Peaches for Monsieur Le Curé (35 page)

CHAPTER FOUR

Saturday, 28th August, 9.40 a.m
.

IT WAS JUST
after nine by the time he returned, with Croissants and
pains au chocolat
. We ate them out on the deck, while Anouk made coffee in the galley and Rosette played with Bam on the riverbank.

‘I would have been here sooner,’ he said, ‘but people kept stopping to talk to me.’

Père Henri is saying Mass today. The square will be full of people. Poitou does most of his business on Saturdays and Sundays; fancy cakes for lunch; fruit tarts; almond flans; the
pain Viennois
he only makes at weekends and on special occasions. The congregation usually calls first at the church, and second at the bakery. The spirit must be fed, after all; not just with Scripture, but with pâtisserie.

‘No news of Reynaud?’ I said.

‘No. Just that new priest, Père Henri. Went out of his way to talk to me. Said he respected my lifestyle choices and those of the travelling community, and wanted to know when we were leaving.’

I had to laugh. ‘So – no change there?’

‘At least Reynaud was honest.’

‘And you think Père Henri isn’t?’

He shrugged. ‘I think he has too many teeth.’

Anouk ate her breakfast in three bites, then ran off to find Jeannot. Now that Jean-Loup has contacted her, her other friend takes priority again; her colours are fresh and green and clear, like innocent young love.

Rosette was nosing around the mouth of one of the alleys that led to the road. I asked her what she could see down there.

Maya
, she signed.
Foxy
.

‘Oh. So you can see him, too?’

No. He lives in a hole
.

‘A fox-hole?’

No. He wants to get out
.

‘Oh. I see.’ Like Bam and Pantoufle, Foxy has already acquired a number of interesting characteristics. Bam has a mischievous streak that reflects Rosette’s volatile nature. Pantoufle is a friendly companion. But Foxy seems to personify Maya’s sense of rebellion – perhaps she’s already conscious of the rules and restrictions surrounding her. That, and the fact that she chose a fox, the closest thing there is to a dog.

I checked the Boulevard des Marauds. Maya was there, exuberant in her Disney sandals and
Aladdin
T-shirt. She waved to me before vanishing down the narrow passageway. But coming down the boulevard, some three hundred metres behind her, was a tight and purposeful little group, looking like chess pieces from afar – three black pawns and an old white king – heading towards the jetty.

The king was Mohammed Mahjoubi. I recognized his white beard; his bulk; his slow but dignified walk; the white
djellaba
he always wears. The pawns were women, all in
niqab
– at this distance, hard to know who they were. Was Inès among them? A field of tension lay over the group like a magnet on iron filings. All along the boulevard, doors opened, shutters clapped, people came out to watch them go.

Roux sensed it too and grinned at me. ‘You think that’s a welcome committee?’ he said.

It wasn’t a welcome committee. By the time they reached the jetty, more people had joined the little group. I recognized Alyssa, with Sonia and their mother, with Saïd Mahjoubi – another king – approaching from the other side. Then there was Omi, Fatima, Zahra in her usual
niqab
and Karim Bencharki, a step behind, dressed as always in T-shirt and jeans, looking controlled, but angry.

Omi greeted me with a croak of laughter. ‘
Hee
, what a circus!’

‘What’s happening?’

She had no time to answer. Approaching the jetty, Karim launched a staccato volley of Arabic, and made straight for the houseboat. Old Mahjoubi stood in his way. Karim tried to push the old man aside—

‘What the hell’s going on?’ said Roux.

Saïd turned to Roux and said, ‘These houseboats cannot stay here. This is all private property.’

‘Really?’ said Roux. ‘Because the
curé
seemed to suggest that we could stay here indefinitely.’

‘The
curé
?’

‘Père Henri,’ said Roux.

There followed another exchange in Arabic. ‘I will talk to Père Henri,’ said Saïd, addressing Roux. ‘Perhaps he has not fully considered the effect this might have on our community.’

Old Mahjoubi shook his head. ‘It is Ramadan,’ he said. ‘Everyone is welcome here, as long as there is mutual respect.’ He turned to Roux. ‘Stay as long as you wish.’

Saïd looked annoyed. ‘I do not think—’

‘Shall we refuse hospitality?’ Old Mahjoubi’s voice was soft, but still it carried authority. Saïd shot him a resentful look. Old Mahjoubi just smiled.

‘Very well,’ said Saïd at last. ‘My father makes a valid point. We do not want arguments and conflict during our time of celebration. All we would ask is that you show respect, and keep your distance.’

