The door of the gym was wedged open – on these warm days it gets hot in there – and although I did not turn my head, I sensed the blast of hostility like invisible shrapnel. Then it was behind me again.
There. It’s done.
I hate the fact that I am afraid of walking past that alleyway. I give myself the penance of walking past it every day, in the hope of beating my cowardice. In the same way, as a boy, I used to dare myself to go near the wasps’ nest under the wall at the back of the churchyard. The wasps were fat and loathsome, mon père, and terrified me in a way that transcended the simple fear of being stung. I feel the same about Saïd’s gym – that prickle of adrenaline, the sweat that stings at my armpits and gathers at the nape of my neck; the barely perceptible quickening of my step as I pass the place; the way my heart, too, quickens in fear, then slows in relief when the penance is done.
Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.
Ridiculous. I’ve done nothing wrong.
I arrived at the bridge into Lansquenet. From the parapet I could see old Mahjoubi on his terrace, sitting in the wicker rocking-chair that seems almost a part of him. He was reading – no doubt the Qur’an – but he looked up when he saw me and gave me an impudent little wave.
I returned the greeting with as much composure as I could. I will not allow myself to be drawn into undignified competition with this man. He grinned – even at that distance I could see his teeth – and I caught the brief sound of laughter from the half-open door of the house. The face of a small girl appeared at the door, topped with a yellow ribbon. His granddaughter, I believe, come to visit from Marseille. As I passed, the laughter redoubled.
‘Hide the matches! Here comes Monsieur le Curé.’
Then a sharp command – Maya! – and the little face withdrew. In its place I saw Saïd Mahjoubi, glaring beneath his prayer cap. God forgive me, I almost prefer old Mahjoubi’s mockery. Saïd continued to glare at me, openly hostile; menacing. The man thinks I am guilty, père. Nothing I say will change his mind.
Old Mahjoubi said something to his son in Arabic. Saïd replied in the same tongue, still without taking his eyes from mine.
I greeted him with a polite nod, to prove to him (and to his father) that I will not be intimidated. Then I quickly crossed the bridge back into friendlier territory.
See what I have to deal with, père? I used to know this community. People came to me with their problems, whether they went to church or not. Now Mohammed Mahjoubi is in charge – encouraged by Père Henri Lemaître, who, like Caro Clairmont, believes that phasing out the soutane, organizing multi-faith focus groups, holding coffee mornings, installing projection screens in the church and turning a blind eye to everything – to the kif-smokers; to the mosque, with its unsanctioned call to prayer and its illicit minaret – will bring the spirit of unity once more to Lansquenet-sous-Tannes.
He is wrong. There is only division now. Division in our own ranks; division between us and them. Mahjoubi’s mosque, with its minaret, is not what really concerns me – in spite of what some people think, I still have a sense of humour. But the hostility I feel every time I pass Saïd’s gymnasium – that is another matter. We must be tolerant of other beliefs, says Père Henri Lemaître. But what if the followers of those beliefs do not – will not – tolerate us?
Back on my side of the river, I made my way back towards Saint-Jérôme’s. I’d arranged to meet Luc there at nine; but somehow at seven thirty I found myself standing once again outside the chocolaterie.
I went inside. It still smelt of smoke, but the room was clear of debris. Yesterday, Luc and I had barely glanced at the upstairs part, but the fire’s point of origin was easy enough to identify: a letter-box, through which a wad of petrol-soaked rags had been thrust, setting fire to the door, some coats, a rug that was hanging on the wall and a stack of wooden school-chairs.
It’s really quite insulting, père. For them to think that I did this – why, a child could have done a better job. The fire was burning fiercely by the time the Bencharki woman awoke, but there is a fire escape at the back, and she and the girl got out unhurt, while neighbours with hoses and buckets worked together to put out the blaze.
You see, père. That’s a community. You notice that no one from her side was there. Les Marauds might as well have been a hundred miles away that night. The nearest fire station is thirty minutes’ drive away; in that time, the whole shop would probably have gone up in flames.
Suddenly, I heard footsteps from the floor above. There was someone in the house. Immediately I thought of Luc; but what would he be doing there, over an hour before our rendezvous? The sound came again; a shuffling that I found distinctly furtive.
