Peaches for Monsieur Le Curé

by Joanne Harris

  I drank more wine. ‘That woman,’ I said. ‘I knew she was hiding something. Looks so pious under that veil, behaves as if every man in the world wants nothing more than to rape her on sight, looks down her nose at everyone, and all the time—’

  ‘You don’t know that.’

  ‘If even her people think so—’ I said.

  ‘It’s still only rumour,’ said Vianne Rocher.

  I supposed she was right. Damn her, mon père, why does she so often have to be right?

  ‘What about the child?’ I said.

  ‘Du’a,’ said Alyssa. ‘She’s a lovely little girl. She’s never known her father. She says he died when she was a child – I think she really believes it. Karim doesn’t seem to care about her. He doesn’t even talk to her. Aisha Bouzana says she heard that Inès isn’t her mother, that she stole Du’a as a baby because she couldn’t have children herself.’ Alyssa lowered her voice and went on: ‘I’ve even heard some people say that Inès isn’t a woman at all, but some kind of Jinn, an aamar who whispers waswaas into children’s minds and delivers them to Shaitan.’

  This was a very long speech from a girl I’d hardly ever heard speak more than a few words at a time. Perhaps the presence of her friends; the absence of supervision. I noticed she hadn’t eaten much – just a pancake and some fruit – and, of course, no wine at all. Even so, her face was flushed, and she sounded almost intoxicated.

  ‘You don’t really believe that,’ I said.

  She shrugged. ‘I don’t know what I believe. Omi al-Djerba says there are amaar everywhere. They live among us. They even look like we do. But inside they are not human, and all they want is to hurt us.’

  ‘I know exactly what you mean,’ said Anouk, leaning forward. ‘She called herself Zozie de l’Alba, and she pretended to be our friend, but really she wasn’t a person at all, just something without a shadow—’

  ‘That’s enough, Anouk,’ said Vianne. She put a hand on Alyssa’s arm. ‘If people are so suspicious of Inès, then why do they send their children to her?’

  Alyssa shrugged. ‘They weren’t, at first. And everyone loves Karim, of course.’

  I made a face.

  ‘You don’t?’ said Vianne.

  Alyssa looked away. ‘No.’ Even in the firelight, I thought her face looked flushed. I saw Vianne watching her curiously, but she did not pursue the topic, shifting instead to another one so deftly that only I noticed. We spent the rest of the evening discussing unrelated matters, and so pleasantly that I was surprised when I looked at my watch and saw that it was already past midnight.

  I glanced at Joséphine and said: ‘I’ve stayed too long. I have to go.’

  ‘Pilou and I will walk with you.’

  Outside, the wind was still strong, scented with the river and peppered with fat, stinging droplets of rain, like wasps in the slipstream of summer. Pilou was holding his dog’s leash, and Vlad hurled abuse at the racing sky and tried to chase the fallen leaves along the path to the river. Les Marauds was still wide awake; there were lights in every window, and strands of coloured fairy lights were strung across the narrow streets, tumbling like fireflies in the wind.

  Saïd’s gym was shut, of course. Still, I felt that sting of unease. There are places that can do that, père; where even bricks and mortar seem to echo with hostility. I walked Joséphine and her son back home to the Café des Marauds, then took the Rue des Francs Bourgeois towards my little cottage.

  I did not hear them following me. All I could hear was the wind’s steady roar, and beyond it, the roaring of the Tannes. Besides, I had drunk more wine than I am accustomed to, and I was feeling strangely disconnected. Above me, the sky raced from light to dark as clouds flashed across the big, bright moon, making the shadows leap like jacks across the walls and houses. I was tired, but not yet sleepy. Too many thoughts were in my head. Alyssa Mahjoubi; Vianne Rocher; Inès Bencharki; Joséphine—

  Suddenly I became aware of movement behind me. A double shadow moving in; a hint of tobacco mixed with kif; two figures in the moonlight, their faces hidden behind chequered scarves—

  The first blow hit me in the shoulder, and it took me entirely by surprise. There is no crime in Lansquenet. Most people leave their doors unlocked. The only violence we tend to see is the odd case of domestic abuse, and fist-fights between our local boys. There hasn’t been a burglary in over ten years, or a mugging—

  This was what went through my mind as I fell. The rest is somewhat blurry. I know I was struck a second time with something I guessed was a length of wood, and, as I dropped to my knees in the road, someone punched me in the face and said: ‘Pig. You deserve all that’s coming to you.’

