Peaches for Monsieur Le Curé (40 page)

Saturday, 28th August, 11.50 a.m
.

WE CAME OUT
on the boardwalk, on the far side of the passageway that links the river with the boulevard. It’s an irregular kind of walkway; in places, only a metre in width, but broadening as it reaches the gym, becoming a kind of terrace. These terraces are a feature of the disused tanneries; poised over the river like acrobats on their wooden stilts. Nowadays, few people use them, and all of them have been condemned.

Roux was by the balustrade. Karim was barely ten feet away. He was holding Du’a with one arm and a can of petrol with the other. Both of them were drenched in it; Du’a had lost her headscarf, and her hair and face were wet. The smell of petrol was everywhere; the air unsteady with its fumes.

Roux gave me a warning look. ‘Don’t move. He has a lighter.’

It was a Bic, a cheap plastic Bic of the kind you can buy in every newsagent’s in France. Easy to use; reliable; disposable as a human life. Now he dropped the petrol can and held the Bic in Du’a’s face.

‘Don’t come any closer,’ he said. ‘I am not afraid to die.’

Inès spoke to him urgently in her rapid Arabic.

Karim just smiled and shook his head. Even now, his colours gleamed without the slightest trace of fear. He turned to those of us watching from the jetty and the road, and I sensed the force of his charm again; the potency of his beauty.
Even now, he expects to win
.
In a battle of wills between himself and Inès, he doesn’t believe he can possibly lose—

Still holding Du’a with one hand, he beckoned Inès with the other. The sun shone starkly on her face – pale after thirty years of
niqab
– her green eyes crazed with reflections.

Looking at them together now, I could see the resemblance; like something glimpsed underwater, reversed and fractured by the light. He has her mouth, with its tender curve; her arrogant cheekbones; her bearing. But there’s a weakness in Karim that is absent in his mother; something yielding, like spoilt fruit. It’s there in his colours; under the skin, a barely perceptible softness.

‘See what she is? The lying whore,’ he said, addressing the growing crowd. ‘This is
her
fault – just look at her face. Look at what she has done to me.’

Inès said, in French: ‘Let Du’a go.’

He gave a crack of laughter. ‘They’re all in it together, you know,’ he said. ‘Whores stick together. They always tell the same lies.’ He yanked sharply at Du’a’s hair, forcing her head back painfully. ‘Look at her! Look at those eyes and tell me she doesn’t know what she’s doing!’

Further down the walkway, I saw Paul-Marie in his chair, with Louis Acheron by his side. Alone of all the onlookers, they seemed to be enjoying the show. Roux was still standing ten feet away, too far to risk intervening. A second was all the time it would take for Karim to use the lighter. And yet Roux was considering it. I could see it in his posture; the tension at the back of his neck; the subtle shift to the balls of his feet—

Then, from the little alleyway, I heard a sudden cry of alarm.

‘There’s someone here! A body!’ It was Omi al-Djerba. ‘
Hee
, it’s my Du’a’s little friend—’ Clearly, from where she was standing, she hadn’t yet seen the tragedy beginning to play out by the Tannes. But Joséphine had caught her alarm. For a second she turned on Karim. ‘What did you do with my son?’

He shrugged. ‘He got in my way.’

‘I’ll kill you,’ she said. ‘I’ll kill you if you touched him—’

Around us, the crowd was silent. No one but Inès dared speak. In the sun, the reek of petrol was almost overpowering. The air seemed to shimmer with tension. From the jetty, I saw Paul-Marie, his face no longer flushed, but the colour of old ash. Could it be that Paul-Marie was actually
afraid
for his son?

Joséphine had already gone to see to Pilou in the alleyway. I couldn’t see what was happening; like Roux, I was fixed in place. Only Inès and Karim moved now, watching each other like wary cats.

‘Let Du’a go,’ said Inès. Her voice was low, but commanding. ‘I’ll do what you want. I’ll leave Lansquenet. I’ll go back to Tangier. I’ll never come back—’

‘As if
that
would do any good now!’ said Karim, his voice rising like an adolescent’s. ‘You’ve always been there to mess up my life. Reminding me I was born in shame. That wasn’t my fault!’

‘Karim,’ she said. ‘You know I never blamed you for that.’

He laughed again. ‘You didn’t have to! I saw it every day, in your face.’ Once more he addressed the onlookers: ‘See her face? It means she’s a whore. They’re
all
of them whores underneath. Even under the
niqab
, they’re watching you. They’re testing you. They’re always on heat. They’re Shaitan’s army, soft as silk, until they get their hands round your neck—’

Once more, he laughed. The Bic lighter – it was a red one, just like a strawberry lollipop – shone merrily in the sun. A click—

Du’a screamed. But the flame hadn’t caught.

Karim shot us that rainbow smile. ‘Oops. Try again.’

I moved half a step forward. From the door at the back of the gym, Saïd Mahjoubi was watching.

‘Why Du’a?’ I said to Karim. ‘Why choose her? She’s an innocent.’

