Peaches for Monsieur Le Curé Read online

  But on the river, these things are allowed. No one asks too many questions. Friendships are made on the basis of a borrowed half-can of petrol. The river has only the present; the past is left behind on the shore. Names are most often nicknames; no one has any papers. Criminal records; past mistakes; broken families; none of that counts. Life is uncluttered and simple—

  I looked at Joséphine again. I thought she seemed vaguely troubled, her colours tremulous and faint. Perhaps it’s seeing Roux again, I thought, with a flicker of unease. But that was absurd; more likely she’s just anxious about finding Reynaud.

  As for Roux himself—

  A couple of days on the river have reawakened something in Roux. It’s hard to say what, exactly; a kind of shine that was absent so long that I barely knew it was gone. A barge on a permanent mooring is not the same as a riverboat. There are rules to be followed; charges paid; and in Paris the riverside community is of a very different kind. Here, on the Tannes, he’s free again. And the change is all the more striking in that he is unaware of it.

  ‘Where are Inès and Du’a now?’

  ‘I drove them back here in my car,’ said Joséphine. ‘Roux phoned me. I assume they went home.’

  ‘You didn’t see where?’

  She shook her head. ‘No. Is it important?’

  Anouk was watching impatiently. ‘Maman! Jean-Loup texted me!’

  I hugged her. ‘I’m glad. I’m sure he’ll be fine.’

  ‘And we have potatoes!’

  ‘Potatoes?’ I said.

  Roux indicated the campfire. ‘I found these potatoes growing wild all around the riverbank. Try one, Vianne. They’re pretty good.’

  I used a pointed stick to retrieve one of the roasted potatoes. Under the charred skin, it was good; floury, sweet and slightly pink. The others helped themselves too, and we ate them sitting on the deck, and between us, Joséphine and I told him about Reynaud, and Inès, and Alyssa, and everything that has happened here since the three of us arrived—

  The story took a long time. When we had finished, Joséphine went back to see to Pilou, leaving us alone again. Rosette and Anouk were already asleep, tucked up in the cabin.

  The moon was starting to set, and the Tannes was blanketed with midges. Roux flung a handful of dried shavings on to the embers of his fire; the scent was sharp and immediate, lemon grass and lavender, sage and applewood and pine, like the campfires of my childhood.

  I said: ‘She told me about Pilou. And how she lied to Paul-Marie.’

  ‘Oh.’ His eyes were unreadable.

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘For what?’

  What could I say? I’m sorry for believing that you lied to me? For thinking that you could have led such a tortuous double life, while all the time pretending to be as open as the palm of your hand?

  I shrugged. ‘It doesn’t matter now. I’ve missed you, Roux. We all have.’

  He took my hand. ‘So why not come home?’ That question was in his eyes again. ‘Vianne, you don’t live here any more. You only came for a holiday. And yet, here you are, back in Lansquenet, doing all the same things that you did last time, getting involved—’

  ‘You think I shouldn’t get involved?’

  He shrugged.

  ‘But Armande brought me here. She wrote to me for a reason. She said there’d be someone who needed my help—’

  He shrugged again. ‘There always is.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  He looked at me. His eyes were green as gages. ‘Perhaps you’re the one who needs Lansquenet, not the other way around.’

  He’s wrong, of course. I don’t need Lansquenet. But his words had opened up something in me, some secret cell of longing and grief. Why do I do these things? I thought. Why do I answer the call of the wind? Will there never be a time when I can be free of this restless need?

  No, I’m not crying. I never cry.

  We sat together on the deck. I found the place on his shoulder that fits my head so perfectly, and we sat in silence for a long time, listening to the crickets and frogs chirping among the rushes. Then, without speaking, we crept away into the shelter of the trees and made love there, in the moonlight, with the scent of green damp earth and the night settling around us. Strange, how accustomed we become to our familiar small routines; it struck me that we hadn’t made love outdoors like this since we were last here.

