Peaches for Monsieur Le Curé Read online

  Of course, he knows that won’t happen. The police have already spoken to me. There is no evidence at all to link me with the fire, and although the Lansquenet rumour mill continues to turn unabated, the rest of the world has lost interest.

  Père Henri Lemaître gave me a look. ‘It isn’t as black and white as that. As I’m sure you must know, a priest must be absolutely beyond reproach. And in a delicate situation like this, where another culture is involved—’

  ‘I have no problem with other cultures, as you put it,’ I said, trying to keep my temper. ‘In fact—’ I bit off the rest of the phrase. In the heat of the moment I’d been dangerously close to revealing the events of the other night. ‘If there has been antagonism,’ I said at last in a calm voice, ‘then it has been entirely from the community of Les Marauds, where old Mahjoubi has always done his utmost to provoke me.’

  Père Henri Lemaître smiled. ‘Yes, the old man was set in his ways. Different times, different styles. The new one, I think, will be easier.’

  I looked at him. ‘The new what?’

  ‘Oh. Didn’t you know? Old Mahjoubi’s son Saïd is taking over his role at the mosque. It seems the old man had been causing concern for some time with his funny little quirks. Some people, it seems, were quite upset. Including you, of course,’ he said, with yet another flash of his teeth.

  I thought about that for a moment. It had never occurred to me that old Mahjoubi might also have had his detractors within Les Marauds. But can Saïd Mahjoubi bring the change Les Marauds needs?

  ‘Saïd’s a sensible man,’ said Père Henri complacently. ‘He understands his community. He knows how to lead, he’s progressive, he’s respected by everyone. I think we’ll find him far easier to involve in dialogue than we did his father.’

  People like Père Henri Lemaître never use the easiest phrase. It’s always involve in dialogue instead of simply talking. And I couldn’t help but suspect that maybe there was a hidden gibe against me in Père Henri’s words. He has made it all too clear that he thinks I do not understand my community. I am not the most progressive of men, and after the fire at the old chocolaterie I think it is fairly safe to say that I am no longer the most respected. Is this his way of baiting me? Or simply his way of warning me that soon I too shall be replaced?

  ‘The Bishop thinks you might benefit from a relocation,’ he said. ‘You’ve spent too long in Lansquenet. You’ve started to think of the place as your own. To impose your own rules, not those of the Church.’

  I began to protest. Père Henri lifted a hand to silence me.

  ‘I know you don’t agree,’ he said. ‘But perhaps you need to examine your soul. Your soul, and perhaps your conscience.’

  ‘My conscience!’ I exploded.

  He gave me one of his condescending looks. ‘You know, Francis – may I call you Francis?’

  ‘You already do,’ I pointed out.

  ‘I hope you’ll forgive my frankness,’ he said. ‘But the Bishop – and others – have mentioned a certain arrogance in your dealings with—’

  ‘Is that why I’m being disciplined?’ My anger was almost too much to contain. ‘And here I was, thinking it was for setting fire to a girls’ school.’

  ‘No one’s saying that, Francis. And no one has said you’re being disciplined.’

  ‘Then what are they saying?’

  He put down his cup. ‘Nothing yet, not officially. I simply thought I’d warn you.’ He shot me that smile of his. ‘You’re really not helping your case, you know. Perhaps God has sent you this trial as a lesson in humility.’

  I clenched my fists behind my back. ‘If he has, I’m sure he doesn’t need you to help translate his meaning.’

  I thought Père Henri bridled a little. ‘I’m trying to be your friend, Francis.’

  ‘I’m a priest. I have no friends.’

  Yesterday was oppressively still. Today, a dry, abrasive wind blows. Tiny flecks of mica ripple and hang in the turbulent air; a scent, like that of old smoke, filters into everything. In the old chocolaterie, Luc Clairmont is making repairs. Scaffolding has been erected up the side of one wall; a sheet of plastic covers the roof. Now, with this wind, the plastic sheet rattles and creaks like an old ship’s sail. In the street, women hold their skirts; papers fly; the sun is a disc of silver foil in a sky full of hectic dust. It is the White Autan, of course, so prevalent at this time of year. It usually lasts for a couple of weeks, and stories and sayings abound in its wake.

