Peaches for Monsieur Le Curé (38 page)

CHAPTER TEN

Saturday, 28th August, 11.10 a.m
.

‘A WAR,’ SAID
Inès. ‘Imagine that! A secret war between mother and son. Neither of us spoke of it. That would have been to admit that there was mistrust between us. But Karim hadn’t really changed; he’d simply become more careful. He had a new wife who adored him; even so it wasn’t enough. He praised the
niqab
in public, but his fantasies were of Western whores, and I knew it was just a matter of time before
zina
found him again.’

Once more, Inès looked at Sonia. She had listened to all this without comment, but now she was shaking her head.

‘No. I don’t believe it. You are wrong. My Karim would never—’

Inès put a hand on Sonia’s arm. ‘I know all this must be hard to believe. I know how cruel it must sound. I too found it hard to believe, once. I tried to blind myself to the truth. But it started with porn on the internet. I found it on his computer. After that, it was internet sex. I caught him at it one time, with a girl from the village. Her name was Marie-Ange Lucas, and her profile said she was sixteen. In fact, she was fifteen, but Karim didn’t care. She was a whore, he told me. Why else would she accept to meet a boy she didn’t know for sex? My intervention came just in time. Karim broke off contact with Marie-Ange. I thought he’d learnt his lesson, but he’d simply found more attractive meat. Your sister, Alyssa, whom he seduced, then drove to try and kill herself—’

By this time, Sonia was ashen. ‘I don’t believe you,’ she whispered.

Inès shrugged. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I should have spoken out before. But I thought I could control him. I thought that if I stayed nearby, then I could always intervene. I tried with Alyssa. Then with Vianne, whose arrival in Les Marauds – and with a pretty daughter – had already attracted attention. But by then things had started to happen. Someone set the school on fire. Rumours were spread about me. The priest who tried to help me was warned away by friends of Karim’s. I moved back into Karim’s house, but old Mahjoubi did everything to make me feel uncomfortable. And then I realized that Karim was beginning to notice my little Du’a.’

‘No,’ said Sonia, pulling away.

Inès stood up. ‘The other day, Du’a lost one of her slippers. A red embroidered slipper that we had brought with us from Tangier. She and I looked for it everywhere, but it was nowhere to be found. And so I waited until Karim was out, and found
this
in his wardrobe—’

She stepped into the kitchen and came out with a metal box. Opening it, she tipped out the contents on to the little table. I saw bracelets, earrings, beads, scarves – and one embroidered slipper, scarlet, and stitched with small glass beads—

Inès ran her elegant fingers over the collection of objects. ‘The bracelet he took from Shada Idris. One of Alyssa’s earrings. A ring that belonged to his fiancée. And this—’ She touched the red slipper. ‘My son was getting ahead of himself, taking trophies in advance.’

But something else had caught my eye among the pile of trophies. A little woven bracelet – yellow, with a blue shell charm – the kind of thing a child might make, perhaps as a gift for her sister—

‘It belongs to your daughter, does it not?’ said Inès, seeing my expression.

I picked up the bracelet. I knew it well. Anouk had been wearing it when we arrived – and, now that I came to think about it, I hadn’t seen it for several days—

‘Maybe she dropped it,’ said Inès. ‘Maybe she left it lying around. But Karim had already noticed her. It would have been just a matter of time.’

After finding the box of trophies, Inès had moved with Du’a into the houseboat. A temporary solution, at best; but all she could think to do at the time. While appearing to be the most dutiful son, through rumour, malice and subterfuge Karim had somehow managed to turn the whole of Les Marauds against Inès, except for Zahra, who knew the truth, and who had always tried to protect her.

‘My son rarely acts on his own behalf,’ explained Inès with that painful smile. ‘He lets other people act for him. They think they are making their own choices, but in fact they are simply doing his will. That writing on the wall of my house. The fire. Even the houseboat—’ She looked back at Sonia, whose face had become ghastly with realization. ‘He
meant
for you to do those things,’ she said. ‘He set you in motion. He knew I couldn’t expose him without exposing myself as well, and he thought he could play the innocent and blame it all on you—’

Sonia shook her head. ‘Please. I didn’t mean to hurt anyone. I only wanted you to go.’