‘How would
you
know?’ Karim said. ‘All I need do is look at you and I know what kind of woman you are. Where I come from, men know how to deal with women like you and your daughter. But here, in France, they talk about lifestyle choices, and free will—’

Now Alyssa was at my side. ‘Just let her go,’ she told him. ‘No one wants to see you hurt. And Du’a has done nothing wrong.’

The honey-kissed eyes lingered on her. ‘My sweet little sister,’ he said, and smiled. ‘Remember what I told you? Paradise opens its gates during the month of Ramadan. If only you’d had the courage to do what I am going to do, then maybe this wouldn’t have happened. We could have been together. But instead you listened to Shaitan’s whisperers, and now—’

‘You think Allah is fooled, Karim?’

The voice that came from behind us was only slightly familiar. A strong, commanding, masculine voice, filled with wrath and energy. At first I thought it must be Saïd, but Saïd was still standing at the door. He looked like a man dragged out of a dream. His face was glossy with disbelief.

I turned and saw, to my surprise, old Mahjoubi standing there. But this was not the old man I’d seen at the al-Djerbas’ house. This was Mahjoubi transfigured; Mahjoubi revitalized and reborn. He approached the boardwalk, and the crowd stood aside to let him pass.

‘There’s a story some of you may know,’ he said in his new, compelling voice. ‘A scholar and his disciple were on a journey together. They came to a swollen river. They saw a young woman standing there. She could not cross the river alone, and so the scholar picked her up and carried her to the other side.

‘Many miles later along their road, the disciple said to the scholar: “Why did you help that woman, master? She was alone, un-chaperoned. She was young and beautiful. Surely, this was very wrong. She might have tried to seduce you. And yet, you took her in your arms. Why?”

‘The scholar smiled and said to him, “I carried her across the river. But
you
have been carrying her ever since.”’

There was silence as old Mahjoubi finished his tale. All faces turned towards him. I saw Paul Muscat, still ashen; Caro Clairmont; Louis Acheron; Saïd Mahjoubi, looking like a man who has suffered a paralysing stroke.

Then Karim spoke again. His voice was lower than before, and for the first time his colours showed a sign of uncertainty.

‘Get away from me, old man.’

Mahjoubi took a step forward.

‘I said, get away. This is a war. A holy
jihad
.’

Mahjoubi took another step. ‘A war against women and children?’

‘A war against
immorality
!’ Now Karim’s voice was strident. ‘A war against the poison that threatens to infect us all! Look at you, you old fool. You don’t even see what’s under your nose. You don’t understand what has to be done!
Allahu Akhbar
—’

And with those words, he shoved the Bic into Du’a’s face. There was a
click
, and then a
whoosh
, and then all of these things seemed to happen at once:

A kind of sigh came from the crowd as Karim’s right arm blossomed with flame. So did Du’a’s
abaya
; she screamed; and for a split second I saw Karim’s expression through the heat haze; his ecstatic look changing to one of realization as the flames leapt on to his face, turning from blue to yellow, and then someone came hurtling towards him – a figure in black, with ferocious intent. It was Inès; her arms flung wide; her black
abaya
parted like wings to embrace the flaming figures.

She took Karim by surprise; he fell sideways against the balustrade, still holding Du’a with one hand. The wood was brittle, old pitch pine bleached blond by two centuries of sun and rain, and the force of the impact was enough to send the three of them over the edge, trailing rags of fire and smoke, into the slipstream of the Tannes.

Almost at the same time, another figure came hurtling through the broken balustrade. He moved as smoothly as a bird diving into the river. I barely had time to recognize his red hair and to call his name—

‘Roux!’

We ran to the balustrade. For a moment we saw nothing but the shreds of Du’a’s
abaya
floating downstream from the jetty. Then something surfaced; a flash of red; a blur of something paler; and then we saw Roux, swimming towards the bank, with Du’a clinging to his neck—

Later, we found that the discarded robe had taken most of the damage; beneath it her
kameez
was intact, and even her hair was barely scorched. But, though Roux went back to look, Inès and her son were gone.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Wednesday, 1st September

IT TOOK OUR
saviour Three days to rise. It took me a little longer. I can’t help feeling sorry for that; I hear it was quite a business. They carried me home – or someone did: if I am to believe the accounts that are circulating around Lansquenet, there must have been a hundred or more in the group that rescued me.

Imagine the tableau: Caro Clairmont in the role of the Magdalene; Père Henri as Saint Peter. Yes,
he
was there – she texted
him
rather than calling the police – and as soon as his sermon in Pont-le-Saôul was finished, he came running to save the day; by which time the crisis was over and his flock barely noticed he was there.