  What came was a volley of punches and kicks. I had no means of fighting back. I was already on the ground; all I could do was curl up and try my best to protect myself. Blows hammered into my ribs and back. My sense of disconnection grew; I could feel the pain, but a part of me seemed to be watching from somewhere else.

  ‘Pig,’ said the voice. ‘This is a war. We warned you to keep out of it. If you interfere again, we’ll make you wish you were never born.’

  And then, with a last well-aimed kick to the thigh, where that long muscle, the rectus femoris, I think, can be made to spasm and cramp with such agonizing precision, my unknown attackers fled into the night, leaving me breathing the dust of the road and hearing the rush of blood in my ears louder than the roar of the wind.

  I stayed where I was till the cramps had died down, and I could move my legs again. I was muddy; my shirt was torn. My heart was a crazy cavalcade. I have never been in a fight, not even as a schoolboy. I had never been struck in anger before, or even suffered a bad fall.

  They say you know instinctively if ever you have a broken bone. As it turns out I have several. Not that I knew it then, père; I was ablaze with adrenaline; if my legs had been working properly I would have had no hesitation in pursuing my assailants back to Les Marauds (where, if I had found them, they would in all probability have beaten me worse than before). As it was, my anger was analgesic enough in itself to delay the pain of two broken fingers, a cracked rib and, of course, my damaged nose, which in the light of day now looks all the more impressive for the bruising around my eyes.

  Who were my assailants? I had no way of knowing. The scarves they wore might have belonged to any man in Les Marauds, and their voices had not been familiar. Why had I been targeted? There had been no attempt at robbery. Was this revenge for the fire at the school? It seemed the likeliest reason. But who had set them up to it? And what did they mean by This is a war?

  Carefully, I picked myself up, the adrenaline buzzing uselessly in my veins. The rain was falling steadily, and now, at last, I was starting to hurt. My house was only down the road, and yet the walk seemed endless.

  A shaggy dog ran across my path, then stopped and came over to sniff at my hand. I recognized Pilou’s dog.

  ‘Go home.’

  The dog wagged its tail and began to follow me.

  ‘Vlad, go home.’

  The animal ignored me. Arriving at my front door, I found it once more at my heels, wagging its tail and panting.

  ‘Go home,’ I repeated, more sternly. ‘You are mistaking me for that other Francis, the one who likes animals.’

  The dog looked at me and barked.

  I cursed softly under my breath. By rights I ought to take the dog home. But it was late; it was raining; the dog’s barking would wake the neighbours, and besides, I didn’t want Joséphine and her son to see me in my current state.

  ‘All right, you can come in,’ I said. ‘But you sleep in the kitchen. And no barking!’

  The dog, who seemed to have understood every word, promptly followed me up to my room. I was too tired to argue. I left my discarded clothes on the floor and fell into bed immediately; and when I awoke too early, in pain, I found the dog sprawled across my bed. I know I should have objected, mon père; but secretly I was weak enough to feel a kind of gratitude for the
presence of another being, and I patted the dog on the head before falling once more into fitful sleep, lulled by the roaring of the wind.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Monday, 23rd August

  WHEN I AWOKE I could barely move. My muscles had stiffened during the night, and every part of me was at war with every other part. A hot shower helped a little, but even so I was so stiff that it took me fifteen minutes to dress, and the fingers of my right hand were so painful and swollen that I could not even tie my shoelaces.

  I made some coffee and fed the dog. There was very little to eat in the house. But after seeing my bruised face in the bathroom mirror, I thought it best to stay indoors – unless I wanted to give Caro and her coffee group the best piece of gossip they’d had in years.

  The question of the dog remained. I did not want to set it free, so I phoned the café, hoping to get the answering machine.

  Instead, Joséphine picked up. I explained about the dog and suggested she send Pilou to collect him.

  ‘Why don’t you come over for breakfast?’ she said.

