Peaches for Monsieur Le Curé

by Joanne Harris

  The tea was strong and fragrant. Zahra uses fresh mint, two generous fistfuls, brewed in an ornate silver pot so large that it requires both hands to lift it. Steam bloomed from the rosebud spout like a cartoon genie.

  That made me think of Maya’s Jinni. Does Maya see her animal friend as Anouk and Rosette see theirs? I have to say, I’m a little surprised that so far I haven’t seen a glimpse of him. Children’s imaginations are very powerful, and I have always been sensitive. But now, in the steam, I found myself catching traces of something else; a pattern like that of frost-feathers on a frozen windowpane. I moved a little closer. The scent of mint enveloped us both.

  ‘Zahra. Please. I want to help,’ I said, and reached out very delicately – not with my hands, but with my thoughts. It’s a trick that sometimes provides insights, though most of the time it offers me nothing but shades and reflections.

  A basket of scarlet strawberries; a pair of yellow slippers; a bracelet of black jet beads; a woman’s face in a mirror. Whose face is that? Have I seen it before? Or is it the face of the Woman in Black? If so, she is even more beautiful than the gossips would have us believe. And she is young; absurdly young; with the unconscious arrogance of youth, the look of one who does not believe that she will ever grow old, or die, or give up her illusions. Anouk has that look. I once had it myself.

  I tried to shape the scented steam, to comb it with my fingers. Its end-of-summer fragrance was clean and sweetly nostalgic. I saw my mother’s cards again, saw them in my mind’s eye; the Queen of Cups, the Knight of Cups, the Lovers and the Tower—

  The Tower. Broken and lightning-struck, it looks far too slender to ever have been any kind of stronghold. A spire as thin as a shard of glass; decorative; windowless. Who – or what – is the Tower?

  Of course, we have two towers here. One is the tower of Saint-Jérôme’s; that squat whitewashed rectangle with its stubby little spire. The second is the minaret; the disused chimney, now crowned with a silver crescent moon. Which is the Tower on the card? The church spire or the minaret? Which one has been lightning-struck? Which will stand, and which will fall?

  A third time, I tried to read the steam. The scent of mint grew stronger. And now once again I could see Francis Reynaud walking along the riverbank, deep in thought, rucksack in hand, shoulders bowed against the rain. And there was something at his feet; a scorpion, black and venomous. He picked it up. And I thought: if Inès is the scorpion, could Reynaud be the buffalo? And if so, am I already too late to save them both from drowning?

  I saw Zahra watching suspiciously. ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Trying to understand,’ I said. ‘Your friend is missing. My friend, too. And if you know anything that might help—’

  ‘I don’t,’ said Zahra. ‘This is a war. I’m sorry you’re mixed up in it.’

  I looked at her. ‘What kind of a war?’

  She shrugged and retied her face-veil. Behind it, her colours skipped and danced. ‘A war that we can never win; between women and men; old and young; love and hate; East and West; tolerance and tradition. No one really wants it, but there it is. It’s no one’s fault. I only wish things were different.’ She held out the silver teapot. ‘Here, take this. I’ll bring the cups.’

  ‘Zahra. Wait. If you know anything—’

  She shook her head. ‘I have to get back. I’m sorry about your friend.’

  CHAPTER TEN

  Thursday, 26th August

  IT RAINED TWICE during the night. The first time, I heard the sound of the rain in the alley above my cell, and wished I had saved some drinking water from the bottle in my rucksack. The second time, the broken pipe began to trickle floodwater again, and I knew that the river was rising once more. Nevertheless, I managed to sleep a little, in the dry space at the top of the steps, wrapped up in my overcoat. My feet are wet and freezing. I would sell my soul for a hot bath.

  My watch has stopped. Maybe the damp has interfered with the battery. But between the muezzin and the machines and the distant sound of Saint-Jérôme’s chime, I find that my sense of time passing is reasonably accurate. This is why I can be certain that it was between ten and eleven o’clock that the door to my cellar was unlocked, and Karim Bencharki came in, alone. A strong scent of kif accompanied him. He looked angry and agitated.

  He shone his flashlight into my eyes and said: ‘Reynaud, for the last time, what have you done with my sister?’

