE by Karen Stephen

Not until I spotted a knob of granite sticking up from the valley floor like a two-hundred-foot-high thumb hitching a ride, its backside sheared off as if by a giant axe, did it strike me that Corsica, this place where my life had begun, might have a special character of its own. 

A Punta di U Diamante -U Spidali (l'Ospedale) -Corsica [Copy-protected photo by Thierry Tramoni]

A Punta di U Diamante -U Spidali (l’Ospedale) -Corsica [Copy-protected photo by Thierry Tramoni]

A symphony of lonely hearts on Valentine’s Day

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Lonely-heart-miss-you-3D-wide-300x250A Symphony of Lonely Hearts

Now is the only time.
Right now I am creating a state of mind,
a joyful moment
to carry me into the next hour,
travel with me though the morning,
thread its way into the afternoon,
trickle down to tomorrow,
and spill over into next month, next year
to color all the days of my life.

I always fantasized that that joyful moment
that turns into a contented hour
and becomes an afternoon of delight
could only come if my hand were held,
my face caressed,
my yearnings satisfied
by a man—a mythic prince.

But my prince is not here right now.
He is not present in this Valentine moment of mine.
He is off smiling that charming, little-boy smile,
the one with the dimples and the heavy-lidded longing,
for someone else.
He is placing a perfect rose on her pillow,
or so I imagine.

I could as easily imagine
that he is asleep at this moment,
or lost in the shadow of a frown.
Perhaps his jaw is clenched in anger,
his lower lip quivering with grief.
Yes…he could be sharing a blissful moment
with the woman he loves.
But they could just as easily be sitting apart,
hearts aching,
in a dark place edged with uncertainty.

Will our paths ever cross again?
Will we need or desire each other if that moment comes?
Silly questions that beg to be left unanswered.

I have only now,
only this Valentine moment of mine.
What shall I do with my moment on this red-letter day?
I will breathe in my solitary pain.
I will breathe in the pain of all those who find themselves alone this day.
I will breathe in the corroding poison of lost dreams—mine, theirs.
I will breathe out a measure of loving kindness,

That soft breath out will soothe me
and flow in endless ripples
to comfort all the solitary souls.
Could a moment in a lover’s embrace,
With its uncertainty, its impermanence,
ever produce such a melody,
such a true and clear harmony,
as the symphony of a thousand lonely hearts
connected by a single breath out?

5th birthday FROZEN extravaganza

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IMG_0009Anticipation was in the air. My granddaughter eagerly awaits the arrival of her guests, hoping against hope that Elsa and Anna will keep their promise made at Disneyland months earlier to come to her 5th birthday party.

The food has been carefully prepared.

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Anna’s Frozen Heart Strawberries – White chocolate coated

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Kristoff’s Ice Blocks – blue jello jigglers with white cream that rises to the top

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Olaf’s Noses

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Elsa’s Frozen Castle – Carefully prepared by the birthday girl’s mother and all edible

Grandma Mimi (c’est moi!) is ready to enjoy the festivities.

IMG_0018IMG_0024And who should arrive at precisely 2:30? Why, it’s Elsa and Anna who put on a fabulous show for all the children and their parents. Disneyland characters have nothing on this duo of local high school musical theater stars. Elsa began by helping the children apply Frozen tattoos. Anna supervised the creation of little marshmallow Olafs.IMG_0033

 

 

 

 

 

 

And then the big moment came as the children gathered to listen to the story and the songs from Frozen. Anna began with her story and First Time Forever.

Their story continued and then Elsa sang Let It Go

And for the finale of the party, the children joined in for one last rendition of Let It Go with their idols. A magical day for the birthday girl and all the children and adults. It was the party we never even dreamed about as children.

Out of the headlines…journalist attacked

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2263434My first contact with Guy Benhamou was in the mid-1990s when he covered the Corsican situation for Libération, known as Libé, the French daily newspaper founded by Jean Paul Sartre and Serge July in 1973 in the wake of the protest movements of May, 1968. Originally an extreme left newspaper, it underwent a number of shifts during the 1980s and 1990s to take the Social Democrat position. At its peak in 2001, it had a circulation of about 170,000 and was the first French daily to have a website. Mr. Benhamou was kind enough to send me copies of all of his coverage, which I translated from the French, and wished me well in my endeavor to write [at that time a screenplay] about Corsica.

santoni and bookPrior to 2000, Mr. Benhamou conducted extended interviews at the request of Jean Michel Rossi and François Santoni, in which the two very frankly discussed the inside skinny on the paramilitary groups in Corsica and commented on the personal feuds, the corruption, and their own covert negotiations with the French State. By doing so, the two were breaking the island’s ancient code of silence, which they admitted they had punished others for doing so.

