Peaches for Monsieur Le Curé (8 page)

CHAPTER TWO

Monday, 16th August

NIGHT WAS BEGINNING
to fall at last. The sky was veering from watermelon-red to a deep and velvety jewel-box blue. The wistful call of the
muezzin
sounded faintly across Les Marauds. At the same time, from across the river, the Lansquenet church bells began to ring, announcing the end of Mass. A dozen families had already invited us to dinner, had we wanted to socialize, but Rosette was already half asleep, and Anouk was glued to her iPod again. Both of them looked exhausted. Perhaps the fresh air; the change of scenery; the stream of friends and visitors. I set out a simple evening meal of olives, bread, fruit and cheese, with dandelion-leaf salad spiced with yellow nasturtiums. We ate mostly in silence, listening to the sounds of the night from the open window: crickets; church bells; frogs; evening birds; the ticking of Armande’s old clock, with its grinning, parchment-yellow face. I noticed Rosette wasn’t eating; just pushing olives around her plate like pieces in an elaborate game.

‘What’s wrong, Rosette? Aren’t you hungry?’

‘She misses Roux,’ explained Anouk.

‘
Rowr
,’ said Rosette mournfully.

‘We’ll see him soon. You’ll like it here,’ said Anouk, hugging her. She looked at me. ‘Joséphine didn’t come. I thought she’d be the first to say hello.’

She was right. I’d noticed that. Of course, the café is open all day; Joséphine must have been busy. All the same, I thought she might have dropped by during her lunch break. Perhaps she didn’t want to be around all those other people; people like Caro and Joline who only wanted to gossip and stare. Perhaps she was understaffed today, or meant to call at closing time. I hope so; of all those we left behind, perhaps Joséphine is the one I missed most; Joséphine with her soulful eyes and her air of stoic defiance.

‘We’ll go tomorrow,’ I promised Anouk. ‘Maybe she was busy today.’

We finished the meal in silence. Anouk and Rosette both went to bed. I stayed alone with a glass of red wine and wondered what Reynaud was doing now. I imagined him in his little house, watching the last of the sunset, listening to the church bells ring while his rival said Mass in his place. And then, because I was restless, I opened the door and went outside.

It smelt of dust and peaches. Crickets sang in the rosemary hedge. There are no streetlights in this part of town, but the sky, never totally dark, was enough to show me the path across the bridge into Lansquenet.

Below me, Les Marauds was coming alive. Lights shone around shuttered windows; people came and went in the street; the scent of incense and cooking rose from an open kitchen door. It all seemed very different from what it had been only hours ago: the dull, flat heat; the women in
hijab
scarves and
abayas
over their day clothes; the bearded men in their white robes; that cautious, watchful silence. Now there were voices; laughter; the sounds of celebration. Days are long during Ramadan. At the end of the day a simple meal comes as a feast, a glass of water a blessing. Stories are told; games played. Children stay up late into the evening.

A little girl in a yellow
kameez
ran across the boulevard, brandishing a long cane. It made a strident, whirring sound, and I recognized the local game of tying a large flying beetle to a stick with a piece of thread to make an improvised rattle.

Someone called out in Arabic. The child protested. A girl in a dark-blue kaftan came out. The child left the cane by the side of the road and followed the girl into the house. I wandered into Les Marauds, heading for the river. The bridge that links Les Marauds to the rest of Lansquenet stands at a kind of crossroads; this is where the tanneries stood, and where the village mosque now stands. On both sides, the walls of the old
bastide
remain, broken in places, a reminder to would-be intruders that Lansquenet protects its own.

The bridge is stone; rather low, the river dividing the village in two, like the halves of a sliced fruit. In winter, after the rain, the Tannes runs too high for any but the flattest of boats to pass. In autumn, if the summer has been especially hot, the river sometimes almost dries up, leaving banks of gritty sand divided by sparse rivulets. Just now, the river is perfect. Perfect for swimming; perfect for boats.

That made me wonder once again why Roux chose not to come. He spent four years in Lansquenet after Anouk and I left. So why would he stay in Paris now, loving the countryside as he does? Why has he chosen to stay on the Seine, when the Tannes is so inviting? And I know Rosette misses him – Anouk and I miss him too, of course, but Rosette misses him in a special way, a way that the two of us don’t understand. Of course, she still has Bam – who, in Roux’s absence, has made his presence more than usually apparent; sitting on a stool by Anouk, his tail a gleaming question mark in the yellow lamplight.