  Then we went back to the riverboat where Anouk and Rosette were still sleeping. Roux brought blankets on to the deck, and we lay there, watching the Milky Way turning like a Catherine wheel—

  It took me a long time to get to sleep. Outside, the night had fallen still. Even the frogs were silent now, and the Tannes was a misty, luminous white. I got up and sat by the campfire, watching as the sky grew pale. Roux never finds it hard to sleep, just as he never remembers what time it is, or even what day of the week. If he were a Tarot card, he would be the Fool, whistling at the sky, shoelace undone, oblivious to all obstacles – the Fool who always tells the truth, sometimes without even knowing it.

  And yet, he’s wrong, isn’t he? I never needed Lansquenet. In a way I’m fond of it, but I never really belonged here. How could I? I’m a free spirit. I’ve travelled too far, seen too many things to fit into such a little space. Lansquenet-sous-Tannes. How absurd; that such a small, narrow-minded place should keep such a firm hold on my heart. What is it about Lansquenet? It’s a village like any other here along the banks of the river Tannes. Quite an ordinary place; not as attractive as Pont-le-Saôul; not as historic as Nérac. Yes, of course, it has memories; but so does Paris; so does Nantes; so do a hundred different towns, a hundred different communities. I owe nothing to any of them. If they call, I do not hear. So why is this place different? Am I still a free spirit? Or am I just a tumbleweed, blowing wherever the wind takes me?

  At dawn I went back to my place on the deck and tried to get to sleep again. I must have succeeded, because when I awoke the sun was up; and Roux was gone; the children were stirring sleepily inside the cabin; and the wind had changed again.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Saturday, 28th August

  THE WOMAN IN black came again last night. This time she brought a flask of mint tea, and slices of cold roast lamb wrapped in some kind of pancakes. I had promised myself that this time I wouldn’t indulge in any undignified pleading, and so I took the food without a word; just looked up at her from the bottom of the steps, all but two of which are now submerged. As a result, I have to stand almost thigh-deep in water.

  This seemed to make her uncomfortable. ‘The water will stop rising soon,’ she said. ‘It hasn’t rained at all today.’

  I shrugged and didn’t say anything.

  ‘Are you all right? You don’t look well.’

  In fact, I feel like hell, père. I have been in the same wet clothes since the day I arrived here, and God knows what bacteria are floating in the water. I think I have a temperature; I’m shivering; my hand still hurts.

  ‘I’m fine,’ I said. ‘I love it here.’

  She eyed me over her face-veil. ‘Vianne told me what you did. How you helped Alyssa when she jumped into the Tannes. And how you didn’t tell anyone.’

  Once more, I shrugged.

  ‘So why did you try to burn Inès’s school, and sabotage her houseboat?’

  That final comment was enough to convince me that she wasn’t Sonia. Her voice is different, anyway: drier and more nasal. I said: ‘Talk to Sonia Bencharki. She knows I had nothing to do with it.’

  ‘Sonia? Not Alyssa?’ she said.

  ‘Just ask her. Tell her why I’m here. She’ll tell you what happened.’

  She looked at me for a long time. ‘Maybe I will do that.’

  Of course, I have no certainty that Sonia would tell this woman the truth. But I don’t have many options left. At least I’ve put some doubt in her mind.

  I am not sure how this has happened to me. I always did my duty. It’s these people, these Maghrébins. They’r
e all as mad as each other. I’ve tried my best to help them, père, and where has it brought me in the end? I’m in the hands of a five-year-old girl, a lost cat and a woman in black. If I were not so tired, père, I might almost find it amusing. But I’m exhausted: what little sleep I managed to get on those two remaining dry steps was broken by dreams so vivid that they barely seemed to be dreams at all. Several times I was woken up by what seemed to be tapping at the grille; though when I went to investigate, on each occasion, no one was there. My mind must be playing tricks on me. My throat is dry. My head aches. I finished the flask of mint tea, but could not eat the food she had brought. All I want is to sleep now, possibly for ever. To sleep between clean linen sheets, my aching head on a pillow—

  Dawn breaks. The call to prayer. Allahu Akhbar. God is most great. Those words are the first thing a newborn baby hears; the first words spoken in a new home. Allahu Akhbar. God is most great. And now, that half-hour’s silence before the treadmills start again and the bells ring out from Saint-Jérôme’s, where Père Henri will be saying Mass in front of my congregation—

  But is it my congregation? The image of Père Henri Lemaître taking over Saint-Jérôme’s – replacing the wooden pews with chairs; perhaps installing a PowerPoint screen – fills me with revulsion. But that does not entirely explain the violent sense of loss that I feel; the isolation; that longing for my ordered little place in the world. Even before all this, mon père, I was never one of them. Even though I was born here, I never felt I really belonged. I was set apart from the rest of them by something more than my calling. Standing here in the water, it seems so obvious to me now. Karim was right about one thing: no one will miss me very much. I never really touched their hearts; I only pricked their consciences.

