Peaches for Monsieur Le Curé (28 page)

CHAPTER TWO

Thursday, 26th August

AFTER A RESTLESS
night’s half-sleep, I went out to check if Reynaud had come home. I was not alone in this. In the Rue des Francs Bourgeois, I found Caro Clairmont holding court outside Reynaud’s back door, with Joline and Bénédicte. It soon became clear that Caro viewed Monsieur le Curé’s disappearance as suspicious, maybe even sinister.

‘I think Père Henri would do well to check the parish accounts for the past few months,’ she was saying as I arrived. ‘Say what you like, there’s no smoke without fire, and with everything that’s been happening—’ She shot me a disapproving glance. I suppose my presence also counts as an unusual happening. Her blue eyes, pale and powdery, lingered on me like chalk dust. ‘Of course, if he’s somehow involved with that girl—’

‘What girl?’ I said.

She gave a tight little smile. ‘One of the girls from Les Marauds,’ she said. ‘According to Louis Acheron, he was seen last week, around midnight, with a girl by the side of the bridge. A
Maghrébine
, by all accounts.’

I shrugged. ‘So what?’

‘So, who
was
she? Louis says she was wearing a veil.’

‘Half the women in Les Marauds wear a veil,’ said Charles Lévy, who was watching from over his garden fence.

‘But do half the women in Les Marauds have midnight meetings with Monsieur le Curé?’ Caro’s voice was like
baba au rhum
.

‘Maybe they do.’ It was Bénédicte. ‘I’ve heard that Joséphine Muscat has been getting awfully friendly with him.’

Caro and Joline both glanced at me.

‘Well, it wouldn’t be the first time,’ said Caro.

‘What do you mean?’

She gave that syrupy smile again. ‘She’s
your
friend. Why don’t you ask her? As for Reynaud, his behaviour has been – shall we say,
irregular
. There’s something going on, I’m sure. I’ve called Père Henri. He’ll know what to do.’

I left them to wait for Père Henri and headed for the Place Saint-Jérôme. If anyone knew where Reynaud had gone, I guessed it might be Joséphine. But Caro’s comment had struck a nerve.

It wouldn’t be the first time
.

Of course, she has never liked Joséphine. And an unmarried mother in Lansquenet is always the subject of gossip. I ought to know better by now than to let Caro’s gossip trouble me. But all the same, could she have known the truth about Pilou’s father?

I found the café empty. Even the bar was deserted. I called Joséphine. No answer. Marie-Ange must be on her break. I felt a childish pang of relief.
Now I won’t have to see her
. Then I saw movement from behind the glass bead curtain dividing the bar from the living quarters at the back.

‘Joséphine?’ I called again.

‘Who wants her?’ said a man’s voice.

‘It’s Vianne,’ I said. ‘Vianne Rocher.’

For a moment there was silence. Then the bead curtain parted, and a grey-haired man in a wheelchair emerged. For a moment I didn’t recognize him. All I could see was that wheelchair, and the wasted legs tucked neatly beneath a stretch of tartan blanket. Then, I saw him: the dark eyes; the handsome, brutal features; the smile; the muscular arms emerging from the sleeves of a denim work-shirt.

‘Hello, you interfering bitch.’

The man was Paul-Marie Muscat.

CHAPTER THREE

Thursday, 26th August

I FELT AS
if he’d punched me. Not because of what he’d said, but the shock of his appearance. His face has not altered very much. His grey hair is shorn to a stubble, showing the contours of his scalp. He has lost weight, and the coarseness that once characterized his features has been refined to a kind of severe beauty. But his expression is the same: appraising; vaguely hostile; suspicious, and yet coloured with a kind of trollish good humour.

‘Surprised to see me, eh?’ he said. ‘I heard you were back in Lansquenet. I don’t suppose the bitch mentioned me. She wouldn’t. I’m not good for business.’

I held his gaze. ‘If you mean Joséphine, then no, she didn’t mention you.’

He laughed harshly and lit a Gauloise. ‘She doesn’t like me smoking in here. Doesn’t like me drinking, either. Whisky?’

I shook my head. ‘No, thanks.’

He poured himself a double from a bottle standing on the bar. ‘I built this place out of nothing,’ he said. ‘I ran it like clockwork for six whole years. Of course, she likes to pretend it’s hers, and that she doesn’t owe me a thing. Why would she? I only gave her my name, looked after her, paid for her clothes, lived with her moods. But as soon as we hit a rough patch, she threw me out like a stray dog.’ He gave another joyless laugh and blew smoke out of his nostrils. ‘I guess I have you to thank for that. Giving her ideas. Well, I hope you’re happy now.’ He took a drink of his whisky. ‘Because I’m
right
where you wanted me.’

I looked at him. ‘What happened to you?’

‘What do you care? Or am I one of your causes, now that I’m only half a man?’

I checked his colours. They were, as I’d expected, as muddy as they’d always been, shot through with the same angry flashes of smoky red and burnt orange. And in the smoke were glimpses of life; a row of optics above a bar; something burning by the side of a road.
This
was my Knight of Cups, I knew: this angry, broken, contemptuous man.

