I cut the cards and laid them out. Outside in Les Marauds, Rosette was still playing with her new friend. The cards are old, somewhat battered; the woodcut designs worn thin with frequent handling.
The Seven of Swords: futility. The Seven of Disks: failure. The Queen of Cups has a distant look; the look of a woman who has been disappointed so badly and so often that she dares not hope again. The Knight of Cups, who should be a dynamic card, has suffered a little water damage; his face looks raddled and debauched. Who is he? He looks familiar. But he offers no answer to my question. In any case—
The cards are bad. I should put them away, I know. What am I doing here, anyhow? I almost wish I had never opened Armande’s letter; that Roux had never delivered it; that he had thrown it into the Seine.
I check my phone. No message from Roux. It is more than likely that he hasn’t checked his messages – he is as unreliable with mobile phones as he is with letters – but after what I’ve learnt today, I need that simple contact. It’s absurd, I tell myself – I’ve never needed anyone. And yet I can’t help thinking that the longer I stay in Lansquenet, the more precarious the thread that connects me with my new life—
Of course, we could go home tonight. It’s very simple, really. What’s keeping me here? Nostalgia? A memory? A handful of cards?
No, none of those things. What, then?
I put the cards back in their box. As I do so, one of them escapes and falls face down upon the floor. A woman holding a distaff, from which a lunar crescent unwinds. Her face is cloaked in shadow. The Moon. A card I’ve long associated with myself, but today she is someone different. Perhaps it is that crescent moon, so like the one above the mosque. Or maybe it’s the shrouded face, which draws me back to the Woman in Black, that woman I have only glimpsed, but whose shadow stretches right across the river Tannes to Les Marauds, reeling me in, drawing me home …
Home. Oh, that word again. But Lansquenet is not my home. And yet, the pull of that word is strong. Do I even know what it means? Perhaps the Woman in Black can explain – that is, if I can find her.
Anouk is back from her day with Jeannot, with a cheery summer smile and sunburn across the bridge of her nose. I leave her here now with Rosette, whose little friend has gone home at last, taking his dog with him. However, I suspect we may see more of Pilou, and Vlad, and Jeannot in the next few days.
‘Did you have a good time?’
Anouk nods. Her eyes are very bright. In spite of the difference in colouring, she looks very like Rosette today; her hair in exuberant ringlets from the damp wind on the Tannes. I’m glad she has found a friend in this place; even if he is the son of Joline Drou. I remember a bright-eyed little boy, diffident at first, but soon immersed in Anouk’s extravagant games. His favourites were chocolate mice; he used to put them into fresh baguettes to make pains au chocolat. Now he must be Anouk’s age; maybe a little older. He has broadened out since we last met, standing taller than either of his parents, although the illusion of maturity is belied by his adolescent slouch and the coltish, lolloping way he walks when he thinks no one is watching. I’m glad that Jeannot has retained something of the little boy he was. Too many people I know have changed, some beyond recognition.
Saint-Jérôme’s clock strikes six o’clock. A good time to call on our neighbours. The men will still be at the mosque. The women are preparing iftar.
‘I want to go out for a little while. Will you be all right?’
She nods. ‘Sure. I’ll make dinner.’
That means dried pasta again, I suppose, cooked on Armande’s wood-stove. There’s a jar of it in the pantry, though I dare not think how old it is. Anouk and Rosette love pasta above almost everything else; with a little dash of oil and some basil from the garden, they will both be happy. There are peaches, too; and brandied cherries and plums from Narcisse, and a flan aux pruneaux from his wife, and some galette and cheese from Luc.
I look towards the green-shuttered house. I promised Maya peaches. Anouk helps me to pick some. We put them in a basket on a bed of dandelion leaves. That’s something I’d almost forgotten, living eight years in Paris: the scent of peaches on the tree, sunny and intoxicating; the slightly bitter scent of those leaves, like dusty pavements after the rain. To me it smells of childhood; of roadside stalls and summer nights.
What about the Woman in Black? Of course, I have no proof of this. But a part of me is confident that peaches are her favourites.
