Peaches for Monsieur Le Curé (13 page)

CHAPTER TEN

Wednesday, 18th August

I SPENT THE
day in my garden, trying to forget that morning’s scene in the old
chocolaterie
. I had already told Luc Clairmont not to come round as we had arranged; that the Bencharki woman was dealing with the repairs herself; but I could tell he had already guessed some of what had happened.

Damn the woman. Damn the boy. By now the news will be all over the village. It won’t take long for Père Henri Lemaître to hear of it, and pass on the story to the Bishop. How long after that before I am officially replaced – moved to another parish, or worse, forced to leave the Church for good?

And so I spent the rest of the day digging in the hot sun, stopping every couple of hours for a break and a cold beer, but though my body was tired out by the time I’d finished work, my mind was no less agitated than it had been when I first began.

I do not sleep well nowadays. To tell you the truth, I never did. I find it increasingly difficult, and I often wake at four or five in the morning, soaked in sweat and feeling more exhausted than ever. Physical exercise sometimes helps, but this time, though I ached with fatigue, my mind remained alert, spinning with possibilities.

At one o’clock in the morning I stopped trying to fall asleep and decided to go for a walk instead. I may have had a few more beers than I had intended. In any case, my head ached. The night was cool and inviting.

I dressed in haste – a T-shirt, jeans. (Yes, I
do
possess a pair, for gardening, fishing and manual work.) No one would see me. The café was closed, and besides, Lansquenet folk rise early and go to bed accordingly.

It was dark out on the street. Streetlights are rare in Lansquenet. In Les Marauds there are none at all, and only a few house lights were visible across the bridge. There were more than I’d expected. Perhaps these people go to bed late.

I wandered down towards the bridge. It’s cooler by the river. There is a stone parapet there that, even long after sunset, still retains the heat of the sun. Below it the river makes a series of small articulate sounds, half percussive, like the keys of some complex musical instrument.

I paused there, wondering whether I should cross the bridge. I am not welcome in Les Marauds. Karim Bencharki has made that plain. And yet, Les Marauds draws me. Perhaps because of the river.

Suddenly, I heard a sound from the far bank of the Tannes. A heavy splash, like a log falling in. My head was still not entirely clear; the other side of the bridge was dark. It took me a moment to understand that there was someone in the water.

I called out. ‘Is someone there?’

No reply. It occurred to me that this might be someone taking a late-night swim; perhaps one of the
Maghrébins
, who would not appreciate my interference. On the other hand, maybe a child had been playing too close to the water—

I ran to the other end of the bridge, where the Tannes runs deepest. I wondered if, in my fatigue, I might have somehow dreamt it. But then, I saw a blurry face appear for a moment and vanish again—

I kicked off my shoes and dived from the bridge. I am a competent swimmer. Even so, the cold water made me gasp and struggle for breath as I surfaced. The current, that had seemed so gentle from the parapet of the bridge, now demonstrated surprising strength, which, along with its collection of river debris – sticks and leaves and plastic bottles, cigarette butts, carrier bags and assorted junk – all conspired to drag me down.

I held my breath and followed the current. There was no sign of the figure I’d seen. I dived, but it was too dark. I came up gasping; dived again. I searched beneath the surface, combing the water with my hands, knowing I had only seconds before the victim – whoever he or she was – was swept away and vanished for good. It was almost hopeless, I knew; and yet I knew I had to try.

Père
, I am somewhat ashamed to confess that prayer never even occurred to me. My hand closed on a fistful of hair, then a fistful of fabric, and I pulled her to the surface, allowing the current to take us both a little further downriver, over rocks and jutting pieces of wood that lurked viciously just under the surface, until at last I reached the bank and hauled her on to the coarse sand—

City people often forget that moonlight can be surprisingly bright. Even a crescent moon is enough, in a place where there are no street-lamps, to make out a person’s features. This was a girl, I realized, as I pulled back the scarf that hid her face. I knew her at once – after all, I’d seen her often enough in the square when she was a little girl, in jeans and an oversized sports shirt, playing football with the boys. A few years older now, of course; her face very pale in the moonlight; eyes closed, not breathing; her only spark of sentience that of a tiny diamond stud which blinked in one of her nostrils.

It was Alyssa Mahjoubi – Saïd’s youngest daughter – lying dead on the riverbank at two o’clock in the morning.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Thursday, 19th August

AS PUPILS AT
the seminary, we attended a class on first aid. I still remember the embarrassment of having to practise mouth-to-mouth resuscitation on the instructor’s dummy, a buxom lady he called Cunégonde, and the laughter of my classmates when I repeatedly failed to revive her.

But skills, once learnt, have a habit of resurfacing when needed most. I’d never had much success with Cunégonde, but with Alyssa Mahjoubi, desperation made me bold; I cupped my mouth over hers and tried to force the girl to breathe – and between pleading, invective and finally prayer, I managed to pummel and coax her back into the world of the living.

‘Thank God. Oh, thank you, God.’ By then I felt half dead myself. My head was spinning, my chest hurt, and though the night was mild, I was shivering.

Beside me, Alyssa Mahjoubi was coughing up river water. After a moment she sat up and looked at me with eyes that seemed to have swallowed the sky. I told myself she might be in shock. I tried to make my voice gentle.

‘
Mademoiselle
—’

She flinched at that. I should have called her Alyssa. But people are often so sensitive – and God knows how many Islamic rules I had already broken in saving her life – that I thought it might be better to keep to the formalities.

I tried again. ‘Are you all right?’

Once more, she flinched.

‘Don’t be afraid. You can talk to me. It’s Francis Reynaud. Remember me?’ Maybe she didn’t recognize me without my collar and soutane. I tried a smile, with no response. ‘You must have fallen in, somehow. Lucky I was here, eh? Can you stand? I’ll take you home.’

She shook her head energetically.

‘What? Shall I call a doctor?’

Once more, she shook her head.

‘Is there a family member you’d like me to call? Your sister, your mother, perhaps?’

Again, that gesture.
No. No
. I was beginning to feel slightly desperate now, and Alyssa, too, was shivering.

I tried for a more jocular tone. ‘Well, we can’t sit here all night.’

No reaction at all from the girl. She simply sat on the riverbank, breathing hard, hugging her knees. She looked like a mouse rescued from a cat; uninjured, but dying from shock. That’s what often happens with mice; they usually die anyway.

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.