Peaches for Monsieur Le Curé Read online

  There goes my reputation, I thought. To be suspected of setting fire to a shop was bad enough; but if anyone saw me here, wet through, still smelling of beer and in the company of a young Muslim woman – a young, unmarried Muslim woman – showing every sign of mental disturbance, who, if she were to misunderstand the impulse that had brought me here, might in her confusion accuse me of assault, or worse …

  ‘Please, Alyssa. Listen to me.’ My voice was sharper than I’d intended. ‘You’re cold. You’ll catch your death here. You have to let me take you home.’

  Again, she shook her head.

  ‘Why not?’

  Silence. The girl ignored me.

  ‘All right,’ I said. ‘I won’t take you home. But you can’t stay here, either. I’ll get your mother.’

  No. No.

  ‘Your sister? A friend?’

  Once more: No.

  My patience was deserting me. This was getting ridiculous. If the girl had been one of ours, I would have had no qualms about marching her home. But she was from Les Marauds, where I was persona non grata and where any hint of coercion would be taken very badly.

  Equally unthinkable was to leave the girl unsupervised, even for the ten minutes or so it would take for me to run for the doctor. A girl who can jump in the river once can always do it again, I thought; and if Alyssa Mahjoubi were not entirely of sound mind, she needed someone to watch over her, at least until the crisis had passed. A hot bath; a change of clothes; a bed; perhaps a meal—

  My own home was out of the question. I needed a woman to handle this. I thought of Caro Clairmont, who always used to get on so well with the community of Les Marauds, but the thought of trying to explain myself to her – to her, of all people—

  Joséphine? She’s a kind soul. And I knew she would be discreet. But could I ask a Muslim girl to stay in a place that serves strong drink? Joline Drou, the schoolteacher? But she was a crony of Caro Clairmont. And a gossip – by morning, everyone in Lansquenet would know about the scandal.

  And then it came to me. Yes, of course! A place where Alyssa would be safe; where no one would even know where she was, and where she would be treated as if she were one of the family—

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Thursday, 19th August

  IT TOOK ME a long time to get to sleep. The sound of knocking woke me. An imperious rapping, first at the door, then against the shutters. Anouk and Rosette were sharing the bedroom; I had made my bed on the sofa, and as I struggled out of sleep, I was no longer sure where I was; suspended in a dreamcatcher’s web between one life and the other.

  The knocking became more persistent. I flung on a robe and opened the door. And there was Reynaud, looking stiff and defensive, with a young girl in a black hijab at his side. Both of them smelt of the Tannes, and the girl, who looked no older than eighteen or so, was shivering.

  Reynaud started to explain, sounding as awkward as he looked. ‘I’m sorry. She won’t let me take her home. She won’t say why she jumped into the Tannes. I’ve tried to get her to talk to me, but she doesn’t trust me. None of them do. I’m sorry to burden you with this, but I didn’t know what else—’

  ‘Please,’ I interrupted him. ‘All that can wait till tomorrow.’ I smiled at the girl, who was watching me with sullen-eyed suspicion. ‘I have some towels in the back, and clothes I think will fit you. I’ll get some water boiling, and then you can have a bath and change. There’s no electricity yet – Luc said it might take a few days to arrange – but there are candles, the stove is hot, we’ll get you warm in no time. As for you—’ I turned to Reynaud. ‘Please don’t worry. You did the right thing. Try not to be so hard on yourself. Go home and get some sleep. The rest can wait till morning.’

  Reynaud seemed to hesitate. ‘But – you don’t even know who she is.’

  ‘Does it really matter?’ I said.

  He gave me one of his chilly looks. Then, surprisingly, he smiled. ‘I never thought I’d say this. But, Mademoiselle Rocher, I’m glad you’re here.’

  And at that, he turned and walked away, stiffly, a little self-consciously. To anyone else he might have seemed a drab and disreputable figure as he set off down the stony path, limping a little (he was barefoot) before disappearing into the night. But I see more; I see the heart, even the heart that is hidden. I see more, and in his wake, the air was a shimmy of rainbows.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Thursday, 19th August

  IT TOOK ME until four o’clock to settle our unexpected guest into Armande’s attic bedroom; a tiny, almost triangular space, in which a cot can only just fit. But it is clean and comfortable; and there is a little window at the apex of the triangle, which looks out over Les Marauds and catches the scent of the peach tree.

