Peaches for Monsieur Le Curé (41 page)

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Thursday, 2nd September

THIS MORNING, I
rose, in defiance of Cussonet’s orders and Joséphine’s disapproval. I was shocked to discover how weak I was, and how long it took for me to get ready. But a visit from the Bishop is rare, and I had no intention of facing him from a horizontal position.

I showered and dressed with particular care, and after some hesitation, chose to put on the old soutane that I have not worn in years.
It may be my last chance to do so
, I thought, and was vaguely surprised at the pain I felt. Joséphine had gone to check on Pilou, and so I went into the kitchen to find something for breakfast.

Joséphine had told me that a number of people had brought gifts of food. This was no exaggeration – in fact, every surface was burdened with dishes, tins and boxes. There were casseroles and quiches and tarts; biscuits, fruit and pastries; bottles of wine; jars of jam; roasts and tagines and curries and soups and an enormous stack of those Moroccan pancakes. Opening the fridge, I found cheeses, ham, cold meats, pâtés—

Bewildered by sheer volume and variety, I made coffee and a piece of toast, and for the first time in over a week, went out into my garden.

Someone has weeded my flowerbeds. Whoever it was has also pruned an unruly climbing rose, as well as planting a dozen pots of red geraniums and staking out some hollyhocks that had been in danger of collapsing.

I sat on my bench and watched the street. It was early; just past eight o’clock, and the morning sun was gentle. Birds were singing; the sky was clear, and yet I felt a sense of dread. In all my years as priest of Lansquenet, the Bishop has visited only four times, and never for social reasons. I guessed that, after Père Henri’s failure to deliver the message, he meant to deliver it himself.

I know, I know. It’s ridiculous. But I am a priest,
père
– more than that, I am the priest of Lansquenet. To leave Lansquenet is unthinkable; to give up the priesthood, equally so. Either way it would mean giving up half of my heart. It’s impossible.

I heard the clock strike the quarter. The Bishop was due at nine o’clock. His verdict was inevitable; so was my sentence. I would have paced, but my sickness had left me too weak. Instead I sat and waited with increasing misery for the sound of his car down the boulevard—

Instead, I saw Omi al-Djerba walking slowly down the road. Maya was with her, running ahead with the curious waddling gait of small children. It’s unusual to see people from Les Marauds on this side of the bridge, but since the events of last week, I’m told, it has been a more regular sight.

Maya got there first and looked at me sternly over the wall. ‘So. You’re up at
last
,’ she said. There was a world of condemnation in those five syllables.

‘Well, I’ve been quite ill,’ I said.

‘Jinn don’t get ill,’ said Maya.

It seems my release from the cellar has done nothing to shake Maya’s belief in my uncanny powers. Even the revelation that I am a priest has left her mostly unmoved. She fixed her solemn eyes on mine.

‘Du’a’s
memti
died,’ she said.

‘Yes, Maya. I’m sorry.’

Maya shrugged. ‘It wasn’t your fault. You can’t fix everything at once.’

This matter-of-fact response was enough to make me laugh aloud. It was a strange, unhappy sound, but it was laughter nevertheless. In any case it surprised Omi al-Djerba, who peered over the wall at me with a look of reluctant approbation.

‘Well,’ she declared, ‘you look awful.’

‘Happy to oblige,’ I said, putting down my coffee cup.

She made a face that I took for a grin. She is so old that her wrinkles have evolved a topography of their own, each with its own set of expressions. But her eyes, which are baby-blue with age, still have a surprisingly youthful shine. Vianne says she reminds her of Armande, and now, for the first time, I can see why. She has the kind of irreverence that only the very old, or the very young, can achieve.

‘I heard you were leaving,’ she said.

‘You heard wrong.’

Caro Clairmont, I suppose. You can usually trace gossip back to her door – especially when it’s bad news. My instinctive response surprised me a little; though Omi nodded approvingly.

‘Good,’ she said. ‘They need you here.’

‘That’s not what I’ve been told,’ I said.

Omi made a derisive sound. ‘Some people don’t know
what
they need until they’re about to lose it. You should know that, Monsieur le Curé.
Hee!
You men! You think you’re so wise. But it takes a woman to show you what’s right under your nose.’ She laughed, exposing gums as pink as Maya’s rubber boots. ‘Have a macaroon,’ she said, pulling one out of her pocket. ‘It will make you feel better.’

‘Thanks. I’m not a child,’ I said.

She made that noise again. ‘
Meh
. You’re young enough to be my great-grandson.’ She shrugged and ate the sweet herself.

‘Isn’t it still Ramadan?’ I said.