  I told him I didn’t know where she was. But Karim was too angry to listen.

  ‘What did you tell her? What did you say? What were you doing that morning?’

  I told him: ‘I didn’t say anything. I don’t know where your sister has gone.’

  ‘Don’t lie. I know you were spying on her.’ His voice had acquired a razor-blade edge. ‘What did you see by the river? What lies has Alyssa told you?’

  ‘Please.’ God, I hate that word. ‘This is all a dreadful mistake. Let me out, and I’ll do all I can to help. Just let me go.’

  He looked at me. ‘You must be hungry and thirsty by now.’

  ‘I am,’ I said. ‘Please let me go. Let me go, and we’ll sort this out. If Inès is missing—’

  ‘What did you see?’

  ‘I told you. I saw nothing. Why?’

  He made a sound of frustration. ‘Hah! Ever since she came here, you’ve never left my sister alone. Spying on her from the church. Asking questions. Pretending to help. What has she told you? What do you know?’

  ‘Nothing at all. As far as I know, your sister hates me as much as you do.’

  I could tell he didn’t believe me. Why? What is he so afraid of? What secrets are they hiding? I remembered what Sonia had told me. He goes to her at night sometimes. She’s bewitched him. He’s under her spell. At the time, I dismissed it as jealous fantasy. The woman’s his sister, after all. But – what if she were not, père? What proof do we have of who she is?

  ‘She isn’t your sister, is she?’ I said.

  A pause. ‘Who told you that?’

  ‘I guessed.’

  Another, longer pause. Then Karim seemed to make a decision. He turned off the flashlight, leaving me to squint at his face. ‘I will give you one more chance,’ he told me in a new, cool voice. ‘Next time I come, I will bring my friends. The friends you met on Sunday night, by your house, in the village. And you will tell me everything. Otherwise—’ Karim’s voice grew even cooler and more distant. ‘We can make it look like an accident. We can make it look as if you drowned. Any marks on your body would seem to be the work of the river. No one would know. No one would care. You’re not the most popular man around here. No one would even look for you.’

  And at that, he closed the door again, leaving me in darkness.

  Of course, he was trying to frighten me. I know that, père. I’m not afraid. Karim is not a murderer. He may well be responsible for last Sunday’s attack on me, but that’s not the same as murder. Still—

  No one would know. No one would care. No one would even look for you. That at least is true, père. If I disappeared for good, would anyone really miss me?

  An hour or so later, the cellar door opened again. I leapt to the foot of the steps at once, fully expecting to see Karim and his friends standing there. Instead, a woman, veiled in black, appeared in the narrow doorway.

  ‘If you try to get out, I shall scream.’ Her voice was unfamiliar. But so few of those women ever speak (except among themselves, of course) that I hadn’t expected to recognize her. She was young, though: that I could tell. Her French was almost unaccented.

  I looked up at her bleakly. The water was up to my ankles. ‘What do you want?’

  I saw that she was carrying a cardboard box.

  She said: ‘I have brought water and food. I will leave it at the top of the steps. If you hide the wrapping, Karim and the others will not know I was here.’

  ‘Karim doesn’t know?’

  She shook her head. ‘I thought you would be hungry.’

  ‘Then let me
out,’ I said urgently. ‘Please! I swear—’

  ‘I am sorry,’ she said. ‘I only came to bring the food.’

  The food turned out to be some kind of soup in a styrofoam cup, and some bread, olives and dried figs wrapped in a piece of waxed paper. There was water too, in a plastic bottle, and some kind of pastry. When the woman had gone, I ate and drank everything, and hid the papers and the box inside one of the empty crates.

  I must get out of here, I thought; before Karim and his friends come back. The woman in black who brought me food – could that have been Sonia? Perhaps. But surely I would have recognized her. Does she even know I am here? If so, she must feel guilty. Perhaps that’s why she brought the food. Perhaps, next time—

  If there is a next time. Perhaps that was my last meal. The last meal of the condemned man. If only Maya would come back—

  Sweet Jesus. Am I so desperate? And yet, she’s all I have now. My last, precarious thread of hope lies in the hands of a five-year-old. Will she remember her promise, père? Or has she already forgotten the game?