Oh Roux, why didn’t you come?

Roux dislikes technology; but I managed to persuade him to carry – if not to actually
use
– a mobile phone. I tried it now, but predictably it was turned off. I sent a text:

Arrived safely. Staying in Armande’s old house. Everything fine, but some changes. May have to stay a few more days. We miss you. Lots of love, Vx

The act of sending a message home made Roux seem all the more distant. Home.
Is
it my home now? I looked across at Lansquenet; its little lights; its crooked streets; the church tower, white in the dusk. Across the bridge, the darker half; the streets lit only by house lights; the shadowy spike of the minaret, topped with its silver crescent, challenging the church tower that stands like an upraised fist in the square.

For a while I had thought that
this
was my home; that I might stay in Lansquenet. Even now, the word
home
still conjures up that little shop, the rooms above the
chocolaterie
; Anouk’s bedroom in the loft, with its porthole window. And now I feel divided in a way I never was; half of me belongs with Roux; the other, here in Lansquenet. Perhaps because the village itself is now divided between two worlds; one new and multicultural, one as conservative as only the rural French can be, and I understand it perfectly—

What am I doing here?
I thought. Why have I opened this box of uncertainties? Armande’s letter clearly said that someone in Lansquenet needed help. But who is that person? Francis Reynaud? The Woman in Black? Joséphine? Myself, perhaps?

My path had taken me past the house from which the girl in the dark blue kaftan had come. The stick with the captive beetle was lying by the side of the road. I liberated the beetle, which buzzed at me crossly before flying off, and paused to look at the dwelling.

Like most of the houses in Les Marauds, it was a low-roofed, two-storey building, part wood, part yellow brick. It looked to be made from two houses that had been knocked together; the door and the shutters were painted green, and there were window boxes on the sills in which red geraniums were growing. From inside, I could hear voices; laughter; conversation. I could smell cooking, spices and mint. As I passed, the door opened again and the little girl in the yellow
kameez
dashed out into the street. She stopped as she saw me and stared, bright-eyed; I guessed her to be five or six, too young to be wearing a headscarf. Her hair was in bunches, tied with yellow ribbon. She wore a gold bracelet round one chubby wrist.

‘Hello,’ I said.

The little girl stared.

‘I’m afraid I let your beetle escape,’ I said, with a glance at the discarded cane. ‘He looked so sad, tied up like that. Tomorrow, you can catch him again. That is, if he wants to play.’

I smiled. The child continued to stare. I wondered if she’d understood. In Paris, I’d seen girls of Rosette’s age who hardly spoke a word of French, even though they’d been born there. Usually, they’d mastered the language by the time they left primary school; though some families I’d known were reluctant to send their daughters to secondary school – sometimes because of the headscarf ban, sometimes because they were needed at home.

‘What’s your name?’ I asked the child.

‘Maya.’ So she
did
understand.

‘Well, I’m happy to meet you, Maya,’ I said. ‘I’m Vianne. I’m staying in that house up there with my two little girls.’

I pointed to Armande’s old house.

Maya looked doubtful. ‘That house there?’

‘Yes. It belonged to my friend Armande.’ I could see she was unconvinced. I said, ‘Does your mother like peaches?’

Maya gave a little nod.

‘Well, my friend has a peach tree growing up the side of her house. Tomorrow, if you like, I’ll pick some and bring them to your mother for
iftar
.’

My use of the word made Maya smile. ‘You know
iftar
?’

‘Of course I do.’

My mother and I once lived in Tangier. A vibrant place in so many ways; filled with contradictions. I’ve always used food and recipes as a means of understanding those around me; and sometimes, in a place like Tangier, food is the only shared language.

‘How are you breaking the fast tonight? Is there harissa soup?’ I said. ‘I love harissa soup.’

Maya’s smile broadened. ‘Me too,’ she said. ‘And Omi makes pancakes. She has a secret recipe. They’re the best pancakes in the world.’

Suddenly the green door opened again. A woman’s voice spoke sharply in Arabic. Maya seemed about to protest, then reluctantly went back indoors. A female figure veiled in black appeared in the doorway as it closed – I raised a hand in greeting, but the door had already slammed shut before I could be certain whether the woman had seen me or not.

