Peaches for Monsieur Le Curé (24 page)

CHAPTER TWO

Wednesday, 25th August

I SLIPPED FROM
one dream to the other all night, and awoke at dawn to the tiny sound of the front door closing on the latch. I sat up on my sofa-bed, and saw a shadow through the glass; a figure in a black robe, features hidden behind a scarf.

‘Alyssa?’

I turned on the lights. She was by the door, only her eyes visible behind the tightly folded scarf. But it wasn’t Alyssa. Now I could see that this was a much slighter figure; hidden, not under an
abaya
, but under a black coat much too big for her.

‘Du’a?’

She turned to look at me. Her small, expressionless face was pale. She said in a strangely adult voice: ‘I need to talk to Alyssa.’

I stood up and pulled on my robe. ‘Of course. Is anything wrong?’

She gave me a look. It is the same look that Anouk, at nine, used to give me when I said something she considered particularly obtuse.

I said: ‘I’ll get her.’

She followed me up to Alyssa’s little bedroom. I found Alyssa already awake, watching the rain through the window. She jumped to her feet when she saw Du’a, and there followed a rapid interchange in Arabic, from which I caught practically nothing but the word
Jiddo
– grandfather – and a general sense of urgency. Alyssa listened intently, occasionally breaking in with a comment or a question.

Then she said: ‘I have to go.’

‘What’s wrong?’

‘It’s Jiddo. He’s ill. He says he wants to see me.’

Now I remembered Fatima telling me old Mahjoubi was ill. In my haste to find Inès, I hadn’t paid much attention. I recalled something about a disagreement with Saïd – or was it Inès? – and that old Mahjoubi had come to stay with the al-Djerbas for a while. I thought of the one occasion on which I’d had a chance to speak to him. I’d liked the roguish look of him and his mischievous humour. Whatever his illness, I told myself, it must have come on very quickly.

‘What’s wrong with him?’

She shrugged. ‘No one knows. He doesn’t say. He won’t see a doctor. He won’t even eat. Just reads his book, or sleeps all day. He’s asking for me. I have to go.’ She hesitated. ‘Come with me? Please?’

I smiled. ‘Of course. Let me get dressed.’

We set off five minutes later under the slow and steady rain. Alyssa was wearing her
hijab
again, and her face looked small and angular beneath the folds of fabric. Les Marauds smells even more strongly now of the sea at low tide; a brackish scent that reminded me of harbours and journeys and beaches at dawn, with footprints in the black mud and children digging for cockles. The Tannes has broken its banks overnight, flooding one end of the boulevard; forming a kind of shallow lake, in which the mosque, with its white minaret, is reflected like a mirage. A little more of this, I think, and the houses on the street will flood, from the cellars upwards, water pouring in from the sewers and drains and filling the houses, one by one.

Fatima did not comment when the three of us arrived. Instead she simply waved us inside, tidied away our clothes and shoes, and showed us into the front room. Zahra and Omi were already there, dressed for the mosque, sitting on cushions and playing a game that looked like chequers, but was not. Maya was in the kitchen with her mother, but came out when she heard us. No one seemed surprised to see me.

‘How bad is it?’ said Alyssa.

Omi shook her head. ‘Who knows? He came to us five days ago. Said he preferred to stay with us. Since then, he hardly talks, doesn’t eat, doesn’t even go to mosque. Just sits and reads that book of his and looks out of the window. It’s almost as if he has given up hope, now that Saïd has taken his place. But if
you
talk to him, perhaps—’ She shrugged. ‘
Inshallah
. It’s worth a try.’

Alyssa said nothing for a while. She seemed to be thinking furiously. ‘Does anyone else know I’m here?’ she said.

Fatima put a hand on her arm. ‘I promise, we haven’t told anyone. But nothing stays secret here for long. People talk. People guess.’

‘Has anyone else been here?’ she said. ‘Sonia? My father? Karim?’

‘No. Saïd says we shouldn’t indulge the old man. Says no one is to visit him unless he agrees to come back home.’ Fatima sighed and shook her head. ‘They’re both as stubborn as old mules. Neither one will give way. Mehdi’s with the old man now. I’m sure he’ll be glad to see you both.’

She led us up the narrow stairs. Old Mahjoubi’s room is an attic bedroom at the back of the house, overlooking the river. A single triangular window lets in the daylight; the eaves are low and made of ancient timber, bleached pale and eaten by woodworm. Old Mahjoubi was sitting there, a tartan blanket over his knees. His face was pale and sunken. Beside him, on the bedside table, the third volume of
Les Misérables
, with a bookmark just past the halfway point. Standing next to him was a man I took to be Fatima’s husband, Mehdi; grey-haired, with a little paunch, and a humorous face, now pouchy with concern.