Karim had jumped on to the deck of the boat and was looking into the galley.

‘Excuse me. That’s my boat,’ said Roux.

Karim turned and stared. ‘
Your
boat?’

I stepped up to the jetty once more. ‘Inès came home safely yesterday,’ I said. ‘Didn’t she go to your house?’

Karim looked blank. ‘No, she did not. You’re saying she’s here, in the village?’

Once more, Roux told his story. While the others were listening, I took the opportunity to ask Alyssa, ‘How did it go yesterday?’

She shook her head. ‘They’re not talking to me. They think I’ve shamed the family.’

‘They’ll come round,’ I said in a low voice. ‘What about Karim?’

She shrugged. ‘I’m
totally
over Karim.’

‘Well, that’s something,’ I told her.

‘He keeps wanting to see me in private. I said I didn’t want to.’

‘What about your sister?’

‘
Meh
.’ Alyssa shrugged. ‘I think the baby’s making her sick. She doesn’t talk to me much any more, but I can tell she’s tired.’

I glanced at Sonia, who was standing alone, looking at the river. There was something wistful about the way she stood; as I came closer I saw that her eyes were shining with tears.

‘What’s wrong?’ I said.

She looked surprised. One effect of wearing
niqab
is to give the wearer the illusion of invisibility, and to discourage contact with strangers. Her eyes – kohl-lined and beautiful – nervously avoided my gaze.

‘You’re Vianne Rocher, aren’t you?’ she said. ‘Alyssa told me about you.’ There was a hint of censure in the flat little voice behind the veil.

I smiled. ‘I’m happy to meet you,’ I said. ‘I hope you can both come and visit us.’

Once more, that startled look. Sonia Bencharki is not used to casual invitations from strangers. Under the veil, her colours were a sick and gaudy carousel. The girl had something on her mind. Sadness; fear; perhaps even guilt—

I caught Karim watching me from his position by the boat. I thought he looked uneasy at the sight of us together. Sonia noticed him watching, and moved away a couple of steps. I followed her.

‘Please. I can’t talk to you.’ The voice was almost inaudible.

‘Why not?’

‘I’m sorry. Just leave me alone.’

I let her go. There were too many people around for me to try to break through her reserve. Zahra said: ‘She’s shy, that’s all. She’s really a very sweet girl.’

Just like Alyssa, I told myself. Or at least, just like Alyssa had been before Karim Bencharki. Once more, I looked at Karim as he stood on the jetty, talking to Roux, and wondered how it was that one man had managed to gain so much influence over the little community. Yes, he is handsome. Yes, he has charm. And from what I have heard from Caro Clairmont, he has done a great deal to bring Les Marauds into the twenty-first century. His influence over Saïd has caused the mosque to grow more progressive; his work at the gym has given a focus to the young men of his neighbourhood. Strange, then, that his sister should adopt such a traditional image – unless, of course, the rumours are true, and the veil worn by Inès is simply a show of modesty that hides something very different.

But what I saw the other night – and here again, this morning – suggests that he, too, has a dark side. His treatment of Alyssa; his lack of respect for old Mahjoubi; and now, his arrogant dealing with Roux. We already know that he is capable of infidelity. Now, I’m beginning to wonder if he isn’t capable of more. He has shown he can be aggressive. Is he also violent? Could Sonia be afraid of him? And what about Inès and Du’a? Are they deliberately avoiding him?

Zahra was watching me, a curious look in her dark eyes. It was the same look that had been in her eyes last night, around the back of the gym. Were they old Mahjoubi’s things that Zahra had been carrying? Or did they perhaps belong to Inès?

I looked up at the minaret that stands at the top of the boulevard. Slender; bone-white; elegant; crowned with a silver crescent moon. And across the river, the little square tower of Saint-Jérôme’s; plain; inflexible; unadorned. Two towers, facing each other across the Tannes like pieces on a chessboard—

‘You know where she is, don’t you?’ I said.

Zahra nodded. ‘I saw her last night. I told her about your friend Reynaud, and everything that has happened here. And then I spoke to Sonia.’ She shot a glance at the girl, then spoke a few dozen words in Arabic.

‘What did she say? Has she seen Reynaud?’

‘No.’ Zahra shook her head. ‘But I know where he is. I’m sorry, Vianne. I have known almost from the beginning.’

I stared at her. ‘But – why?’

She shrugged. ‘I thought I was protecting Inès.’

‘And now?’

She looked at me and smiled. ‘And now, she wants to talk to you.’