‘Who’s there?’ I said.
The shuffling stopped. For a moment there was silence. Then came a frantic patter across the bare floorboards and the sound of feet on the fire escape. Children, I thought immediately: children up to no good. I ran outside, hoping to intercept the culprits as they fled, but by the time I had opened the door, and fought my way through the mess of charred wood that was piled up in the garden, the trespassers had already gone. All I saw was a Maghrébine moving swiftly away down the lane; though whether this was a coincidence, or one of the intruders, I could only speculate.
I went upstairs to the bedrooms. There were two of them; one very small, accessible only by a ladder through a trapdoor. There was a little round window there; I remembered Roux putting it in. I stood on the ladder and peered inside. The damage looked relatively slight. A little grimy with smoke, perhaps, but otherwise almost habitable. A child’s room, with a little bed and posters of Bollywood stars on the walls. There were books, too – mostly in French. As far as I could see, the intruders hadn’t touched anything.
There came a sound from behind me. A woman said: ‘What are you doing here?’
I turned. It was Inès Bencharki.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Wednesday, 18th August
I DON’T THINK I’d ever heard her voice. It was clear and barely accented, with, if anything, a touch of the North. She was in black, as always, covered to the fingertips. Her eyes, which for once were fixed on me, are a surprising shade of green, with lashes of unusual length.
‘Madame Bencharki, good morning,’ I said.
The woman repeated her question. ‘What are you doing in my house?’
I found myself at a loss to reply. I muttered something about responsibilities to the parish and about cleaning up the village square, which made me sound as culpable as she no doubt believes me to be.
‘What I mean is,’ I went on, ‘I thought that perhaps the community could help you fix up the place again. Waiting for the insurance people could take months, you must know that. As for the landlord, he lives in Agen, and it could be weeks before he even gets round to looking at the damage. Whereas if everyone just chips in—’
‘Chips in,’ the woman said.
I tried a smile. It was a mistake. Behind her veil, she might have been a pillar of salt; a block of stone.
She shook her head. ‘I don’t need help.’
‘But you don’t understand,’ I said. ‘No one would ask you to pay for the work. It’s just a gesture of goodwill.’
The woman simply repeated the phrase in the same flat, relentless voice.
I found myself wanting to plead with her, and instead replied in a brittle tone: ‘Well, of course, it’s your choice.’
The green eyes stayed expressionless. I tried the tentative smile again, but succeeded only in looking awkward and guilty.
‘I’m really very sorry about what’s happened,’ I said. ‘I’m hoping you and your daughter will be able to move back as soon as possible. How is the little girl, anyway?’
Once more, the woman said nothing. My armpits began to prickle with sweat.
As a boy at the seminary, I was once suspected of bringing cigarettes into school and was summoned to answer some questions by Père Louis Durand, who was in charge of discipline. I hadn
’t brought the cigarettes – although I knew the culprit – but my manner was so furtive that no one believed in my innocence. I was punished, both for the cigarettes and for trying to lay the blame on one of my comrades, and although I knew I was innocent, I felt the very same sense of shame that I did while addressing the woman in black; that sensation of utter helplessness.
‘I’m sorry,’ I repeated. ‘If I can do anything to help—’
‘You can leave me alone,’ she said. ‘My daughter and I—’
Then she stopped mid-sentence. Under the black robe her whole body seemed to stiffen and tense.
‘Are you all right?’
She did not reply. And then I turned my head and saw Karim Bencharki standing there – who knows how long he’d been watching us.
He spoke a phrase in Arabic.
She answered in a sharp voice.
He spoke again, his voice a caress. I felt a pang of gratitude. I’d always seen Karim as an educated, progressive man, who understood France and French culture. Perhaps he could explain to Inès that all I was doing was trying to help.
At first sight, you wouldn’t think Karim Bencharki was a Maghrébin at all. With his light skin and golden eyes he might be an Italian, and he dresses like a Westerner, in jeans and shirts and trainers. In fact, when he first came to Lansquenet, I thought the arrival of such an apparently Westernized and cosmopolitan member of the community might bring about a new integration between Les Marauds and ourselves; that his friendship with Saïd Mahjoubi might help me find a way to bridge the gap between old Mahjoubi’s traditional ways and those of the twenty-first century.
