Peaches for Monsieur Le Curé (17 page)

CHAPTER SEVEN

Saturday, 21st August

WE CAME BACK
on the tail of the wind, Rosette singing all the way:
Bam, bam BAM, bam badda-BAM—

It’s my mother’s song, of course. Rosette doesn’t really sing
words
, but she has her father’s ear. She stamps her feet and claps her hands—

‘
Bam, bam BAM! Bam, badda-BAM!
’

And the wind joins in; the blown leaves dance; autumn is coming early this year, and already the colours are turning. The linden trees are the first to go, shaking confetti into the sky. Rosette’s hair is almost the same shade of red-gold as those falling leaves, which she stamps out like flames with her small bare feet.

Stamp, stamp, stamp. ‘
Bam, badda-bam!
’

From the cottage, I could sense Alyssa watching through the half-closed shutters. She has not spoken more than a few words to me since she first arrived here, but she seems easier with Anouk and Rosette, although she is still cautious. She has abandoned her
hijab
, and now wears her hair in two long plaits, which fascinate Anouk and Rosette. We take our main meal after sunset, so that she can observe Ramadan, but as far as I know, she has not prayed. Instead she watches TV and reads—

Not today
, I decided.

I went to the other side of the house and looked at Armande’s peach tree. I have already given some to Guillaume; some more to Poitou; some to Yasmina Al-Djerba; plus a
clafoutis
to Narcisse and his wife, and I’d promised a tart to Luc Clairmont, who is working to repair the
chocolaterie
, and another to Joséphine. Even so, there are too many left, and now, with the wind, they are falling.

‘We have to gather the peaches today,’ I said as I entered the kitchen. ‘Armande would never forgive me if I let the wasps get to them.’

‘Yay! Peach jam!’ said Anouk, jumping up from the sofa.

I smiled. One of Anouk’s most endearing traits is the way she flits so easily from childhood to adulthood, light to shade, like a butterfly moving from flower to flower, unaware of the changing worlds. Today she is almost as young as she was the day we first arrived here.

Alyssa, so close to her in age, already seems so much older. What are her parents thinking now? Why has no one come looking for her? And how long can I keep her here before the news of her presence gets out?

‘Did you know Armande?’ I said. ‘She was Luc’s grandmother, and a friend of mine. I think you would have liked her. Not everyone did – she infuriated Monsieur le Curé – but she had a good heart, and Luc thought the world of her. She’s the reason I came here. I promised I’d harvest her peaches.’

At last, the glimmer of a smile from the solemn little face. ‘That sounds like my grandfather,’ she said. ‘He likes to grow things. He has a persimmon tree by his house. It’s only ever given fruit once, but he cares for that little persimmon like it’s his only son.’

This was by far the longest speech I had heard Alyssa make. Perhaps the contact with Anouk has helped her find her voice again. I smiled. ‘Would you like to help?’ I said. ‘We’re going to make some peach jam.’

‘
Bam. Jam. Pam. Badda-bam!
’ sang Rosette, picking up a wooden spoon and making it dance on the table-top.

Alyssa looked curious. ‘Peach jam?’

‘It’s such an easy recipe. We already have everything we need. Jam sugar – that’s sugar with pectin added, so that the jam sets properly – a copper pot, jars, cinnamon – oh, yes, and peaches, of course.’ I smiled. ‘Come on. You can help us pick.’

For a moment, she hesitated. Then she followed me outside. It was quite safe; the house is secluded, and the peach tree invisible from the road. The Autan wind is merciless; already, the ground at the foot of the tree was covered with windfalls. Leave them more than a minute and the wasps will start to attack them, but windfall peaches are perfect for jam, and together we gathered more than enough in no more than ten minutes.

The copper pot belongs to Armande, though I have one very like it. It’s large and shaped like a kettle-drum, with a hammered, uneven surface. Sitting on Armande’s kitchen range, it looks like a witch’s cauldron – not too far from the truth, I suppose, for what could be closer to alchemy than changing raw ingredients into something that makes the mouth water?

‘
Bam, bam
,’ went Rosette, drumming on the copper pot.

‘Now, we have to prepare the fruit.’

I ran some cold water into the sink. We washed the peaches and took out the stones. A little bruising doesn’t hurt; it makes the peach all the sweeter. And as we worked, our sleeves rolled up, the sweet juice running down our arms, the kitchen was filled with the sunny scent of peaches and sugar and summertime.

