Peaches for Monsieur Le Curé (11 page)

CHAPTER SIX

Wednesday, 18th August

IT TOOK ME
over an hour, père, to scrub the black paint from my front door. Even then, the inscription remains, a negative of its former self, scoured into the paintwork. I’ll simply have to repaint it, that’s all. As if people didn’t gossip enough.

I didn’t sleep well last night. The air was too still, too oppressive. I awoke at dawn and opened the shutters to hear the distant call to prayer floating across from Les Marauds.
Allahu Akhbar
. God is great. I longed to ring the church bells, if only to drown out that echo and to wipe the grin from Mahjoubi’s face. He knows that what he is doing is totally forbidden. He also knows that no local mayor will intervene on our behalf: the call is coming from
inside
the mosque, without amplification. Thus the letter of the law is technically satisfied.

Allahu Akhbar, Allahu Akhbar
.

My hearing must be exceptional. Most other people don’t even seem to notice the call to prayer – Narcisse, who is going deaf, claims it’s my imagination. It is not; and on a day like this, so still that I can hear every ripple on the Tannes, every cry of every bird, the call of the
muezzin
cuts through the early morning like rain.

Rain
. Now there’s a thought. It has not rained at all this month. We all could use a little rain – to make the gardens flower, to wash away the dust from the streets, to cool down these infernal nights. But not today. The sky is clear.

I drank a cup of coffee and went up to Poitou’s bakery. I bought a bag of croissants and some bread, and took them over to Armande’s house, leaving the bag by the front door where Vianne Rocher would find it.

The streets of Les Marauds were silent. I guessed folk were having breakfast in the last half-hour before sunrise. I saw no one but a girl, all but her face concealed behind a dark-blue
hijab
, who darted across the main street just as I headed for the bridge. She glanced at me fearfully as I approached, then doubled back and disappeared down a side street opposite the gymnasium.

Saïd’s gym. I hate that place. A mean, half-derelict building at the end of a mean little alleyway. It’s always crowded with young men – never a white face among them – and you can smell the testosterone as you walk by the alley mouth. You can smell the
kif
, too – many of these young Moroccan men smoke it, and the police are reluctant to take action. In the words of Père Henri Lemaître, we have to be aware of cultural sensitivities. Presumably this also includes the girls who are kept from attending school and the occasional but persistent rumours of domestic violence within some of the families, which are sometimes reported, but never followed up. Apparently old Mahjoubi is in charge of such sensitive issues, which makes it unnecessary for the rest of us to take action, or even to notice these things.

The door of the gym was wedged open – on these warm days it gets hot in there – and although I did not turn my head, I sensed the blast of hostility like invisible shrapnel. Then it was behind me again.

There. It’s done
.

I hate the fact that I am afraid of walking past that alleyway. I give myself the penance of walking past it every day, in the hope of beating my cowardice. In the same way, as a boy, I used to dare myself to go near the wasps’ nest under the wall at the back of the churchyard. The wasps were fat and loathsome,
mon père
, and terrified me in a way that transcended the simple fear of being stung. I feel the same about Saïd’s gym – that prickle of adrenaline, the sweat that stings at my armpits and gathers at the nape of my neck; the barely perceptible quickening of my step as I pass the place; the way my heart, too, quickens in fear, then slows in relief when the penance is done.

Bless me, Father, for I have sinned
.

Ridiculous. I’ve done nothing wrong.

I arrived at the bridge into Lansquenet. From the parapet I could see old Mahjoubi on his terrace, sitting in the wicker rocking-chair that seems almost a part of him. He was reading – no doubt the Qur’an – but he looked up when he saw me and gave me an impudent little wave.

I returned the greeting with as much composure as I could. I will not allow myself to be drawn into undignified competition with this man. He grinned – even at that distance I could see his teeth – and I caught the brief sound of laughter from the half-open door of the house. The face of a small girl appeared at the door, topped with a yellow ribbon. His granddaughter, I believe, come to visit from Marseille. As I passed, the laughter redoubled.

‘Hide the matches! Here comes Monsieur le Curé.’

Then a sharp command –
Maya!
– and the little face withdrew. In its place I saw Saïd Mahjoubi, glaring beneath his prayer cap. God forgive me, I almost prefer old Mahjoubi’s mockery. Saïd continued to glare at me, openly hostile; menacing. The man thinks I am guilty,
père
. Nothing I say will change his mind.

Old Mahjoubi said something to his son in Arabic. Saïd replied in the same tongue, still without taking his eyes from mine.