I turned to him now in appeal. I said: ‘As I was just explaining, Luc Clairmont and I have been trying to assess the damage caused by the fire. It’s mostly superficial – really just smoke and water. It wouldn’t take more than a week or so to make it habitable again. As you see, we have already cleared out most of the burnt wood and debris. A few coats of paint, some new wood and glass, and your sister could be ready to move back in—’
‘She isn’t going to move back in,’ said Karim. ‘From now on, she will be staying with me.’
‘But what about the school?’ I said. ‘Won’t you be continuing?’
The woman spoke to her brother in Arabic. I do not know the language, but the unfamiliar syllables sounded harsh and angry – though whether this was my ignorance or whether it was truly so was not within my power to guess. Once again, I felt vaguely ashamed, and tried to compensate with a smile.
‘I can’t help feeling responsible for what has happened,’ I told them. ‘I’d really like to help, if I can.’
‘She doesn’t need your help,’ said Karim. ‘Now get out, or I’ll call the police.’
‘What?’
‘You heard. I’ll call the police. You think that because you’re a priest you can get away with what you’ve done? Everyone knows you lit the fire. Even your people are saying so. And if I were you, I’d keep to the other side of the river from now on. The way things are, you might get hurt.’
For a moment, I stared at him. ‘Are you trying to threaten me?’
And now, at last, came something to replace that feeling of guilt and shame. Anger flooded me, pure and cold; simple as spring water. I drew myself up to my full height – I am taller than either of them – and let out the frustration that has gathered in me over the past six or seven years.
Six years of trying to deal with these folk; of trying to make them understand; of lectures from the Bishop on community relations; of finding graffiti on my door; of having to fight my own flock; of old Mahjoubi and his mosque; of veiled women and sullen men; of ridicule and unspoken contempt.
I have tried so hard, père. I’ve tried so hard to be tolerant. But some things are intolerable. The mosque I can just about tolerate, but the minaret? The kif-smokers? The gym, with its hostile atmosphere? The girls in niqab? The Muslim school, as if our own village school might teach their daughters something other than submission and fear?
Intolerable. Intolerable!
I do not remember all I said; or even how much I said aloud. But I was enraged, père. Enraged by their ingratitude as well as their hostility. But most of all by my loss of control; by the fact that, despite my intentions, if anyone in Les Marauds were still in doubt as to who had tried to burn down the school, I had just convinced them all that I was the one responsible.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Wednesday, 18th August
TODAY, WHILE ANOUK was out with Jeannot, Rosette and I set out once again in search of Joséphine. We passed the green-shuttered house on the way, but, like the rest of Les Marauds, it looked closed and fast asleep. The mosque, too, was silent. Dawn prayers are over. Now is the time for rest and recovery; play for the children. Work starts late.
We walked to the end of the boulevard and made our way to the riverbank. There’s a narrow walkway here along the Tannes, like a suspended boardwalk, where the half-timbered houses that line the street stand like drunken clowns on their stilts high above the river. Each house has its terrace: a wooden deck with a balustrade and a sharp drop to the water. Some of them are still safe; others have been closed off. Some are gardens, with pots of flowers and hanging baskets, with ropes of jasmine straggling down.
On a chair on one of these terraces sat an old man with a white beard, reading a book (I assumed it was the Qur’an), wearing a white djellaba and, somewhat incongruously, a black Basque beret.
He looked up as I passed, and raised a hand in greeting. I waved back and smiled. Rosette hooted amiably.
‘Hello, I’m Vianne,’ I told him. ‘I’m staying in that house up there.’
The old man put down his book, which, to my surprise as I approached, I now saw was not the Qur’an at all, but the first volume of Les Misérables.
‘So I heard,’ the old man said. He had a slightly guttural voice, his accent an exotic blend of Midi and Medina. His eyes were dark, faintly bluish with age, and pixellated with wrinkles. ‘I am Mohammed Mahjoubi,’ he said. ‘You already met my granddaughter.’