He wanted to give me the Last Rites. Caro would have let him, too, if Joséphine hadn’t intervened. From what I hear from Jean-Philippe – who, I am glad to say, was undamaged but for a headache and a nasty cut on the scalp – the intervention was both Rabelaisian and (according to Caro) unnecessarily aggressive. She ejected Père Henri Lemaître forcibly from the sickroom, at which point he was subjected to further abuse from Henriette Moisson, who, recognizing the
perverti
who tried to impersonate Monsieur le Curé, chased him out of the house with a broom, screaming like a Fury. Vlad was outside, explains Pilou. He doesn’t usually bite, but the combination of Henriette’s cries, the flying broom, the unfamiliar priest, well—

I think the word is
awesome
.

The bodies of Inès and Karim Bencharki were found by police divers on Monday. Still locked in that final, fervent embrace; her charred black robe enshrouding them both. Joséphine told me her story. I wish I’d known it sooner,
père
. I wish I could have known her face.

As for myself, I spent three days half in, half out of consciousness. Delirium, pneumonia, dehydration, exhaustion – all briskly dealt with by Cussonet, the village doctor, and Joséphine, who has barely left my side since the moment I arrived.

During that time, she tells me, there has been a stream of visitors. Some of them I remember: Guillaume Duplessis; Charles Lévy; Luc Clairmont and Alyssa Mahjoubi. Many from Les Marauds, bringing gifts, mostly of food. And, of course, Vianne Rocher: Vianne with a flask of hot chocolate; Vianne with a handful of
mendiants
; Vianne with a jar of peach jam and a smile like a summer sunrise.

‘How are you, Monsieur le Curé?’

I smiled. (I’m getting better at that.) ‘I’ll mend. Though I may need chocolate.’

She gave me an appreciative look. ‘I’ll do my best.’

‘How’s Du’a?’

She shrugged. ‘It’s going to take some time. The al-Djerbas are looking after her.’

‘Good. They’re good people. What about you?’

‘I thought we might stay another week. At least until you’re back on your feet.’

That took me by surprise. ‘Why?’

That smile again. ‘Oh, I don’t know. Perhaps I’m getting used to you.’ She reached into her pocket and pulled something out. I was expecting a chocolate. Instead, I saw in the palm of her hand a single, dry peach stone.

‘The last of Armande’s crop,’ she said. ‘I was going to plant it by her grave. And then I thought of your garden. You don’t have a peach tree, do you?’

‘No.’

‘Then plant it,’ she said. ‘Next to the wall, where it’s sunny. It might take a few years to bear fruit, but with time and patience … In China, the peach is a symbol of eternal life, did you know that?’

I shook my head.

I took the peach stone, not wanting to say that I might not be here to see it grow. My house belongs to the Church, after all, and my position is precarious. Today, the Bishop called me. Joséphine picked up the phone. He wants to drop by tomorrow; there are things to discuss, he says. I imagine Père Henri Lemaître has already told his version of the story. I do not expect an endorsement. Although my name has been cleared, I doubt whether this will change anything much. I have brought the Church into disrepute; defied the Bishop’s orders; caused friction with Les Marauds. I have no defence; I am guilty as charged. And yet—

While I was inside the whale, I had plenty of time to think. To remember what is important. To understand where I want to be. And I have realized that Lansquenet is more than just a parish to me. I cannot leave, even though the Bishop will probably ask me to. If that means giving up the Church, so be it,
père
. I’ll start again. Perhaps try my hand at carpentry, or gardening, or teaching. It’s hard to imagine, but then,
père
, I’ve never had very much imagination. Still, it’s easier for me to picture that than accepting another parish.

At Saint-Jérôme’s, Joséphine tells me I am sorely missed. Since the incident with Vlad, Père Henri has not returned. The bells have been mute since last Saturday, and no one has come to say Mass since then. Perhaps he’s waiting for me to leave. Perhaps the Bishop has told him to stay away until I am gone.

Dusk, and the moon is rising. I can see it from my bed. I sleep with the shutters open; I have never liked the dark. Since my time inside the whale, I find I like it even less. When I awake from uneasy dreams, I want to see the stars.

Next door, in the parlour, I can hear Joséphine moving about. Nothing I can say to her will persuade her to go home for long. She goes back for an hour at a time to see Pilou and to check the café, but Paul is looking after the place, and doing a reasonable job, for a change. Perhaps this ought to surprise me. But since what happened in Les Marauds, I find that very little does. People are not always what they seem, and even a wretch like Paul-Marie may one day live to surprise us.

I can see Vianne’s peach stone on my bedside table. How very like her to give it to me. Vianne, who never stays in one place long enough for any kind of seed to grow. Eternal life. Well, I never. The moon is in its last quarter, and across the Tannes I can just hear the sound of the evening call to prayer. Here, in the real world, it no longer sounds as threatening. I left those fears inside the whale, along with a lot of other things. I doubt if this makes me a better man. But something inside me
has
changed; something I am just beginning to explore, as a man might explore, with the tip of his tongue, the tender place inside his mouth from which an aching tooth has been pulled.

I am not sure how it happened. But what began with Vianne Rocher has ended with Inès Bencharki. And now, for the first time in seven days, I know that I will sleep tonight, and that when I awake there will be stars.