‘I’m too old for Ramadan. And my Maya is too young.’ She winked and handed Maya a sweet. ‘You priests. You’re all the same. You think fasting helps you to think about God, when anyone who can cook would tell you that fasting just makes you think about
food
.’ She grinned at me. All her wrinkles grinned, too. ‘You think God cares what you put in your mouth?’ She popped another macaroon. ‘Ah. That will be your bishop.’

That
was the sound of a car approaching; the double-bump over the camel-backed bridge; the sound of its straining engine as it rattles up the cobbled street. Most of the streets of Lansquenet are not really built for cars. Most of us drive (I myself do not), but we know how to handle our vehicles, coaxing them over the bumps in the road, slowing down for the ancient bridge, speeding up only at the far end of the boulevard. The Bishop is not familiar with the peculiarities of our streets, and the exhaust of his silver Audi was blowing alarmingly by the time he stopped in front of my house.

The Bishop is in his fifties; square-shouldered, square-jawed, more like an ex-rugbyman than a cleric. He must have the same dentist as Père Henri, because he has almost the same teeth. This morning they were ferocious in their whiteness and good cheer.

‘Ah, Francis!

‘Good morning,
monseigneur
.’ (He likes to be called Tony.)

‘Such formality! You’re looking well. And this is—’ He looked curiously at Omi, who stared back at him, unabashed.

I gave her a warning glare. ‘
Monseigneur
, this is Madame al-Djerba. She was just about to leave.’

‘Was I?’ said Omi.

‘Yes,’ I said.

‘It’s just that I’ve never seen a bishop before. I thought you’d be in purple.’

‘Well, thank you,
madame
,’ I said. ‘And now, the Bishop and I need to talk.’

‘Oh, don’t mind us,’ said Omi. ‘We’ll wait.’ And she sat down on the garden bench with the look of someone prepared to wait indefinitely, if required.

‘Excuse me, what are you waiting for?’ said the Bishop.

‘Oh, nothing much. But everybody wants to see Monsieur le Curé back on his feet. A lot of people have missed him.’

‘Really?’ The Bishop gave me a look. His surprise was far from flattering.

‘Oh, yes,’ said Omi firmly. ‘That new priest was no substitute. That kind of priest may work in the big city, but not in a village like Lansquenet.
Khee!
It takes more than a few committees to get to the heart of a village. Père Henri has a lot to learn.’ And then, just as she spoke, there came the sound of bells from Saint-Jérôme’s.
My
bells, ringing for Mass, although it wasn’t Père Henri’s day.

The Bishop frowned. ‘Isn’t that—?’

‘Yes.’

The bells were too loud to be ignored. We went as far as the end of the street and looked into the empty square. There was no sign of anyone, and yet the church door was open. The bells rang on. I went to the door. The Bishop, after a moment’s hesitation, followed me inside.

The church was filled with people. As a rule, my congregation numbers forty or fifty at best, at Christmas or Easter. The rest of the time, I’m lucky to see a couple of dozen; sometimes fewer. But today, the pews were all full; there were even people standing at the back. Three hundred people, maybe more – half the population of Lansquenet – waiting for me inside Saint-Jérôme’s.

‘What
is
going on?’ said the Bishop.

‘
Monseigneur
, I have no idea.’

‘Monsieur le Curé! Glad you’re well.’

That was Paul-Marie Muscat, at the back in his wheelchair. Pilou was sitting beside him, with Vlad, a piece of string firmly attached to his collar. I saw Joséphine next to them, smiling as if her heart might break. Then, Georges Poitou and his wife. The Acheron family –
all
of them, even the eldest son, Jean-Louis, who never usually goes to church. Then Joline Drou and her son, Jeannot; Guillaume Duplessis; Georges and Caro Clairmont – Caro, with an air of concern that made me want to wring her neck. Narcisse, who takes Communion twice a year, if he remembers to, but rarely attends otherwise; Henriette Moisson; Charles Lévy; even the Englishman, Jay Mackintosh—

And then there were people who, for good reason, had
never
been part of my congregation. Zahra al-Djerba. Sonia Bencharki. Alyssa Mahjoubi. Their father, Saïd. And old Mohammed Mahjoubi, too – all of them carrying flowers and fruit. And, of course, there was Vianne Rocher. And Anouk, and Rosette, and the river-rats; ragged people, tattooed people, crowding my church to the vaulting—

And on every surface, every ledge, there were candles. Hundreds,
thousands
of votives, every single one a prayer; on the altar; by the font; beneath the statues of Saint Francis and the Virgin. We don’t have as many on Christmas Eve; but today, on a Thursday morning in September, Saint-Jérôme’s was like a cathedral.

‘Glad to see you well,
mon père
.’

‘Did you get my flowers?’

‘I hope you enjoyed the wine,
mon père
.’

‘Will you be taking confession?’