  How I once hated those stories, those little fragments of paganism; seeding themselves like dandelions; invading the garden of our faith. Since then, I have learnt to tolerate, if not entirely trust them. We can all learn from stories, be they holy or profane.

  Autan blanc, Autan blanc—

  There’s a saying in these parts that the White Autan can either send a man mad, or blow away his demons. It is an old wives’ tale, of course. But, as Armande Voizin used to say, old wives are sometimes worth listening to.

  Autan blanc, Autan blanc,

  Autan en emporte le vent.

  And now, as I watch Père Henri leave, head lowered into the scouring wind, I wonder briefly what it would take for the White Autan to blow him away.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Friday, 20th August

  WIND MAKES PEOPLE excitable. Every Schoolteacher knows that – yes, père, and every priest. The White Autan has so far brought a spate of quarrels, bursts of temper and petty acts of vandalism – three planters overturned in the square, graffiti on the scorched wall of the old chocolaterie – which suggests that this year the Vent des Fous has found its way into the collective brain, making fools of everyone.

  Caro Clairmont is one of them. The wind brings out the worst in her. To me she is especially cloying, in that poisonous way I know too well; calling round yesterday to see if I needed anything, and managing before she left to deliver a number of barbed little shots – disguised as sympathy, of course – and to wish me well for the future.

  ‘Why, are you going away?’

  She looked slightly flustered. ‘No, I—’

  ‘Oh. I must have misunderstood.’ I gave her my most vicious smile. ‘Give my regards to your son, by the way. He’s a fine boy. Armande would have been proud.’

  Caro twitched. It is common knowledge in Lansquenet that she and Luc do not agree on a number of issues, including his choice of university and his decision to study literature instead of joining the family business, as well as the matter of Armande’s house. Armande’s will made it very clear that the house belongs to Luc, but Caro believes it should be sold, and the money invested elsewhere. Of course, Luc will not hear of this, which has caused a certain tension in the Clairmont household. In any case, any mention of Luc or his plans is enough to bring on that twitch again. But satisfying though it is to needle Caro, it does not improve my position here. Père Henri Lemaître has done his work well, speaking of my situation (of course, in the utmost confidence) to all those women in Lansquenet who can most be trusted to spread the news.

  Meanwhile, it has been two weeks since I last took confession. Even so, I hear things that Père Henri fails to notice. Henriette Moisson and Charles Lévy have fallen out over a cat, which technically belongs to Charles, but which Henriette feeds so often and so lavishly that it has attached itself to her. Charles resents this, and, the other day, trying his hand at investigative action, went so far as to hide himself in Henriette’s back garden, in the hope of collecting photographic evidence of the animal’s abduction, at which Henriette set up a scream that a perverti was spying on her, which roused the whole street – at least until the truth was discovered. The object of all this attention seemed quite unmoved by the disturbance, finishing the dish of minced steak that Henriette had prepared for him before going back to sleep on a cushion in front of the fire.

  Henriette has already tried to confess to me a number of times. I tell her to ask for Père Henri Lemaître, but I don’t think she understands.

  �
�I looked for you at confession, père, but you were not in church,’ she said. ‘Instead I found some perverti sitting inside the confessional!

  I told him if I saw him again I would call for the police—’

  ‘That was Père Henri Lemaître,’ I said.

  ‘Why? What was he doing there?’

  I sighed and finally told her that she could come round to my house if ever she needed confession. I also spoke to Charles Lévy, telling him that if he wishes to keep his cat, he should let it sleep indoors and feed it something more than scraps.

  This morning I met him coming out of Benoît the fishmonger’s with a small, wrapped package and a look of satisfaction.

  ‘Monkfish,’ he hissed at me as he passed. ‘Let’s see how she deals with that!’ And then he was off, clutching his fish as if it were contraband. He does not know that Henriette has already bought some whitebait, as well as a leather collar inscribed with the name Tati. Charles calls his cat Otto, which Henriette tells me is a silly name for a cat, as well as being unpatriotic.