Rossi funeralIt was not surprising that in August 2000, Rossi and his bodyguard died in a hail of automatic fire as they sat outside a bar having their morning coffee. A chief rival was suspected but only imprisoned on other charges. Santoni realized he was living on borrowed time (having survived an assassination attempt in 1995) and became even more vocal, causing great embarrassment to his enemies. He even predicted his own assassination, which indeed did occur on August 17th of 2001 when gunmen invaded a wedding he was attending.

-Even as recently at 2012, there were twelve assassinations related to the movement, which is now described by some commentators as being dominated by organized crime.

220px-Dr_Edmond_SimeoniHowever, Corsican Nationalism in its purer political and social form is still alive and well on the island. Edmond Simeoni, now in his late 80s, described as the “Father of Nationalism” is one of the movement’s major inspirational voices. The Nationalists call for the political sovereignty of Corsica, partially based on cultural and ethnic differences between the island and the mainland, the promotion of the Corsican language (lingua corsa or in French Corsu) and its compulsory teaching in schools, the limiting of tourist infrastructure and policies promoting tourism, and in its place sustainable economic development, compliance with building permits and coastal law, and the recognition of political prisoner status for members of the Corsican nationalist movement including those who have committed acts amounting to common crimes. It is to these efforts that I dedicate my novel, especially the preservation and use of lingua corsa.

526x297-WD7After the publication of Pour solde de tout compte, Guy Benhamou was himself the target of reprisals, a prime example of an attempt to kill the “messenger” that has played out so recently in such a tragic way in Paris at the offices of Charlie Hebdo. Guys home was strafed with automatic fire as is seen in this news video and he and his family were put under police protection. He continues as a journalist to this day but focuses on non-political reporting. My character of Pierre Benatar was inspired by Mr. Benhamou but not intended in any way to be a real-life portrayal of this famous and courageous journalist.

Rossi, Jean-Michel and Santoni, François. Entretiens avec [as told to] Guy Benhamou. Pour solde de tout compte, Les nationalistes corse parlent. Paris, Éditions Denoël, 2000.

To err is human…

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fly in ointmentThe fly in the ointment when self-publishing is thinking you can copy edit your own book and get away with it. In my rush to have MOTHER TONGUE released in Kindle and paperback versions before the holidays, I did my own copy editing. WRONG!

Just before my rush to publish, I had completed a major re-write in which I had changed from a third person point-of-view to first person. Unfortunately, one is capable of doing mass change-all edits with WORD and pronouns are incredibly capricious little devils. What’s worse is that spell-check does not always pick up the resulting grammatical errors because they are perceived as being correct even though the meaning is entirely altered. Case in point: “our” and “their”.

Example: I listened closely to our conversation when what I meant was I listened closely to their conversation. The first is not poor grammar but totally incorrect in terms of meaning.

can-you-read-this2You’ve all probably seen the passage pictured here about the power of the human mind. This is why it is so difficult to pick up these errors. Skimming over large volumes of material, our gaze slides over the little words like pronouns, especially when we’ve written them ourselves.

So, until a generous copy-edit-minded friend gave me the horrendous news  yesterday, I had no idea that there were over a hundred uses of “our” when I meant “their”. And a few minor typos to boot.

So, my sincere apologies to those who purchased either the Kindle or the paperback version of MOTHER TONGUE. I have made the corrections, resubmitted the interiors, and both versions will be available within the next 24-48 hours at Amazon.This is the up side of self-publishing. Corrections are very easily made.

For any of you paid good money for my novel and then threw your hands up in frustration or your Kindle down in annoyance, I would be happy to make reparations. A new paperback version can be sent to your door as soon as it is available or a gift certificate for a new Kindle version. Please use my CONTACT PAGE to send me your druthers. And a special kudos to those who gave me excellent reviews in spite of this–and they weren’t even relatives! You are kindhearted to the Nth degree or speed readers who never read the pronouns to begin with!

A icy 2002 winter in France

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Happy Holidays from San Francisco

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Nothing like a trip to the Golden Gate Bridge the day after Thanksgiving to start the holidays off right. My children and grandchildren enjoyed a stroll across the famous span. And then it was time to put of the tree. … Continue reading →

They make up…Excerpt from MOTHER TONGUE

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french colonial villaLeaving a tense encounter at the house with the oblique staircase in the wilds of Niolo, Antoine pulls up to an seemingly out-of-place and dilapidated French colonial villa, its crumbling walls stitched together with ivy. At the end of a bizarre dinner prepared by their enigmatic host and having had a few whiskeys, Liz turns flirtatious.

whiskey fire

I wanted to stay away from the sensitive areas, at least for now. With the whiskey diminishing my resolve, I tossed out a flirtatious remark. “So, confess, Antoine, is that when you developed your passion for American women?”