  Why is that, père? Vianne Rocher might say that it is because I do not make connections. I keep my distance. Is that so wrong? A priest cannot afford to be too friendly with his parishioners. Authority must be maintained. And yet, without my soutane, who am I? A hermit crab without his shell, helpless to every predator?

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Saturday, 28th August, 9.40 a.m.

  IT WAS JUST after nine by the time he returned, with Croissants and pains au chocolat. We ate them out on the deck, while Anouk made coffee in the galley and Rosette played with Bam on the riverbank.

  ‘I would have been here sooner,’ he said, ‘but people kept stopping to talk to me.’

  Père Henri is saying Mass today. The square will be full of people. Poitou does most of his business on Saturdays and Sundays; fancy cakes for lunch; fruit tarts; almond flans; the pain Viennois he only makes at weekends and on special occasions. The congregation usually calls first at the church, and second at the bakery. The spirit must be fed, after all; not just with Scripture, but with pâtisserie.

  ‘No news of Reynaud?’ I said.

  ‘No. Just that new priest, Père Henri. Went out of his way to talk to me. Said he respected my lifestyle choices and those of the travelling community, and wanted to know when we were leaving.’

  I had to laugh. ‘So – no change there?’

  ‘At least Reynaud was honest.’

  ‘And you think Père Henri isn’t?’

  He shrugged. ‘I think he has too many teeth.’

  Anouk ate her breakfast in three bites, then ran off to find Jeannot. Now that Jean-Loup has contacted her, her other friend takes priority again; her colours are fresh and green and clear, like innocent young love.

  Rosette was nosing around the mouth of one of the alleys that led to the road. I asked her what she could see down there.

  Maya, she signed. Foxy.

  ‘Oh. So you can see him, too?’

  No. He lives in a hole.

  ‘A fox-hole?’

  No. He wants to get out.

  ‘Oh. I see.’ Like Bam and Pantoufle, Foxy has already acquired a number of interesting characteristics. Bam has a mischievous streak that reflects Rosette’s volatile nature. Pantoufle is a friendly companion. But Foxy seems to personify Maya’s sense of rebellion – perhaps she’s already conscious of the rules and restrictions surrounding her. That, and the fact that she chose a fox, the closest thing there is to a dog.

  I checked the Boulevard des Marauds. Maya was there, exuberant in her Disney sandals and Aladdin T-shirt. She waved to me before vanishing down the narrow passageway. But coming down the boulevard, some three hundred metres behind her, was a tight and purposeful little group, looking like chess pieces from afar – three black pawns and an old white king – heading towards the jetty.

  The king was Mohammed Mahjoubi. I recognized his white beard; his bulk; his slow but dignified walk; the white djellaba he always wears. The pawns were women, all in niqab – at this distance, hard to know who they were. Was Inès among them? A field of tension lay over the group like a magnet on iron filings. All along the boulevard, doors opened, shutters clapped, people came out to watch them go.

  Roux sensed it too and grinned at me. ‘You think that’s a welcome committee?’ he said.

  It wasn’t a welcome committee. By the time they reached the jetty, more people had joined the little group. I recognized Alyssa, with Sonia and their mother, with Saïd Mahjoubi – another king – approaching from the other side. Then there was Omi, Fatima, Zahra in her usual niqab and Karim Bencharki, a step behind, dressed as always in T-shirt and jeans, looking controlled, but angry.

  Omi greeted me with a croak of laughter. ‘Hee, what a circus!’

  ‘What’s happening?’