I turned to the Bishop. ‘I had no
idea
—’

But
monseigneur
was smiling. There may have been a little frost in that toothpaste-commercial smile, but the Bishop is politician enough to know when to change allegiance.

‘How wonderful to see so many here,’ he said, addressing the villagers. ‘Yes, of course – don’t crowd Père Francis – I’m sure he’ll agree to say a few words.’

Well,
père
, I have never said Mass to such a large crowd of people. Of course, I had nothing prepared – but to my surprise, the words came to me more easily than ever before. I don’t remember quite what I said, but I talked about community, and what it really means to belong; and of the kindness of strangers; and of being in the darkness, watching the light from the windows of other people’s homes; and of being inside the whale, and of being a stranger in a foreign land – and when I had finished, the Bishop was gone.

As Vianne would have said, the wind had changed.

CHAPTER ONE

Wednesday, 8th September

WELL, PÈRE HENRI
never came back. after that, no one expected him to. Lansquenet, with Joséphine’s help, has once more reclaimed Francis Reynaud. Père Henri’s remaining groupies – Caro Clairmont among them – know better than to voice their dissatisfaction. After all, they were the ones who fêted Karim Bencharki.

Reynaud, against doctor’s orders, was back to work from that day forth. He still looks thin and rather pale, but says that anything is better than taking confession from his bed. Besides, he tells me in his caustic way, he already has enough gifts of food to open up a shop of his own. Of course, Reynaud is not a man who knows how to deal with affection. It bewilders him slightly, and makes him wonder what he is doing wrong. As a result, when taking confession, he is more than usually strict with
Avés
. His people understand this, and play penitence accordingly. Besides, they feel responsible. They want to make him happy.

Joséphine has still not left. I wonder now if she ever will. This evening I called to say goodbye, and found her on the
terrasse
, drinking hot chocolate and watching Pilou sitting on the side of the bridge. Pilou had his fishing-pole, and Paul-Marie was beside him, with Vlad lying next to him on the road. I could only see Paul from the back as he sat there in his wheelchair, but there was something about his posture that made me want to look again—

‘I know it’s stupid,’ said Joséphine. ‘People don’t change. Not really. But over the past few days he’s been—’ She shrugged. ‘You know. Just different.’

I smiled. ‘I know. I’ve seen it too. And no, people don’t often
change
– but sometimes they grow, if you give them the chance. Look at Reynaud.’

She nodded.

Of course, you’d have to know him very well to sense the change in Monsieur le Curé. But something has altered, something that few other people would notice. I do, because it’s in his colours. And Joséphine, because—

‘Did you see? They finished the old
chocolaterie
.’

I shook my head. ‘I’ll have to look.’

I’m aware that over the past two weeks Luc Clairmont and his father have been working hard to restore the place. Roux volunteered to help them, which is why we’ve barely seen him, but on my way to the café today I omitted to check on their progress.

‘What’s going to happen to the place now?’

She shrugged. ‘Your guess is as good as mine.’

I know what she’s thinking. It’s been a week since Reynaud left his sickroom. School terms are beginning again. It’s time to get back to Paris. And yet—

‘You can’t leave today,’ said Omi, when I tried to tell her this morning. ‘Tonight is the end of Ramadan. Tonight, there’ll be
harira
soup and barley soup and sixteen kinds of
briouats
, and roast lamb and spiced couscous and
chebakia
and stuffed dates. Plus I’ll be making coconut
sellou
to my mother’s recipe, and you will never forgive yourself if you miss the chance to taste it.’

We are all invited, of course. People from both sides of the Tannes; even the river-gypsies. There’s not enough room in the al-Djerba or the Mahjoubi houses to accommodate everyone, but the nights are still mild, and the jetty is the ideal place for a celebration. Already, trestles and benches have been set up on the riverbank, while the boats closest to the jetty are decked with lanterns and fairy lights. All the women will be dressed in their best and brightest clothes – no black today – and scented with patchouli oil and amber and cedar and sandal and rose. There will be games for the children, the minaret will be illuminated and I have made a batch of chocolates, with pistachios, cardamom and gold leaf, tied up in twists of coloured paper, to be given out to everyone.

Not everyone will come, of course. The Acherons remain opposed, and some of the young men from the gym are also refusing to take part. Even so, Lansquenet has never seen such a gathering.
Maghrébins
; river-rats; villagers and visitors, all here to celebrate the end of a time of sacrifice—

‘No wine, of course,’ said Joséphine. ‘
And
no dancing. How does that work?’

I laughed. ‘I’m sure you’ll manage.’

She looked at me. ‘You make it sound as if you won’t be there tonight.’

‘Of course I’ll be there.’