‘Of course you did. I know,’ said Inès. ‘But even if I had gone, Karim would never have felt entirely safe. I know too much about him. He wanted rid of me for good, but first he needed a scapegoat. At first I thought it might be you. But even though you loved him, he knew that you were no murderer. So he came up with a better plan. And Monsieur le Curé played right into his hands.’

Reynaud. I’d almost forgotten him. ‘Where is he?’ I said. ‘Is he all right?’

Zahra looked awkward. ‘I’m sorry, Vianne. I was taken in at first. Like everyone else, I was certain that Reynaud had started the fire. And then, when Karim caught him that day actually holding a petrol can—’

‘Where is he, Zahra?’ I said.

‘He’s in the cellar under the gym. I’m sorry. I should have told you. But Karim was so upset, and I thought—’

‘Of course he was.’ That was Inès. The hard, dry voice was flatter than ever. ‘Monsieur le Curé’s intervention arrived at exactly the wrong time. My son, having tried all other plans, was planning to deal with me at last. He thought that, if I disappeared, Reynaud would be held responsible. And if Reynaud were never found—’ She shrugged. ‘The Tannes is a dangerous river, especially after the rain. It might take weeks to find a body, after which time the cause of death might not be possible to determine.’

There was a silence as all of us struggled to understand what she was saying. Karim, a murderer? Surely not. And yet, it all made perfect sense.

‘My son had run out of time,’ she said. ‘He was afraid that for Du’a’s sake I would speak out against him. The houseboat made us vulnerable. Perhaps he would have made it look as if we died in an arson attack. Perhaps he would have sunk the boat, and tipped our bodies into the Tannes. But when he came to fulfil his plan, Monsieur le Curé was there.’

Now Sonia spoke up. ‘I know. He saw me. I – confessed to him.’

‘You did?’ Inès looked amused. ‘Well, whatever you said, it kept him there just long enough to spoil Karim’s plan. Karim must have seen him watching the boat. He would have been a witness. And so my son attacked him, thinking perhaps to use him as a convenient scapegoat later – but I had heard and seen everything, and while Karim dealt with Reynaud I untied the houseboat and steered it away downstream.’ She sighed. ‘At the time I did not know whether Reynaud was alive or dead. I’d seen him fall. That was enough. But when Zahra told me what she knew—’

Now Omi interrupted, her cracked old voice hoarse with amusement: ‘You mean Monsieur le Curé has been in that cellar all this time?
Hee
, I bet he’s mad as fire—’

I looked at Zahra. ‘The gym?’ I said. ‘That’s why you were there last night.’

She nodded. ‘I brought food,’ she said.

‘But why keep him there at all?’ Sonia was still puzzled. ‘If what Inès says is true—’

‘He needed him alive,’ said Inès. ‘If he intended to blame Reynaud for whatever happened to me, it would not do for the police to find out that the suspected murderer had died days
before
the victim—’

‘He was waiting for you to come back,’ Sonia said.

Inès nodded. ‘I think he was.’

‘But now,’ said Sonia slowly, ‘Karim knows that you are here.’

There was a long pause, during which the realization settled like dust. Then Inès got to her feet and quickly retied her face-veil. Sonia did the same, and within seconds we were all on our feet, even Omi, who was already reaching for another macaroon.

This must be Reynaud’s fourth day in the cellar under the gym. I know those cellars; dark and damp, often flooding in the rains. And to think he’d been there all the time. Loyalties run deep in Les Marauds. Karim’s friends would not have betrayed him. But the gym belongs to Saïd, after all. Did
he
know? Did his father know?

I dreamt of you
, old Mahjoubi had said from his sickbed on Wednesday.
When I tried to perform istikhaara. I dreamt of you, and then of her. Take care. Stay away from the water
.

