I turned and saw Joséphine standing there, her face pale with anger.
Paul gave another humourless laugh and stubbed out his cigarette into his glass. ‘Oops, here comes the ball and chain,’ he said. ‘Now I’m in trouble.’ He gave Joséphine a broad, hateful smile. ‘Vianne and I were just catching up. Old friends, lost loves, a little glass of whisky – and how was your morning, my lovely one?’
‘I said, shut up,’ said Joséphine.
Paul shrugged. ‘Or what, my love?’
Joséphine ignored him and turned to me. ‘I was meaning to tell you, really I was. I just didn’t know how to do it.’ Her face was no longer pale, but red, and for almost the first time since I arrived I felt I really recognized the sad, awkward, inarticulate Joséphine of eight years ago; the Joséphine who stole chocolate from me because she couldn’t help herself.
A wave of sorrow washed over me. What happened to Joséphine Bonnet, who had such big, brave dreams? I thought I had freed her from Paul-Marie. Now I find that she is still as much of a prisoner as she ever was. What happened? And is this my fault?
She shot me a look. ‘Let’s go for a walk. Suddenly, I need some air.’
Paul grinned and lit another Gauloise. ‘Knock yourself out.’
I followed Joséphine outside. For a time she seemed unwilling to talk, and we simply walked; past the church; through the square; down the cobbled street towards the river. When we reached the bridge, she stopped and looked over the parapet. Below us, the rushing water was the colour of milky tea.
‘Vianne, I’m so sorry—’ she began.
I looked at her. ‘It’s not your fault. I went away. I left you both. I was selfish. What did I think would happen?’
She looked confused. ‘I don’t understand—’
‘I know about Pilou,’ I said.
She looked at me blankly. ‘Pilou?’
I smiled. ‘He’s a fine boy, Joséphine. You’re right to be proud of him. I would be, too. As for his father—’
Her face crumpled. ‘Please. Don’t.’
I put my hand on hers. ‘It’s all right. You didn’t do anything wrong. It was me. I was the one who brought you together. I was the one who went away. And then, when Roux came to Paris, I was the one who ignored the signs—’
She looked at me curiously. ‘Roux?’
‘Well – isn’t that what you meant?’ I said. ‘That Roux is Pilou’s father?’
She shook her head. ‘It’s worse than that.’
‘Worse?’ How could it be worse? I thought.
She sat down on the parapet. ‘I really wanted to tell you,’ she said. ‘But I couldn’t think how to do it. You were so proud of what I’d done, leaving my husband, running this place, even though in the end I never managed to catch that train—’
‘You had Pilou,’ I reminded her.
Joséphine smiled. ‘Yes. Pilou. All this time I’ve lied to him because I couldn’t bear the truth. Just as I’ve lied to you, Vianne, because I wanted you to think I’d made something better of my life—’
I started to speak, but she stopped me. ‘Please, Vianne. Let me go on. I wanted you to be proud of me. I wanted Roux to be proud of me. In my dreams I was just like you, a free spirit, going where I liked. No ties, no family. Paul was gone. You’d already left Lansquenet, and I was making plans to go. And then, I found out I was pregnant.’ She stopped, and her face took on a curious expression, part tender, part sorrowful. ‘At first I couldn’t believe it,’ she said. ‘I thought I couldn’t have children. We’d tried for so long, Paul and I, and then, as soon as he went away—’ She shrugged. ‘It couldn’t have come at a worse time. I was all set up to go. But Roux persuaded me to stay at least until the baby was born. And then, when I saw him—’
‘You fell in love.’
She smiled. ‘That’s right. I fell in love. And when Pilou was old enough to ask, I told him his father was a pirate, a sailor, a soldier, an adventurer – anyone but Paul Muscat, a wife-beating coward who ran away as soon as I stood up to him.’
I stared at her. ‘Paul-Marie?’ I said. ‘He’s Pilou’s father? But I thought you and Roux were—’
She shook her head. ‘That never happened,’ she told me. ‘It might have done, if things had been different. But he and I were only friends. Even then, I think he belonged to you. But when Paul-Marie came back and found that Roux had been staying here, and that I was pregnant—’
‘You let him think the baby wasn’t his?’ I said.
