Peaches for Monsieur Le Curé (12 page)

CHAPTER EIGHT

Wednesday, 18th August

TODAY, WHILE ANOUK
was out with Jeannot, Rosette and I set out once again in search of Joséphine. We passed the green-shuttered house on the way, but, like the rest of Les Marauds, it looked closed and fast asleep. The mosque, too, was silent. Dawn prayers are over. Now is the time for rest and recovery; play for the children. Work starts late.

We walked to the end of the boulevard and made our way to the riverbank. There’s a narrow walkway here along the Tannes, like a suspended boardwalk, where the half-timbered houses that line the street stand like drunken clowns on their stilts high above the river. Each house has its terrace: a wooden deck with a balustrade and a sharp drop to the water. Some of them are still safe; others have been closed off. Some are gardens, with pots of flowers and hanging baskets, with ropes of jasmine straggling down.

On a chair on one of these terraces sat an old man with a white beard, reading a book (I assumed it was the Qur’an), wearing a white
djellaba
and, somewhat incongruously, a black Basque beret.

He looked up as I passed, and raised a hand in greeting. I waved back and smiled. Rosette hooted amiably.

‘Hello, I’m Vianne,’ I told him. ‘I’m staying in that house up there.’

The old man put down his book, which, to my surprise as I approached, I now saw was not the Qur’an at all, but the first volume of
Les Misérables
.

‘So I heard,’ the old man said. He had a slightly guttural voice, his accent an exotic blend of Midi and Medina. His eyes were dark, faintly bluish with age, and pixellated with wrinkles. ‘I am Mohammed Mahjoubi,’ he said. ‘You already met my granddaughter.’

‘Maya?’ I said.

He nodded. ‘
Yar
. My youngest son Ismail’s child. She says you brought peaches for Ramadan.’

I laughed. ‘It wasn’t quite like that. But I always like to say hello.’

The dark eyes crinkled appreciatively. ‘Given your friends, that is surprising.’

‘Do you mean Curé Reynaud?’

Old Mahjoubi showed his teeth.

‘He’s not a bad man, really. He’s just a little—’

‘Difficult? Intransigent? Stiff? Or is he just the arrogant weed that makes his bed on the dunghill and thinks he’s the king in the castle?’

I smiled. ‘He improves with acquaintance. When I first came to Lansquenet …’ I told him a version of the tale, omitting what I had promised to keep secret. Old Mahjoubi listened, occasionally nodding and smiling encouragement, while Rosette added her own running commentary in hoots and signs and whistles.

‘So – you came at the start of your Ramadan, to open a house of temptation? I see how that could be a problem,’ he said. ‘Your
curé
begins to have my sympathy.’

I feigned indignation. ‘You’re taking his side?’

Old Mahjoubi’s smile broadened. ‘You are a dangerous woman,
madame
. I see that much already.’

I smiled again. ‘As to that,’ I said, ‘you went further, didn’t you? I only opened a chocolate shop. You came and built a minaret.’

Now Mahjoubi laughed aloud. ‘So, you heard that story. Yes, it took time, but we did it,
Alhumdullila
. And without breaking a single one of those complicated building regulations, either.’ He eyed me. ‘It stings him, does it not? To hear the call of the
muezzin
so close to his own place of worship? And yet, he rings those bells of his.’

‘I can enjoy both,’ I said.

He gave me an appreciative look. ‘Not everyone here is so tolerant. Even my eldest son, Saïd, sometimes falls prey to that kind of thinking. I tell him: Allah judges. All we can do is watch and learn. And try to enjoy the sound of the bells if we cannot stop them ringing.’

I smiled. ‘Next time, I’ll bring you chocolates. I already promised some to Omi al-Djerba.’

‘Don’t encourage her,’ he said, his eyes still bright with amusement. ‘Already half the time she forgets that she’s meant to be fasting for Ramadan. A bit of fruit doesn’t count, she says. A little drink of tea doesn’t count. Half a biscuit doesn’t count. She’s riding the devil’s donkey.’