‘
Bam. Jam. Bam-badda-bam
,’ sang Rosette. In the slices of light and shade, she looked like a blurry bumblebee; Bam, in her shadow, a cluster of motes chasing into the rapturous air.

I saw Alyssa watching, a crease between her espresso eyes, and knew that she could see him too. After three days, that doesn’t surprise me. It doesn’t usually take very long for people to start to notice Bam. Children are most susceptible; but even adults can see him, as long as they have an open mind. It begins as a trick of the light, a bloom like that on a bunch of golden grapes, and then, one day—

‘
Jam! Bam!
’

‘Why don’t you take Rosette outside?’

Anouk gave me a comical look. Rosette is a plastic trumpet, too loud for me to hear whispers. And whispers are my business today; the whispers that Omi calls
waswaas
, or worry-whispers from Satan. But so far, Alyssa’s whispers have been too timid for me to overhear. P
erhaps, if we were alone
, I thought,
with the everyday magic of making jam
—

At first, I did not try to make her speak. Instead I kept up a monologue that needed no reply from her; I talked about the recipe, and about Armande, and the chocolate shop; and Roux in Paris, and our boat, and Anouk, and Rosette, and the peaches.

‘We’re not going to cook the peaches today. Instead, we leave them overnight. A kilo of sugar to each one of fruit, minus the leaves and stones, of course. We slice them into the copper pan – copper’s best for cooking because it heats up more quickly. We add the sugar. Then, with a wooden spoon, we crush the sugar into the fruit. Rosette likes this part best—’ I smiled – ‘because it’s messiest. And because it
smells
so good—’

I saw Alyssa’s nostrils flare.

‘Now we add the cinnamon,’ I said. ‘Sticks, not powder; broken in half. Three or four should do the trick—’ The summery scent had turned autumnal; bonfires and Halloween. Cinnamon pancakes cooked outside. Mulled wine and burnt sugar.

‘What do you think?’

‘It’s nice,’ she said. The diamond stud in her nostril flared again, catching the light. ‘What next?’

‘We wait,’ I said. ‘We cover the pot with a cloth and leave the whole thing overnight. Then, in the morning, we light the range and stir as we bring the jam to the boil. It doesn’t need to boil for more than four minutes, then we can put it into pots, ready for the winter.’

She looked at me quickly. ‘The winter?’

‘Of course, I won’t be here,’ I said. ‘But jam is best in wintertime, when the nights are long and there’s frost in the air, and every pot is like opening a little jar of sunshine—’

‘Oh.’ She sounded crestfallen. ‘I thought perhaps you were going to stay.’

‘I’m sorry, Alyssa. We can’t,’ I said.

‘When?’ It was almost a whisper.

‘Soon. A couple of weeks, at most. But don’t worry. We won’t abandon you.’

‘You’d take me with you to Paris?’ she said. Suddenly her eyes were bright.

‘We’ll see. I hope I don’t need to.’ I turned away from the copper pan and looked at her directly. ‘Whatever you’re running away from, I hope we can find a better solution than that. Isn’t there anyone you trust in Les Marauds? A family member? A teacher, perhaps?’

Alyssa flinched. ‘No,’ she said.

‘But you
do
go to school, don’t you?’ I said. ‘The little school opposite the church?’

Once more, Alyssa flinched. ‘I did.’

There she is again
, I thought. Inès Bencharki, the Woman in Black. I haven’t even mentioned her name, yet once more her shadow is strong enough to eclipse even this little gleam of light. Is
this
what Alyssa fears so much? What is she trying to escape?

‘Wouldn’t you miss your family if you went to Paris? Your parents? Your sister?’

Silently, she shook her head. The bright look of hope that had been in her eyes had dimmed once more to a sullen flame.

‘Your grandfather, then. I know you’d miss
him
.’ It was a tentative shot, but there’d been a genuine note of affection in her voice as she spoke about old Mahjoubi and the persimmon tree.

She turned away. I saw a tear gather and roll down the side of her face. She looked very young at that moment; younger even than Anouk, and almost without thinking I reached out to take her in my arms. She stiffened, then relaxed, and I felt her sobbing against my shoulder, sobbing almost soundlessly, her hands clenched around her elbows.

