Peaches for Monsieur Le Curé (19 page)

CHAPTER ONE

Monday, 23rd August

WELL, OF COURSE
I can’t tell you what she said. Confession – be it official or not – is a secret that cannot be betrayed. But she was pale as the Host when she finished her story, and nothing I could say seemed to give her comfort.

‘I don’t know what to tell her,’ she said. ‘She was so proud of what I’d become. The world was opening up for me. I was ready to spread my wings. And now, I’m just like everyone else. Living in the same place, running my café, getting old—’

I said I didn’t think she looked old. She shot me an impatient glance.

‘All the things I hoped to do. All the places I hoped to see. She reminds me of all that, she did it
all
, and it makes me feel—’ She clenched her fists. ‘Oh, what’s the
use
? Some people spend the whole of their lives sitting waiting for one train, only to find that they never even made it to the station.’

‘You did your duty,’ I told her.

She made a face. ‘My
duty
.’

‘Well, yes. Some of us have to do that,’ I said. ‘We can’t all be like Vianne Rocher, moving from place to place all the time, never belonging anywhere, never taking responsibility.’

She looked surprised. ‘You disapprove.’

‘I didn’t say that,’ I told her. ‘But anyone can run away. It takes something more to stay in one place.’

‘Is that what
you
’re going to do?’ she said. ‘Will you defy the Church, and stay?’

I pointed out, rather tartly, that this was supposed to be her confession, not mine.

She smiled. ‘Do
you
ever confess, Monsieur le Curé?’

‘Of course,’ I lied. Well, not
quite
a lie. After all, I confess to
you
. ‘We all need someone to talk to,’ I said.

She smiled again. She smiles with her eyes. ‘You know, you’re easier to talk to when you’re not in your soutane.’

Am I? I find it harder, somehow. The uniform of office makes everything so simple for me. Without it, I feel anchorless, a single voice in the multitude. Does anyone really care what I say? Is anyone even listening?

We found Vianne in the garden, trying to light the barbecue. She was wearing jeans and a sleeveless blouse, her long hair tied with a yellow scarf. She had managed to find a relatively sheltered place out of the wind, but the air was sultry with unshed rain, and the little paper lanterns that she had hung around the garden had mostly blown out.

She greeted Joséphine with a kiss, and smiled at me. ‘I’m glad you’ve come. You’ll stay for dinner, won’t you?’

‘No, no. I only came to—’

‘Don’t give me that. You’ll be telling me you’re too busy with your parish duties next.’

I had to admit that I was not.

‘Then eat with us, for heaven’s sake. Or don’t you
have
to eat?’

I smiled. ‘You’re very kind, Mademoiselle Ro—’

She punched me on the arm. ‘
Vianne!
’

Joséphine said: ‘I’m sorry, Monsieur le Curé. If I’d known she was going to be violent, I wouldn’t have brought you along.’

Vianne laughed. ‘Come in and have a glass of wine. The children are inside.’

I followed both of them into the house. I found myself feeling both puzzlement and something else, something I could not identify. But it was good to sit by the stove in Armande’s old kitchen, a kitchen that now seemed more than usually crowded, due to the presence of four children and an unruly dog, playing some kind of boisterous game around the kitchen table.

The game, which seemed to involve a great deal of shouting, some coloured crayons, barking from the dog, pieces of drawing paper and lots of exuberant miming from Rosette, was enough to disguise my entrance for a few minutes, and gave me time to recognize Alyssa Mahjoubi among them – Alyssa Mahjoubi changed almost beyond my recognition; in Western dress – a blue shirt and jeans – her hair cut into a lopsided bob at the level of her jaw. Most striking of all, she was laughing – her small, vivid face lit up with the excitement of the game, all memory of her escapade apparently gone from her thoughts.