I greeted him with a polite nod, to prove to him (and to his father) that I will not be intimidated. Then I quickly crossed the bridge back into friendlier territory.

See what I have to deal with,
père
? I used to know this community. People came to me with their problems, whether they went to church or not. Now Mohammed Mahjoubi is in charge – encouraged by Père Henri Lemaître, who, like Caro Clairmont, believes that phasing out the soutane, organizing multi-faith focus groups, holding coffee mornings, installing projection screens in the church and turning a blind eye to everything – to the
kif
-smokers; to the mosque, with its unsanctioned call to prayer and its illicit minaret – will bring the spirit of unity once more to Lansquenet-sous-Tannes.

He is wrong. There is only division now. Division in our own ranks; division between us and them. Mahjoubi’s mosque, with its minaret, is not what really concerns me – in spite of what some people think, I still have a sense of humour. But the hostility I feel every time I pass Saïd’s gymnasium – that is another matter. We must be tolerant of other beliefs, says Père Henri Lemaître. But what if the followers of those beliefs do not –
will
not – tolerate
us
?

Back on my side of the river, I made my way back towards Saint-Jérôme’s. I’d arranged to meet Luc there at nine; but somehow at seven thirty I found myself standing once again outside the
chocolaterie
.

I went inside. It still smelt of smoke, but the room was clear of debris. Yesterday, Luc and I had barely glanced at the upstairs part, but the fire’s point of origin was easy enough to identify: a letter-box, through which a wad of petrol-soaked rags had been thrust, setting fire to the door, some coats, a rug that was hanging on the wall and a stack of wooden school-chairs.

It’s really quite insulting,
père
. For them to think that
I
did this – why, a child could have done a better job. The fire was burning fiercely by the time the Bencharki woman awoke, but there is a fire escape at the back, and she and the girl got out unhurt, while neighbours with hoses and buckets worked together to put out the blaze.

You see,
père
. That’s a community. You notice that no one from
her
side was there. Les Marauds might as well have been a hundred miles away that night. The nearest fire station is thirty minutes’ drive away; in that time, the whole shop would probably have gone up in flames.

Suddenly, I heard footsteps from the floor above. There was someone in the house. Immediately I thought of Luc; but what would he be doing there, over an hour before our rendezvous? The sound came again; a shuffling that I found distinctly furtive.

‘Who’s there?’ I said.

The shuffling stopped. For a moment there was silence. Then came a frantic patter across the bare floorboards and the sound of feet on the fire escape.
Children
, I thought immediately: children up to no good. I ran outside, hoping to intercept the culprits as they fled, but by the time I had opened the door, and fought my way through the mess of charred wood that was piled up in the garden, the trespassers had already gone. All I saw was a
Maghrébine
moving swiftly away down the lane; though whether this was a coincidence, or one of the intruders, I could only speculate.

I went upstairs to the bedrooms. There were two of them; one very small, accessible only by a ladder through a trapdoor. There was a little round window there; I remembered Roux putting it in. I stood on the ladder and peered inside. The damage looked relatively slight. A little grimy with smoke, perhaps, but otherwise almost habitable. A child’s room, with a little bed and posters of Bollywood stars on the walls. There were books, too – mostly in French. As far as I could see, the intruders hadn’t touched anything.

There came a sound from behind me. A woman said: ‘What are you doing here?’

I turned. It was Inès Bencharki.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Wednesday, 18th August

I DON’T THINK
I’d ever heard her voice. It was clear and barely accented, with, if anything, a touch of the North. She was in black, as always, covered to the fingertips. Her eyes, which for once were fixed on me, are a surprising shade of green, with lashes of unusual length.

‘Madame Bencharki, good morning,’ I said.

The woman repeated her question. ‘What are you doing in my house?’

I found myself at a loss to reply. I muttered something about responsibilities to the parish and about cleaning up the village square, which made me sound as culpable as she no doubt believes me to be.

‘What I mean is,’ I went on, ‘I thought that perhaps the community could help you fix up the place again. Waiting for the insurance people could take months, you must know that. As for the landlord, he lives in Agen, and it could be weeks before he even gets round to looking at the damage. Whereas if everyone just chips in—’

‘Chips in,’ the woman said.

I tried a smile. It was a mistake. Behind her veil, she might have been a pillar of salt; a block of stone.

She shook her head. ‘I don’t need help.’

‘But you don’t understand,’ I said. ‘No one would ask you to pay for the work. It’s just a gesture of goodwill.’