  Anouk had woken up at the sound of voices in the hall, but Rosette can sleep through anything. We left her sleeping, while I made the bed and Anouk prepared hot chocolate with cardamom and lavender and valerian to help our guest sleep.

  Washed and dressed in an old flannel robe that used to belong to Armande, her long hair carefully combed and dried, the girl looked even younger than I’d thought; sixteen, maybe seventeen, with dark espresso eyes that seemed to take up half her face. She accepted a cup of hot chocolate, but still refused to say anything, and although she was no longer shivering, she sometimes flinched, like a dreaming cat. She seemed curious of Anouk, and I left them together in the hope that the girl might prefer to talk to someone closer to her own age, but she did not; and finally, she went to sleep in front of the fire while Anouk sang the lullaby my mother used to sing to me:

  V’là l’bon vent, v’là l’joli vent—

  I carried the girl up to her room. She felt extremely light in my arms; lighter even than Rosette, and, like a child, she did not wake when I put her into bed. Anouk was full of questions, none of which I could answer, and finally I persuaded her to go back to bed and try to sleep. Sleep comes easily to Anouk; less easily to me. I made a pot of coffee and took it outside; dawn comes early at this time of year, and the sky was already luminous as I sat on Armande’s garden wall and drank my coffee and listened for the sounds of Les Marauds coming to life.

  Cockerels; geese; wild ducks on the Tannes; the morning percussion of small birds. The church clock striking five o’clock, very clear in the morning air; and then, as distant but equally clear, the sound of the muezzin, calling the faithful to prayer on this, the ninth day of Ramadan.

  At nine o’clock, Reynaud arrived. Nine o’clock precisely, as if he had been waiting for a socially acceptable time to call. All in black, and collarless; hair slicked back fastidiously. I thought he looked tired, and wondered whether he had slept at all.

  I gave him some coffee. He took it black and drank it standing up, by the wall. The sun was already pleasantly warm, releasing the scent from the roses that filled Armande’s little garden; tumbling over the dirt path, capering over the trellis. They have not been pruned for eight years, and the flowers have almost gone wild, but the scent remains; a wonderful blend of Turkish delight and clean sheets in the wind. For a moment I said nothing, to allow Reynaud to enjoy the scent, but he was impatient; anxious; on edge. I doubt whether he often takes time to sit and smell the roses.

  ‘Well? Did she speak?’ he said at last.

  I shook my head. ‘No, not a word.’

  And now he told me his story; how he had rescued the girl from the Tannes; how she had refused to go home, or give any explanation for her erratic behaviour.

  ‘I used to know her quite well. Her name is Alyssa Mahjoubi. Old Mahjoubi’s granddaughter. She’s just seventeen, a girl from a decent, honest family. I’ve talked to them a thousand times; they were always polite and friendly. There was never any trouble. Until Inès Bencharki arrived.’

  That name again. Bencharki. The woman whose shadow lurks at the edge of every picture in this gallery; whose face remains as ill-defined as something glimpsed in a pack of cards.

  ‘I know you don’t believe me,’ said Reyna
ud in a calm voice. ‘Perhaps I even deserve it. But things have changed since you left us. Dare I say it? – I have changed.’

  I wonder about that. Has he changed? Does anyone ever really change, deep down, where it matters?

  I checked his colours. He means what he says. But self-awareness has never been one of Reynaud’s qualities. I know him, and I know his kind: people with good intentions—

  ‘I know what you’re thinking,’ said Reynaud. ‘I have been guilty of prejudice. But in this case, I promise you—’ He ran his hand through his slicked-back hair. ‘Look,’ he said. ‘I won’t pretend I was happy to find a girls’ school at my door. We already had a school of our own, and the girls would have been welcome there. And I won’t pretend that I approve of all those young girls wearing the veil. I think it’s wrong to make them ashamed, or afraid to show their faces. Whatever that woman’s teaching them, it isn’t healthy; it isn’t right. But I’ve tried to be impartial. I’ve tried to keep my personal feelings out of it. I have a responsibility to the members of this community, and I’ve done my level best to avoid any kind of friction.’

