Peaches for Monsieur Le Curé (20 page)

Saïd’s gym was shut, of course. Still, I felt that sting of unease. There are places that can do that,
père
; where even bricks and mortar seem to echo with hostility. I walked Joséphine and her son back home to the Café des Marauds, then took the Rue des Francs Bourgeois towards my little cottage.

I did not hear them following me. All I could hear was the wind’s steady roar, and beyond it, the roaring of the Tannes. Besides, I had drunk more wine than I am accustomed to, and I was feeling strangely disconnected. Above me, the sky raced from light to dark as clouds flashed across the big, bright moon, making the shadows leap like jacks across the walls and houses. I was tired, but not yet sleepy. Too many thoughts were in my head. Alyssa Mahjoubi; Vianne Rocher; Inès Bencharki; Joséphine—

Suddenly I became aware of movement behind me. A double shadow moving in; a hint of tobacco mixed with
kif
; two figures in the moonlight, their faces hidden behind chequered scarves—

The first blow hit me in the shoulder, and it took me entirely by surprise. There is no crime in Lansquenet. Most people leave their doors unlocked. The only violence we tend to see is the odd case of domestic abuse, and fist-fights between our local boys. There hasn’t been a burglary in over ten years, or a mugging—

This was what went through my mind as I fell. The rest is somewhat blurry. I know I was struck a second time with something I guessed was a length of wood, and, as I dropped to my knees in the road, someone punched me in the face and said: ‘Pig. You deserve all that’s coming to you.’

What came was a volley of punches and kicks. I had no means of fighting back. I was already on the ground; all I could do was curl up and try my best to protect myself. Blows hammered into my ribs and back. My sense of disconnection grew; I could feel the pain, but a part of me seemed to be watching from somewhere else.

‘Pig,’ said the voice. ‘This is a war. We warned you to keep out of it. If you interfere again, we’ll make you wish you were never born.’

And then, with a last well-aimed kick to the thigh, where that long muscle, the
rectus femoris
, I think, can be made to spasm and cramp with such agonizing precision, my unknown attackers fled into the night, leaving me breathing the dust of the road and hearing the rush of blood in my ears louder than the roar of the wind.

I stayed where I was till the cramps had died down, and I could move my legs again. I was muddy; my shirt was torn. My heart was a crazy cavalcade. I have never been in a fight, not even as a schoolboy. I had never been struck in anger before, or even suffered a bad fall.

They say you know instinctively if ever you have a broken bone. As it turns out I have several. Not that I knew it then,
père
; I was ablaze with adrenaline; if my legs had been working properly I would have had no hesitation in pursuing my assailants back to Les Marauds (where, if I had found them, they would in all probability have beaten me worse than before). As it was, my anger was analgesic enough in itself to delay the pain of two broken fingers, a cracked rib and, of course, my damaged nose, which in the light of day now looks all the more impressive for the bruising around my eyes.

Who were my assailants? I had no way of knowing. The scarves they wore might have belonged to any man in Les Marauds, and their voices had not been familiar. Why had I been targeted? There had been no attempt at robbery. Was this revenge for the fire at the school? It seemed the likeliest reason. But who had set them up to it? And what did they mean by
This is a war
?

Carefully, I picked myself up, the adrenaline buzzing uselessly in my veins. The rain was falling steadily, and now, at last, I was starting to hurt. My house was only down the road, and yet the walk seemed endless.

A shaggy dog ran across my path, then stopped and came over to sniff at my hand. I recognized Pilou’s dog.

‘Go home.’

The dog wagged its tail and began to follow me.

‘Vlad, go home.’

The animal ignored me. Arriving at my front door, I found it once more at my heels, wagging its tail and panting.

‘Go home,’ I repeated, more sternly. ‘You are mistaking me for that
other
Francis, the one who likes animals.’

The dog looked at me and barked.

I cursed softly under my breath. By rights I ought to take the dog home. But it was late; it was raining; the dog’s barking would wake the neighbours, and besides, I didn’t want Joséphine and her son to see me in my current state.

‘All right, you can come in,’ I said. ‘But you sleep in the kitchen. And no barking!’

The dog, who seemed to have understood every word, promptly followed me up to my room. I was too tired to argue. I left my discarded clothes on the floor and fell into bed immediately; and when I awoke too early, in pain, I found the dog sprawled across my bed. I know I should have objected,
mon père
; but secretly I was weak enough to feel a kind of gratitude for the presence of another being, and I patted the dog on the head before falling once more into fitful sleep, lulled by the roaring of the wind.