I let her cry. It sometimes helps. Around us, the scent of peaches was almost too intense to bear. Outside, the wind rattled the windows. When the Autan wind blows, the farmers of this region strip their fruit trees of their leaves, to avoid giving too much purchase to the gusts that tear at the trees, shaking the ripening fruit from the boughs. This may seem cruel to an outsider, but the alternative is broken branches and a ruined harvest. There’s a time to coddle fruit trees, as my friend Framboise used to say, as well as a time to strip them back. Children are not so different. Neither benefits from an excess of sensitivity.

I held her until I sensed that her sobs were close to subsiding. Then I said in a quiet voice, ‘Alyssa. What happened the other night?’

She looked at me.

‘I’d like to help. But I wish you could tell me what’s happening. Why does a girl like you decide she doesn’t want to live any more?’

For a moment I thought she wouldn’t answer. Then she said in a halting voice, ‘Someone once told me:
When Ramadan comes, the gates of Paradise are opened, and the gates of hellfire are locked and the devils shackled
. That means that if a person dies during the month of Ramadan—’

She paused and looked away again.

‘They wouldn’t go to hell?’ I said.

‘I guess that sounds pretty crazy to you.’

‘Because I’m not a Muslim?’ I said. ‘Well, I’m not a Christian either, and I don’t believe in hell. But I don’t think you’re crazy. Just sad and confused.’

Alyssa sighed.

‘It’s all right. Whatever it is may seem hopeless to you, but there’s always a solution. I promise you we’ll find it. You don’t have to deal with this alone.’

She gave a little nod. ‘But you can’t tell anyone else,’ she said. ‘No one in my family. No one at all. You promise?’

‘I do.’

She sat down at the table, tracing with her fingertips the scars on the wooden surface. Outside, the wind redoubled, making the old eaves whisper and creak. The wind makes Rosette talkative; I hoped today it might do the same for Alyssa.

‘You can talk to me,’ I said. ‘Whatever it is, I bet I’ve seen worse.’

‘Worse?’ said Alyssa.

I thought of all the places I’d seen; of all the years I’d travelled. Over those years I have seen so much; the death of my mother; the loss of my friends; a million casual cruelties; as many flashes of sweetness.

I’ve watched the sun rise over mountains where no human being has ever trod and seen it go down over cities where every inch of space is filled with people, pushing and fighting each other for life. I’ve given birth. I’ve been in love. I’ve changed beyond expectation. I’ve seen people die in alleyways; seen others survive impossible odds; known happiness and darkness and grief, and the one thing I’m still sure about is that life is mystery; life is change; it’s what my mother called magic, and it’s capable of anything—

I started to tell Alyssa. It’s hard to put these things into words. For the first time since I arrived here, I wished for my
chocolaterie
; the scent of melting chocolate; the silver pot on the counter; the cups; the ease of talking without words. I have no desire to challenge her faith. But Ramadan excludes me. It means I cannot offer her the kind of comfort I know best: the square of chocolate on the tongue, childhood’s magic cure-all—

Suddenly, there came a sound, a scratching at the window. Maybe a bramble or a branch, tapping in that restless wind. But when I looked up, I saw a face looking in from behind the half-closed shutters; a round nose pressed against the glass, a pair of dark eyes, widening in recognition—

It was Maya.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Saturday, 21st August

ALYSSA HAD FLED
upstairs the moment the child had appeared at the window. But Maya had already seen her. Too late to think of an excuse; I went to the door and opened it.

‘Maya,’ I said.

She smiled up at me. The White Autan was in her eyes, her wild hair, her flushed cheeks. She was wearing a pair of dungarees and a T-shirt with a daisy motif. Under her arm she was carrying a knitted toy that might have been a cat, or a rabbit, and which had clearly been much loved, if somewhat the worse for the experience.

‘You said I could play with your little girl.’

‘Rosette,’ I said. ‘She’s gone outside. Would you like me to call her?’

She peered in through the door. ‘I saw my cousin Alyssa in there.’

I nodded.

‘Is she hiding?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why?’ said Maya.

I looked at her. ‘Can you keep a secret?’ I said.

‘Mmm-hmm. Can I tell Omi?’

