Peaches for Monsieur Le Curé

by Joanne Harris

  ‘You’re very fond of Du’a,’ I said.

  Omi nodded. ‘She’s a good little girl. Well, maybe not so very good, but she always knows how to make me smile. And she helps with my little Maya.’

  ‘Maya sounds like a handful,’ I said.

  ‘Yes, well, she lives in Toulouse,’ said Omi, as if this explained everything. ‘Yasmina comes for Ramadan, but the rest of the time we don’t see her. She doesn’t really like it here. She says the life is too quiet for her.’

  ‘I think she underestimates us.’

  Us. Now why did I use that word? But Omi seemed not to notice. She gave me a comic look. ‘Yar. Plenty going on round here. And I’ve heard you have a visitor.’

  I kept a straight face. ‘We have nothing but visitors. The other night it was Joséphine, who keeps the Café des Marauds. But we’ve had half of Lansquenet dropping in at different times.’

  Omi gave me another look. Under the sparse, expressive brows, her eyes are milky-blue, like veins. ‘You must think I was born yesterday. As if anything could happen in this village without me knowing about it. Still, if you want to play secrets—’

  ‘It isn’t my secret to give away.’

  Omi shrugged. ‘That’s fair, I suppose. But—’

  ‘What’s all this about secrets?’ That was Fatima, coming back into the living room with Zahra and some Moroccan sweets. ‘Has my Omi been whispering?’

  ‘On the contrary,’ I said. ‘Omi is always very discreet.’

  Fatima laughed. ‘Not the Omi I know. Now, try some of these. I have halwa, and dates, and macaroons, and rosewater candies and sesame snaps. No, no, not you, Omi—’ she said, laughing, as Omi reached for the dish. ‘It’s Ramadan, remember?’

  ‘I must have forgotten,’ said Omi, and winked.

  I noticed that Fatima was looking distracted. ‘Is everything all right?’ I said.

  She nodded. ‘It’s my Yasmina’s father-in-law. Mohammed Mahjoubi. He isn’t well. He has moved in with us while Ismail and Yasmina are here. He prefers it to living with Saïd.’

  Omi made a rude noise. ‘Say rather he cannot bear to be so close to that woman,’ she said.

  Fatima tutted. ‘Omi, please—’

  But I was watching Zahra, so different from Yasmina, and yet so very like her. It was not the first time I had noticed her unease where Inès Bencharki was mentioned.

  ‘What do you think of Inès?’ I said, addressing Zahra.

  She looked alarmed at the question. In her black hijab, pinned in the traditional style, she looks both older and younger than her sister. She also seems painfully shy, and when she speaks, her voice is oddly atonal.

  ‘I – think she’s interesting,’ she said.

  Omi squawked. ‘Well, seeing as you practically live in that house—’

  Zahra coloured. ‘Sonia’s my friend.’

  ‘Sonia, is it? I thought you went there to make sheep’s eyes at that young man.’

  Now Zahra’s cheeks were on fire. She seemed about to leave the room—

  I stood up. ‘Well, that’s lucky,’ I said. ‘I was about to ask if someone could show me where Inès Bencharki lived. Perhaps you could do that, Zahra? I know it’s raining—’

  ‘Of course I will.’ There was no expression in the girl’s voice, but her eyes were grateful. ‘I’ll get your coat. It’s almost dry.’

  As she left, I heard Fatima say, ‘Omi, you’re too hard on that girl.’

  Omi cackled. ‘Life is hard. She needs to learn. She’d drown in a glass of water.’

  I smiled. ‘Jazak Allah,’ I said. ‘And thanks for your hospitality. Next time, I’ll bring chocolate. As soon as my supplies arrive.’

  At the door, I collected my shoes. Zahra was waiting with my coat. ‘Don’t pay attention to what she says,’ she said in that odd, atonal voice. ‘She’s old. She’s used to speaking her mind. Even when her mind runs on a single broken wheel.’ She opened the door. ‘It isn’t far. I’ll show you.’