CHAPTER TWO

Monday, 23rd August

WHEN I AWOKE
I could barely move. My muscles had stiffened during the night, and every part of me was at war with every other part. A hot shower helped a little, but even so I was so stiff that it took me fifteen minutes to dress, and the fingers of my right hand were so painful and swollen that I could not even tie my shoelaces.

I made some coffee and fed the dog. There was very little to eat in the house. But after seeing my bruised face in the bathroom mirror, I thought it best to stay indoors – unless I wanted to give Caro and her coffee group the best piece of gossip they’d had in years.

The question of the dog remained. I did not want to set it free, so I phoned the café, hoping to get the answering machine.

Instead, Joséphine picked up. I explained about the dog and suggested she send Pilou to collect him.

‘Why don’t you come over for breakfast?’ she said.

‘I – no. I’m busy this morning,’ I lied. I am not a very good liar,
père
.

She must have heard it in my voice, because she asked: ‘Are you all right?’

‘Of course.’

‘You really don’t sound it,’ said Joséphine.

I gave an inward curse. ‘Well – no. There was an incident. Last night, as I was coming home.’

‘What kind of incident?’

I shook my head in exasperation. ‘It was nothing. Forget it,’ I said. ‘Just send your son to collect his dog. I don’t have time to bring it myself.’

I hung up, feeling agitated. I was unsure of why this was. Perhaps the approaching full moon, which so often inflames the susceptible. A priest gets to know these things,
mon père
. A full moon often brings trouble. Tempers flare as it reaches its peak; sensitivities increase. Lovers quarrel; neighbours fall out; ancient grudges are recalled. Tomorrow, Père Henri’s confessional will be full of petty complaints. Surprisingly, the thought gives me a measure of amusement. This time, these things are not my concern. Leave them to Père Henri Lemaître. Perhaps then he will understand what he has to deal with here.

I had tethered the dog to the gate-post. There came a knock at my front door. Through the half-closed shutters, I was dismayed to see not only Pilou but also his mother on the step, collars drawn up against the rain. Joséphine was wearing wellington boots and a black raincoat that must once have belonged to Paul; Pilou, a parka several sizes too large for him.

Joséphine knocked again.

I opened the door a centimetre.

‘The dog’s outside!’

‘Can I come in?’

‘Ah – I’d rather you didn’t,’ I said.

‘Just for a minute,’ she said, and walked in. ‘My God, Francis, what
happened
to you?’

I gave a hiss of exasperation. ‘Didn’t I tell you not to do that?’

‘What happened?’ she repeated. Her face was suddenly very white. Behind her, on the doorstep, the boy looked up at me with open admiration.

‘
Awesome!
Were you in a fight?’

‘No.’

He looked disappointed. Joséphine turned to him and said: ‘Pilou, I want you to take Vlad home. Tell Marie-Ange to mind the bar for me. Then bring me the first-aid kit from my room, the big one, with the red cross on the lid—’

‘I really don’t need help,’ I said.

She made an inarticulate sound and threw her raincoat on to a chair. Underneath it, she was wearing a powder-blue sweater and a black skirt. Her short blonde hair was spiky with rain. She looked both concerned and furious.

‘Francis Reynaud, if you don’t tell me what happened
immediately
, I shall tell
all
my customers that you got into a fight in my bar and
I
had to knock some sense into you!’

‘All right, all right.’

I told her. She listened in disbelief.

‘You’re saying this was about the fire?’

I shrugged. ‘What else could it be about?’

‘But
you
didn’t burn down the girls’ school.’

‘I think many people would disagree.’

‘Then they’re idiots, all of them. Now just sit still and let me take a look at you.’

I spent the next half-hour in a state of profound embarrassment as Joséphine used her first-aid kit to see to my various injuries. The woman is impossible. There was nothing I could say or do to prevent her from interfering. Arnica cream, suture strips, tape around my fingers and ribs—

‘Since when were you a qualified nurse –
ouch
!’

‘Don’t pull away,’ she said. ‘When I was married to Paul-Marie, I soon learnt all there is to know about black eyes and broken bones. Take off your shirt.’

‘But, Joséphine—’

‘I said, take off your shirt, Monsieur le Curé. Or would you rather I called Dr Cussonet and let him spread the news all over the village?’

I submitted, though with bad grace. When she had finally finished, she said: ‘There. Isn’t that better?’

I shrugged. ‘I hurt all over.’

‘Ingrate.’ She smiled. (Did I mention she smiles with her eyes?)