I’d thought at the time he was talking to me. Half delirious, he’d seemed barely to understand who I was. Had he been speaking of Reynaud? Like the Woman in Black and myself, old Mahjoubi and Francis Reynaud are reflections of each other. Did old Mahjoubi guess the truth? Could his dream have been something more?

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Saturday, 28th August, 11.25 a.m
.

WE CAME OUT
into the place saint-jérôme. the sun was already scorching hot. The last of the rain is gone from the streets, and the cobblestones are bronzed with dust. A flock of pigeons that had been feeding outside the door took flight in a sudden clap of wings. The square was almost deserted now; Poitou’s bakery was closing; the
pétanque
players had packed up their things, heading for home and iced
floc
underneath the persimmon trees. Only one figure remained beneath the arch of Saint-Jérôme’s; the squat, sad figure of Paul-Marie Muscat sitting in his wheelchair, half in, half out of the shadows like the Knight of Cups on the Tarot card.

‘Congratulations, you’ve done it again,’ he called across the square to me. ‘Tell me, did you get any special training for what you do, or are you just a natural?’

I said: ‘I don’t have time to talk. This is an emergency.’

He laughed. ‘You don’t surprise me. It’s always urgent business with you. People to see, places to go, marriages to ruin. Eight years you’ve been away, and I’m not saying it was perfect, but you’ve not been back three weeks and everything’s a shambles.’

I must have looked surprised, because he laughed again. ‘Haven’t you heard? She’s leaving me. For good this time. She’s running away with the river-rats. Just like the Pied Piper.’ He belched, and I realized he was very drunk. ‘Tell me, do they pay you, Vianne? Is it good money? Or do you work for love?’

‘I have no idea what you’re talking about,’ I said. ‘But give me half an hour, and I’ll come back and you can explain everything. Drink some coffee. Wait for me.’

That laugh again, like a broken drain. ‘You slay me, Vianne. You really do. Wasn’t it you who told her she ought to tell the truth? To tell me that that brat of hers isn’t the fucking redhead’s, but
mine
? And now she’s come clean with the whole thing, now she’s robbed me of eight fucking
years
, the bitch announces she’s leaving me, like somehow that gives her permission?’

I looked at him. ‘She told you?’

‘Oh, she did
nothing
but tell me. As if telling me was going to fix everything. And I have
you
to thank for that, don’t I, Vianne? What next, eh? What’s so urgent in Les Marauds? Some guy beats his wife? Call Vianne! Cat stuck up a tree? Call Vianne!’

Inès, Du’a and the others were already on their way to the bridge. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I have to go.’

‘And leave me to miss the excitement?’ Furiously, Paul-Marie began to push his wheelchair across the square. The going was rough, but not impossible; his big arms pumped like pistons. ‘Oh, no. I’m coming, too. I want to see what the deal is.’ He started to follow me down the street, shouting at the top of his voice: ‘Come on, everybody! Come and see Vianne walk on water!’

He moved surprisingly quickly as he lumbered over the cobblestones. Behind him, doors were opened, shutters unlocked. Our little group – unusual enough to command attention even in ordinary circumstances – soon attracted followers. Poitou came out of his bakery; Charles Lévy stopped weeding his garden; customers at the
terrasse
of the Café des Marauds craned their necks to see what was happening, abandoned their drinks and came running.

I saw Guillaume, carrying Patch; Joséphine, looking concerned; Caro Clairmont, still wearing an oven glove on one hand. By the time we had reached the boulevard, we had acquired a dozen followers, and more were arriving from Les Marauds; Fatima al-Djerba and her husband Mehdi; her daughter Yasmina; her son-in-law Ismail. There were less friendly faces, too: the Acheron boys and their retinue; Jean Lucas and Marie-Ange; a handful of men from inside the mosque, looking tense and suspicious. Louis Acheron was pushing Paul-Marie’s wheelchair, while Paul called out deliriously: ‘Just like the Pied Piper!’

Joséphine came to find me. ‘What’s going on?’

I told her. But in the noise of the people now gathering outside the gym, it was hard to know if she’d understood. ‘You’re telling me Reynaud’s in there?’