  You see, mon père. In spite of all this, some people still speak to me. But Caro Clairmont, Joline Drou – the little set that Armande Voizin referred to as Bible groupies – are pointedly ignoring me. I saw Joline this afternoon crossing the square by Saint-Jérôme’s, as I replaced the overturned pots and swept up the earth from the planters. I suspect one of the Acheron boys – I’ve seen them hanging around the square, and I am almost sure the graffiti on the chocolaterie wall is also their work: a spray-painted tag, which I must remove today before another one joins it.

  Joline was on her way to the beauty shop with Bénédicte Acheron, who has (since their recent falling-out over the issue of Joline’s new frock) replaced Caro Clairmont as Joline’s best friend. Both of them were dressed to the nines, their hair hidden under silk headscarves. Of course, this wind is disastrous to the feminine coiffure, and God forbid that either one should appear in a state of anything less than perfection.

  I greeted her. She turned away. A priest should show some dignity. Perhaps it offends her to see me like this, in a T-shirt and a pair of old jeans, sweeping dirt from the pavement. Well, let her be offended. If Caro has not already done so, I imagine Père Henri Lemaître has already told her all about my terrible stubbornness, my refusal to confess, my lamentable insubordination and my ingratitude towards both the Bishop and Père Henri himself. I wondered as I watched her go (her high heels tapping the cobbles) if this was how Vianne was welcomed here, eight years ago – with sidelong glances; disdainful smiles.

  Now, I am the outcast. I am the undesirable. The thought came to me so suddenly that I began to laugh aloud. It was a curious sound, père, the sound of my own laughter; and the thought occurred to me then that it was a sound I had not heard in twenty years.

  ‘M’sieur le Curé? Are you all right?’

  I must have let my eyes close. I opened them, and saw a boy holding a dog on a piece of string. It was Joséphine’s boy, Jean-Philippe – she calls him Pilou – looking at me curiously.

  Jean-Philippe Bonnet doesn’t go to church. He and his mother are in a minority. And though she has never liked me, Joséphine has never been the kind of woman who uses gossip as currency. That makes her unique in Lansquenet; unique, if not approachable. Her son is eight, with a sunny grin that some find almost infectious. His dog has been an annoyance ever since he acquired it, taking instant objection to a variety of everyday sights and sounds, including other dogs, nuns, church bells, bicycles, men with beards, the wind and most especially women in black, which always send the animal into a fit of barking. It was barking now, I saw. Probably that blasted wind.

  ‘Yes, I’m fine,’ I told the boy. ‘Can’t you shut that dog up?’

  The boy gave me a pitying look. ‘Not really,’ he said. ‘Vlad’s a believer in free speech.’

  ‘So I understand,’ I said.

  ‘But he’s very corruptible.’ The boy dug into his pocket and produced a biscuit. Vlad fell silent and raised a paw. ‘There,’ said Pilou. ‘The price of peace.’

  I shook my head and turned my attention to the graffiti on the chocolaterie wall. The wall needs a coat of whitewash. Even so, the colour will show if I do not scrub it clean. I’d brought a scrubbing brush and some bleach.

  ‘Why are you doing that?’ said Pilou.

  I shrugged. ‘Well, somebody has to.’

  ‘But why you? It’s not your house.’

  ‘I don’t like the way it looks,’ I said. ‘People shouldn’t have to see graffiti on their way to church.’

  ‘I don’t go to church,’ said Pilou.

  ‘Yes, I know,’ I told him.

  ‘Maman says you don’t, either.’

  ‘That isn’t the case,’ I told him. ‘I don’t expect you’d understand.’

  ‘Yes, I would. It’s because of that fire,’ he said.

  Once more, I found myself on the edge of a precipice of laughter. ‘Your mother taught you to speak your mind.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Pilou cheerily.

  I scrubbed once more at the spray-painted tag. The paint has sunk into the porous wall, saturating the plaster. The more I scrubbed, the more tenaciously the pigment seemed to cling to the wall. I muttered a curse.

  ‘That Acheron boy—’ I said, with clenched teeth.

  ‘Oh it wasn’t him,’ said Pilou.

  ‘How do you know? Did you see something?’

  ‘Nnn-hnn.’ He shook his head.

  ‘Then how do you know?’

  ‘My friend says it’s an Arabic word.’

  ‘Your friend?’

  ‘Du’a. She used to live here, before the fire.’

