Peaches for Monsieur Le Curé

by Joanne Harris

  Alyssa looked uncertain.

  ‘You’ll find that Rosette is very fond of monkeys. In fact, she’s almost a monkey herself.’

  Rosette crowed and sang a song in a series of wordless half-whistles. Alyssa gave a little smile, then lowered her eyes anxiously.

  ‘That’s enough. Give our guest some space. Perhaps you’d like to play outside, while Alyssa and I have a little talk. Who knows, maybe you’ll find Pilou.’

  ‘Pilou!’ said Rosette exuberantly, and scampered outside to look for him. Once again, I told myself how good it was that she’d found a friend. She still misses Roux, of course, but Pilou has become important to her, even more important than Bam. I’m glad. Whatever doubts I may have about Pilou’s absent father, the boy himself is a gift to us all.

  I gestured to Anouk to stay; last night I felt that maybe she had made a connection with our young visitor. I took Alyssa’s hand and smiled at her. Her fingers, I noticed, were very cold.

  ‘I know you don’t want to talk,’ I said. ‘That’s fine. You’ll talk when you want to. But there are things I need to know if I’m going to help you. Do you understand?’

  She nodded.

  ‘First of all, is there anyone you’d like me to call? Your mother, your father—’

  She shook her head.

  ‘Are you sure? No one at all? Just to tell them you’re all right?’

  Once more, Alyssa shook her head. ‘No. Thank you.’

  It was a start. Only three words, but the silence was broken.

  ‘OK. I understand. No one needs to know you’re here. Curé Reynaud already knows, but he won’t tell. You’re safe with me.’

  Alyssa gave a little nod.

  Now for the difficult part, I thought. What makes a girl like Alyssa – a pretty girl from a loving home – want to throw herself in the Tannes?

  ‘What happened last night, Alyssa?’ I said. ‘Do you want to talk about it?’

  Alyssa gave me a blank look. Either she hadn’t understood, or the answer was so obvious that she was unable to reply. I decided the questions could wait awhile – for another day, at least.

  I tried for briskness and a smile. ‘All right,’ I said. ‘Well, you’re our guest, at least for now. This house belongs to Luc Clairmont. It used to be his grandmother’s house.’

  Once more, Alyssa nodded.

  ‘You know him?’ I said.

  I remembered someone telling me – Reynaud, maybe, or Joséphine – that the Mahjoubi sisters had sometimes played football with Luc in the village square.

  ‘Does he know I’m here?’ said Alyssa.

  ‘No one knows you’re here,’ I said. ‘No one will see you indoors. There are books; television; a radio. Is there anything else you need?’

  Alyssa shook her head.

  ‘I think it would be better if we didn’t alter our plans too much. Otherwise it may look unusual. But I’ll try to make sure that one of us – Anouk or I – is always around, in case you happen to need anything.’

  Alyssa nodded, unsmiling.

  I looked at Anouk, who, I knew, had planned to see Jeannot again today. She grinned at me. ‘It’s fine,’ she said. ‘We’ll just sit here and watch daytime TV and sneer at all the reality shows.’

  ‘Alyssa will love that,’ I said, ruffling Anouk’s hair. ‘I’m sure Estonia’s Top Model or Women Who Can’t Stop Eating Cake will be a marvellous education. Alyssa, when you get tired of her, just tell her to leave you alone. OK?’

  That glimmer of a smile again, like the edge of a crescent moon. There’s clearly something about Anouk that appeals to Alyssa. I can’t say I’m entirely surprised. My little stranger has always been good at attracting followers. Perhaps if I leave them together, Anouk will find out what I cannot.

  I left them with instructions to keep an eye out for Rosette, and went back down into Les Marauds.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Thursday, 19th August

  I‘D EXPECTED TO find activity. Instead, Les Marauds was lifeless; streets deserted; shops closed. It might have been six in the morning instead of almost ten thirty. The sun was hot, the air very still, with a kind of eerie clarity.