She nodded. ‘I couldn’t bear it. He would never have let me go, not if he’d known, not Paul-Marie. I was eight months pregnant when he came back, and – oh, Vianne, it was ugly.’
‘I can imagine.’
Yes, I could; Paul-Marie, red-faced with rage; Roux, trying to protect her; and Joséphine, clutching at the single poor handful of straw that might build her any kind of defence. Paul had been drunk and aggressive, demanding his rights, as he called it – his share of the café’s takings; the few possessions he’d left behind. He’d jumped to the conclusion that Roux was the baby’s father, and Joséphine had let him believe it, rather than try to tell him the truth.
‘What happened next?’
‘The usual. He smashed up the bar, called me some names, and then drove off on his motorbike. Later, the police came round and told me he’d had an accident.’
Paul had been taken to hospital. Joséphine was his next of kin. When she’d learnt he would never walk again, she had allowed him to come back home. What else could she do? It was partly her fault. Her lie had set in motion the chain of events that had brought him to this, and although she could never tell him the truth, she could not escape her responsibility. He had no job, no savings. She had given him a room of his own at the Café des Marauds and a permanent tab at the bar. A part of her had somehow hoped that he would recover the use of his legs, but he never had. She blamed herself. And here they were, eight years down the road; chained together by circumstance, with that lie growing bigger between them every day. Poor Paul-Marie. Poor Joséphine.
And then, the realization came. In my concern for Joséphine, I’d failed to see the essential thing. Roux never betrayed me. He wasn’t Pilou’s father. He may have been fond of Joséphine, but when it came to a choice, he chose me. All my suspicions, all my doubts, were nothing but waswaas, after all; whispers of Shaitan, as Omi says, brought to me on the Black Autan. But why don’t I feel happier? A weight has been lifted from my heart. And yet I still feel it, even though I know it isn’t there any more; a dark and whispering presence where once there was nothing but sweetness …
Why can’t you trust me? Roux said. Why can’t it ever be simple?
Perhaps that’s the difference between us, Roux. You believe life can be simple. For others, perhaps – but not for me. Why didn’t I trust you? Perhaps because I always felt that you were never mine to keep, that sooner or later the wind would change …
I pushed the thought aside. It could wait. Joséphine still needed me.
I put my arms around her and said: ‘It’s all right. It wasn’t your fault.’
Joséphine smiled. ‘That’s what Reynaud said.’
‘You told him?’ I was surprised at that. Joséphine had never been a regular churchgoer, and the idea of her confessing her closely guarded secret – and to Reynaud, of all people – seemed wholly out of character.
She smiled. ‘Yes, isn’t it strange?’ she said. ‘But I had to tell someone, and – he was there.’
I thought I understood it now. It was in her colours; her flushed face; the sad and hopeful look in her eyes. The Lovers. Why hadn’t I seen it before? The Queen of Cups and her crippled Knight were Joséphine and Paul-Marie. But those Lovers—
Joséphine and Reynaud?
Could it be true? They seem at first glance an unlikely pair, and yet they have some things in common. Both are damaged individuals; solitary and secretive. Both have been victims of Lansquenet’s busy web of gossips. Both have qualities of which th
ey are not entirely aware; stubbornness; strength of mind; a refusal to let the enemy win.
‘You like him, don’t you?’
She looked away.
‘Do you know where he is?’ I said.
Once more, she shook her head. ‘He just disappeared. I don’t know where. But she has something to do with it.’ She jerked her head in the direction of the old chocolaterie. ‘That woman. Those people in Les Marauds.’
Little by little, the story came out. The graffiti on Monsieur le Curé’s door; his misplaced attempt to fix up the chocolaterie; the violent attack on Sunday night and the warning that he’d been given.
This is a war. Keep out of it.
A war? Is that how they see it? And who are the warring factions? The church? The mosque? The veil? The soutane? Or is it simply Lansquenet’s traditional war against the outsider; the river-rats; the outcasts; and now, the people of Les Marauds, a name that means The Invaders, although in reality it is only a corruption of the word marais, or marshland, built as it is so close to the Tannes, and subject to regular flooding—
Once more, I considered Reynaud. Could someone have frightened him away with threats of further violence? That seems unlike Monsieur le Curé. He is as stubborn as I am myself. And he is a rock, unmovable; the wind has never shaken him.