I nodded. ‘We have to talk to Saïd. We have to explain what’s going on before this turns into a riot—’

The growing crowd was gathering at the mouth of the alleyway. The gym was open, and a number of patrons – all of them young men, in T-shirts and shorts – were standing by the entrance. Karim was not among them. It was almost unbearably hot; the midday sun was like a spike hammered into the top of my head. The crowd, too, had a heat of its own; a smell like metal and juniper. Beneath the awning of the gym, there was a triangle of shade so stark that I could barely see the faces of the young men. They were in shadow; I was in sun; we faced each other like gunslingers across the length of the alleyway.

I started to walk towards the group. Joséphine was behind me. But Zahra and the others held back. Even now, for a woman to enter the gym was almost unthinkable; even Inès seemed to hesitate as I made my way towards the door.

One of the patrons blocked my way. I didn’t know his name, but I recognized him as one of the men who had been with Karim on the day we first met.

I said: ‘I need to speak with Saïd.’

The man shook his head. ‘Saïd is not here.’

Behind me, my unwelcome retinue had grown increasingly noisy. Concerned villagers like Narcisse and Guillaume had been joined by a larger group, clearly looking for trouble. I counted three of the Acheron boys; one had pushed over some plant pots from a nearby window-ledge. Another was trying to topple one of the large dustbins in the alley behind the café. Caro Clairmont called for order, thereby creating yet more noise; Marie-Ange Lucas was openly filming the scene on her mobile phone.

There were some river people, too; I recognized their clothes; their hair; the way they kept to the back of the crowd. Roux was among them, his red hair unmistakable in the sun. There was no sign of Anouk or Rosette. Du’a, too, had vanished. I hoped that Omi and Fatima had taken her to safety.

Paul-Marie Muscat yelled: ‘The river-rats! Trust
them
to be part of this!’

This provoked a double surge in the crowd as some people turned to see, only to push into others who were trying to move forward. Beside me, Zahra protested as someone snatched at her
hijab
. There was a crash from the alleyway: the dustbins had finally succumbed.

I looked at the man who was blocking my way. ‘Please, let me in.’

He shook his head. ‘This is private property.’

‘Is Karim Bencharki here?’

Once more he shook his head.

‘Do you know where he is?’

A shrug. ‘Maybe the mosque. Who knows? Now get out of here before we call the police.’

Meanwhile, Paul-Marie was enjoying himself. His raucous voice cut through the crowd, shouting: ‘Didn’t I tell you? Didn’t I say? This was bound to happen some day! Let them in, and the next thing you know there’s anarchy.
Vive la France!
’

The chorus went up. A rival chorus, in Arabic, arose from the opposite corner. Someone threw a stone.

‘
Vive la France!
’

‘
Allahu Akhbar!
’

The most frightening thing of all is perhaps how fast these things develop; the morphic resonance of hate, dragging us into its vortex. Later, I heard the stories; the baffled, slightly shamefaced accounts of punches thrown and insults hurled; of broken windows, toppled bins; theft and damage to property. Like seagulls over a carcass, pecking out shreds of the truth, the rumour-mongers did their work: Reynaud had been murdered by
Maghrébins
. Reynaud had gone mad, and killed someone. Reynaud had killed a
Maghrébin
, although only in self-defence. The
Maghrébins
had kidnapped a French girl and were holding her inside the gym. The river-folk were in league with
Maghrébin
traffickers. Reynaud had tried to bomb the mosque and was being held till the police arrived. Rumours grew wilder on both sides. Slogans flew like banners.

‘
Allahu Akhbar!
’

‘
Vive la France!
’

There is no police force in Lansquenet. We have never needed one. Trouble arises so rarely, and when it does it is usually up to the village priest to try to resolve the conflict. But even if he had been there, I doubt Père Henri would have intervened. Francis Reynaud might have known what to do. Reynaud, who, in defiance of the law or of political correctness, knocks heads, grabs collars and distributes insults as well as
Avés
. But Reynaud was gone, and Père Henri was preaching a sermon in Pont-le-Saôul.