  She had no time to answer. Approaching the jetty, Karim launched a staccato volley of Arabic, and made straight for the houseboat. Old Mahjoubi stood in his way. Karim tried to push the old man aside—

  ‘What the hell’s going on?’ said Roux.

  Saïd turned to Roux and said, ‘These houseboats cannot stay here. This is all private property.’

  ‘Really?’ said Roux. ‘Because the curé seemed to suggest that we could stay here indefinitely.’

  ‘The curé?’

  ‘Père Henri,’ said Roux.

  There followed another exchange in Arabic. ‘I will talk to Père Henri,’ said Saïd, addressing Roux. ‘Perhaps he has not fully considered the effect this might have on our community.’

  Old Mahjoubi shook his head. ‘It is Ramadan,’ he said. ‘Everyone is welcome here, as long as there is mutual respect.’ He turned to Roux. ‘Stay as long as you wish.’

  Saïd looked annoyed. ‘I do not think—’

  ‘Shall we refuse hospitality?’ Old Mahjoubi’s voice was soft, but still it carried authority. Saïd shot him a resentful look. Old Mahjoubi just smiled.

  ‘Very well,’ said Saïd at last. ‘My father makes a valid point. We do not want arguments and conflict during our time of celebration. All we would ask is that you show respect, and keep your distance.’

  Karim had jumped on to the deck of the boat and was looking into the galley.

  ‘Excuse me. That’s my boat,’ said Roux.

  Karim turned and stared. ‘Your boat?’

  I stepped up to the jetty once more. ‘Inès came home safely yesterday,’ I said. ‘Didn’t she go to your house?’

  Karim looked blank. ‘No, she did not. You’re saying she’s here, in the village?’

  Once more, Roux told his story. While the others were listening, I took the opportunity to ask Alyssa, ‘How did it go yesterday?’

  She shook her head. ‘They’re not talking to me. They think I’ve shamed the family.’

  ‘They’ll come round,’ I said in a low voice. ‘What about Karim?’

  She shrugged. ‘I’m totally over Karim.’

  ‘Well, that’s something,’ I told her.

  ‘He keeps wanting to see me in private. I said I didn’t want to.’

  ‘What about your sister?’

  ‘Meh.’ Alyssa shrugged. ‘I think the baby’s making her sick. She doesn’t talk to me much any more, but I can tell she’s tired.’

  I glanced at S
onia, who was standing alone, looking at the river. There was something wistful about the way she stood; as I came closer I saw that her eyes were shining with tears.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ I said.

  She looked surprised. One effect of wearing niqab is to give the wearer the illusion of invisibility, and to discourage contact with strangers. Her eyes – kohl-lined and beautiful – nervously avoided my gaze.

  ‘You’re Vianne Rocher, aren’t you?’ she said. ‘Alyssa told me about you.’ There was a hint of censure in the flat little voice behind the veil.

  I smiled. ‘I’m happy to meet you,’ I said. ‘I hope you can both come and visit us.’

  Once more, that startled look. Sonia Bencharki is not used to casual invitations from strangers. Under the veil, her colours were a sick and gaudy carousel. The girl had something on her mind. Sadness; fear; perhaps even guilt—

  I caught Karim watching me from his position by the boat. I thought he looked uneasy at the sight of us together. Sonia noticed him watching, and moved away a couple of steps. I followed her.

  ‘Please. I can’t talk to you.’ The voice was almost inaudible.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I’m sorry. Just leave me alone.’

  I let her go. There were too many people around for me to try to break through her reserve. Zahra said: ‘She’s shy, that’s all. She’s really a very sweet girl.’

  Just like Alyssa, I told myself. Or at least, just like Alyssa had been before Karim Bencharki. Once more, I looked at Karim as he stood on the jetty, talking to Roux, and wondered how it was that one man had managed to gain so much influence over the little community. Yes, he is handsome. Yes, he has charm. And from what I have heard from Caro Clairmont, he has done a great deal to bring Les Marauds into the twenty-first century. His influence over Saïd has caused the mosque to grow more progressive; his work at the gym has given a focus to the young men of his neighbourhood. Strange, then, that his sister should adopt such a traditional image – unless, of course, the rumours are true, and the veil worn by Inès is simply a show of modesty that hides something very different.