One thing I was sure of, though. The woman I’d just seen at the door was the same woman in
niqab
I’d seen by the church yesterday, and then again in Les Marauds. Karim Bencharki’s sister, whose real name no one seems to know; the woman whose shadow stretches so far across these two communities …

Walking home along the Tannes, the calm was almost eerie. The crickets and birds had fallen still; even the frogs were silent.

On evenings like this, the locals say, the Autan wind is ready to blow;
le Vent des Fous
, the Mad Wind, that rattles windows, parches crops and stops people from sleeping. The White Autan brings dry heat; the Black Autan brings storms and rain. Whichever way the wind blows, change is never far away.

What am I doing in Lansquenet? Once more, I can’t help wondering. Did the Autan bring me here? And which one will it be, this time? The White Autan, that keeps you awake, or the Black, that drives you insane?

CHAPTER THREE

Tuesday, 17th August

BLESS ME, FATHER
, for I have sinned. Of course, you’re not here any more. But I need to confess to someone,
père
, and to do so to the new priest – Père Henri Lemaître with his blue jeans and his bleached smile and his new ideas – is absolutely impossible. The Bishop is equally so. He actually thinks I lit the fire. I will not kneel to these people,
père
. I will be damned before I do.

Of course, you’re right. My sin is pride. I have always been aware of this. But I know that Père Henri Lemaître will destroy Saint-Jérôme’s, and I cannot just stand by and watch. The man uses PowerPoint in his sermons, for God’s sake, and has replaced the village organist with Lucie Levalois playing guitar. The result is undoubtedly popular – we’ve never had so many people coming from other villages – but I wonder what you’d think of it,
père
, who always used to be so austere.

The Bishop feels that, nowadays, worship should be more about fun than austerity.
We have to draw in the young
, he says – he himself is thirty-eight, seven years younger than I am, and he wears Nike trainers under his robe. Père Henri Lemaître is his protégé, and so, of course, can do no wrong. Hence his approval of Père Henri’s intention to modernize Saint-Jérôme’s, including display screens for his PowerPoint sermons, and plans to replace our old oak pews with something ‘more appropriate’. By this I suppose he means that oak goes badly with PowerPoint.

But although I myself may deplore the loss, I will be in the minority. Caro Clairmont has been complaining for years about those pews, which are narrow and hard (Caro herself is neither). And of course, if they are taken out, her husband, Georges, will be the one to reclaim, restore and ultimately sell them, at an absurdly inflated price, in Bordeaux, to wealthy tourists looking to furnish their holiday homes with something nicely authentic.

It’s hard not to get angry,
père
. I’ve given my life to Lansquenet. And for it all to be snatched away – and for such a reason—

It all comes back to that blasted shop. That blasted
chocolaterie
. What is it about that place that attracts trouble? First it was Vianne Rocher – then, Bencharki’s sister. Now, even gutted and empty, it seems to be doing its best to provoke my downfall. The Bishop is certain, he tells me, that nothing links me to the fire. Hypocrite. You notice that he does
not
say that he believes in my innocence. What he says, very reasonably, is that, whatever the outcome of the investigation into my conduct, my position here has been compromised. Perhaps another parish, then, where my history is not known …

Damn his condescension. I will not go quietly. I refuse to believe that, after everything I have done for this community,
no one
here has faith in me. There must be something I can do. A gesture to earn myself some goodwill among my people and those of Les Marauds. Trying to talk with them has not helped; but maybe action will plead my cause.

Which is why this morning I decided to go back to Place Saint-Jérôme and do what I could to make amends. The shop is structurally sound: it requires little more than a thorough clean, some tiles on the roof, some replacement wood and plasterwork and a few coats of paint to make it like new. Or so I thought; I also believed that if others saw me helping out, some of them would lend a hand.

Four hours later, I ached all over, and no one had even spoken to me. Poitou’s bakery is opposite; the Café des Marauds just down the road, and no one had even thought to bring me as much as a drink in this crushing heat. I began to understand,
père
, that this was my penance – not for the fire, but for my arrogance in believing that I could win back my flock with a show of humility.

After lunch, the bakery closed; the sun-bleached square was silent. Only Saint-Jérôme’s tower offered some relief from the sun; as I dragged pieces of charred debris from inside the shop on to the kerb, I lingered awhile in its shadow, then took a drink from the fountain.