  I remembered what old Mahjoubi had said and smiled at the thought of the bells of Saint-Jérôme on one side of the Tannes competing with the muezzin; each one trying its best to drown out the echoes of the other. The friction had clearly been there from the start; but why blame Inès Bencharki? What had changed when she arrived? And how could Reynaud be so sure that she was the one responsible?

  I asked the question. Reynaud shrugged. ‘You have no reason to trust me,’ he said. ‘I know it’s not the first time that I’ve blamed a woman and her child for causing trouble in Lansquenet.’ I looked at him, and was surprised to see a gleam of amusement in his eyes. ‘But I think you’ll agree that I know something about my parishioners. I can tell when something has changed. And it started with Inès Bencharki.’

  ‘When?’ I said.

  ‘Eighteen months ago. Old Mahjoubi’s son, Saïd, met Karim on a pilgrimage. The next thing we knew, he’d moved here, and Saïd was arranging a marriage between Karim and his eldest daughter.’

  ‘Sonia.’

  ‘That’s right. Sonia.’ He finished his coffee and put down the cup.

  ‘What happened next?’

  ‘For two weeks Les Marauds was nothing but celebrations. Cooking, talking, laughing, flowers. Dozens of bridal outfits. Caro Clairmont had a wonderful time, organizing multicultural days and who-knows-what and coffee mornings for the women. Joséphine was there, too; she used to be quite good friends with Sonia and Alyssa. She bought a fancy kaftan to wear to the wedding, from one of those little fabric shops on the Boulevard des Marauds. People came from everywhere: Marseille, Paris, even Tangier. And then—’

  ‘The wind changed.’

  He looked surprised. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I suppose it did.’

  That wind. He feels it too. Charged with possibilities; dangerous as a sleeping snake. Zozie called it the Hurakan, that sweeps everything ahead of it. For years it may be gentle – you may even believe it is tame – but anything can wake it up. A sigh, a prayer, a whisper—

  ‘His sister arrived for the wedding,’ he said. ‘She wasn’t supposed to stay for long. There wasn’t room in the house, for a start. Old Mahjoubi didn’t like her. But she came for a week and stayed for a month, and before we knew it she’d moved in for good and everything was different.’ He sighed and went on: ‘I blame myself. I should have seen it coming. But old Mahjoubi’s sons were both so very Westernized. Ismail doesn’t go to mosque except on special occasions, and Saïd was never radical. And as for Karim Bencharki, he seemed the most Westernized of all of them. And now look at the family. One girl married at eighteen, the other jumping into the Tannes in the middle of the night. And that woman and her school, teaching the children God knows what in the name of religion—’

  ‘So you think this is about religion?’ I said.

  Reynaud looked blank. ‘What else could it be?’

  Of course, he would believe that. Religion is his career, after all. He is used to dividing folk into tribes: Catholics, Protestants, Hindus, Jews or Muslims. There are so many tribes, after all; chosen tribes, lost tribes, warring tribes, converted tribes. Also, of course, football supporters; rock fans; political parties; believers in extraterrestrials; extremists; moderates; conspiracy theorists; Boy Scouts; the unemployed; river-gypsies; vegetarians; cancer survivors; poets and punks; each tribe with its multitude of smaller and smaller sub-categories, because, in the end, doesn’t everyone really want to belong somewhere, to find their perfect space in the world?

  I have never belonged to a tribe. It gives me a different perspective. Perhaps if I did, I too would feel ill at ease in Les Marauds. But I have always been different. Perhaps that’s why I find it easier to cross the narrow boundaries between one tribe and the next. To belong so often means to exclude; to think in terms of us and them – two little words that, juxtaposed, so often lead to conflict.

  Is this what has happened in Lansquenet? It wouldn’t be the first time. Outsiders have never been welcome here. The smallest difference can be enough to make someone unwelcome; even folk from Pont-le-Saôul, just a few kilometres downriver, are still viewed with suspicion because they grow kiwis instead of melons; pink garlic instead of white; because they breed chickens instead of ducks and pray to Saint Luc and not Saint Jérôme.