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Friday, 27th August

  ANOTHER NIGHT, WITH no answers. My Mother’s cards are no help at all. I made chocolate for the children and drank mine out of Armande’s bowl; creamy, rich and very sweet. If only Armande were here now. I can almost hear her voice. If heaven is half as good as this, I’ll give up sin tomorrow. Dear Armande. How she would laugh to see me like this, so concerned about Francis Reynaud.

  He can look after himself, she would say. Let him wander. Do him good. And yet, every instinct screams at me that Reynaud is in trouble. I thought Inès Bencharki was the one I was meant to save; but I was wrong. Reynaud was the one. Reynaud was the one from the very start.

  What was it Armande’s letter said? Lansquenet will need you again. But I can’t count on our stubborn curé to tell you when that happens.

  No, because men like Reynaud never ask; never rely on anyone. Did he try to help Inès? Has he been stung by the scorpion?

  Père Henri has reported him missing, but the police are proving unhelpful. There is nothing to indicate that Monsieur le Curé has been the victim of foul play; in fact, wasn’t it Père Henri himself who suggested that he take a leave of absence? As for the rumour that Reynaud left town because of new evidence concerning the fire at the old chocolaterie, there seems to be nothing to support this, much to Caro’s disappointment.

  I dropped by the church. It was empty, but for a stack of new chairs and a couple of visitors sitting in front of the confessional. I recognized Charles Lévy and Henriette Moisson, and wondered if they, too, were looking for our missing curé.

  ‘He hasn’t really gone,’ said Charles, when I asked the question. ‘He wouldn’t leave us. Where would he go? Who would look after his garden?’

  Henriette Moisson agreed. ‘Anyway, he has to take confession. He hasn’t done it for ages. I won’t talk to that other one – the perverti who hides in the church. He’s a shifty one.’

  ‘That’s Père Henri Lemaître,’ said Charles.

  ‘I know that,’ said Henriette.

  Charles sighed. ‘She gets confused. I’d better take her home.’ He turned to Henriette and smiled. ‘Come on, Madame Moisson,’ he said. ‘Let’s get you home. Tati’s waiting.’

  Joséphine has no news, either. I called by the café to find Paul-Marie, pallid and unshaven, looking at the same time both wretched and curiously triumphant.

  ‘Oh, hooray, it’s the cavalry. Come to set the world to rights? Heal the sick? Cure the lame? Oh, wait—’ He gave a humourless grin. ‘I guess your special powers must be playing up today, because as far as I can see, we’re still in a world of shit.’

  ‘I never claimed I had powers,’ I said.

  He gave a snarl of laughter. ‘You mean there’s things you can’t do? Because if you believe that bitch I married, you can practically walk on water. And as for that brat of hers—’

  ‘Pilou.’

  ‘Well, according to him, you’re a cross between Mary Poppins and the Sugar Plum Fairy. Magic chocolates, invisible pets, you’ve got it all, haven’t you? What next? A cure for Aids? I’d settle for a working pair of legs – oh yes, and maybe a blowjob.’

  I said: ‘Pilou’s an imaginative boy. I think he and Maya and Rosette might have been playing some kind of game.’

  Paul-Marie made a sour face. ‘Is that what you call it? Imaginative? Playing around by the river all day with a pair of sissy little girls? You might call it imaginative. I say get him some proper friends – and by that I mean boys, real French boys, not that scum from Les Marauds—’

  I did not rise to the bait. Paul Muscat is one of those men who love to provoke a reaction. Instead I said: ‘Where’s Joséphine?’

  He shrugged. ‘She took the car this morning. I think she’s gone looking for that boat. Well, good luck to her, I say. They’re saying the gypsies have taken it, or maybe it was the Maghrébins. Don’t see why she cares, do you? She never uses it – I mean, not since that redhead of hers went away.’

  That redhead of hers. I wanted to say how wrong he was, but Joséphine’s secret is not mine to give away. Instead, I said: ‘Tell her I was here.’

  He gave another mocking laugh. ‘If you think I’ve got time to sit around and deliver your little messages—’

  ‘Tell her I’ll come back tomorrow,’ I said.