‘What are you doing?’ said a voice.

I straightened up. Sweet Jesus. Of all the people I would rather
not
see – the Clairmont boy is no trouble, of course, but he’ll tell his mother, and I would have much preferred him to see me surrounded by friendly volunteers, cleaning up the Bencharki place, instead of exhausted, filthy and sore, surrounded by nothing but burnt wood.

‘Nothing much.’ I shot him a smile. ‘I thought we could show solidarity. You wouldn’t want a mother and child to come back to a place like
this
—’ I indicated the charred front door and the blackened mess that lay beyond.

Luc gave me a guarded look. Perhaps the smile had been a mistake.

‘All right, it makes me uncomfortable,’ I confessed, dropping the smile. ‘Knowing that half the village thinks
I
was the one responsible.’

Half
the village? If only it was. Right now I could count my supporters on the fingers of one hand.

‘I’ll help,’ Luc said. ‘I’ve got nothing but time just now.’

Of course, his university term begins in late September. As I recall, he is studying French literature, to Caro’s disapproval. But why would he want to help me now? He never liked me, not even when his mother was one of my devotees.

‘I’ll bring a van from the wood-yard,’ he said, indicating the debris. ‘First I’ll help you clear this up, and then we can see what kind of supplies we’re going to need.’

Well, I was in no position to refuse. After all, it was pride that got me into this. I thanked him and set to work again, dragging out the debris. There was far more of it than I’d thought, but with Luc’s help, by the end of the day we had cleared out all the wreckage from downstairs.

The bells for Mass began to ring; the shadows lengthened in the square. Père Henri Lemaître, looking as if he’d stepped out of a refrigerated storage box just for priests, came sauntering out of Saint-Jérôme’s, his soutane nicely pressed, his hair in a fashionably boyish style, his freshly laundered collar only a shade whiter than his teeth.

‘Francis!’ I hate it when he calls me that.

I gave him my most diplomatic smile.

‘How good of you to do all this,’ he said, as if I had done it for him. ‘If only you’d told me this morning, I could have put in a word after Mass—’ His tone implied that he himself would have been more than happy to help, if only the burden of caring for
my
parish had not been thrust upon him. ‘And, speaking of Mass—’ He cast a critical glance at my sooty, sweating person. ‘Were you thinking of attending this evening? I have a change of clothes in the vestry that I’d be more than glad—’

‘No, thanks.’

‘It’s just that I notice you haven’t been to Mass, or taken Communion, or attended confession since—’

‘Thank you. I’ll bear it in mind.’

As if I’d take the Host from him, and as for confession – well,
père
. I know it’s a sin, but let’s just say that the day I take a penance from him will be the day I leave the Church for ever.

He gave me a look of sympathy. ‘My door is always open,’ he said.

And then, with a last gleam of his toothpaste-commercial smile, he was gone, leaving me very far from serene, fists clenched behind my back.

That was enough. I called it a day. I went home before the crowd for Mass began to gather in the square. Those bells pursued me all the way, and when I arrived at my front door I saw that someone had tagged it in black aerosol. It must have been recent; I could still smell the paint fumes in the warm air.

I looked around; I saw no one but a trio of boys on mountain bikes at the end of the Rue des Francs Bourgeois. Teenagers, from what I could see; one dressed in a loose white shirt; the other two in T-shirts and jeans, all three wearing the chequered scarves that Arab men sometimes wear. They saw me and cycled off at speed towards Les Marauds, shouting something in Arabic. I do not know the language, but from their tone and their laughter I guessed it was probably not a compliment.

I could have followed them,
mon père
. Perhaps I should have done so. But I was tired and – yes, I confess – maybe just a little afraid. And so I went inside instead, and had a shower, and poured a beer, and tried to eat a sandwich.

But through the open window I could still hear those bells ringing for Mass, and beyond them, the voice of the
muezzin
carried over the river like a ribbon of smoke on the evening air. And I
would
have liked to pray, but somehow all I could think of was Armande Voizin, her snapping black eyes, her impertinent ways, and how she would have laughed at all this. Perhaps she sees me. The thought appals. And so I fetch another beer and watch the sun set over the Tannes, while in the east a crescent moon rises over Lansquenet.