There was a time when I used to know everybody’s favourite. A part of me still does, although the gift my mother valued so highly has more than often been a curse. Knowledge is not always comfortable. Even power is not always good. I learnt that lesson four years ago, when Zozie de l’Alba burst into our lives like a hurricane in scarlet shoes. There is too much at stake for me to be truly happy riding the wind; too much responsibility in reading the script of the human heart.
Should I really be doing this? Can I make a difference here? Or will the Woman in Black turn out to be my very own black piñata, filled with words that are best left unread, stories best left secret?
CHAPTER FIVE
Tuesday, 17th August
I‘D EXPECTED TO find the woman in black. But instead, when I went to the green-shuttered house, an older woman opened the door. Late sixties; round-faced; plump; thick grey hair escaping from beneath a loosely knotted white hijab. She looked surprised to see me – even a little suspicious at first – but when I gave her the peaches and mentioned seeing Maya last night, her face broke into a broad smile.
‘Ah, the little one,’ she exclaimed. ‘Always in trouble. So naughty, hé?’ She spoke with the kind of indulgence only a grandparent can afford.
I smiled. ‘I have a little girl too. Rosette. You’ll probably see her soon. And my Anouk. I’m Vianne, by the way.’
I held out my hand. She gave my fingers the light press that counts as a handshake in Tangier. ‘Your husband?’
‘He’s in Paris,’ I said. ‘We’re only here for a few days.’
She gave her name as Fatima. Her husband was Mehdi al-Djerba. I remembered the name, though vaguely, from something Reynaud had said the day I’d arrived: he’d said they ran some kind of shop; that they’d lived in Les Marauds for almost eight years; that Mehdi was from old Marseille and liked the occasional glass of wine—
Fatima gestured towards the door. ‘Please, come in and have some tea—’
I shook my head. ‘I don’t want to intrude. I know you’re very busy. I only came to say hello, and to bring the peaches. We have far too many, and—’
‘Come in, come in!’ Fatima said. ‘I was only making food. I’ll give you something to take home. Do you like Moroccan cooking?’
I told her I’d spent six months in Tangier while I was still in my teens.
The smile broadened still further. ‘I make the very best halwa chebakia. With mint tea, or qamar-el-deen – you can take some home to your family.’
Such an offer cannot be refused. I know this from experience. Years of travelling with my mother have taught me that food is a universal passport. Whatever the constraints of language, culture or geography, food crosses over all boundaries. To offer food is to extend the hand of friendship; to accept is to be accepted into the most closed of communities. I wondered if Francis Reynaud had ever thought of this approach. Knowing him, he hasn’t. Reynaud means well, but he isn’t the type to buy halwa chebakia or to drink a glass of mint tea in the little café on the corner of the Boulevard P’tit Baghdad.
I followed Fatima into the house, making sure to leave my shoes at the door. It was pleasantly cool inside and smelt of frangipani; the shutters closed since midday to guard against the heat of the sun. A door led into the kitchen, from which I caught the mingled scents of anise and almond and rosewater and chickpeas cooked in turmeric, and chopped mint, and toasted cardamom, and those wonderful halwa chebakia, sweet little sesame pastries deep-fried in oil, just small enough to pop into the mouth, flower-shaped and brittle and perf
ect with a glass of mint tea …
‘No, really, I’ll take them home,’ I said, when she pressed me once more to accept tea and sweet-fried pastries. ‘But you mustn’t give me too many. You must be preparing for iftar.’
‘Oh, we have plenty,’ said Fatima. ‘In this house, we like to cook. And everyone helps in the kitchen—’ She opened the kitchen door on a semicircle of curious faces. I wondered whether one of these might be the Woman in Black, but dismissed the thought almost instantly. This, I knew, was a family.
There was Maya, on a little stool, preparing okra; and two young women in their late twenties that I guessed to be Fatima’s daughters. One was in black, with the hijab neatly covering her hair and neck. The other wore an embroidered hijab over jeans and a silk kameez.