‘I knew someone like that, once,’ I told him, thinking of Armande.

‘Well, people are the same everywhere. Is that your little girl?’ He glanced at where Rosette was playing, now throwing pebbles into the Tannes.

I nodded. ‘That’s Rosette, my youngest.’

‘Bring her to play with my Maya. She doesn’t have any friends of her age. Just don’t invite that priest of yours. And don’t go feeding her chocolate.’

Walking back into Lansquenet, I wondered how such an affable old man could have fallen foul of Francis Reynaud. Is it the difference in culture? A simple dispute over territory? Or is there something else here, something closer to the bone?

We reached the end of the boardwalk, where it rejoins the boulevard. There I found a red door at the end of a little cul-de-sac, with a sign above it, black letters on white, that read:
CHEZ SAÏD. GYM
.

That must be Saïd Mahjoubi
, I thought – old Mahjoubi’s eldest son. Reynaud had told me about the place he had opened three or four years ago. An empty storage facility, converted as cheaply as possible into a sports hall and gymnasium. Through the door, which was slightly ajar, I could see exercise bicycles, running machines, racks of free weights. A smell of chlorine and disinfectant and
kif
filtered through into the air.

The door opened, and three men in their early twenties came out, wearing sleeveless T-shirts and carrying sports bags. They did not greet me, but gave me the same vaguely aggressive look that I’d had from the man in the little café. I’ve seen it before in Paris, when we lived in Rue de l’Abbesse, and before that, in Tangier; it’s not so much aggressive as faintly defiant, a challenge to the person they think I am. A woman alone, bare-headed; dressed in jeans and a sleeveless shirt. I am different; another tribe. Women are not welcome here.

And yet, old Mahjoubi welcomed me – even flirted with me, in his way. Perhaps because he is too old to see me as a woman at all. Perhaps because he is too secure in himself to see me as a threat.

The air is very close and still. The Autan must be almost due. Whether it is the Black or the White Autan, a breath of wind will bring relief. Today is the eighth day of Ramadan. Six more days till the full moon. I think of the Moon on my Tarot card, that woman with her distaff and yarn, and I wonder when she will show herself. Maybe when the wind blows.

Meanwhile, we have business elsewhere. I leave Les Marauds sleeping. From this distance it looks like a crocodile sprawled across the marshes, head almost buried in the reeds, twitching slightly in its sleep. Its spine is the Boulevard des Marauds; broad and grey and cobbled. Its jaws are the bridge, upturned at the corners. Its legs are the short, squat alleys that jut out of the boulevard at right angles. And its eye is the mosque; half closed for now as the sun shines on the crescent moon that perches on the minaret. Is it dangerous? Reynaud thinks so. But I am not like Francis Reynaud, who sees every stranger in Lansquenet as a potential enemy. The men outside the gym are young; unsure of themselves and their territory. But the man to whom Les Marauds turns – Mohammed Mahjoubi – is different. I am sure that whatever problems Reynaud may have encountered in dealing with this community can be solved through humour and dialogue. As Mahjoubi told me himself,
people are the same everywhere
. Scratch off the paint, and what you find is the same, however far you go. I learnt that from my mother; from all the places we called home. And now, with the air like syrup and the Tannes so slow that it might be asleep, Rosette and I begin the climb up the narrow street into Lansquenet, all white and gleaming in the sun, with the church bells ringing morning Mass fit to wake a sleeping crocodile.

CHAPTER NINE

Wednesday, 18th August

ARRIVING AT THE
café des Marauds, I found Marie-Ange behind the bar again, chewing gum, watching TV and looking more sullen than ever. Today, purple eye-shadow, purple lipstick, and a purple streak in her hair. I hope the intended recipient of all this glamour appreciates the effort.

I ordered a
café-crème
. ‘Is Joséphine here this morning?’

The girl gave me a flat look. ‘Sure she is. Who shall I say?’