I was sharply reminded of the fact that, at seventeen, Alyssa is still very much a child – even though, at much the same age, her sister was already married. At seventeen, balanced on that precarious walkway between adolescence and adulthood, the world is a crazy obstacle course; paved one day with broken glass, the next with apple blossom. Close enough to touch Eden, yet all we want is to leave it behind. I caught Vianne’s expression and wondered if she too was thinking the same thing. Her daughter is only fifteen, and yet there is a wildness in her eyes, a promise of roads to be travelled, of sights to be seen. What was it Joséphine said?
Some people spend the whole of their lives sitting waiting for one train, only to find that they never even made it to the station
. Anouk is at the station. I sense that any train will do.

She turned, as if she had read my thought. ‘Monsieur le Curé!’

Everyone turned. For a moment Alyssa looked startled, then a little defiant.

I said: ‘I haven’t told anyone. And I won’t, unless you want me to.’

She looked away with a shy smile. It is a characteristic gesture that she shares with her sister; a dipping motion of the chin, a turn of the head slightly to the left, a lowering of the eyelashes, now echoed by the gentle sweep of the newly bobbed hair across her face. She is extraordinarily beautiful, in spite of – perhaps because of – her youth. It makes me slightly uneasy, as feminine beauty so often does. As a priest, I am not meant to notice. And yet, as a man, I always do.

‘I’m reinventing myself,’ she said. ‘I let Anouk and Rosette cut my hair.’

Anouk grinned. ‘It’s a bit shorter on one side,’ she said. ‘But I still think it looks pretty cool. What do you think?’

I said I was no judge. But Joséphine embraced her and said: ‘You look adorable.’

Alyssa smiled. ‘You did it, too. You reinvented yourself,’ she said.

A shadow flickered across Joséphine’s face. ‘I did? Who told you that?’

‘Vianne.’

Once more, that look; like a cat’s paw of wind on the surface of the Tannes. ‘I suppose you could say that,’ she said. ‘Now, what about those pancakes?’

The cry from the children that greeted this was enough to mask the awkwardness, at least from Alyssa, although I thought Vianne might have sensed something, somehow. She has a curious affinity with secrets unspoken, stories untold. Her eyes, which are dark as espresso, can sift the shadows of the human heart.

I looked around the living room. Something has changed here since Vianne arrived, which I cannot identify. Is it the light from the candles that stand on every surface, or the little red sachets for good luck that hang from the frame of every door? Could it be the incense that burns – the creamy scent of sandalwood – or the smell of scorching leaves from outside, or the pancakes fried in butter, or the spiced sausages on the barbecue?

‘I hope you’re hungry,’ said Vianne Rocher.

Unexpectedly, I was. There was rain in the wind, and so we stayed indoors for the meal, though Vianne cooked most of it outside, where the smoke would blow away cleanly.

There were pancakes, of course; and sausages; and duck
confit
and goose-liver terrine; and sweet pink onions, fried mushrooms with herbs, and little
tomme
cheeses rolled in ash; and
pastis gascon
, and nut bread, aniseed bread,
fouace
, olives, chillies and dates. To drink, there was cider and wine and
floc
, with fruit juices for the children and even a dish of leftovers for the dog, which later curled up by the fire and slept, occasionally twitching its tail and muttering vague obscenities between its teeth.

Outside, the Autan wind gained strength, and we began to hear the rain smacking against the window glass. Vianne threw more logs on to the fire; Joséphine wedged the door closed and Anouk began to sing a song I’d heard a long, long time ago, a sad old song about the wind and how it always takes its due:

V’là l’bon vent, v’là l’joli vent—

She has a sweet, untrained little voice; and seems surprisingly ready to sing, without a trace of self-consciousness. Rosette joined in with her usual zest, and Pilou accompanied them both by drumming on the table-top with more enthusiasm than skill.

‘Come on, Alyssa,’ said Anouk. ‘Join in with the chorus.’

Alyssa looked awkward. ‘I can’t sing.’

‘Neither can I,’ said Anouk. ‘Come
on
!’

‘I mean, I
can’t
. I don’t know how.’

‘Everyone can sing,’ said Anouk. ‘Just like everyone can dance.’