CHAPTER FIVE

Saturday, 28th August, 10.00 a.m
.

TEN O’CLOCK. THE
end of Mass. Even here, inside the whale, Père Henri continues to taunt me. Of course, I’d know my bells anywhere. Their voices are unmistakable. And in a minute there he’ll be, sitting in my confessional, hearing their secrets, handing out
Avés
, once more taking my place—

A tap on the grille. It was Maya again. Maya and Rosette, in fact: two little pairs of feet, one decorated with Disney princesses, the other lemon-yellow. And a jaded-looking cat, firmly held by Maya and emitting a series of mournful yowls.

‘So. You found the cat, then.’

She gave me a luminous, happy smile. ‘Last night. I took him to Jiddo’s house.’

‘Wonderful.’ In fact,
père
, I was feeling less than vibrant. My head was spinning, and my throat was so sore that I could barely make myself heard. ‘What next, I wonder? A pony? A date with the Pope? A singing hat?’

‘That’s just silly. Hats don’t sing.’

I tried to get a grip on myself. I must be light-headed with fever. The urge to laugh was almost overwhelming – and yet,
mon père
, I am not a man naturally given to laughter. I thought of Karim Bencharki’s threats and managed to focus a little.

‘Please. Maya. Did you tell Vianne?’

‘Uh-huh. I told her all about you.’

‘What did she say?’

‘She said it was nice.’

I tried again. ‘Listen, Maya. I’m not a Jinni. Karim Bencharki put me here.’

Maya put her head to one side. ‘If you’re not a Jinni,’ she said, ‘then how can you grant wishes?’

‘
Maya!
Would you listen to me?’

‘My
third
wish—’

There’s no arguing with the implacable logic of childhood. For the first time in decades, I found myself close to tears. ‘Please, Maya. I’m sick. I’m cold. I’m hurt. I’m afraid of dying here—’ Suddenly, the narrow grille had become the screen of the confessional. But this time,
I
was the penitent and Maya the confessor. It was ridiculous, and yet I couldn’t stop myself. Perhaps because I was feverish; perhaps because even a five-year-old girl was better than no confessor at all. ‘I’m a priest, and I’m afraid to die. How absurd is that, eh? But I never believed in Paradise. No, not really. Not in my heart. Hell I
can
believe in. But heaven seems like the kind of thing you tell children when they’re afraid of the dark. Faith is about obedience; adherence to rules; keeping order. Otherwise, we’d have anarchy. Everybody knows that. That’s why the Church has its hierarchy; a stable pyramid of command; every member in his place and briefed on a need-to-know basis. The public accepts what we choose to reveal. God, in His turn, does the same. Order. Control. Obedience. Because if we let people know the truth – that even we have no
certainties
– then everything the Church has built over the past two thousand years would be nothing but a handful of paper and dust—’

I stopped to draw breath. In fact,
père
, I was starting to feel dizzy. Three days without proper human contact have left me feeling very strange. I stretched my fingers towards the grille – I thought if Maya saw me, she might believe my story. With an effort, I could just reach.

‘Maya. I’m here.
Look
at me.’

Maya pressed her face to the grille. Rosette joined her; I saw her red curls shining in the sunlight. Both of them looked in at me; two earnest little faces, solemn and implacable. For a moment I imagined them as judges, ready to pass sentence.

‘My
third
wish—’

I gave a howl. But my throat was so sore and my head so weak that all that emerged was a whimper. Maya went on oblivious:

‘My third wish is for Du’a to come home. The riverboat came back, but Du’a and her
memti
weren’t there. And so you must bring Du’a back, just like you did with Hazi. And after that, you’ll be free. Just like Disney
Aladdin
.’

I gave up. It was hopeless. I’d given everything I had, and still it wasn’t enough.

‘I’m sorry,’ I whispered. I’m still not sure why.

Maya’s face withdrew from the grille. For a moment, Rosette lingered. I already knew that talking to her would be a waste of time, and yet there is a kind of intelligence in those curious, birdlike eyes.

‘Tell your mother I’m here,’ I said. ‘Please. Tell
someone
. I’m begging you.’

Rosette made a soft clucking sound. Does that mean she understood? Then she put her hand on the grille. It felt like absolution. And right at that moment the pile of crates beneath my feet gave way at last, tipping me sideways into the dark and into the freezing water.

For a moment I was entirely submerged. For a second or two I panicked, struggling for the surface, then I hauled myself to my feet, pushed my dripping hair out of my eyes and slowly, painfully, made my way back towards the cellar steps.