  ‘I’ll be waiting,’ said Paul-Marie.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Friday, 27th August

  WHEN I GOT back to Armande’s house, I found Alyssa waiting for me. Dressed in her black abaya, the headscarf covering her hair, she looked so unlike the girl I have come to know that I almost mistook her for someone else.

  ‘I wanted to thank you before I left,’ she said.

  ‘You’re going home, then?’

  She nodded. ‘Jiddo knows what I did. He says the zina was not mine. He also says Karim is not the man he pretends to be. My father is a good man, but perhaps too easily flattered, he says. And my mother … values appearances.’ She gave a rueful little smile. ‘My jiddo may be old, but he is a very good judge of character.’

  ‘Will he tell your parents what happened?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘Will you?’

  She shrugged. ‘My jiddo says it would only do harm. There’s no taking back what has happened. We can only pray that Allah will forgive, and try to continue with our lives.’

  Is that even possible? Maybe it is, I told myself. Alyssa certainly thinks so; with the optimism of youth, she believes she can erase the past. But the past is an obdurate stranger that puts as many marks on us as we attempt to impose on it. Can Alyssa be content, living in that other world?

  I tried not to think of what Inès had said. A child sees a baby bird fall from the nest. She picks it up and takes it home. One of two things happens next. The baby bird dies almost at once; or it survives for a day or two, and the child takes it back to its family. But the scent of human is on it now, and the family rejects it. It dies of starvation, or a cat kills it, or the other birds peck it to death. With luck, the child will never know.

  But I am not a child, Inès. Alyssa is not a fledgling. Will her family take her back? I hope so. Maybe. Maybe not. If not, I think she is strong enough to survive alone, without their help. In the few days she has been with me, I have seen Alyssa change. No longer a frightened baby bird, she is starting to flex her wings. Can she really go back to the nest and pretend she doesn’t want to fly?

  We walked her to the al-Djerba house, where old Mahjoubi was waiting. He looked outwardly composed, but his colours were turbulent; grey shot through with blood-orange and black, betraying his anxiety.

  ‘Will you be all right?’ I said.

  ‘Inshallah,’ said old Mahjoubi.

  Maya’s face appeared at the door. ‘I want to come, too. I want to show Rosette where my Jinni lives. Besides, he owes me another wish.’

  Rosette looked at me and signed: I want
to go and see Foxy.

  ‘All right,’ I said. ‘But don’t go too far.’ I turned back to old Mahjoubi. ‘Would you like me to come with you?’

  ‘Thank you, no.’ He shook his head. ‘I think it will be easier if I can speak to my son alone. It is time I did; it has been too long. Pride and anger have stood in my way. This would never have happened if I had not allowed my pride to stand in the way of my conscience. I will not let this happen again. I have been blind, but now I see. Allah give me strength to make others see, too.’

  I nodded. ‘All right. But if you need help—’

  ‘I know where to come,’ said Mahjoubi.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Friday, 27th August

  I AWOKE TO the sound of tapping from the metal grille high up the wall. I ran over to the piled-up crates, now mostly submerged in floodwater.

  ‘Vianne?’

  It wasn’t Vianne, of course. But it was Maya, and she had brought a friend. That might have given me hope, except that the friend was Rosette, who barely speaks, and when she does, makes little sense. I tried not to let my frustration show. ‘Maya. Did you tell Vianne I was here?’

  She nodded. Beside her, Rosette was watching with eyes as round as collection plates. Through the grille, the two little girls looked like a pair of cartoon kittens spying on a very big mouse.

  ‘Why haven’t you brought her?’

  She made a face. ‘But you still owe me two wishes.’

  I suppressed the urge to scream at her. ‘You know, Maya, I could grant your wishes a lot more easily if I wasn’t locked up down here.’

  The two little girls exchanged glances. Maya whispered something in Rosette’s ear. Rosette whispered back, in a hiccupping voice interspersed with giggles. Then they turned to me again.

  ‘My second wish is for you to bring back the cat.’

  ‘What cat, for pity’s sake?’

  ‘You know, the cat that comes to our house. Hazi.’

  ‘Maya, it’s a cat,’ I said. ‘How should I know where it is?’