  There are no house numbers in Les Marauds. It’s one of our eccentricities. Even the street names are unofficial, although now that the area has been redeveloped, that too may change in time. Reynaud tells me Georges Clairmont has been campaigning to have the place designated as some kind of a heritage site (with himself as the main contractor, of course), but there are too many villages like Lansquenet along this part of the river, too many charming little bastides, too many old tanneries and picturesque stone bridges and medieval gibbets and statues of mysterious saints for our local officials to care very much about a single street of wood-and-wattle houses, already half eaten away by the Tannes. Only the postman seems to mind if street names and numbers are absent here, and if someone chooses to fix up one of these derelict houses and live there in defiance of planning regulations, no one is likely to stop them, or care much one way or the other.

  Zahra had put on her niqab to walk me to the Bencharkis’ house. Beneath it, her face was unreadable. It makes her bolder, more confident. Even her posture is different. She turned to me as we walked and said:

  ‘Why do you want to see Inès?’

  ‘I used to live in her house,’ I said.

  ‘That’s not a very good reason.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘She draws you, doesn’t she?’ she said. ‘I know. I can tell. You’re not the first. We’ve all had dealings with Inès in some way or other. When she first came here and opened the school, it seemed like such a good idea. We’d had nothing but problems with the village school, and that Drou woman who wanted the hijab banned. And Inès’s brother was so friendly with the Mahjoubis, and it all seemed so perfect for a while.’

  We had reached the end of the boulevard. Beyond that, the houses were derelict. The last house had a red door.

  ‘That’s where the Mahjoubis live. Karim and Sonia live there, too.’

  ‘But not Inès?’

  She shook her head. ‘Not any more.’

  ‘Why not? Wasn’t there space?’

  ‘That’s not why,’ said Zahra. ‘In any case, you’ll find her there—’ And she pointed to some fig trees growing by the water’s edge, where an old jetty rises above a Gothic tangle of tree-roots. It’s where the river-rats moored their boats, in the days when they still came every year, and now I saw it: a riverboat, low in the water and painted black, moored in the shelter of the trees.

  ‘The boat? She’s living there?’ I said.

  ‘She borrowed it. It was already here.’

  I know. I recognize that boat. Too cramped for two adults, it might just take a single woman and her child. As long as they didn’t need too much space, or bring too many possessions—

  I didn’t think that would be a problem for Inès Bencharki. But—

  ‘What about Du’a?’ I said.

  ‘We look after her most of the time. She helps out with our little Maya. Sometimes she stays with Inès, sometimes not. She comes to our house for iftar.’

  ‘But why a boat?’

  ‘She says it feels safe. Besides, no one has claimed it.’

  That doesn’t surprise me. Its owner has not been here in over four years. But why would Roux leave his boat here if he didn’t mean to return?

  Unless it wasn’t meant for him, but for someone else—

  Someone else?

  A single woman and her child. Roux’s reluctance to come here with me, although I know he stays in touch with some of his friends from Lansquenet. Joséphine’s reluctance to talk to me about the father of her son. Four years ago, when Roux was still here. Pilou must have been four years old. Old enough to travel, perhaps. Old enough for Joséphine to think about moving upriver …

  Did Roux ask her to leave with him? Did she refuse? Did he change his mind? While he was in Paris with me, was she waiting in Lansquenet, waiting for him to come back to her?

  So many unanswered questions. So many doubts. So many fears. The seasons change; lovers and friends are blown away like leaves on the wind. My mother never stayed with
a man for more than a couple of weeks. She said: Only children stay true, Vianne. For years I followed that motto. Then, along came Roux, and I told myself there was an exception to every rule.

  Perhaps I was wrong, I told myself now. Perhaps this was what I came here to learn.

  ‘Are you all right?’ It was Zahra.

  ‘Thanks.’ I turned towards her. ‘Tell me, Zahra, what made you start wearing niqab, when your mother and your sister don’t?’

  Her eyes looked startled under her veil.

  ‘Was it Inès?’

  ‘In a way, perhaps. Well, anyway, that’s where she is.’ Zahra looked at the black houseboat. ‘But I don’t think she’ll talk to you.’

  She left me standing in the rain at the end of the Boulevard des Marauds. The sky had darkened still further – I doubted whether we would see even a glimpse of the full moon that night. I heard the church tower strike four o’clock; as heavy and as ponderous as the air. I looked at Roux’s boat, so silent, so still, moored along the riverbank, and thought of Inès Bencharki. Omi had called her a scorpion trying to cross a river. But in the story the scorpion drowned.