I shook my head. ‘No, Maya. You can’t. Not Omi, not Jiddo – your grandfather – just let’s keep it a secret, shall we?’

‘Not even Du’a? She’s my best friend.’

Once more, I shook my head. ‘No, you mustn’t tell anyone. Alyssa’s staying here with me. She doesn’t want anyone else to know.’

‘Why?’ said Maya.

‘She doesn’t want anyone to know that, either.’

‘Oh,’ said Maya. ‘Can I stay, too?’

‘I don’t think that’s a good idea. But you can come back any time you like. As long as you don’t tell anyone. And if you’re very,
very
good—’

She took a step inside the house. ‘What are you making?’

I told her.

‘Oh. Can I try some?’

‘Of course you can, when it’s ready. You and Rosette can label the pots. Would you like that?’

‘Can Du’a come? She’s bigger than me. She can keep a secret, too.’

I sighed. This was getting complicated. But Maya, I knew, was only five, and perhaps Du’a might be able to keep her from talking. Besides, I was still curious about Inès Bencharki’s child; perhaps, if I got to meet her, I might find out more about her mother.

‘Where is Du’a now?’ I said.

‘At home, with her mother, doing chores. She only comes out when her mother sleeps.’

‘Where do they live?’

‘With Sonia, of course. But Amma says I can’t play there. So Du’a and I, we play somewhere else. We have a place, a special place—’ She stopped. ‘But that’s our secret.’

I noticed that as we were talking, Alyssa had come down to sit on the stairs. She sat there in silence, hugging her knees, her pale face pinched with tension.

‘I won’t tell anyone you’re here, Alyssa, I
promise
,’ said Maya.

Alyssa hesitated a moment longer, then seemed to relax a little. ‘All right. How’s everyone?’

Maya shrugged. ‘OK, I guess. Everyone’s looking for you, though. My
jiddo
and my Uncle Saïd aren’t talking at all any more. Omi says they’re both as bad as each other, but I don’t know. And Omi is making
tamina
cake for
iftar
tonight. She says it’s OK to taste it to see if it’s done. But my
jiddo
says she tastes it
too
much. Half of it is already gone.’

I smiled, imagining the scene. I wondered if the quarrel between old Mahjoubi and Saïd was about the leadership of the mosque; Omi had already hinted at a conflict between them. It seems ironic, doesn’t it, that both Reynaud and old Mahjoubi should be in the same situation, replaced by someone younger, someone more open to new ideas?

I said as much to Alyssa when Maya had gone. She looked surprised.

‘Is
that
what you think? If so, you’re wrong. My grandfather isn’t the problem.
He
doesn’t think we need to live in the Middle Ages.
He
doesn’t tell me what to do, or what to wear, or who to be friends with.
He
doesn’t go crazy if I talk to a boy from the other side of the river—’

She broke off abruptly, looking away.

‘Is that what your father does?’ I said.

She gave that characteristic half-shrug so common to adolescent girls. ‘I dunno.’

I said nothing more. Already, this was progress. Instead I turned my attention back to the copper of peach jam, releasing its autumnal scent. Peach is perhaps the most perfect fruit for making jam: sweet, yet firm; the golden flesh turning to a darker burnt-orange with cooking. My method allows the pieces of fruit to stay intact during the process, while retaining all the flavour. Today, we will leave the sugar and peach mixture to steep under a sheet of muslin; tomorrow, we will cook it, then ladle it into clean glass jars to put away for the winter.

There’s something very comforting about the ritual of jam-making. It speaks of cellars filled with preserves; of neat rows of jars on pantry shelves. It speaks of winter mornings and bowls of
chocolat au lait
, with thick slices of good fresh bread and last year’s peach jam, like a promise of sunshine at the darkest point of the year. It speaks of four stone walls, a roof, and of seasons that turn in the same place, in the same way, year after year, with sweet familiarity. It is the taste of home.

‘There.’ I covered the pan with the muslin sheet. ‘Tomorrow we’ll put it into jars.’

Alyssa nodded. ‘OK.’

I knew better than to try to resume our earlier confidences straight away. Maya’s interruption had broken the connection I’d made. But there
was
a connection; and I am sure that, with time, I can make it again. For now, we have guests to prepare for; a menu to plan, baking to do. Whatever Alyssa’s secret may be—

Like the peaches, it will keep.