I stayed at the door. Alyssa went in and flung her arms around her grandfather. In Arabic, she addressed him; urgent, staggered sentences spoken in a low voice. Of course I didn’t understand; but as she spoke the old man’s face took on a little more animation; reflecting for a second or two a vestige of the personality I’d seen just a few days earlier.

‘Alyssa,’ he said in a papery voice. His eyes turned slowly to look at me. ‘And Madame Rocher. Isn’t it? The one who brings peaches for Ramadan?’

‘My friends call me Vianne,’ I told him.

‘I owe you a debt.’ He lifted a hand. An oddly courtly gesture, like an old king conferring favour. ‘On behalf of my little Alyssa.’

I smiled. ‘You owe me nothing,’ I said. ‘If anything, Monsieur le Curé is the one who deserves the credit.’

He nodded. ‘So I understand. I hope you can pass on my thanks to him.’

Alyssa was kneeling on the rug beside the old man’s chair. His hand, as sallow and misshapen as a piece of driftwood, came to rest on the girl’s head. He said something gently in Arabic, in which I caught the word
zina
, and nothing else.

Softly, Alyssa began to cry. ‘I don’t want you to die, Jiddo. You have to see a doctor.’

Old Mahjoubi shook his head. ‘I will not die, I promise you. At least not until I have finished this book. And remember, it is a
long
book, and all in French, and the print is small, and my eyes are not as good as they were—’

‘Don’t make jokes about this, Jiddo. You have to take more care of yourself. Eat some food. See a doctor. There are lots of people who need you here.’

Old Mahjoubi sighed. ‘Is that so?’

‘Of course there are,’ I told him. ‘Some of them may not admit it to you. But the people who refuse your help are often the ones who need it most.’

I thought the old eyes brightened at that. ‘You are speaking of my son Saïd.’

I shrugged. ‘Do you think he’s good enough to take your place without guidance? Or—’ I quoted a Moroccan proverb – ‘if, at noon, he says it is night, will you say:
Behold, the stars
?’

He looked at me appreciatively. ‘Madame, I think I liked you best when you were just bringing peaches.’

I quoted another proverb: ‘A nod is enough for a wise man. A fool may need a kick up the—’

He gave a crack of laughter. ‘You know a lot of our sayings,
madame
. Do you know the one that goes: A
wise woman has much to say, and yet is most often silent
?’

‘I never said I was wise,’ I said. ‘All I do is make chocolates.’

He looked at me then, with eyes that seemed to be nothing but shine under a webwork of wrinkles. ‘I dreamt of you, Madame Rocher,’ he said. ‘When I tried to perform
istikhaara
. I dreamt of you, and then of her. Take care. Stay away from the water.’

Alyssa looked concerned. She said: ‘You should get some rest, Jiddo.’

He smiled, and the focus returned to his eyes. ‘See how she nags at me, this child?
Alhumdullila
, I hope you will come again. Remember what I told you.’

He was clearly very tired now. I put my hand on Alyssa’s arm. ‘We should let him rest, if he can. Perhaps you can see him tomorrow.’

She looked at me. ‘Oh, Vianne. Do you think—’

‘We’ll come back tomorrow. I promise. For the moment, let him sleep.’

Reluctantly, she followed me downstairs into the living room. Maya was playing chequers with Omi, the cat, Hazrat, clasped in her arms.

‘Is Jiddo better now?’ she said, looking up as we came in. ‘Memti says he’s too tired to play, and Omi always cheats.’

‘I do
not
cheat,’ said Omi. ‘I am old, and therefore infallible.’ She gave me her toothless, crumpled smile. ‘How was the old man? Did he talk to you?’

‘A little.’

‘Good. You should come again. Bring him some of your chocolate.’

I nodded. ‘Of course.’

‘Don’t leave it too long.’

Walking home in the rain, I asked: ‘Alyssa. What’s
istikhaara
?’

She looked surprised. ‘Oh, that,’ she said. ‘It’s a way of asking for guidance. We pray, and then we go to sleep, and we dream of the answer to our prayer. It sometimes works, but not every time. Dreams aren’t always easy to understand.’

Like the cards
, I thought to myself. Images layered in meaning.
Stay away from the water
, he’d said. The scorpion and the buffalo.