On a chair behind the door sat a tiny, very old lady, peering at me, bird-eyed, from a nest of wrinkles. Ninety or older, her fine white hair braided into a long, thin plait that was wrapped round her head half a dozen times, a yellow scarf falling loosely around her neck. Her face was like a shrivelled peach; her hands as crabbed as chicken claws. And as I stepped into the kitchen, hers was the voice that broke the silence, crowing shrilly in Arabic.
‘This is my mother-in-law,’ said Fatima, smiling, with the same indulgent expression that she’d used when speaking of Maya. ‘Come on, Omi, say hello to our guest.’
Omi al-Djerba gave me a look that reminded me oddly of Armande.
‘Look, she brought peaches,’ Fatima said.
The crow became a cackle. ‘Let me see,’ said Omi. Fatima held out the basket. ‘Mmf,’ said Omi, and shot me a smile as empty of teeth as a turtle’s. ‘That’s good. You can come again. All these silly little things – these briouats and almonds and dates – how can I chew my way through these? My daughter-in-law is trying to starve me to death. Inshallah, she will not succeed and I shall outlive all of you!’
Maya laughed and clapped her hands. Omi pretended to snarl at her. Fatima smiled, with the air of one who has heard all this many times before. ‘You see what I have to live with,’ she said, indicating the others. ‘These are my daughters, Zahra and Yasmina. Yasmina married Ismail Mahjoubi. Maya is their little girl.’
I smiled at the circle of women. Zahra – the one in the black hijab – gave me a shy smile in return. Her sister, Yasmina, shook my hand. They looked very much alike, I thought – although they were dressed very differently. I wondered for a moment whether Zahra was the Woman in Black, but the woman I had seen in the square – and later, at the door of the house – was taller, I thought, perhaps older, and more physically graceful beneath her robes.
I remembered enough of my Arabic to say: ‘Jazak Allah.’
The women looked surprised, then pleased. Zahra murmured a polite reply. Maya gave a crow of laughter and clapped her hands again.
‘Maya,’ said Yasmina, and frowned.
‘She’s a sweet little girl,’ I said.
Omi cackled. ‘Wait till you meet my Du’a,’ she said. ‘Bright as a pin. What a memory! She can recite from the Qur’an better than old Mahjoubi. I tell you, if that girl had been a boy, she’d be running the village by now—’
Fatima gave me a comic look. ‘Omi always wanted boys. This is why she encourages Maya to run wild. And to make fun of her grandfather.’
Omi winked at Maya. Maya grinned and winked back.
Yasmina smiled, but Zahra did not. She seemed less at ease than the others, guarded and uncomfortable. ‘We should offer our guest some tea,’ she said.
I shook my head. ‘No, really, I won’t. But thank you for the pastries. I have to get back anyway. I don’t want my daughters to worry.’
I picked up my basket again, now filled with a selection of Moroccan sweetmeats.
‘I’ve made these myself once or twice,’ I said. ‘But now I just make chocolates. Did you know I used to rent the shop, the one by the church, where there was the fire?’
‘Did you?’ Fatima shook her head.
‘Well, that was a long time ago,’ I said. ‘Who lives there now?’
There was a barely perceptible pause, and the smile on Fatima’s round face lost a little of its warmth. Yasmina looked down and began to fuss with the ribbon in Maya’s hair. Zahra looked suddenly anxious. Omi gave an audible sniff.
‘That’s Inès Bencharki,’ she said at last.
Inès. So that was her name, I thought. ‘Karim Bencharki’s sister,’ I said.
‘Who told you that?’ said Omi.
‘Just someone in the village.’
Zahra shot Omi a sidelong glance. ‘Omi, please—’
She made a face. ‘Yar. Perhaps another time. I hope you’ll visit us again. Bring us some of those chocolates of yours. Bring your children.’
‘Of course I will.’ I turned to the door. Fatima accompanied me out.
‘Thank you for the peaches.’
I smiled. ‘Come and see us any time.’
The sun had set. Night would come quickly now. Soon, all over Les Marauds, people would sit down to break the day’s fast. Stepping outside, I could already see people beginning to leave the mosque. A few shot me curious glances as I crossed the boulevard – it isn’t usual to see a woman here, alone, especially one dressed as I was, in jeans and a shirt, my hair unbound. Most ignored me, with the deliberate averting of the eyes that in Tangier counts as respect, but which in Lansquenet might easily pass as an insult.