Another stone flew; this time it struck one of the men in front of me. He staggered back, one hand to his head. Blood ran through his fingers.

‘Fucking
Maghrébins
! Go home!’

‘French pigs! Sons of whores!’

I tried to push through into the gym, but too many people stood in my way. The man who had been hit with the stone was looking shaken, blood running down the side of his face, but more of his friends had joined him. Another stone flew; a window smashed, high up on the wall of the gym.

Someone was pushing through the crowd. I recognized Roux’s voice at my side. ‘What’s happening?’

‘Where are the children?’ I said.

‘I left them back at the boat. They’re fine. What’s all this about Reynaud?’

Behind us, on the boulevard, a sound had begun to carry above the rising cacophony. It was a high, thin, ululating sound; eerie and penetrating. I’d heard it before, in Tangier; at funerals and demonstrations. But to hear that sound in Lansquenet—

‘He’s underneath the gym,’ I said. ‘We have to get him out of there.’

‘We do?’ said Roux. ‘Since when was he your special responsibility?’

‘Please,’ I said, raising my voice over the rising sound of the crowd. ‘Help me. I can’t do this alone. I’ll tell you everything later—’

And then, from inside, came a figure I knew. Bearded, in white; unsmiling; Saïd Mahjoubi faced us with a look of stony contempt.

‘This is an outrage. What do you want?’

Inès, standing at my side, tried to explain in Arabic. I caught Karim’s name, but nothing else. She took another step forward.

He pushed her away. ‘Get out of here, whore.’

Inès dealt him a ringing slap.

At my side, I saw Roux start to react, and put my hand on his arm.

Saïd stared blankly at Inès, astonishment veering to anger. The marks of Inès’s fingers were clearly visible on his face. He took a threatening step. Roux moved in to intercept him. For a moment, their eyes met. Then Saïd lowered his gaze.

‘This woman is poison,’ he said to Roux. ‘You people know nothing about her. I know what she is. Why she hides her face. Not out of piety, but shame—’

And at that, he darted forward and pulled at the strings of Inès’s veil and tore it away, revealing the ruined features I had seen only a few minutes ago, in the
chocolaterie—

For a few seconds, nothing happened. A crowd has a certain energy, a momentum, like that of a flock of circling birds, which takes time to change direction. Inès stood motionless, facing Saïd, making no effort to hide her face, or to retrieve the fallen veil. Saïd and his companions were subjected to the full impact of the
smiley
.

‘Shame?’ said Inès. ‘Is
that
what you see? My son has made a fool of you. Yes, my
son
. A fool, and worse. He has pulled a veil over your eyes. He has made you forsake your daughter. Why do you think she ran away? Why did she try to kill herself? Why did she seek help from strangers – yes, even a
kuffar
priest – instead of from her own family?’

Saïd frowned. ‘I don’t understand.’

‘I think you do. You spoke of shame. The shame is for a man to believe that when he lusts after a woman,
she
is the one responsible. Only a fool believes that Allah can be swayed by such miserable excuses. Your father may be a stubborn old man, but he is worth ten thousand of you.’

And then Inès turned round and addressed the people in the alleyway. Those closest to her fell back a step; the rest took a few seconds longer; ripples running through the crowd until at last there was silence.

‘Look at me, all of you,’ said Inès. ‘Look very closely at my face. This is the face of cruelty, of bigotry and injustice. This is the face of hypocrisy, of guilt and of intolerance. These things are not a matter of religion, race or colour. A crime committed in Allah’s name does not cease to be a crime. Do you think you are better than God? Do you think you can fool him with your talk of justice?’

The voice of the Woman in Black was strong, her eyes as hard as mica. She made no attempt to cover herself, but stood to face them squarely, with pride. One by one, they dropped their gaze. Even Paul-Marie Muscat was speechless, his red face turning white. Marie-Ange Lucas, who had been filming the scene on her mobile phone, dropped her hands to her sides. Even Roux stood motionless, staring at Inès with a look of slow-dawning comprehension in his eyes.