  Only Saïd Mahjoubi’s gym seemed open for business this morning. I wondered if he even knew that his daughter was missing. Surely, if he had known, he would have closed the gym for the day. But here it was business as usual, with nothing to suggest that a girl might have vanished overnight—

  The red door opened. Two men came out. One was young, a teenager, in a sleeveless shirt and combat shorts. The other, in his thirties, was, quite simply, one of the most beautiful men I have ever seen. Graceful in that muscular way which hints at ballet, or martial arts; light olive skin; cropped black hair and a mouth of Oriental precision, drawn from a single voluptuous line …

  ‘Can I help you, mademoiselle?’

  For a moment, I was thrown. The last time I’d walked past the gym, I’d sensed an open hostility. But this man was different; he smiled at me, and I found myself the focus of a charm that was as potent as it was disarming.

  Behind me, the teenage boy had gone. I was alone with the stranger. His eyes, beneath thick brows, were dark and soulful, glazed with gold.

  ‘I’m staying here for a few days. I’m Vianne Rocher—’

  ‘Hello, Vianne Rocher. I’ve heard about you. I’m Karim Bencharki.’

  Once more, I was taken aback. This was Karim Bencharki?

  Reynaud had said he was Westernized. Even so, I’d expected him to display some traditional features – a prayer hat, or at least a beard, like Saïd Mahjoubi. But this man might have been anyone, from any kind of background. I checked his colours. A flick of the wrist; a fork of the fingers, nothing more. But he saw it; those eyes are acutely alert. I sensed a keen intelligence there; a deep and earnest intensity; and glossing over it all, that charm, which seems so easy and self-assured—

  I confess – I was almost smitten. No one could have failed to respond to the warmth of those honey-glaze eyes. At least, no woman – though maybe Reynaud has filters through which he perceives these things. Certainly he never thought to mention the thing that would take me by surprise, then wring me like a wet rag and leave me stupidly speechless. It is a cheap kind of glamour, of course; and yet for some, it really works. Zozie de l’Alba was one of them; Karim Bencharki is another.

  For a moment I struggled to find the words. At last I said: ‘You’ve heard of me?’

  The colours between my fingers crazed. Kaleidoscope colours, like pieces of glass spinning at my fingertips.

  ‘Yes, of course. From my sister,’ he said. His smile pinned me like a moth on a board. ‘Another of Reynaud’s lost crusades.’

  ‘I’m not sure what you mean,’ I said.

  ‘Just that you’re not the only one to get into trouble with the priest. He has quite a reputation where people like us are concerned.’

  ‘People like us?’

  ‘Undesirables. People whose faces will not fit, who don’t keep to their side of the river.’

  ‘We had a little encounter,’ I said. ‘Looking back, I don’t think it was very wise of me to open a sweet shop in front of the church, right at the very beginning of Lent—’

  He laughed at that. He has perfect teeth. ‘My sister had the same problem,’ he said.

  ‘Didn’t Reynaud approve of the school?’

  ‘He never made any pretence of it. Right from the first, he was antagonistic. Inès remembers him standing there, in his black robe, watching. Every day watching, not saying a word, stiff with disapproval.’

  I was struck by the similarity of his account to what Reynaud himself had said. That Woman in Black, never speaking – could it be that both sides of this conflict are jumping at shadows of themselves?

  ‘Where is your sister living now?’

  ‘With me, until the repairs are done. It’s better she lives with her family.’

  His words sounded both casual and proprietary, and I remembered the feeling I’d ha
d at the al-Djerba house; the sense that Inès Bencharki might be more than just a sister. His first wife, perhaps? She has his name. Of course, she might have gone back to her maiden name. Still, Omi had hinted at something. But if so, why would Inès live alone? And why would Karim Bencharki lie?

  ‘My sister has had a troubled life,’ went on Karim in a gentle voice. ‘Her husband died young, our parents are gone, she has only me to look after her. And now, just when she is beginning to make a fresh start, this happens.’

  I said it was a pity.

  ‘More than that,’ said Karim. ‘It is a scandal and a disgrace. And that priest is responsible. He should be made to pay. And he will.’

  I decided against defending Reynaud in favour of finding out more. I said, ‘You think he started the fire, then?’

  ‘No doubt about it,’ said Karim. ‘He has been linked with such things before. An incident with the river-folk in which a boat was set on fire. And then there was your shop, of course, and the way he tried to close you down. Madame Clairmont has told me all about it. The man thinks he is Mayor of Lansquenet.’