Why did the old man dream of me? What kind of guidance does he seek? Was he trying to warn me to stay clear of Inès Bencharki? And if so, is it already too late? Has the scorpion stung me?

‘Why did you jump in the river?’ I said. ‘Was it because of Luc Clairmont?’

The eyes jerked upwards. ‘Luc?’

I smiled. ‘Du’a told me about him. How you’ve been meeting him online, how you’re afraid someone will find out—’

She stared at me blankly. ‘
Luc?
’ she said.

‘You used to play football with him in the square. It’s all right. I understand. Your parents were different in those days. Les Marauds was different. But I know Luc. He has a mind of his own. If he loves you, he won’t be put off by family disagreements. He’ll stand up to his parents, the way you stood up to yours. It’ll be all right. I promise you. And if you love him, how can it be wrong?’

I’d expected her to look different. To cry, perhaps; to express relief. But her expression did not change; her face was as blank as new-baked bread. Then she suddenly started to laugh; unhappy, jagged laughter that cut through the air like shrapnel.

‘Is
that
what you think?’ she said at last. ‘That I’m in love with Luc Clairmont?’

‘Aren’t you?’ I said.

She laughed again.

‘Then who is it, Alyssa?’ I said. ‘And why is it
zina
?’

‘I thought you could
see
things,’ she said with contempt, sounding so like Inès that it hurt. Beneath the tightly pinned
hijab
, she looked so much older than seventeen; at that moment she could have been thirty, or older. ‘I thought you were different from everyone else. But you don’t really see anything. No one here sees
anything
.’

She started to cry, a hacking sound as painful as her laughter. I tried to put my arms around her, but she pushed me away.

‘Please, Alyssa.’ I tried again. This time, she did not push me away, but her body was rigid in my arms. ‘Please, won’t you tell me what’s wrong? I don’t pretend to know everything, but I don’t judge. I’ll promise you that.’

For a long time, I thought she would not reply. We simply stood there in the rain, listening to the sound of the Tannes, and the wind tearing the leaves from the trees. Then she took a deep breath and looked at me unswervingly.

‘You were right about one thing. I
am
in love. But not with Luc.’

‘Then who?’

She sighed. ‘Haven’t you guessed? I thought you might have figured it out. You’ve seen him, after all. Everyone’s crazy about him. Sonia, my mother, Zahra, Inès—’ She gave me an unhappy smile. ‘That’s why I wanted to die,’ she said. ‘I’m in love with Karim Bencharki.’

CHAPTER THREE

Wednesday, 25th August

SHE TOLD ME
the whole story then, speaking in fierce little phrases. We sat in the shelter of the trees at the end of the Boulevard des Marauds, and she gave me her full confession.

‘He was so beautiful,’ she said. ‘All of us were in love with him. When he arrived, we expected him to be some kind of a boring scholar. Our father talked so much about him, but he made him sound so
dull
, you know? And then he came, and suddenly all the girls wanted to catch his eye. Well, you’ve seen him, haven’t you?’

Eyes like wild honey; voice like silk. ‘Oh, yes. I’ve seen him.’

She shrugged. ‘My sister was crazy for him. She’d made such a fuss before they met. Said she didn’t want to get married, said they couldn’t make her. Even planned to run away. And then she saw him, and everything changed. She couldn’t stop talking about him then. And Aisha Bouzana; Jalila El Mardi; Rana Jannat – all making eyes at him, gossiping behind Sonia’s back, saying she wasn’t serious; saying she wasn’t a good Muslim girl. They even brought up those football games we used to have in the village square. It made our mother nervous – imagine the scandal if he pulled out! But Karim didn’t seem to care. He made friends with everyone. Helped Saïd fix up the gym; all the men started going there. It was a place to go for them, a friendly place. And then
she
came.’

‘Inès,’ I said.

She nodded.

‘She didn’t arrive with Karim?’

Alyssa shook her head. ‘Not then. She turned up for the wedding, though. She’s his only family. And he loves her, he’s so
protective
of her—’ She made a sound of disgust. ‘
Khee!
She wears the
niqab
all the time. In the house. Even with my father. Pretending to be so virtuous. But her eyes are evil. You must have seen
that
.’

Once I would have told you that I don’t believe in evil. Now, of course, I know better.

I thought of Inès Bencharki; the look of contempt in her long dark eyes; the colours she tries so hard to hide. Is a scorpion evil because it has no other choice but to sting? I handled our first meeting badly, I know. I let her take me by surprise. I blundered in, eager, well-meaning, naïve. In short, I behaved like an amateur. Next time, things will be different.