Of course I will. But there’s something in the air, Joséphine; something that smells of car exhausts and fog on the Seine and plane trees and rain on the September streets. I know what it is. You know it, too. You’ve felt the pull of the changing wind. Outside in the square, there’s an autumn scent. The shadows are starting to lengthen. Anouk is talking to Jeannot – earnestly, her hand in his – while Rosette and Pantoufle and Bam chase each other like clusters of leaves around the cobbled corners. The light is rosy and somehow sad – the nostalgic light of summers past – and I sense that something is over, but what? The whitewashed church tower is rosewater-pink. The Tannes is a sheet of hammered gold. I can see all of Lansquenet, from Saint-Jérôme’s to Les Marauds. And the people – I can see them too, their colours rising like strings of smoke against the fading summer sky.

So many people. So many stories. All of them interwoven with mine, into this cat’s-cradle of light.

In his garden, Francis Reynaud waters his peach stone and thinks of Armande. On the deck of the black houseboat, Roux lies on his back and waits for the stars. On the bridge, Paul-Marie watches his son catch a perch, and smiles warmly – an unfamiliar sensation, which he has to check with his fingertips, as a man may check his moustache for crumbs after eating a sandwich. In the mosque, old Mahjoubi gets ready for prayers. The spire of the minaret floats in the sun. In an alley in Les Marauds, François and Karine Acheron sit with Maya around a box with a couple of puppies inside. Du’a sits on the riverbank, watching the Tannes. She no longer wears an
abaya
, but jeans, a
kameez
and her red slippers. Alyssa Mahjoubi sits with her; her short hair is uncovered, her eyes full of tears.

You see, everywhere I look, there are things that connect me to Lansquenet. Stories; people; memories; insubstantial as heat haze, and yet they have a resonance, as if those strings of light could play a tune that might finally lead me home. So the
chocolaterie
is finished at last. I feel a strange reluctance to look. Better, perhaps, to remember it as I first saw it three weeks ago; a ruin, scorched and abandoned. But then, I’ve never been very good at leaving things behind. I tried, but I have always left fragments of myself there too, like seeds awaiting their chance to grow.

I leave Joséphine and Roux to get ready for the evening’s celebrations and walk out into the Place Saint-Jérôme, where the last frame of summer is fading to grey. And yes, the chocolate shop is there, just as it was the day I left; flowerpots on the window-ledge; shutters painted geranium-red; all whitewashed and gleaming and new again, waiting for someone—

Someone like you
—

The sound of the
muezzin
floats across from Les Marauds. At the same time, the church clock strikes the half-hour. Jeannot Drou has gone home, and Anouk is on the street corner, the shadow of Pantoufle at her feet like a signpost marking our road.

Above my head comes a small, creaking sound. It’s the wooden sign above the shop door; fixed to the wall by a bracket. Its voice is small, but persistent; the voice of a tiny bird that chirps:
Try me. Test me. Taste me
.

I look up. The sign is blank, ready to be painted. I can almost see it now, in red and yellow lettering; as if the events of the past eight years have been neatly and prettily folded away, leaving no rough edges, no blanks, just the gloss of recovered time.

And it smells of the Americas; the court of Montezuma; spiced, in golden goblets and mixed with wine and pomegranate juice. And it smells of cream and cardamom; of sacrificial bonfires; of temples and of palaces; of vanilla and tonka and mocha and rose. The scent is overwhelming; it rushes through me like the wind; it sweeps me off my feet like love—

Will you stay, Vianne? Will you stay?

Anouk and Rosette are watching me. Both of them have friends here. Both of them are a part of this place, as we are a part of Paris; bound by a hundred invisible threads, which must be broken when we leave—

I reach out my hand to touch the door. It, too, has been painted geranium-red. It’s my favourite colour; Roux, who painted it, must have known. And now can I see the faintest glow, etched in gold around the frame like the tiniest, sweetest of glamours? From the corner of my eye I can see Bam, watching me. Since we arrived in Lansquenet, Bam has been very visible. Now, today, so is Pantoufle; his solemn eyes blink at me from the shadows.

I try the door. It is open. Doors are always open here. It opens a crack: inside, in the dark, is that a flash of kingfisher-blue, a scrawl of exuberant orange? My children are learning, I tell myself, with a strange little tug of pride. They know how to summon the wind. But is it enough? Is it ever enough?

Across the river, in Les Marauds, Roux is getting ready. I know the signs; that distant look of other places in his eyes. Roux would never live in a house. Even a houseboat is limiting. And Lansquenet is
small
, Roux. Small people. Small minds. In the end, you came with me because you knew she’d never leave—

Quietly, I close the door. Above my head, the invisible bird gives its tiny, persistent call:
Try me
.
Try me
.

I hold out my hands to my children. Anouk takes one: Rosette, the other. The call of the
muezzin
falls silent now over Les Marauds. The sun has set. We don’t look back. We have a party to go to.