‘Thank you, Joséphine,’ I said. ‘I’m very grateful for your help. And I’d appreciate it if you didn’t mention this to anyone else. I’m hardly in a strong position with the Bishop already, and if he hears about
this
, well—’

She looked at me. ‘Your secret’s safe. I’m good at keeping secrets.’ And then, with a final, mischievous smile, she leant over and kissed me on the cheek, and was gone into the rain like a dream of summertime.

Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. Well, at least, I
would
have sinned, if I’d had the chance. Perhaps the stressful events of last night; perhaps the touch of her hands on my skin. It has been so long,
mon père
, since a woman touched me. It makes me ashamed to think of the times she hid her bruises as I do now; the sunglasses on cloudy days; the coats that served as armour; the times she shut herself in her room with ‘migraines’ that lasted days at a time.

Is that why she helped me,
père
? Because she knows what it feels like to be a victim, to feel ashamed? I do not deserve her kindness. I knew Paul-Marie was violent, but as long as he came to confession what could I do? I could not intervene. Vianne Rocher did that. Vianne Rocher, who arrives with the wind and rings the changes for us all …

That wind. Why does it blow? Why does there have to be change,
mon père
? We were happy before – well, at least most of us were satisfied. Why do things have to be different?

The White Autan brings madness, they say; the Black Autan, chaos and despair. Not that I believe in those tales. But somehow the wind has changed again, and for the first time in my life,
père
, I can feel its dark appeal. Lansquenet has disowned me, from both sides of the river. The Church has disowned me, or at least is likely about to do so. This is when the voice of the wind is at its most seductive. The wind that travels light, the wind that goes wherever it wants to go …

CHAPTER THREE

Tuesday, 24th August

STILL MORE OF
this squalling, ratcheting rain. For two days it has barely stopped. It rattles down the guttering; shimmies down the windows; pixellates the air and keeps us prisoners indoors. The Black Autan is on the rampage like a gang of delinquents, tearing the leaves from the chestnut trees; turning umbrellas inside out; tugging on hats, wrecking coiffures; scrawling its crazy graffiti all along the river.

Anouk and Alyssa spend most of their time playing music and watching TV. Rosette has been drawing monkeys again, though today she has moved on to elephants. All three seem happy enough, even though they are penned indoors.
I
am the one who is restless, looking out of the window, watching the raindrops race down the glass and waiting – for what? I really don’t know.

This afternoon, I went to find Joséphine. I wore Armande’s old raincoat and a pair of rubber boots. But she wasn’t at the Café des Marauds, and Marie-Ange told me she didn’t know when she would be back again. Outside, the streets were sparse and sad. The sky was dark as November. Passing the church, I noticed that the door of the old
chocolaterie
was slightly off the catch, and was making a forlorn percussive sound, signals in forgotten code.

Bat-bat-bat. Bat-bat. Bat-bat
.

It is not my house any more. I am not responsible. And yet, there are ghosts in that old house; ghosts that now jostle and cry for attention. Of course, I know how to banish ghosts. But these are the ghosts of myself and Anouk; of Roux, of Reynaud; of Joséphine. And Armande, my dear old friend; her apple-doll face creased into a thousand wrinkles; Armande perched on a bar-stool, her long black skirt hiked up to reveal the tail of a bright red petticoat; Armande drinking chocolate through a sugar straw; Armande reading poetry with Luc in Caro’s absence.

I looked around. The square was clear. The plastic sheeting that covers the roof rippled against the scaffolding. Work has begun on restoring the place, but in this weather it cannot go on. The place would be empty, I told myself. Empty, but teeming with glamours and ghosts.

Bat-bat-bat
. Like an eyelid. Like a wink from an open grave.
Come inside, Vianne
, it says.
We’re all here. Your old friends. The Man in Black; your mother; your past. And the air is bitter like chocolate and sweet with regret, like incense. Try me. Taste me—

I went inside.

Someone has tried to clean things up. The debris has been removed, the walls scrubbed down ready for repainting. If I look in a certain way, I can almost see those ghosts now, the woman and her six-year-old walking into the empty house; the carpet of grey dust; the look of sadness and neglect. It looks like that again now; and this time there is no one to part the shadows with a blast from a plastic trumpet; or to bang on a pot with a wooden spoon and shout,
Evil spirits, get thee hence
.

Still, I can see how that could change. The walls painted yellow and stencilled in blue; a counter, maybe a couple of stools. The air smells of smoke, now stale and damp; but throw open the windows and doors, burn a bundle of sage and scrub the floorboards with a mixture of baking soda and lavender oil—

Evil spirits, get thee hence
. Yes, I could do it so easily. A house reflects its occupants; and this one recognizes me. How easily it could take us back; how easily could the past be reclaimed.