‘You always went for the damaged ones. The hopeless cases. The river-rats. That old bitch Armande. And Joséphine—’ He gave his mean and hateful laugh. ‘I guess she must have surprised you, too. Who’d have thought she had it in her? Throws me out of my own house, threatens me with the police, then when I come back six months later, just to pick up a few of my things, she’s shacked up with that redhead of hers, and he’s building her a boat. Oh yes,
and
she’s pregnant. Happy days.’ He gave a drag on his Gauloise and chased it with the last of the whisky. ‘Of course, you’ll know all about that,’ he said, giving me his cheerless grin. ‘Tell me, was it one at a time, or both together? Either way, he must have been something pretty damn special for
both
of you to be—’

‘Shut
up
, Paul,’ said a harsh voice from behind me.

I turned and saw Joséphine standing there, her face pale with anger.

Paul gave another humourless laugh and stubbed out his cigarette into his glass. ‘Oops, here comes the ball and chain,’ he said. ‘
Now
I’m in trouble.’ He gave Joséphine a broad, hateful smile. ‘Vianne and I were just catching up. Old friends, lost loves, a little glass of whisky – and how was
your
morning, my lovely one?’

‘I said, shut
up
,’ said Joséphine.

Paul shrugged. ‘Or what, my love?’

Joséphine ignored him and turned to me. ‘I was meaning to tell you, really I was. I just didn’t know how to do it.’ Her face was no longer pale, but red, and for almost the first time since I arrived I felt I really recognized the sad, awkward, inarticulate Joséphine of eight years ago; the Joséphine who stole chocolate from me because she couldn’t help herself.

A wave of sorrow washed over me. What happened to Joséphine Bonnet, who had such big, brave dreams? I thought I had freed her from Paul-Marie. Now I find that she is still as much of a prisoner as she ever was. What happened? And is this my fault?

She shot me a look. ‘Let’s go for a walk. Suddenly, I need some air.’

Paul grinned and lit another Gauloise. ‘Knock yourself out.’

I followed Joséphine outside. For a time she seemed unwilling to talk, and we simply walked; past the church; through the square; down the cobbled street towards the river. When we reached the bridge, she stopped and looked over the parapet. Below us, the rushing water was the colour of milky tea.

‘Vianne, I’m so sorry—’ she began.

I looked at her. ‘It’s not your fault. I went away. I left you both. I was selfish. What did I
think
would happen?’

She looked confused. ‘I don’t understand—’

‘I know about Pilou,’ I said.

She looked at me blankly. ‘Pilou?’

I smiled. ‘He’s a fine boy, Joséphine. You’re right to be proud of him. I would be, too. As for his father—’

Her face crumpled. ‘Please. Don’t.’

I put my hand on hers. ‘It’s all right. You didn’t do anything wrong. It was me. I was the one who brought you together. I was the one who went away. And then, when Roux came to Paris, I was the one who ignored the signs—’

She looked at me curiously. ‘Roux?’

‘Well – isn’t that what you meant?’ I said. ‘That Roux is Pilou’s father?’

She shook her head. ‘It’s worse than that.’

‘Worse?’
How could it be worse?
I thought.

She sat down on the parapet. ‘I really wanted to tell you,’ she said. ‘But I couldn’t think how to do it. You were so proud of what I’d done, leaving my husband, running this place, even though in the end I never managed to catch that train—’

‘You had Pilou,’ I reminded her.

Joséphine smiled. ‘Yes. Pilou. All this time I’ve lied to him because I couldn’t bear the truth. Just as I’ve lied to you, Vianne, because I wanted you to think I’d made something better of my life—’

I started to speak, but she stopped me. ‘Please, Vianne. Let me go on. I wanted you to be proud of me. I wanted Roux to be proud of me. In my dreams I was just like you, a free spirit, going where I liked. No ties, no family. Paul was gone. You’d already left Lansquenet, and I was making plans to go. And then, I found out I was pregnant.’ She stopped, and her face took on a curious expression, part tender, part sorrowful. ‘At first I couldn’t believe it,’ she said. ‘I thought I couldn’t
have
children. We’d tried for so long, Paul and I, and then, as soon as he went away—’ She shrugged. ‘It couldn’t have come at a worse time. I was all set up to go. But Roux persuaded me to stay at least until the baby was born. And then, when I saw him—’

‘You fell in love.’

She smiled. ‘That’s right. I fell in love. And when Pilou was old enough to ask, I told him his father was a pirate, a sailor, a soldier, an adventurer – anyone but Paul Muscat, a wife-beating coward who ran away as soon as I stood up to him.’

I stared at her. ‘Paul-Marie?’ I said. ‘
He
’s Pilou’s father? But I thought you and Roux were—’

She shook her head. ‘That never happened,’ she told me. ‘It might have done, if things had been different. But he and I were only friends. Even then, I think he belonged to you. But when Paul-Marie came back and found that Roux had been staying here, and that I was pregnant—’

‘You let him think the baby wasn’t his?’ I said.