‘Tell her it’s Vianne Rocher.’

I was expecting to find her changed. These things are so often inevitable. Grey hairs, laughter lines; kisses from the lips of time. But occasionally, someone changes so much that they can barely be recognized; and when Joséphine Muscat stepped through the bead curtain into the bar, it took me a moment to recognize my old friend in the woman who faced me.

It was not that she had aged. In fact, I thought she looked younger. She’d been a somewhat graceless woman when I first met her eight years ago; now she was pretty and self-assured, and her hair, which had been a dull mid-brown, had been changed to a smart blonde crop. She was wearing a white linen dress and a colourful necklace of little glass beads; she saw me at the
terrasse
and her face lit in a smile that I would have recognized however many years had gone by.

‘Oh, Vianne! I didn’t dare believe it!’

She hugged me tightly and sat down in the wicker chair opposite.

‘I wanted to see you yesterday, but I had to work. You look wonderful—’

‘So do you, Joséphine.’

‘And Anouk? Is she here?’

‘She’s with Jeannot Drou. They always were inseparable.’

She laughed. ‘I remember. So long ago. Anouk must be nearly grown up by now—’ She broke off, suddenly subdued. ‘You heard about the fire, of course. I’m sorry, Vianne.’

I shrugged. ‘It’s not my place any more. I’m only glad no one was hurt.’

She shook her head. ‘I know. But the shop – it’s always been yours in my mind. Even after you were gone. I’d always hoped you might come back, or at least that the people who rented it would be half as nice as you.’

‘I take it they weren’t?’

She shook her head. ‘That horrible woman. That poor little girl.’

I’d heard those words from Joline Drou, but, coming from Joséphine, they surprised me.

‘Why do you say that?’

She made a face. ‘You’d understand if you met her,’ she said. ‘That is, if she deigned to talk to you. But she hardly talks to anyone here, and when she does, she’s so
rude
—’ She saw my doubtful look. ‘You’ll see. She’s not like the other
Maghrébines
. Most of them are really nice – or were, before she came along. But then she arrived, and started everyone wearing the veil—’

‘Not everyone,’ I said. ‘I’ve seen plenty of women without it.’ I told her about my visit to the al-Djerba house, and my chat with Mohammed Mahjoubi.

‘Oh, he’s a sweetheart,’ she said. ‘I wish I could say the same for his son.’ Mahjoubi has two sons, she says. Saïd, the eldest, who runs the gym, and Ismail, who married Yasmina al-Djerba.

‘Ismail’s OK,’ said Joséphine. ‘And Yasmina’s lovely. She even comes here with Maya for lunch. But as for Saïd—’ She pulled a face. ‘Religion. He got it in a big way. Married his daughter at eighteen to a man he met on a pilgrimage. Since then I haven’t had a chance to talk to either of Saïd’s daughters. They used to come here all the time. They liked to play football in the square. Now they creep around like mice, draped from head to foot in black. I heard he fell out with his father about it. Old Mahjoubi doesn’t approve of the veil. And Saïd doesn’t approve of the way old Mahjoubi does things.’

‘His choice of reading matter, perhaps?’ I told her about old Mahjoubi’s secret passion for Victor Hugo.

She smiled. ‘For a priest, or whatever he is, he seems a bit eccentric. Apparently he tried to ban women from wearing the veil at mosque. Didn’t approve of the girls’ school, either. I don’t think he likes that woman any more than the rest of us do.’

‘You mean Inès Bencharki. Sonia Mahjoubi’s sister-in-law.’

She nodded. ‘That’s right. Before she arrived, none of this would have happened.’

‘None of what?’

She shrugged. ‘The fire. That girls’ school. Women wearing face-veils – in Paris, perhaps, but in Lansquenet? She was the one who started that. Everybody says so.’

Well, that’s true, at least. I’ve heard this before from Reynaud, Guillaume, Poitou and Joline as well as from Omi al-Djerba. What is it about Inès that unites both Les Marauds and Lansquenet in dislike and suspicion?