Bat-bat
.

The house is restless. It twitches and stirs. Floorboards creak; doors slam; broken windows whisper. And now, upstairs, on the second floor, from the crow’s-nest where Anouk once had her room, the sound of footsteps on bare wood.

That
was no ghost. I called: ‘Who’s there?’

There was a silence, and then a face appeared at the top of the ladder that led to Anouk’s little attic room. A small brown face edged in black; dark eyes wide and anxious.

‘Did I frighten you?’ I said. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t think there’d be anyone home. I used to live here, long ago, before you and your mother moved in. I used to run a chocolate shop. Maybe you’ve heard the story.’

The child did not move. Under the
hijab
, she looked about twelve.

‘You must be Du’a,’ I told her. ‘I’m Vianne. Is your mother here?’

She shook her head.

‘That used to be my daughter’s room. Does it still have the little round window, like a porthole, in the roof? She used to look through it at night and pretend she was on a pirate ship.’

Du’a nodded cautiously. Behind her, a soft, scuffling noise. Maya’s face appeared alongside hers, sweet as a chocolate button.

‘It’s Vianne!’ said Maya. ‘Come on up! We thought it was Du’a’s
memti
.’

I looked at Du’a. ‘May I?’ I said.

Du’a still looked hesitant.

‘It’s all right,’ said Maya. ‘She knows how to keep a secret. She’s been looking after Alyssa for
ages
, and she hasn’t told anyone. Come on up, Vianne, and see!’

I climbed up the ladder through the trapdoor. It still smelt of smoke, but now I could see that the damage here was minimal. The room has not changed much since Anouk was here; a few shelves of books, a little bed, a desk with a computer, some toys, a couple of posters on the walls of singers that I did not recognize. And, sitting on cushions on the floor, three more children – Pilou among them – and a cardboard box from which came a series of scuffling, whining sounds.

‘Why, hello, everyone,’ I said. ‘I wasn’t expecting a party.’

Pilou grinned. ‘Meet Du’a,’ he said. ‘Maya you already know, of course. And these two –’ he made an inclusive gesture – ‘are Karine and François.’ The two children looked at me cautiously. François, the elder, looked about twelve. Karine was maybe Maya’s age. Both were in jeans and T-shirts. I guessed that they were siblings.

‘What’s going on up here?’ I said.

‘Desperate goings-on,’ said Pilou. ‘Piracy.
Contraband
—’

‘Stop it, Pilou,’ said Du’a. Her voice was soft, but authoritative. She looked at me. ‘He sometimes gets carried away,’ she said.

I looked inside the cardboard box. Two black-and-white puppies looked back. They must have been about five weeks old. Plump, snub-nosed and playful, they were climbing over each other in their eagerness to get out of the box, making happy snarling sounds.

‘I see.’ I picked up a puppy, which promptly bit my finger.

‘It’s OK. He does that,’ said Pilou. ‘I’m going to call him Biter.’

‘Who do they belong to?’ I said.

‘No one.
Us
,’ said Maya, at once.

‘So
this
was your secret?’ I smiled at her. ‘I have to say, you’ve kept it well.’ I saw that Du’a looked anxious, and said, ‘Don’t worry. It’s safe with me.’

She gave me a look of suspicion. Under the black
hijab
, her face was small and sharp and angular. Her eyes were very striking, ringed with concentric circles of gold.

‘Monsieur Acheron was going to drown them,’ she said. ‘François and Karine brought them here. That was just before the fire. Since then, we’ve been looking after them here. Luc knows, because he’s been working here. But no one else does. Except you now.’

‘They’re so
cute
,’ said Maya. ‘And no one lives here any more, so no one cares whether the angels can get into the house or not.’

‘Angels?’ I said.

‘It’s in the Qur’an. My Omi says if there’s a dog in the house, then the angels can’t come in.’

‘You mean the
cat
can’t come in,’ said Pilou.

‘It’s not a cat,’ said Maya. ‘It’s
angels
.’

‘You mentioned Monsieur Acheron.’ I looked at François and Karine. ‘Would that be Louis Acheron?’

François nodded. ‘He’s our dad. He’d have a fit if he knew we were here. He doesn’t like
Maghrébins
any more than he likes puppies. Says if they want to live in France, they ought to live the way we do. Says they’re dragging the country down into socio-economic collapse.’