  Just then, in my pocket, my mobile rang. I pulled it out; looked at the screen. The caller’s number flashed up.

  Of course. Who else would it be?

  It was Roux.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Tuesday, 24th August

  NOTHING STAYS SECRET for very long. Not in Lansquenet, anyway. I haven’t been out of my house for two days, but already the whispers have started. I can’t lay the blame on Joséphine, or even on Pilou. I know. It started this morning, when Charles Lévy came round again to complain about his missing cat.

  Through the tiniest crack in the door, I told him that I was feeling unwell. But Charles Lévy was undeterred. Kneeling on the doorstep, he addressed me through the letter-box, his voice shaking with suppressed emotion.

  ‘It’s Henriette Moisson, père. She takes my Otto into her house. She feeds him, and she calls him Tati. Doesn’t that count as abduction, or false imprisonment, or something?’

  I answered him from behind the door: ‘Don’t you think you’re taking all this a little too personally?’

  ‘The woman has stolen my cat, père. How else should I take it?’

  I tried to explain. ‘She’s lonely, that’s all. Perhaps if you tried to talk to her—’

  ‘I have tried! She denies it! She says she hasn’t seen the cat. She claims she hasn’t seen him for days, but the whole of her cottage smells of fish—’

  My head was aching. My bruised ribs hurt. I was in no mood for this.

  ‘Monsieur Lévy!’ I yelled through the door. ‘Did not the Good Lord tell us to love thy neighbour as thyself? Am I mistaken, or did he mean us instead to complain as much as we possibly can about our neighbours and, using the most flimsy of excuses, spread discord throughout the neighbourhood? Would Jesus have begrudged a lonely old woman the occasional use of his cat?’

  There was a silence from outside. Then a voice came through the slot: ‘I’m sorry, mon père. I didn’t think.’

  ‘Ten Avés.’

  ‘Yes, mon père.’

  After that, word quickly spread that Monsieur le Curé was taking confession through his letter-box. Gilles Dumarin came calling next, ostensibly to ask about a donation to the church flower fund, but in fact for advice about his mother. Then came Henriette Moisson, for absolution of a sin committed when I was not yet in embryo. Then Guillaume Duplessis, to ask me if I needed anything. Then Joline Drou, to report to Caro that something strange was going on. Then Caro herself, disdaining pretence, who flatly accused me (through the door) of having something to hide.

  Sitting on the doormat, I said: ‘Caro. Go away. Please.’

  ‘Not until you tell me what’s going on,’ said Caro in a ringing voice. ‘Have you been drinking? Is that it?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘Then open the door!’

  When I refused to comply, she left, but returned this evening with Père Henri. I considered pretending to be out, but when Caro came to the window and started peering through the shutters, I knew that this time she would not give up.

  I opened the door.

  ‘Good heavens, Francis!’

  Yes, Henri. I know what it looks like. Most of the damage is superficial, of course, but even so, it is impressive. For a moment I found myself taking a certain enjoyment in their expressions of disbelief. But the Bishop needed nothing more than the smallest excuse to send me away; and now, it seems, he has found it. Of course, I am not at fault here, says Père Henri (implying the opposite), but this attack on my person proves that I can no longer claim credibility in Lansquenet. For the good of my flock, as well as for my own safety (he says), I am being transferred to another parish. It may take a week or so to arrange, but already the wheels are in motion. An inner-city parish, I am told, where I may improve my social skills, preach to a wider audience and learn to understand the needs of a multi-faith community.

  Of course, I am not fooled for a moment. I know I am being punished. Perhaps the Bishop does not know how much. To him, all priests are the same, like pawns. But I have lived in Lansquenet nearly all my life; to send me away is to tear out some essential part of me. I know I haven’t always been as open or as obedient as perhaps I should have been. I may have been resistant to change; defiant to authority. My dealings with the river-folk have not always been cordial. I am sometimes impatient with my flock, even more so with the Maghrébins. In short, I have treated Lansquenet as my personal fiefdom, making up rules as I went along, playing the role of dictator and judge. But all the same, to send me away—

  Night is beginning to fall. I hurt. Outside, I can hear the Black Autan screeching in triumph as it bears the sound of the muezzin over the water towards me.