She nodded. ‘I couldn’t bear it. He would never have let me go, not if he’d known, not Paul-Marie. I was eight months pregnant when he came back, and – oh, Vianne, it was ugly.’

‘I can imagine.’

Yes, I could; Paul-Marie, red-faced with rage; Roux, trying to protect her; and Joséphine, clutching at the single poor handful of straw that might build her any kind of defence. Paul had been drunk and aggressive, demanding his
rights
, as he called it – his share of the café’s takings; the few possessions he’d left behind. He’d jumped to the conclusion that Roux was the baby’s father, and Joséphine had let him believe it, rather than try to tell him the truth.

‘What happened next?’

‘The usual. He smashed up the bar, called me some names, and then drove off on his motorbike. Later, the police came round and told me he’d had an accident.’

Paul had been taken to hospital. Joséphine was his next of kin. When she’d learnt he would never walk again, she had allowed him to come back home. What else could she do? It was partly her fault. Her lie had set in motion the chain of events that had brought him to this, and although she could never tell him the truth, she could not escape her responsibility. He had no job, no savings. She had given him a room of his own at the Café des Marauds and a permanent tab at the bar. A part of her had somehow hoped that he would recover the use of his legs, but he never had. She blamed herself. And here they were, eight years down the road; chained together by circumstance, with that lie growing bigger between them every day. Poor Paul-Marie. Poor Joséphine.

And then, the realization came. In my concern for Joséphine, I’d failed to see the essential thing. Roux never betrayed me. He wasn’t Pilou’s father. He may have been fond of Joséphine, but when it came to a choice, he chose me. All my suspicions, all my doubts, were nothing but
waswaas
, after all;
whispers of Shaitan
, as Omi says, brought to me on the Black Autan. But why don’t I feel happier? A weight has been lifted from my heart. And yet I still feel it, even though I know it isn’t there any more; a dark and whispering presence where once there was nothing but sweetness …

Why can’t you trust me?
Roux said.
Why can’t it ever be simple?

Perhaps that’s the difference between us, Roux. You believe life can be simple. For others, perhaps – but not for me. Why didn’t I trust you? Perhaps because I always felt that you were never mine to keep, that sooner or later the wind would change …

I pushed the thought aside. It could wait. Joséphine still needed me.

I put my arms around her and said: ‘It’s all right. It wasn’t your fault.’

Joséphine smiled. ‘That’s what Reynaud said.’

‘You told him?’ I was surprised at that. Joséphine had never been a regular churchgoer, and the idea of her confessing her closely guarded secret – and to
Reynaud
, of all people – seemed wholly out of character.

She smiled. ‘Yes, isn’t it strange?’ she said. ‘But I had to tell
someone
, and – he was there.’

I thought I understood it now. It was in her colours; her flushed face; the sad and hopeful look in her eyes.
The Lovers
. Why hadn’t I seen it before? The Queen of Cups and her crippled Knight were Joséphine and Paul-Marie. But those Lovers—

Joséphine and Reynaud?

Could it be true? They seem at first glance an unlikely pair, and yet they have some things in common. Both are damaged individuals; solitary and secretive. Both have been victims of Lansquenet’s busy web of gossips. Both have qualities of which they are not entirely aware; stubbornness; strength of mind; a refusal to let the enemy win.

‘You like him, don’t you?’

She looked away.

‘Do you know where he is?’ I said.

Once more, she shook her head. ‘He just disappeared. I don’t know where. But
she
has something to do with it.’ She jerked her head in the direction of the old
chocolaterie
. ‘That woman. Those people in Les Marauds.’

Little by little, the story came out. The graffiti on Monsieur le Curé’s door; his misplaced attempt to fix up the
chocolaterie
; the violent attack on Sunday night and the warning that he’d been given.

This is a war. Keep out of it
.

A war? Is that how they see it? And who are the warring factions? The church? The mosque? The veil? The soutane? Or is it simply Lansquenet’s traditional war against the outsider; the river-rats; the outcasts; and now, the people of Les Marauds, a name that means
The Invaders
, although in reality it is only a corruption of the word
marais
, or
marshland
, built as it is so close to the Tannes, and subject to regular flooding—

Once more, I considered Reynaud. Could someone have frightened him away with threats of further violence? That seems unlike Monsieur le Curé. He is as stubborn as I am myself. And he is a rock, unmovable; the wind has never shaken him.

So – where is he? Someone must know. Someone must have seen him go. If not here, then in Les Marauds, where the road leads to join the
autoroute
. I thought of what I’d seen in the smoke, the day I made the chocolates: Reynaud, alone, with his rucksack, walking along the riverbank.

Is this a vision of things to come, or has it already happened? And where is he now? Asleep in a ditch? Beaten to death in an alleyway? I never thought I would ever care what happened to Francis Reynaud. But faced with these possibilities, I find that I do. I care very much.

‘We’ll find him,’ I said, as much to myself as to Joséphine, who was listening. ‘We’ll find him and we’ll bring him home. Wherever he’s gone. I promise we will.’