‘Maya?’ I said.
He nodded. ‘Yar. My youngest son Ismail’s child. She says you brought peaches for Ramadan.’
I laughed. ‘It wasn’t quite like that. But I always like to say hello.’
The dark eyes crinkled appreciatively. ‘Given your friends, that is surprising.’
‘Do you mean Curé Reynaud?’
Old Mahjoubi showed his teeth.
‘He’s not a bad man, really. He’s just a little—’
‘Difficult? Intransigent? Stiff? Or is he just the arrogant weed that makes his bed on the dunghill and thinks he’s the king in the castle?’
I smiled. ‘He improves with acquaintance. When I first came to Lansquenet …’ I told him a version of the tale, omitting what I had promised to keep secret. Old Mahjoubi listened, occasionally nodding and smiling encouragement, while Rosette added her own running commentary in hoots and signs and whistles.
‘So – you came at the start of your Ramadan, to open a house of temptation? I see how that could be a problem,’ he said. ‘Your curé begins to have my sympathy.’
I feigned indignation. ‘You’re taking his side?’
Old Mahjoubi’s smile broadened. ‘You are a dangerous woman, madame. I see that much already.’
I smiled again. ‘As to that,’ I said, ‘you went further, didn’t you? I only opened a chocolate shop. You came and built a minaret.’
Now Mahjoubi laughed aloud. ‘So, you heard that story. Yes, it took time, but we did it, Alhumdullila. And without breaking a single one of those complicated building regulations, either.’ He eyed me. ‘It stings him, does it not? To hear the call of the muezzin so close to his own place of worship? And yet, he rings those bells of his.’
‘I can enjoy both,’ I said.
He gave me an appreciative look. ‘Not everyone here is so tolerant. Even my eldest son, Saïd, sometimes falls prey to that kind of thinking. I tell him: Al
lah judges. All we can do is watch and learn. And try to enjoy the sound of the bells if we cannot stop them ringing.’
I smiled. ‘Next time, I’ll bring you chocolates. I already promised some to Omi al-Djerba.’
‘Don’t encourage her,’ he said, his eyes still bright with amusement. ‘Already half the time she forgets that she’s meant to be fasting for Ramadan. A bit of fruit doesn’t count, she says. A little drink of tea doesn’t count. Half a biscuit doesn’t count. She’s riding the devil’s donkey.’
‘I knew someone like that, once,’ I told him, thinking of Armande.
‘Well, people are the same everywhere. Is that your little girl?’ He glanced at where Rosette was playing, now throwing pebbles into the Tannes.
I nodded. ‘That’s Rosette, my youngest.’
‘Bring her to play with my Maya. She doesn’t have any friends of her age. Just don’t invite that priest of yours. And don’t go feeding her chocolate.’
Walking back into Lansquenet, I wondered how such an affable old man could have fallen foul of Francis Reynaud. Is it the difference in culture? A simple dispute over territory? Or is there something else here, something closer to the bone?
We reached the end of the boardwalk, where it rejoins the boulevard. There I found a red door at the end of a little cul-de-sac, with a sign above it, black letters on white, that read: CHEZ SAÏD. GYM.
That must be Saïd Mahjoubi, I thought – old Mahjoubi’s eldest son. Reynaud had told me about the place he had opened three or four years ago. An empty storage facility, converted as cheaply as possible into a sports hall and gymnasium. Through the door, which was slightly ajar, I could see exercise bicycles, running machines, racks of free weights. A smell of chlorine and disinfectant and kif filtered through into the air.
The door opened, and three men in their early twenties came out, wearing sleeveless T-shirts and carrying sports bags. They did not greet me, but gave me the same vaguely aggressive look that I’d had from the man in the little café. I’ve seen it before in Paris, when we lived in Rue de l’Abbesse, and before that, in Tangier; it’s not so much aggressive as faintly defiant, a challenge to the person they think I am. A woman alone, bare-headed; dressed in jeans and a sleeveless shirt. I am different; another tribe. Women are not welcome here.
Peaches for Monsieur Le Curé Page 9