I smiled. ‘Then it’s best you don’t tell him,’ I said. ‘What about your mother, Du’a? Does she know where you are?’

Du’a shook her head. ‘She thinks I’m babysitting Maya.’

‘And
your
mother, Maya?’

‘She thinks I’m at
hers
, of course.’ Maya patted the puppy. ‘I like coming here. It’s nice. There are toys. I’m not supposed to have toys.’

‘That’s true,’ said Pilou earnestly. ‘Do you know that their religion says you can’t have plushies, or Barbie dolls, or even action figures?’

‘I have them at home,’ Maya said. ‘My Little Pony and Disney Princess. But here I’m not supposed to.
Memti
made me leave them behind. Except for this.’ She pulled an object from under her arm. I recognized the same knitted toy that she had been holding when I last saw her; a porridge-coloured thing with ears, which might have been a rabbit. ‘This is Tipo. He’s my friend. My Omi made him for me.’ She frowned. ‘My Uncle Saïd says animal toys are
haram
. I heard him tell my
jiddo
.’

‘Can you believe that?’ said Pilou. ‘I mean, why would God care about that kind of thing?’

I said: ‘It’s sometimes hard to understand why other people believe what they do.’

‘But –
plushies
?’ said Pilou, in disbelief. ‘And music – did you know that’s a sin, too? And dancing, and wine, and sausages—’

‘
Sausages?
’ echoed François.

‘Well, actually, most kinds of
charcuterie
,’ corrected Pilou knowledgeably. ‘But you
can
still eat Haribo. Or at least, the Muslim kind. Which tastes just the same as the regular sort, but you can only get it in special places, like in Bordeaux, at, like, ten Euros a bag or something.’

Pilou and the Lansquenet children exchanged awed looks at the thought of Muslim Haribo.

I turned towards Du’a. ‘Where are you staying now?’

She shrugged. ‘With my uncle and auntie,’ she said.

‘Karim and Sonia?’

She nodded.

‘And do you like your new aunt?’

She made an odd little half-shrug. ‘She’s all right. She doesn’t talk much. I liked Alyssa better.’

I noticed she used the past tense. ‘Liked? You don’t think she’ll come home?’

Again, that little half-shrug. In fact, it is not so much a shrug as a kind of oscillation of the head and shoulders; a gesture as natural as thought; intricate as a dance movement.

I said: ‘Why did Alyssa run away?’

She tilted her head. ‘It was
zina
, my mother says.’

I wanted to ask what kind of a sin would cause a young girl to take her own life, but for a woman there is only one.
Zina
, a word that sounds almost as if it might be a name – perhaps a kind of flower, but one that blooms only to sicken, and must be torn up before it spreads. My mother and I did not stay long in Tangier, but it was long enough for me to understand. A single mother and her child were objects of contempt and shame; even now they have few rights; twenty years ago, they had none. As Westerners, my mother and I were something of an exception. Few people actually
welcomed
us, but we were different enough – and respectful enough of their faith – to slip through the net of their judgement. But women who had abandoned
hayaa
– that complex word that means both
modesty
and
shame
– were given little sympathy. My mother knew several of these unmarried mothers, cast out from their families, unable either to work or to claim social security benefits for children born out of wedlock. She never got to know them well – the gulf that separated us was still too deep for that – but even so, I managed to gather scraps of information. One had been promised marriage by a man who left her when he discovered that she was pregnant. Another had been raped by a group of men who told her as they raped her that she was a whore, who deserved nothing else. My mother cried when she heard the tale – my mother didn’t cry easily, but the girl was only nineteen, and when we met her was working long hours in a fish-canning factory, where she also slept. Her baby – a girl – had died soon after it was born. She had named her Rashillah. My mother never understood how a faith that claimed to teach forgiveness could become such a relentless wall of ice against the poorest and most vulnerable members of the community. We thought we’d seen prejudice in Rome, in Paris, in Berlin, in Prague, but that was nothing compared with Tangier, where disgraced women lined up outside the mosques to beg, while their virtuous sisters ignored them, eyes averted, faces veiled, modest and implacable.

That
was the sin, my mother said, as we slipped through the hot, white streets in the sun, with the souks and the
muezzin
vying for attention under the clashing, pitiless sky.
That
was the sin, the averted gaze; that brief, dismissive gesture. We’d seen it so often before, she and I: in Paris, outside Notre-Dame; in Rome, at the gates of the Vatican. Even here in Lansquenet, in the eyes of people like Caro Clairmont, I’ve
always
recognized that look – that look of sanctified contempt adopted by the righteous.