‘Not in our house, they can’t,’ she said. ‘Well, at least, not any more. I used to sing when I was small. Sonia and I both used to do that. We used to sing along and dance to music on the radio. Even my grandfather did, before—’ She lowered her voice. ‘Before
she
came.’

‘You mean Inès Bencharki?’ said Vianne.

Alyssa nodded.

That woman again. ‘Her brother is very protective,’ I said.

‘He’s not her
brother
,’ Alyssa said. There was a world of scorn in her voice.

I looked at her. ‘Who is she, then?’

She shrugged. ‘No one really knows. Some people say she was his wife. Some say she’s his mistress. Whatever it is, she still has some kind of hold over him. Before the fire, he used to go to her house all the time.’

I looked at Vianne. ‘Did you know this?’

‘It had crossed my mind.’

I drank some wine. ‘How is it,’ I said, ‘that you get to know more about this village in a week than I’ve managed to do in years?’

I must have sounded resentful. Perhaps I was; it’s my job to know what happens in my parish. People come to
me
to confess – and yet, in that chocolate shop of hers, Vianne Rocher heard more than I ever did. Even the
Maghrébins
talk to her. In eight years, nothing has changed.

I drank more wine. ‘That woman,’ I said. ‘I
knew
she was hiding something. Looks so pious under that veil, behaves as if every man in the world wants nothing more than to rape her on sight, looks down her nose at everyone, and all the time—’

‘You don’t
know
that.’

‘If even her people think so—’ I said.

‘It’s still only rumour,’ said Vianne Rocher.

I supposed she was right. Damn her,
mon père
, why does she so often have to be
right
?

‘What about the child?’ I said.

‘Du’a,’ said Alyssa. ‘She’s a lovely little girl. She’s never known her father. She says he died when she was a child – I think she really believes it. Karim doesn’t seem to care about her. He doesn’t even talk to her. Aisha Bouzana says
she
heard that Inès isn’t her mother, that she stole Du’a as a baby because she couldn’t have children herself.’ Alyssa lowered her voice and went on: ‘I’ve even heard some people say that Inès isn’t a woman at all, but some kind of Jinn, an
aamar
who whispers
waswaas
into children’s minds and delivers them to Shaitan.’

This was a very long speech from a girl I’d hardly ever heard speak more than a few words at a time. Perhaps the presence of her friends; the absence of supervision. I noticed she hadn’t eaten much – just a pancake and some fruit – and, of course, no wine at all. Even so, her face was flushed, and she sounded almost intoxicated.

‘You don’t really believe that,’ I said.

She shrugged. ‘I don’t know what I believe. Omi al-Djerba says there are
amaar
everywhere. They live among us. They even look like we do. But inside they are not human, and all they want is to hurt us.’

‘I know exactly what you mean,’ said Anouk, leaning forward. ‘She called herself Zozie de l’Alba, and she pretended to be our friend, but really she wasn’t a person at all, just something without a shadow—’

‘That’s enough, Anouk,’ said Vianne. She put a hand on Alyssa’s arm. ‘If people are so suspicious of Inès, then why do they send their children to her?’

Alyssa shrugged. ‘They weren’t, at first. And everyone loves Karim, of course.’

I made a face.

‘You don’t?’ said Vianne.

Alyssa looked away. ‘No.’ Even in the firelight, I thought her face looked flushed. I saw Vianne watching her curiously, but she did not pursue the topic, shifting instead to another one so deftly that only I noticed. We spent the rest of the evening discussing unrelated matters, and so pleasantly that I was surprised when I looked at my watch and saw that it was already past midnight.

I glanced at Joséphine and said: ‘I’ve stayed too long. I have to go.’

‘Pilou and I will walk with you.’

Outside, the wind was still strong, scented with the river and peppered with fat, stinging droplets of rain, like wasps in the slipstream of summer. Pilou was holding his dog’s leash, and Vlad hurled abuse at the racing sky and tried to chase the fallen leaves along the path to the river. Les Marauds was still wide awake; there were lights in every window, and strands of coloured fairy lights were strung across the narrow streets, tumbling like fireflies in the wind.