So – where is he? Someone must know. Someone must have seen him go. If not here, then in Les Marauds, where the road leads to join the autoroute. I thought of what I’d seen in the smoke, the day I made the chocolates: Reynaud, alone, with his rucksack, walking along the riverbank.
Is this a vision of things to come, or has it already happened? And where is he now? Asleep in a ditch? Beaten to death in an alleyway? I never thought I would ever care what happened to Francis Reynaud. But faced with these possibilities, I find that I do. I care very much.
‘We’ll find him,’ I said, as much to myself as to Joséphine, who was listening. ‘We’ll find him and we’ll bring him home. Wherever he’s gone. I promise we will.’
She gave her sad and hopeful smile. ‘When you say things like that, I almost believe that anything is possible.’
‘It is,’ I said. ‘Now come with me.’
We crossed the bridge into Les Marauds.
CHAPTER FOUR
Thursday, 26th August
I LOOKED INTO the bright brown eyes that peered at me from behind the grille. I wondered what she could see of me – not much, by my guess – a pallid blur, an upheld hand glimpsed through slices of shadow. My first instinct was to cry out for help, but the girl was very young, and I feared she might run away if I startled her.
‘Maya. Don’t be afraid,’ I said in the gentlest voice I could manage.
She knelt to look closer inside the grille. I could see her knees on the gritty stone, and her socks above the pink wellingtons.
‘Are you a Jinni?’ she repeated. ‘Jinn live in holes.’
‘No, Maya, I’m not.’
‘So what are you doing down there?’ she said. ‘Did you do something bad? My jiddo says if you do something bad, the police can put you in prison.’
‘No, I didn’t do anything bad. Someone locked me in here.’
The eyes grew rounder. ‘You are a Jinni. You know my name and everything.’
I made my voice persuasively soft. ‘Please, Maya. Listen to me. I’m not a Jinn, and I haven’t done anything bad. But I am a prisoner. I need your help.’
She made a face. ‘A Jinni would say that. Jinn always lie.’
‘Please. I’m not lying.’ I heard the urgent sting in my voice and made an effort to soften it. ‘Please, Maya. Help me. Don’t you want to help me?’
Maya nodded doubtfully.
‘All right.’ I drew a deep breath. I had to think this out carefully. Of course I could have asked Maya to fetch one of her parents, but as yet I had no idea who was responsible for my incarceration, and the thought of having to explain myself to a group of Maghrébins who believed that I had set fire to their school was a little daunting, to say the least. But there was someone in Les Marauds who I knew would help me, if only I could get to her.
I reached out to Maya with my voice. ‘Do you know Vianne Rocher?’
She nodded. ‘Rosette’s memti,’ she said.
‘That’s right,’ I told her. ‘Go and find Vianne. Tell her I’m here. Tell her Reynaud’s here, and needs help.’
She seemed to consider this for a while. ‘Is that your name?’ she said at last.
‘Yes.’ Oh, God, give me patience. ‘Please. I’ve been down here since yesterday. The water’s rising. And there are rats.’
‘Rats? Awesome!’ Clearly the child has been spending too much time with Jean-Philippe Bonnet. I took another deep breath. Breathe, Francis. Concentrate.
‘I’ll give you anything you like. Toys, sweets. Just tell Vianne.’
She hesitated. ‘Anything I want?’ she said. ‘Like three wishes or something? Like in Aladdin?’
‘Anything!’
Once more, the child seemed lost in thought. Then she came to a decision.
‘OK,’ she said, and jumped to her feet. The candy-pink wellingtons shot into view. Tears of gratitude stung my eyes – or was it simply the dust from the street?
‘My first wish,’ said Maya through the grille, ‘is for you to make my jiddo well again. I’ll think of the other two later. Bye-bye, Jinni. See you soon.’
‘No, wait!’ I said. ‘Maya! Please! Listen to me!’
But the candy-pink boots had already gone.