Scafani shifted in his chair and faced me head on. He reached and tucked an errant strand of hair behind my ear. “Passion?”

The clatter of broken pottery and muffled shrieks from the kitchen interrupted the moment. “Those poor girls,” I said, downing the last of my third glass of whiskey.

incenseWith the meal was finished, I suggested we head back to Corte. As we walked back down the darkened hallway, Scafani reached again for my arm and tucked it under his. The front room was now filled with the pungent odor of sandalwood. He put his hand on my shoulder and turned me toward him. I paused a fraction of a second and then slid one hand around the back of his neck and pressed the other against his chest. Whether it was the whiskey or his obvious charm, I returned his eagerness as our kisses moved from tender to hot.

“Would you like to go upstairs?” he asked.

I jerked back to reality. “What!”

“If you really want to go back, we will. Just so you know, this is the only hotel in twenty kilometers.”

A laugh came from deep within my belly. “Do you bring all your women here?”

“Only the American ones.”

I allowed Scafani to take my hand and lead me through a door concealed in the room’s paneling. He guided me playfully up the steep staircase hidden behind, flicking his tongue over the nape of my neck on each riser.

“One bare light bulb hanging from the ceiling and I’m out of here,” I said, envisioning a shabby room with dingy sheets.

beautiful-bedroom-book-candle-candles-curtain-Favim.com-47709Scafani pulled me through the first open door at the top of the landing. I let out a soft whistle when I saw a mosquito-netted four-poster bed and three squat candles aglow on the dresser. “Spontaneous combustion?”

Scafani shushed me with a single finger to my lips.

They fight…Excerpt from MOTHER TONGUE

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Liz doesn’t know whether to fear Antoine Scafani or be fearful for him. A chance meeting after a funeral only confuses her more.

DSC02945For nearly an hour, I wandered Corte’s empty streets. I found a cemetery on the outskirts of town, which, unfortunately, was equally deserted. Almost all the town’s businesses, even family-owned groceries and cafés, were closed, a Corsican flag or a black-edged portrait of Henri Soriano plastered on their doors.

Near exhaustion, I sat down on a high stone curb, holding my head in my hands and letting some well-deserved tears pour out. Maybe it was the curb, like the one I’d sat on as a child, but I hadn’t truly cried since the bombing.

Suddenly two strong hands seized my shoulders from behind and lifted me to my feet. I prepared myself for arrest or worse as my abductor forced me into the shadows of a nearby alley. When I finally managed to twist around, I saw not LeClerc but Scafani. His lips quivered with rage. “What the hell were you thinking? You had no business being there.”

“I just wanted to see what was happening along with everyone else.” My explanation sounded lame, even to me.

Scafani shook his head and released me.

I broke the long silence that followed. “How is Jean Louis?”

Scafani seemed not the least surprised that I had heard of his family’s tragedy. “He is being taken care of. Jocelyn and Pierre are with him.”

“I just—”

“You just didn’t think. You aren’t back in the States. This isn’t some Wild West TV show with cowboys and Indians.”

“If it isn’t a game, why did you bring me into it? I saw exactly what Jean Paul and Carla had stored in their living room in full color on the evening news. And the romantic bit? Please.”

“You don’t understand.”

“You have no idea what I need to understand. But if it has to do with why your uncles were shot, then you need to tell me.”

Scafani pulled over a couple of crates for them to sit on. “Why is anyone shot who stands up for their beliefs?”

“It had to be more than that.”

He glared at me, sarcasm filling voice. “A bit of wisdom gathered on your little lover’s tryst to Cap Corse?”

“How did you know about that?”

“He follows us. We follow him,” he said with a frankness I had not expected.

“And you both follow me. Why?”

DSC02918A police vehicle rolled slowly by. Scafani leapt up and pulled me with him to the darker recesses of the alley. If I was going to get information about Benatar out of him, I had to do it fast before he took off again. I decided to take the sympathetic route. “Shouldn’t you be in hiding? I was worried that you’d been arrested because of that scene at the funeral, the gun salute and all.”

“I was.”

“You were what?” I asked in my most innocent voice.

“Grabbed by LeClerc’s men on the way to the cemetery. Pulled right from under Uncle Henri’s coffin. Got interrogated by LeClerc, or should I say by your lover, Philippe. I was released a half-hour ago. They had nothing to hold me on.”

“I don’t know why you keep referring to LeClerc as my anything. There’s nothing going on between us.”

I sank down onto the back-entrance stoop of a store. Scafani hesitated and then turned a trash can upside down and sat beside me. My usually glib escort seemed to be struggling with his words, so I broke the silence again. I wanted to know more.