  ‘Caro Clairmont?’

  He nodded. ‘Yes. She has been a great supporter of our little community.’

  That didn’t really surprise me. Caro Clairmont has always enjoyed making herself indispensable. Once one of Reynaud’s Bible groupies, she has switched her allegiance to a younger priest, Père Henri Lemaître, whose attentiveness and boyish good looks make Reynaud’s aloofness all the more distasteful. I imagine Karim, with his searchlight smile, must present a similar kind of appeal.

  What was it that Reynaud said? That Caroline had fallen out with her regular coffee-morning group? Or is it just that she has always preferred the company of handsome young men?

  ‘You are here with your daughter, is that right?’

  I nodded. ‘My daughters. Anouk and Rosette. Perhaps you’ve already seen them around.’

  ‘If so, I would have remembered them.’ His tone was almost flirtatious. Again, I was surprised at the ease with which he dispenses that charm of his – not a common skill, I guessed, among the men of Les Marauds. He moved a little closer, and I caught the scent of kif, mixed with something dark and sweet – chypre, perhaps, or frankincense—

  I wondered if he was aware that his sister-in-law was missing. These families are very close. Could Alyssa’s parents have hidden their daughter’s absence, even from Sonia and Karim?

  Once more I checked his colours. Few people shine as brightly. Some people cannot help but shine, eclipsing everything in their path. Is this why Reynaud mistrusts him? Or is there another reason?

  ‘I’d like to meet your sister,’ I said. ‘I’ve heard a lot about her.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Karim. ‘But I think you should know my sister Inès is very shy. She keeps to herself. She does not – socialize.’

  ‘But she has a daughter? What’s her name?’

  ‘Du’a. “A prayer” in Arabic.’

  ‘How sad for her, to lose her father so young.’

  A shadow came over his features. ‘My sister has had a sad life. Du’a is all she has now. Her daughter, and of course her faith. Her faith means everything to her.’

  The door to the gym opened then, and a man in a white djellaba looked out. I recognized one of the men I’d seen in Les Marauds the day I arrived, and knew this was Saïd Mahjoubi. He did not acknowledge me at all, but instead spoke to Karim in Arabic. I did not understand the words, but I was aware of their urgency, and of the way he glanced at me, quickly, sharply, before looking away.

  ‘Excuse me. I have to go,’ said Karim. ‘Enjoy your stay here.’

  And at that he turned and went back inside, closing the red door behind him.

  Left alone, I returned to the boulevard. The late-morning sun was already high, and yet, away from the claustrophobia of the little alleyway, with its scents of chlorine and kif and sweat, I was conscious of a welcome sensation of freshness. It was nothing but a breeze, coming across the river, but it smelt of other places, and wild sage on the mountainside, and the peppery scent of the rabbit-tail grass that grows along the sand dunes and crazy-dances in the wind – and I realized what was different.

  At last, the calm had broken.

  The Autan had begun to blow.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Friday, 20th August

  PÈRE HENRI LEMAÎTRE called this morning. I had slept unusually late, and he caught me unshaven and just out of bed. How does he manage to do that, père? Does he have a special sense that tells him when I am vulnerable? In any case, he was at my door just as Saint-Jérôme’s clock struck nine fifteen, his eyes shining almost – but not quite – as brightly as his teeth.

  ‘Good heavens, Francis, you look terrible.’

  I wish he wouldn’t call me that.

  ‘I’m perfectly well, thank you,’ I said. ‘To what do I owe this pleasure?’

  He gave me one of those pitying looks and followed me into the house.

  ‘Just checking on a colleague,’ he said. ‘The Bishop was asking after you.’

  The Bishop. This gets better. ‘Oh?’

  ‘He thinks perhaps you need a rest. He mentioned you were looking unwell.’

  ‘I thought I was having a rest,’ I said, a little tartly. ‘I’m certainly not overwhelmed by parish duties at the moment.’