I said: ‘I don’t think she’s evil.’

Alyssa shrugged. ‘You don’t know her. When she was in charge of the school, all the girls were afraid of her. She never smiles, never laughs, never takes off her
niqab
. She’s the reason so many girls are wearing it now – well, that and because Karim always says that a woman in
niqab
is a queen—’

‘He seems devoted to her,’ I said.

She made a face. ‘That’s right. He is. She’s the only woman he really loves. I don’t know what he sees in her. She must be very beautiful. Or maybe she’s a witch, an
amaar
. All I know is, she isn’t his sister.’

‘How can you be sure?’ I said.

‘Because I know,’ said Alyssa. ‘Because of the way he looks at her. Or rather,
doesn’t
look at her. When she’s there, he’s different.
Everybody
’s different. She’s like the bitter drop in the broth that changes the taste of everything.’

‘Zahra al-Djerba likes her,’ I said.

‘Zahra wants to
be
her.’ Alyssa’s voice was scornful. ‘She never used to be like that; talking politics; wearing
niqab
. But she copies everything Inès does now. Says we need to reclaim what’s ours. She does it to impress Karim. Not that he’d ever notice
her
.’

‘Tell me about Karim,’ I said.

She sighed. ‘I’m cold. Can we go home?’

‘Of course we can. We can talk on the way.’

Like so many victims, she blames herself. She must have encouraged him somehow. Perhaps by wearing Western dress, to which he was unaccustomed. If she had worn
niqab
, or even proper
hijab
, she says, then it would never have happened at all. But Alyssa was young and naïve; used to playing with boys in the square; listening to music; watching TV. She never saw it coming. And when she did, it was too late;
zina
was in the room with them both.

‘At first, we never even touched,’ she said. ‘We only talked in private. Even then, I knew it was wrong. Karim wanted to help me. But when he tried to pray with me, all I could think of was his face, and the way he moves, and his mouth, like a peach—’

He’d been having problems with Sonia, she said. Sonia had found sex painful at first, and hadn’t wanted to try again. Karim had been feeling lonely and hurt. He’d confided in Alyssa because she and Sonia were so close, but by then their friendship had deepened, and had started to veer towards something else.

‘The first time we kissed, it was terrible. Karim blamed himself. Not me at all. He would have moved away at once, except that he would have had to explain to my sister what had happened. Instead we gave
du’a
for guidance, and tried not to be alone together. Karim spent all his time at the gym. I started to wear
hijab
. But it wasn’t easy. We were living in the same house. I thought if I dressed differently, said my prayers more often, tried to be more serious, then maybe things would change back. But by then there was something inside me that didn’t really
want
to change. And then, one night, he came to my room.’

That was just four weeks ago. Since then, it had happened twice more. Once when they were alone in the house, once more at the back of the gym. Both times he had begged for forgiveness, and Alyssa had blamed herself.

Then, Inès had intervened.

‘Inès?’

Alyssa nodded. ‘Yes. Maybe he told her. Maybe she guessed. But somehow, Inès knew everything.’ She shivered. ‘She was very calm. She told me to stay away from Karim, or she would tell my parents. She would tell my sister. And Sonia was three months pregnant. What would that kind of news do to her? And then she looked at me over her veil and said,
Do you think you’re the only one? Do you think it hasn’t happened before? Do you think he can ever belong to you when he already belongs to me?
’

We were approaching Armande’s house. All the lights were on inside. It looked like a Chinese lantern; cheery and festive and welcoming. I guessed Anouk and Rosette must be up.

Alyssa looked at me warily. ‘You won’t tell anyone else?’ she said.

I shook my head. ‘Of course not.’

She gave a fierce little nod. ‘Now you see why I had to get away. She told me herself – he belongs to her. She has him in her power. And ever since, she’s been watching me. Watching, waiting to catch me out. She never talks to me. But she hates me. I can see it in her eyes.’

‘Why did she stop living with you?’

Alyssa made a face. ‘Jiddo wasn’t happy that she always wore
niqab
in the house. He doesn’t like the
niqab
, he thinks it’s wrong for girls to wear it nowadays. He quarrelled with my father about it. And he doesn’t like Father spending so much time at the gym. Holding court, he calls it. Anyway, he moved out, and so did Inès, soon afterwards. She said she didn’t want to be the cause of a family argument. But by then it was too late anyway. She had poisoned everything.’

We were standing in Armande’s front porch. The rain had stopped, at least for a time. Even the wind had calmed a little, and I wondered if the Black Autan was finally coming to its end.