The woman simply repeated the phrase in the same flat, relentless voice.

I found myself wanting to plead with her, and instead replied in a brittle tone: ‘Well, of course, it’s your choice.’

The green eyes stayed expressionless. I tried the tentative smile again, but succeeded only in looking awkward and guilty.

‘I’m really very sorry about what’s happened,’ I said. ‘I’m hoping you and your daughter will be able to move back as soon as possible. How
is
the little girl, anyway?’

Once more, the woman said nothing. My armpits began to prickle with sweat.

As a boy at the seminary, I was once suspected of bringing cigarettes into school and was summoned to answer some questions by Père Louis Durand, who was in charge of discipline. I hadn’t brought the cigarettes – although I knew the culprit – but my manner was so furtive that no one believed in my innocence. I was punished, both for the cigarettes and for trying to lay the blame on one of my comrades, and although I knew I was innocent, I felt the very same sense of shame that I did while addressing the woman in black; that sensation of utter helplessness.

‘I’m sorry,’ I repeated. ‘If I can do anything to help—’

‘You can leave me alone,’ she said. ‘My daughter and I—’

Then she stopped mid-sentence. Under the black robe her whole body seemed to stiffen and tense.

‘Are you all right?’

She did not reply. And then I turned my head and saw Karim Bencharki standing there – who knows how long he’d been watching us.

He spoke a phrase in Arabic.

She answered in a sharp voice.

He spoke again, his voice a caress. I felt a pang of gratitude. I’d always seen Karim as an educated, progressive man, who understood France and French culture. Perhaps he could explain to Inès that all I was doing was trying to help.

At first sight, you wouldn’t think Karim Bencharki was a
Maghrébin
at all. With his light skin and golden eyes he might be an Italian, and he dresses like a Westerner, in jeans and shirts and trainers. In fact, when he first came to Lansquenet, I thought the arrival of such an apparently Westernized and cosmopolitan member of the community might bring about a new integration between Les Marauds and ourselves; that his friendship with Saïd Mahjoubi might help me find a way to bridge the gap between old Mahjoubi’s traditional ways and those of the twenty-first century.

I turned to him now in appeal. I said: ‘As I was just explaining, Luc Clairmont and I have been trying to assess the damage caused by the fire. It’s mostly superficial – really just smoke and water. It wouldn’t take more than a week or so to make it habitable again. As you see, we have already cleared out most of the burnt wood and debris. A few coats of paint, some new wood and glass, and your sister could be ready to move back in—’

‘She isn’t going to move back in,’ said Karim. ‘From now on, she will be staying with me.’

‘But what about the school?’ I said. ‘Won’t you be continuing?’

The woman spoke to her brother in Arabic. I do not know the language, but the unfamiliar syllables sounded harsh and angry – though whether this was my ignorance or whether it was truly so was not within my power to guess. Once again, I felt vaguely ashamed, and tried to compensate with a smile.

‘I can’t help feeling responsible for what has happened,’ I told them. ‘I’d really like to help, if I can.’

‘She doesn’t need your help,’ said Karim. ‘Now get out, or I’ll call the police.’

‘
What?
’

‘You heard. I’ll call the police. You think that because you’re a priest you can get away with what you’ve done? Everyone knows you lit the fire. Even your people are saying so. And if I were you, I’d keep to the other side of the river from now on. The way things are, you might get hurt.’

For a moment, I stared at him. ‘Are you trying to threaten me?’

And now, at last, came something to replace that feeling of guilt and shame. Anger flooded me, pure and cold; simple as spring water. I drew myself up to my full height – I am taller than either of them – and let out the frustration that has gathered in me over the past six or seven years.

Six years of trying to deal with these folk; of trying to make them understand; of lectures from the Bishop on community relations; of finding graffiti on my door; of having to fight my own flock; of old Mahjoubi and his mosque; of veiled women and sullen men; of ridicule and unspoken contempt.

I have tried so hard,
père
. I’ve tried so hard to be tolerant. But some things are intolerable. The mosque I can just about tolerate, but the minaret? The
kif
-smokers? The gym, with its hostile atmosphere? The girls in
niqab
? The Muslim school, as if our own village school might teach their daughters something other than submission and fear?

Intolerable.
Intolerable!

I do not remember all I said; or even how much I said aloud. But I was enraged,
père
. Enraged by their ingratitude as well as their hostility. But most of all by my loss of control; by the fact that, despite my intentions, if anyone in Les Marauds were still in doubt as to who had tried to burn down the school, I had just convinced them all that I was the one responsible.