  That was true; for the past couple of weeks my work has been done by Père Henri Lemaître, who also happens to serve three other tiny villages with no appointed priest of their own. With fewer young men entering the priesthood and fewer people attending church, Lansquenet is unusual in having a resident curé, saying Mass twice a day and holding confession four times a week. Other villages have had to get used to hearing Mass only on Sundays, and sometimes having to travel to a different village to do so. No wonder church attendance is down. The Bishop and his kind would have us believe that priests are like kitchen utensils, all of us interchangeable. This may be true in Marseille or Toulouse. But here, people like to have their own church, their own priest for confession. They like to know that the word of God is not brought to them through some celestial telegraph, but through the lips of a man like themselves, a man with calluses on his hands, who knows and understands their lives. I wonder how many confessions Père Henri has heard in Lansquenet. I mean sincere confessions, not the kind that Caro Clairmont tells me to attract attention.

  ‘Oh, mon père, I’m so afraid that I might have unwittingly caused offence. I was with Joline Drou the other day, we were shopping in Agen, and we’d stopped to look at summer frocks. You might have noticed I’ve lost some weight. Well, it’s no crime to want to look one’s best, and the way some women let themselves go – anyway. I won’t bore you, père.’

  ‘Quite.’

  ‘Oh. Well – Joline had seen a dress she liked, and I happened to say that it wouldn’t suit. I mean, it can’t have escaped you, père, that Joline often chooses clothes that are far too young for a woman her age, not to mention the fact that she’s getting just a teeny bit plump – I wouldn’t say it to her face, but I wouldn’t be a true friend if I let her make a fool of herself, and now I feel so guilty—’

  ‘Enough. Two Avés.’

  ‘But, mon père—’

  ‘Please, madame. I don’t have all day.’

  No. Diplomacy and flattery are not among my talents. I’m sure that Père Henri Lemaître would have dealt with her problem more sensitively. I am often impatient, often abrupt. I cannot hide my feelings the way Père Henri Lemaître hides his. I cannot feign interest or sympathy the way he does, or treat my flock as if they were anything but stupid sheep.

  And yet I know them better than any priest from the city could. They may be sheep, but they are my sheep, and I have no intention of handing them over to Père Henri. How could he understand them, with his toothpaste smile and his winning ways? How could he know that Alain Poitou has become addicted to cough medicine, and doesn’t want his wife to know? That Gilles Dumarin blames h
imself for allowing his sister to put their mother in Les Mimosas? That Joséphine Muscat used to steal, and still feels the need to do penance? That, following the death of his son, Jean Marron has thought of suicide? That Henriette Moisson, at eighty-five, confesses to me every week a theft committed when she was nine; that of a little sewing set she purloined from her sister, who died over sixty years ago, in a boating accident on the Tannes? That Marie-Ange Lucas is having internet sex with a boy she has never met, and wants to know if it is a sin? Or that Guillaume Duplessis still prays for the soul of a dog that died over eight years ago, and that I, God forgive me, allow him to believe that maybe animals do have souls, and will find a place in Paradise?

  Whatever my faults, père, I know guilt. And I know that some problems cannot be solved by PowerPoint. Or even by a bishop, for that matter.

  ‘You know why that is, Francis,’ said Père Henri, bringing me back to reality. I had been so lost in my thoughts that it took me a few moments to recall what he had been referring to. He has taken over my duties because, according to him, at least, my office has been compromised by the rumours and gossip that have sprung up in the wake of the fire in the old chocolaterie. I suspect that this idea has come from Caroline Clairmont, a firm believer in progress, who sees in Père Henri Lemaître a kindred spirit as well as a possible rung on the ladder of her advancement. She has already seen what the man can accomplish in just two weeks. In six months, then, how much more could be done?

  He followed me into the kitchen and sat down, uninvited.

  ‘Make yourself at home,’ I said. ‘Would you like coffee?’

  ‘Yes, please.’

  ‘It’s still my parish,’ I told him, pouring coffee into two cups. He takes his with milk. I prefer black. ‘I’m afraid I don’t have any sugar.’

  That smile again. ‘No matter,’ he said. ‘I really shouldn’t, anyway.’ He patted his midsection. ‘Have to keep an eye on the old tum, don’t we, Francis?’

  My God, he even sounds like Caro. I drank my coffee in one gulp and poured myself another. ‘It’s still my parish,’ I said again. ‘And unless I’m found guilty in some other court than that of gossip and conjecture, I have no intention of leaving.’