I cursed to myself in Latin and French and climbed down from the packing crates. And then, just at that moment, as I stood ankle-deep in cold, filthy water, thinking that my situation could not possibly get any worse, I heard footsteps behind the cellar door.
Quickly I moved away from the crates. Then came the sound of a key in the lock. For a moment I considered surprising my captors and rushing the door, but this was only fantasy. In my current physical state, even a woman would have had no difficulty in pushing me back down the cellar steps.
The door opened. Three men appeared. Even in silhouette I recognized Karim Bencharki. The other two were younger men, I guessed two of the boys from the gym. Both of the boys were carrying torches, and Karim had a canister in his hand. I caught the smell of petrol.
‘You people never learn,’ said Karim.
I was still inside the whale.
CHAPTER FIVE
Thursday, 26th August
‘THIS IS A misunderstanding,’ I said. ‘Let me out, and I’ll explain.’
Karim dropped the petrol can. I could tell by the sound it was empty. ‘Explain this, Monsieur le Curé. You had it when we caught you spying on my sister.’
‘That isn’t tr—’ I began to say. Then I remembered Sonia. That must be her petrol can. She’d dropped it when I accosted her. But she had confessed to me. How could I tell her husband?
‘I wasn’t spying on her,’ I said. It was a lie, and sounded it. ‘I was going to talk to her.’
‘Is that why you were hiding behind a tree?’
I started to tell another lie, but knew as I did so that it wouldn’t work. Some people are natural liars, père: I am not among them. I tried another tack. I said: ‘Let me ask you something, Karim. How long do you think you can keep me locked in here? Let me go right now, and I promise I won’t take any action against you.’
Looking at that in retrospect, I suppose I might have sounded just a little arrogant. One of the younger men spoke to Karim. Karim replied, sounding impatient. There followed a brief, rapid interchange in Arabic.
I started to feel nervous. ‘Look, you have to believe me,’ I said, addressing Karim directly. ‘I never tried to burn down the school. I’ve never attacked your sister. I’ve always tried to help her.’
Against the light in the doorway, Karim’s face was unreadable. But I sensed the hostility coming from him like static from a radio. Once more, he spoke to his friends. Then he spoke to me again.
�
�What have you done with my sister-in-law?’
I was taken aback. ‘What?’
‘Alyssa Mahjoubi. Where is she? And why was she with you a week ago?’
I took a deep breath. ‘She’s safe,’ I said. ‘But that has nothing to do with me. She’s staying with a friend. Her choice. I had nothing to do with it.’
Karim gave the tiniest of nods. ‘I see. But Madame Clairmont says you were seen with a young woman at night, by the river.’
‘It wasn’t like that—’ I began. God, I thought, that sounded weak. ‘I happened upon her by accident. She was in trouble. I helped her. That’s all.’
‘Just as you helped my sister?’
I opened my mouth, but said nothing.
‘Monsieur le Curé,’ said Karim. ‘You have a reputation here. On more than one occasion, you have expressed your contempt for outsiders. Even your Père Henri says this. You are an intolerant man. You like to be in authority. You tried to stop the mosque from being built. You often speak out against the niqab. You once even tried to vandalize a chocolate shop that was opened in defiance of your religious traditions. I already know that you broke into her house last week. And now, we catch you sneaking around her boat with a can of petrol, on the very day you try to leave town—’
I started to laugh out of sheer nerves.
‘You think it’s funny?’ said Karim.
‘No. Of course not. But you’re wrong.’
Karim gave a scornful laugh. ‘I don’t think your Père Henri would agree. Now tell us where Alyssa is, and what you were doing here yesterday.’
I should have tried to stay calm, mon père. But instead I began to feel angry. ‘I don’t have to justify myself, to you or anyone else,’ I said. ‘Things were fine here till you arrived, you and your sister. Since then I’ve been threatened, assaulted, accused and kept down here against my will. I won’t let you intimidate me. As for Alyssa, I understand. You’re worried. Of course, she’s too young to leave home. And when you let me out of here, I promise we’ll all sit down together and try to find a solution—’
Peaches for Monsieur Le Curé Page 26