Rosette, meanwhile, had been playing outside by the fountain in the square. It’s not really a fountain – just a trickle of water that comes from an ornamental tap and splashes into a stone trough – but the sound of water is pleasant on a hot, still day like this, and from the
terrasse
of the Café des Marauds I could see Rosette darting in and out of the square of shade that was cast by Saint-Jérôme’s tower, carrying water in her hands to splash across the cobblestones.

Now I saw the familiar shape of a boy in a
Lion King
T-shirt, followed by that of a shaggy dog, come round the side of Saint-Jérôme’s and stop by the fountain.

Rosette gave a crow of welcome. ‘
Pilou!
’

By my side, Joséphine stiffened.

‘That’s my little Rosette,’ I said. ‘You’ll meet her in a minute.’ I smiled. ‘We already met Pilou.’

For a moment I thought she looked furtive. Then her expression softened. ‘He’s terrific, isn’t he?’

I nodded. ‘Rosette thinks so, too.’

‘That woman doesn’t approve of him,’ she said, with a glance towards the square. ‘He tried to talk to her daughter once. She gave him such a mouthful! He was only being friendly.’

‘Perhaps it was the dog,’ I said.

‘Why? He never does any harm. I’m sick of trying to be
sensitive
. I’m sick of that woman looking down her nose at me because my son happens to have a dog, because I don’t wear a headscarf, because my café serves alcohol—’ She broke off. ‘I’m sorry, Vianne. Forget I spoke. It’s just that – seeing you again—’ Her eyes filled with tears. ‘It’s been too long. I’ve missed you so much.’

‘I’ve missed you too. But look at you now—’

‘Yes, look at me.’ She wiped her eyes impatiently. ‘Old enough to know better than to get all sentimental about the past. Another
café-crème
? On the house. Or would you rather have chocolate?’

I shook my head. ‘The café looks great.’

‘Yes, doesn’t it?’ She looked around. ‘Amazing what a lick of paint and a bit of imagination can do. I remember what it used to be like—’

So did I: the yellowed walls, the greasy floor, the smell of old smoke that seemed to be part of the grain of the place. Now the walls are whitewashed and clean; the
terrasse
and the window-ledges are lined with red geraniums. A large and colourful abstract painting dominates the far wall—

She saw me looking. ‘Pilou did that. What do you think?’

I thought it looked good, and said so. I also wondered why she had not said a word about Pilou’s father. And then I thought of my little Rosette, who draws and paints so beautifully—

‘You didn’t remarry, did you?’ I said.

For a moment she was silent. Then she gave me a luminous smile and said, ‘No, Vianne. I never did. I thought one day perhaps I might, but—’

‘What about Pilou’s father?’

She shrugged. ‘You told me once that Anouk was yours, and no one else’s. Well, my son and I are like that. We’re brought up to believe that there’s someone there, a soulmate waiting for all of us. Pilou
is
my soulmate. Why would I need anyone else?’

She hadn’t quite answered the question, I thought. Still, I told myself, there’s time. Just because I once thought that Roux might fall for Joséphine, just because Pilou had said that his father was a pirate, just because the cards are bad, that doesn’t automatically mean that my suspicions are justified. Even the fact that Joséphine hasn’t mentioned Roux once, not even to ask me how he is—

‘Why don’t you come over for dinner on Sunday? Both of you. I’ll cook. Pancakes, cider and sausages, just like the river-rats used to make.’

Joséphine smiled. ‘I’d like that. And what about Roux? Is he here too?’

‘He stayed behind, with the boat,’ I said.

Was that disappointment in the turn of her profile? Was that a furtive gleam of rose, hidden among her colours?
I should not spy on my friend
, I thought. But the urge was too great to combat. Joséphine has a secret desperate to reveal itself. The question is, do I
want
to know the thing that she is hiding? Or should I, for my own peace of mind, allow the past to stay buried?