Most of the passers-by were men – at Ramadan, women will often stay behind to prepare iftar. Some were in white robes, a few in the vivid djellabas, the hooded robes that had been so common when my mother and I were in Tangier. Most wore taqiyah prayer caps, but some of the older men wore the fez, or the keffieh scarf, or even the black Basque beret. I counted a few women, too – most of them in black niqab. I wondered if I would recognize Inès Bencharki among them. And then, with a jolt, I saw her: Inès Bencharki, the Woman in Black, walking along the boulevard with the measured grace of a dancer.
Other women walk together, talking and laughing among themselves. Inès Bencharki walks apart, bracketed in silence; shoulders straight; head held high; aloof in a capsule of twilit space.
She passed by close enough to touch. I caught a glimpse of colours from under her black abaya, and was suddenly, sharply reminded of that day on the Pont des Arts, of the woman I’d seen watching me; the kohl-darkened eyes above the niqab. Inès Bencharki’s eyes are a different kind of beautiful; long as a lazy summer’s day and innocent of make-up. She keeps her eyes lowered as she walks, and almost instinctively the others hold back to give her room. No one speaks to her in this crowd. No one even looks at her.
I wonder what it is about her that makes people so uncomfortable. Surely not the niqab she wears; there must be other women in Les Marauds who wear the veil without projecting that coldness, that air of isolation. Who is Inès Bencharki? Why does no one speak of her? And why do they maintain the pretence that she is Bencharki’s sister, when Omi and the al-Djerbas clearly believe that she is not?
CHAPTER SIX
Wednesday, 18th August
IT TOOK ME over an hour, père, to scrub the black paint from my front door. Even then, the inscription remains, a negative of its former self, scoured into the paintwork. I’ll simply have to repaint it, that’s all. As if people didn’t gossip enough.
I didn’t sleep well last night. The air was too still, too oppressive. I awoke at dawn and opened the shutters to hear the distant call to prayer floating across from Les Marauds. Allahu Akhbar. God is great. I longed to ring the church bells, if only to drown out that echo and to wipe the grin from Mahjoubi’s face. He knows that what he is doing is totally forbidden. He also knows that no local mayor will intervene on our behalf: the call is coming from inside the mosque, without amplification. Thus the letter of the law is technically satisfied.
Allahu Akhbar, Allahu Akhbar.
My hearing must be exceptional. Most other people don’t even seem to notice the call to prayer – Narcisse, who
is going deaf, claims it’s my imagination. It is not; and on a day like this, so still that I can hear every ripple on the Tannes, every cry of every bird, the call of the muezzin cuts through the early morning like rain.
Rain. Now there’s a thought. It has not rained at all this month. We all could use a little rain – to make the gardens flower, to wash away the dust from the streets, to cool down these infernal nights. But not today. The sky is clear.
I drank a cup of coffee and went up to Poitou’s bakery. I bought a bag of croissants and some bread, and took them over to Armande’s house, leaving the bag by the front door where Vianne Rocher would find it.
The streets of Les Marauds were silent. I guessed folk were having breakfast in the last half-hour before sunrise. I saw no one but a girl, all but her face concealed behind a dark-blue hijab, who darted across the main street just as I headed for the bridge. She glanced at me fearfully as I approached, then doubled back and disappeared down a side street opposite the gymnasium.
Saïd’s gym. I hate that place. A mean, half-derelict building at the end of a mean little alleyway. It’s always crowded with young men – never a white face among them – and you can smell the testosterone as you walk by the alley mouth. You can smell the kif, too – many of these young Moroccan men smoke it, and the police are reluctant to take action. In the words of Père Henri Lemaître, we have to be aware of cultural sensitivities. Presumably this also includes the girls who are kept from attending school and the occasional but persistent rumours of domestic violence within some of the families, which are sometimes reported, but never followed up. Apparently old Mahjoubi is in charge of such sensitive issues, which makes it unnecessary for the rest of us to take action, or even to notice these things.
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