  Autan blanc, emporte le vent.

  Autan noir, désespoir.

  And now, for the first time, I feel afraid. No, mon père; I feel despair. The wind that has blown so often for me now has me by the scruff of the neck. It chased away the river-rats; it closed down Vianne’s chocolaterie. I thought the wind was on my side; that I would stand here like a rock; immovable and resolute—

  But tonight, the wind is at my door. I am no longer immovable. No one wants me here any more. And now I am afraid, mon père, that I am the one to be blown away.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Tuesday, 24th August

  HIS VOICE WAS startlingly close, as if he were standing just metres away. My heart gave a sudden, rolling lurch, like a wave so laden with debris that it is close to collapsing. Trust Roux, I thought fiercely. Of all the times he could have phoned to give me reassurance, for him to finally do so now seemed curiously typical.

  Quickly I took shelter alongside one of the old tanneries. ‘Roux. Where have you been?’ I said. ‘I left you all those messages—’

  ‘I lost my phone.’ I could hear his shrug. ‘Was it something important?’

  I almost laughed. What could I say? How could I tell him my thoughts, my fears, my growing conviction that he had lied, allowing me to believe for four whole years that we could be a family—

  ‘Vianne?’ He sounded wary. I reminded myself that he always sounds wary on the phone. I wished I could see his eyes. Better still, I wished I could see his colours.

  I said: ‘I talked to Joséphine. She has a son. I never knew.’

  A shutterclick of silence.

  ‘Roux. Why didn’t you tell me before?’

  ‘I promised her I wouldn’t.’

  He makes it sound so simple. And yet, behind the screen of words, a thousand writhing shadows. ‘So – do you know the boy’s father?’

  ‘I promised I wouldn’t tell you.’

  I promised. For Roux, that’s more than enough. To him, the past is irrelevant. Even I have only the barest knowledge of where he came from, who he is. He doesn’t talk about his past. He may even have forgotten it. It’s one of the things I love about him, his refusal to allow th
e past to have any purchase over him, and yet, it makes him dangerous. A man without a past is like a man without a shadow.

  ‘Did you leave a boat here?’ I said.

  ‘Yes. I gave it to Joséphine.’

  Again, that shutterclick pause, as if a screen had fallen between us.

  ‘You gave it to Joséphine? Why?’ I said.

  ‘She was talking about getting away,’ said Roux, in a careful, toneless voice. ‘She wanted to travel for a while, go upriver, see the world. I owed her for everything she’d done – putting me up for the winter, giving me work, cooking for me. So I gave her the boat. I reckoned I didn’t need it any more.’

  Now I could see it all in my mind, clear as scrying with chocolate. And the worst of it was that I’d known all along in some deep, hidden part of my heart, the place where my mother speaks to me.

  So, you thought you could settle down? Do you think I didn’t try? People like us don’t do that, Vianne. We cast too long a shadow. We try to keep possession of what little joy and light we have, but everything gets lost in the end.

  He said: ‘When are you coming back?’

  ‘I’m not sure yet. There’s something I have to do first.’

  ‘What is it?’ He sounded so close. I imagined him sitting on deck, in the sun, with maybe a can of beer at his side, with the Seine at his back like a stretch of beach and the silhouette of the Pont des Arts black against the summer sky. I saw it all so clearly, like something in a lucid dream. But, as in many of my dreams, I felt disconnected from the scene, moving away uncontrollably, backwards into darkness.

  ‘I think you should come home,’ said Roux. ‘You said you’d only be a few days.’

  ‘I know. It won’t be long now. But there’s—’

  ‘Something you have to do. I know. But Vianne – there’ll always be something. And then there’ll always be something more. That bloody village is like that. And before you know it, you’ll have been there six months and you’ll be picking out fabric for curtains.’

  ‘That’s ridiculous,’ I said. ‘I’ll only be a few more days.’ I thought of the phone call I’d made to Guy, and of my order for chocolate supplies. ‘Well, call it a week,’ I amended. ‘Besides, if you miss me, you could come here.’