  ‘So what do you want me to do?’ I said.

  ‘I was hoping you might talk to the girl. Maybe get to know her.’

  Of course, he does not want to be involved. I can understand that. His position in Lansquenet is already precarious; another hint of scandal and he could lose his job. I tried to imagine Reynaud in any other career but the Church, but could not quite picture it. Reynaud, working behind a bar; teaching schoolchildren; driving a bus; perhaps taking up carpentry. That made me suddenly think of Roux, and then, as abruptly, of Joséphine, and all that now lies between us.

  ‘You weren’t going to leave just yet?’ he said. The tiny tremor in his voice betrayed his agitation. I thought again of Joséphine, and of that furtive look in her eyes, of secrets unspoken, of questions unasked. If I stay in Lansquenet, I will find out those secrets. It’s a talent – or a curse – to see beyond the surface. But this time, I do not know whether I really want to see. There’s always a price to pay for these things, and sometimes the price is much too high.

  Yes, a part of me wants to leave. To leave today, without looking back; to run back to Paris and to Roux; to hide my face against that part of his shoulder that fits me so perfectly. Is that so hard to understand? I do not belong here any more. What do I care if Francis Reynaud has to leave the priesthood? And what do I care if Joséphine has a son who is eight years old, who likes to paint, who is fatherless? None of this has anything to do with me or with my family.

  And yet—

  Once more I glanced at Reynaud. His expression was carefully neutral. And yet I could see the tension in him; the rigid set of the shoulders, the appraising look in the cool grey eyes.

  I sense that he will not be surprised if I refuse to help him. Reynaud is not the kind of man who understands forgiveness. To ask for help – and from someone like me – has already turned his world upside down. His dignity will not take more.

  ‘Of course I’ll stay,’ I told him. ‘Anouk and Rosette are enjoying themselves. And now that we have Alyssa, too—’

  He let out a deep breath. ‘Good.’

  I smiled at him, and told myself that I was being over-sensitive. What’s another week, after all? We’ve barely arrived, and Paris is always at its worst in August. Isn’t that why we came here? To get away from the city heat? Now that we’re here, we might as well stay and enjoy a few more days. At least until the Autan starts. Until we know which way the wind – black or white – is going to blow.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Thursday, 19th August

  WHEN REYNAUD HAD gone, I tried to phone roux. Reception is poor in Les Marauds.
When I found a suitable spot, his mobile was turned off again, but I sent him a text:

  May be staying another week. Is everything all right with you? Lots of things to talk about – if you turn your phone on! Love from all of us, Vianne x

  I came back to the house to find Alyssa awake and dressed – not in last night’s black abaya that I had washed and dried for her, but in a pair of Anouk’s jeans and a yellow linen shirt, her hijab neatly back in place.

  Anouk was up too, tousled and sleepy, and Rosette was having breakfast; hot chocolate and a dish of last night’s pasta.

  ‘The power is on!’ bugled Anouk as I entered the kitchen. ‘We have electricity! We have TV! I can charge my iPod!’

  Good. That means hot water. Bucket showers are fine for a while; but after four years of living on a houseboat, taking showers with limited water – or at the local swimming pool – a real bath will be wonderful.

  I turned to our guest. In Anouk’s clothes, she looked no older than fifteen. She is rather slight of build, even slimmer than Anouk. I greeted her by name; she nodded, but did not answer me.

  ‘I’d like to offer you breakfast,’ I said.

  The girl shrugged.

  ‘Yes, I know. It’s Ramadan. Tomorrow, if you’re still here, we’ll all have breakfast before dawn, and dinner after sunset. It won’t be difficult for us, and you’ll feel more comfortable.’

  Once more Alyssa nodded, but this time I thought she relaxed a little.

  ‘You’ve already met Anouk,’ I said. ‘Now let me introduce Rosette.’

  Rosette glanced up from her hot chocolate and waved her spoon in greeting.

  ‘She doesn’t talk much either,’ I said. ‘But she’s lots of fun.’

  Rosette made a comic face and fingered a question in sign language.

  ‘She wants to know if you like monkeys.’