  ‘I – no. I’m busy this morning,’ I lied. I am not a very good liar, père.

  She must have heard it in my voice, because she asked: ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘You really don’t sound it,’ said Joséphine.

  I gave an inward curse. ‘Well – no. There was an incident. Last night, as I was coming home.’

  ‘What kind of incident?’

  I shook my head in exasperation. ‘It was nothing. Forget it,’ I said. ‘Just send your son to collect his dog. I don’t have time to bring it myself.’

  I hung up, feeling agitated. I was unsure of why this was. Perhaps the approaching full moon, which so often inflames the susceptible. A priest gets to know these things, mon père. A full moon often brings trouble. Tempers flare as it reaches its peak; sensitivities increase. Lovers quarrel; neighbours fall out; ancient grudges are recalled. Tomorrow, Père Henri’s confessional will be full of petty complaints. Surprisingly, the thought gives me a measure of amusement. This time, these things are not my concern. Leave them to Père Henri Lemaître. Perhaps then he will understand what he has to deal with here.

  I had tethered the dog to the gate-post. There came a knock at my front door. Through the half-closed shutters, I was dismayed to see not only Pilou but also his mother on the step, collars drawn up against the rain. Joséphine was wearing wellington boots and a black raincoat that must once have belonged to Paul; Pilou, a parka several sizes too large for him.

  Joséphine knocked again.

  I opened the door a centimetre.

  ‘The dog’s outside!’

  ‘Can I come in?’

  ‘Ah – I’d rather you didn’t,’ I said.

  ‘Just for a minute,’ she said, and walked in. ‘My God, Francis, what happened to you?’

  I gave a hiss of exasperation. ‘Didn’t I tell you not to do that?’

  ‘What happened?’ she repeated. Her face was suddenly very white. Behind her, on the doorstep, the boy looked up at me with open admiration.

  ‘Awesome! Were you in a fight?’

  ‘No.’

  He looked disappointed. Joséphine turned to him and said: ‘Pilou, I want you to take Vlad home. Tell Marie-Ange to mind the bar for me. Then bring me the first-aid kit from my room, the big one, with the red cross on the lid—’

  ‘I really don’t need help,’ I said.

  She made an inarticulate sound and threw her raincoat on to a chair. Underneath it, she was wearing a powder-blue sweater and a black skirt. Her short blonde hair was spiky with rain. She looked both concerned and furious.

  ‘Francis Reynaud, if you don’t tell me what happened immediately, I shall tell all my customers that you got into a fight in my bar and I had to knock some sense into you!’

  ‘All right, all right.’

  I told her. She listened in disbelief.

  ‘You’re saying this was about the fire?’

  I shrugged. ‘What else could it be about?’

  ‘But you didn’t burn down the girls’ school.’

  ‘I think many people would disagree.’

  ‘Then they’re idiots, all of them. Now just sit still and let me take a look at you.’

  I spent the next half-hour in a state of profound embarrassment as Joséphine used her first-aid kit to see to my various injuries. The woman is impossible. There was nothing I could say or do to prevent her from interfering. Arnica cream, suture strips, tape around my fingers and ribs—

  ‘Since when were you a qualified nurse – ouch!’

  ‘Don’t pull away,’ she said. ‘When I was married to Paul-Marie, I soon learnt all there is to know about black eyes and broken bones. Take off your shirt.’

  ‘But, Joséphine—’

  ‘I said, take off your shirt, Monsieur le Curé. Or would you rather I called Dr Cussonet and let him spread the news all over the village?’

  I submitted, though with bad grace. When she had finally finished, she said: ‘There. Isn’t that better?’

  I shrugged. ‘I hurt all over.’

  ‘Ingrate.’ She smiled. (Did I mention she smiles with her eyes?)

  ‘Thank you, Joséphine,’ I said. ‘I’m very grateful for your help. And I’d appreciate it if you didn’t mention this to anyone else. I’m hardly in a strong position with the Bishop already, and if he hears about this, well—’

  She looked at me. ‘Your secret’s safe. I’m good at keeping secrets.’ And then, with a final, mischievous smile, she leant over and kissed me on the cheek, and was gone into the rain like a dream of summertime.

  Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. Well, at least, I would have sinned, if I’d had the chance. Perhaps the stressful events of last night; perhaps the touch of her hands on my skin. It has been so long, mon père, since a woman touched me. It makes me ashamed to think of the times she hid her bruises as I do now; the sunglasses on cloudy days; the coats that served as armour; the times she shut herself in her room with ‘migraines’ that lasted days at a time.

  Is that why she helped me, père? Because she knows what it feels like to be a victim, to feel ashamed? I do not deserve her kindness. I knew Paul-Marie was violent, but as long as he came to confession what could I do? I could not intervene. Vianne Rocher did that. Vianne Rocher, who arrives with the wind and rings the changes for us all …

  That wind. Why does it blow? Why does there have to be change, mon père? We were happy before – well, at least most of us were satisfied. Why do things have to be different?

  The White Autan brings madness, they say; the Black Autan, chaos and despair. Not that I believe in those tales. But somehow the wind has changed again, and for the first time in my life, père, I can feel its dark appeal. Lansquenet has disowned me, from both sides of the river. The Church has disowned me, or at least is likely about to do so. This is when the voice of the wind is at its most seductive. The wind that travels light, the wind that goes wherever it wants to go …

  CHAPTER THREE

  Tuesday, 24th August

  STILL MORE OF this squalling, ratcheting rain. For two days it has barely stopped. It rattles down the guttering; shimmies down the windows; pixellates the air and keeps us prisoners indoors. The Black Autan is on the rampage like a gang of delinquents, tearing the leaves from the chestnut trees; turning umbrellas inside out; tugging on hats, wrecking coiffures; scrawling its crazy graffiti all along the river.

  Anouk and Alyssa spend most of their time playing music and watching TV. Rosette has been drawing monkeys again, though today she has moved on to elephants. All three seem happy enough, even though they are penned indoors. I am the one who is restless, looking out of the window, watching the raindrops race down the glass and waiting – for what? I really don’t know.

  This afternoon, I went to find Joséphine. I wore Armande’s old raincoat and a pair of rubber boots. But she wasn’t at the Café des Marauds, and Marie-Ange told me she didn�
�t know when she would be back again. Outside, the streets were sparse and sad. The sky was dark as November. Passing the church, I noticed that the door of the old chocolaterie was slightly off the catch, and was making a forlorn percussive sound, signals in forgotten code.

  Bat-bat-bat. Bat-bat. Bat-bat.

  It is not my house any more. I am not responsible. And yet, there are ghosts in that old house; ghosts that now jostle and cry for attention. Of course, I know how to banish ghosts. But these are the ghosts of myself and Anouk; of Roux, of Reynaud; of Joséphine. And Armande, my dear old friend; her apple-doll face creased into a thousand wrinkles; Armande perched on a bar-stool, her long black skirt hiked up to reveal the tail of a bright red petticoat; Armande drinking chocolate through a sugar straw; Armande reading poetry with Luc in Caro’s absence.

  I looked around. The square was clear. The plastic sheeting that covers the roof rippled against the scaffolding. Work has begun on restoring the place, but in this weather it cannot go on. The place would be empty, I told myself. Empty, but teeming with glamours and ghosts.

  Bat-bat-bat. Like an eyelid. Like a wink from an open grave. Come inside, Vianne, it says. We’re all here. Your old friends. The Man in Black; your mother; your past. And the air is bitter like chocolate and sweet with regret, like incense. Try me. Taste me—

  I went inside.

  Someone has tried to clean things up. The debris has been removed, the walls scrubbed down ready for repainting. If I look in a certain way, I can almost see those ghosts now, the woman and her six-year-old walking into the empty house; the carpet of grey dust; the look of sadness and neglect. It looks like that again now; and this time there is no one to part the shadows with a blast from a plastic trumpet; or to bang on a pot with a wooden spoon and shout, Evil spirits, get thee hence.

  Still, I can see how that could change. The walls painted yellow and stencilled in blue; a counter, maybe a couple of stools. The air smells of smoke, now stale and damp; but throw open the windows and doors, burn a bundle of sage and scrub the floorboards with a mixture of baking soda and lavender oil—