  I looked at the boy with some surprise. How curious, that a boy like this – inseparable from his dog, living in the village café, surely a bad influence in every possible sense of the word – should be friends with Inès Bencharki’s child.

  ‘And what does Du’a say it means?’

  Pilou shrugged and knelt down to adjust the makeshift lead on his dog’s collar. ‘It isn’t very nice,’ he said. ‘Du’a says it means whore.’

  CHAPTER SIX

  Saturday, 21st August

  AT LAST, A sign that all is not well among the streets of Les Marauds. I guessed as much when I saw Saïd the other day outside the gym, but now finally the rumour is free, whispering through Les Marauds like rain.

  Have you heard?

  Have you heard?

  I heard it from Omi al-Djerba first. I met her as I walked with Rosette over the bridge into Lansquenet. She greeted me with a cackle, and waved to me to join her.

  ‘Everything’s going crazy here,’ she told me in her cracked voice. ‘Can you feel it? It’s the wind. The wind sends everyone crazy.’

  She smiled at Rosette, with petal-pink gums. ‘Is this your little one here, eh? Does she like coconut macaroons?’ She brought one out of the pocket of her embroidered kaftan. ‘Delicious. We make them for Ramadan.’ She handed one to Rosette, at the same time popping one slyly into her own mouth. ‘This doesn’t count,’ she told me, seeing my surprise. ‘It’s only a bit of coconut. Besides, I’m too old to fast all day.’ She winked at Rosette. ‘Bismillah!’

  Rosette puffed out her cheeks and signed: Monkeys like coconut too.

  ‘Well, of course,’ said Omi, who seemed to have understood perfectly. ‘One more for your little friend.’

  Rosette crowed with laughter, her mouth still full of coconut. Omi tweaked her marigold hair. ‘They’re saying Alyssa Mahjoubi has run away from home,’ she said.

  ‘Who is?’

  ‘All the flapping tongues. Her mother says she’s ill in bed, but no one has seen her for three days, and Reema Bouzana says she thinks she saw her at midnight on Wednesday, all alone and heading for the village.’

  ‘Really?’ I said.

  ‘Of course, women talk. And Reema has always been envious of Samira Mahjoubi. Well, she has a daughter too – still unmarried at twenty-five, and with a tongue on her like a
kitchen knife, while Samira’s daughter has landed herself the best-looking man in Lansquenet—’ Omi shot me a comic look. ‘But Alyssa was always the restless one, and Sonia isn’t saying a word. Still, maybe it’s nothing, inshallah.’

  I looked at her. ‘That’s not what you think.’

  She laughed. ‘I think I’ve never seen Samira Mahjoubi take so many walks. Most of the time she’s too full of herself even to walk to the market. Well, maybe she’s trying to lose some weight. Or maybe she’s thinking of buying up some of those empty houses along the river. Or maybe she’s trying to find the girl before she causes a scandal—’

  ‘But why would Alyssa run away?’

  Omi shrugged. ‘Who knows? These girls. They’re all as mad as each other. But now, with Saïd in charge at the mosque, this isn’t the time for his daughters to suddenly start asserting themselves.’

  ‘Saïd’s in charge at the mosque?’ I said.

  ‘Hee, didn’t you know that?’ Omi reached absent-mindedly into her pockets and pulled out another macaroon. ‘Since the beginning of Ramadan. People were complaining that Mahjoubi was getting too old, that he was getting too many things wrong, that he was telling stories in mosque that aren’t even in the Qur’an, that he wasn’t in line with current affairs. Well, maybe that is true,’ she said, popping the macaroon into her mouth. ‘But I’d rather trust a wise man than a man with a handful of doctorates, and I still think that that old man could teach his son a thing or two.’ She paused to tug her hijab into place. ‘Hee! This wind. This terrible dust. It whispers waswaas to everyone. My Zahra thinks the dust will get into her mouth and break her fast. It gives Yasmina headaches. And my little Maya can’t keep still, she rattles around like a mad thing. No one sleeps. No one prays. Everyone jumps at nothing.’ Once more Omi looked at Rosette. ‘But you and I know better, eh? We say if the wind blows, saddle it up and ride it!’

  Rosette laughed and signed: Giddy-up!