‘I’m sorry I shouted at you,’ she said. ‘I was ungrateful. I owe you so much.’

I smiled. ‘You don’t owe me anything. Now get inside before you catch cold.’

Inside, Anouk and Rosette were toasting croissants for breakfast. A pan of hot chocolate stood on the stove. It smelt of vanilla and spices. Alyssa took off her
hijab
and ran her hands through her damp hair.

‘Can I have some of that?’ she said.

‘Of course. But what about Ramadan?’

She gave a wry little smile. ‘I’ve already broken too many rules for a cup of hot chocolate to make any difference. My
jiddo
says that the rules of Islam have become a veil that hides the face of Allah. People are afraid to look. All they care about is the surface.’

I poured her a cup of hot chocolate. It was good – far better than I’d expected from the ancient jar of cocoa powder in Armande’s little pantry. I mentioned the difference to Anouk.

‘Oh, yes!’ she exclaimed. ‘The delivery came. I put it downstairs, where it’s cooler.’

Good. I’d hoped it would arrive. A box of chocolate-making supplies: some blocks of couverture; packets of cocoa; boxes, rice paper, ribbons and moulds. By no means a large delivery; but enough to fulfil my promises.

‘I thought we could start with some truffles,’ I said.

‘Sure,’ said Anouk. ‘Can we all help?’

‘That’s what I was hoping.’

Rosette looked up from her breakfast and hooted. Even she knows how to make truffles; rolled in cocoa powder and stored in boxes lined with rice paper, they are the easiest chocolates to make. You don’t even need a sugar thermometer; only a good sense of timing and a nose for the moment when sugar turns and cries out for a spoonful of cream; some cinnamon; a dash of Cointreau—

‘I promised Omi al-Djerba I’d make her some of my chocolates. I promised old Mahjoubi, too. And then there’s Guillaume, and Luc Clairmont—’

‘And Joséphine and Pilou,’ said Anouk.

‘Pilou!’ trumpeted Rosette.

‘And some for Jeannot, of course.’

Anouk gave me a bright and open smile. ‘Of course!’

I know what that means. One more thing to complicate our return to Lansquenet: one more obstacle on the way back to our home in Paris. I have been so concerned with my own affairs that I have paid less attention to Anouk, but I know from her carefully cheery response that Jeannot Drou has been more on her mind than she would like to admit to me. The Black Autan has brought that, too; the shadow of something I knew was there, but would rather not face at the moment. I know what I was like at fifteen. But then, it has taken me twenty years to scale the wall between sex and love. I was too young. Anouk is too young. I never listened. Neither will she.

I returned to the chocolate. Chocolate is safe. Chocolate follows specific rules. If it burns, it’s because we failed to follow the directions properly. Love is random, centreless; striking out like pestilence. For the first time since Alyssa arrived, I feel a kind of sympathy for Saïd and Samira Mahjoubi. They have already lost one daughter. They are close to losing another. And as I work on my truffles, measuring, grating the chocolate, melting it slowly in the pan, adding the Cointreau drop by drop, I wonder: do they feel the same? Did they watch as Love stole their daughter away, drawing her inexorably into another’s orbit? Or were they so preoccupied that they never saw it coming?

I must see Joséphine again. I must see Inès Bencharki. I must find definite answers to the questions that keep me here. In the steam that rises from the pot, I can see their faces now; Joséphine’s eyes looking out at me from over Inès Bencharki’s veil; the Queen of Cups in her black robe, draining the bitter draught to the dregs—

The fumes from the mixture are pungent and rich; scented with citrus and cinnamon. For a moment it makes my head spin; carnival colours turn in the smoke. Scrying with chocolate is an uncertain business, closer to dreams than to the truth, more likely to throw up fantasies than anything that I can use. It flutters like dark confetti, each piece an ephemeral fragment, gleaming for a second and then going out like a blown spark. For a moment I think I see Roux; then I recognize Reynaud, walking, head lowered, by the Tannes. Reynaud as a vagrant, unshaven and pale, carrying a rucksack with a broken leather strap. What does it mean? Why Reynaud? What role does he play in this?

The chocolate mixture is ready now. Ten seconds longer, and it would burn. I take the copper pan off the heat; in moments the steam will dissipate. With it, the colours and that hint of something momentous to be revealed. Maybe I’ll call on Reynaud today. Or maybe I’ll make it tomorrow. Yes, maybe tomorrow would be best. After all, there’s no urgency. Reynaud is not my main concern. Other people need me more.