Peaches for Monsieur Le Curé

by Joanne Harris

  Maya looked solemnly through the grille. ‘You made my jiddo better,’ she said. ‘But he’s still sad, because of the cat. Now, would you please bring Hazi back? After that, we’ll let you go.’

  Père, I could have murdered her. It was like talking to Henriette Moisson. As it was, I gave a howl of impatience, and the two kitten faces pulled away as if a dog had lunged at them.

  ‘Maya, Rosette, I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘It’s just that I want to get out of here.’

  She gave the grille a narrow-eyed look. ‘Not until you give me my wish.’

  There is nothing more futile than trying to argue with a five-year-old, especially not through a metal slot barely the size of a letter-box. I returned to my place on the cellar steps – three of which are now underwater – and tried not to give in to despair. It can be only a matter of time before someone hears about Maya’s new game, and wants to see the Jinni for himself. Till then, I will try to be patient, and believe that there is some kind of sense to be found in this absurd situation. A week from now, I hope that I can look back on all of this and laugh at the misunderstanding. But at this moment, I see no light. And the water is still rising; not fast enough to present an immediate threat, but enough to be unnerving. I may not drown in here, mon père, but I may contract pneumonia. Is this what my God wants of me?

  Here comes the call to prayer again. Allahu Akhbar. Underground, everything is curiously resonant. I have fallen inside a seashell, with the sound of the surf all around me. The voices of the everyday world float above me like jetsam. There is light, too, through the grille; brilliant, festive, fragmented light that dances and blinks like fireflies. The wind has dropped. The rain has, too. Maybe, at last, the Black Autan has run its course. I hope so.

  Allahu Akhbar. Ash-hadu al-la. The sound of the seashell is potent: its voice as persistent as memory. It makes me think of the giant dune, the big white dune at Arcachon where we used to go when I was a child; the blinding run towards the sea; the endless climb back to the top with the sun on the sand like hammered bronze and the nape of my neck growing red as I climbed.

  And now, for the first time, comes the thought that maybe I will die down here – alone, forgotten, unwanted. Who would miss me if I were gone? I have no family, no friends. My mother, the Church, prefers Père Henri. No one will look very far for me. And who would shed a tear for Reynaud, except perhaps Reynaud himself?

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Friday, 27th August

  WE HAD STARTED to walk down the Boulevard towards the little jetty. Maya and Rosette led the way, Rosette singing her wordless song. Maya joined in. Foxy and Bam seem to be made for each other. Half closing my eyes, I found I could see Bam as an orange light-scribble in their wake, though Maya’s new companion remains at present invisible. Of course, I don’t always see them. It has been months – perhaps even years – since I caught a glimpse of Pantoufle. As we reached the end of the road, all three of them vanished down one of the lanes that lead to the little boardwalk.

  ‘Don’t go too far,’ I called after them. ‘And stay away from the water!’

  Anouk looked at me. ‘Will Alyssa be OK?’

  ‘I hope so,’ I said. ‘I can’t interfere. The longer she stayed with us, the smaller her chances of going back home.’

  ‘But she cut her hair, and everything. She likes football and Facebook and pop music. She even helped us repaint the shop. How can she go back to wearing a veil, and never going out alone?’

  ‘It’s her choice, Anouk,’ I said.

  ‘And what about Luc? You know he’s crazy about her.’

  ‘I know, Anouk.’

  She looked mutinous. ‘We came here for a reason. You were supposed to fix things.’

  She sounded so like Luc that I flinched. ‘I can’t always do that, Anouk,’ I said.

  ‘Then what’s the point?’ She was angry now, the tears starting in her eyes. ‘What’s the point of what we do, if in the end we can’t save them?’

  A baby bird, fallen from the nest.

  ‘I never said I’d save anyone.’

  ‘That’s not true,’ protested Anouk. ‘We did it before. We can do it now. We made a difference to people’s lives. Joséphine. Guillaume. Armande. Reynaud—’

  And look at them now, Anouk, I thought. Eight years older, but what has changed? No one has been saved. A few expanding waistlines, perhaps; the fleeting warmth of memories. But go to the Café des Marauds, and Joséphine is still there. Paul-Marie, too, in his wheelchair. Guillaume, with his old dog. Armande, in the ground. And Francis Reynaud – all of them just names in the sand, blown away by the merciless wind.

  Anouk looked accusing. ‘You’ve given up. You don’t believe we can change things.’

  ‘That isn’t what I said, Anouk.’

  ‘Well, I don’t care. I’ll do it myself. We’ll do it together, me and Rosette. We’ll fix things for Alyssa and Luc. We’ll find Reynaud. We’ll fix up the chocolaterie. And then you’ll have to believe—’ She broke off, glaring, tears in her eyes.

  ‘What’s the matter, Anouk?’ I said. ‘Why is this suddenly so important?’

  Anouk shook her head, stubborn as a toy soldier.

  ‘Please, Anouk.’

  She turned away. For a long time, she did not answer. I could feel her trying to hold it in, to keep it under proper control. My little stranger has always been a surprisingly private individual; a hoarder of secrets and treasures and dreams, a puzzle box never quite to be solved. I waited.

  ‘It’s Jean-Loup,’ she said. ‘He isn’t answering his mail. He promised he would, as soon as he was out of surgery. But the operation was three days ago, and he hasn’t texted me, or posted anything on Facebook.’ Now there were tears spilling down her face. ‘No one’s heard from him. No one at all. And he promised—’

  I put my arms around her and pressed my face into her hair. ‘It’s going to be all right, Anouk. Everything’s going to be all right.’

  So this is why Anouk has been so brittle and restless these past few days: not because of Jeannot at all, but because of her friend Jean-Loup Rimbault—

  ‘You don’t know that. You can’t be sure.’

  You’re right, Anouk. It’s only words. The cheapest kind of magic words, like whistling past a graveyard. But sometimes words are all we have, and sometimes the ghosts are frightened away. Not every time, but sometimes—

  And then, just then, something happened. Rosette, who had been playing in a side alley with Maya, gave a sudden hoot of surprise. I looked up and saw, coming under the bridge, an unexpected movement. Could that be a houseboat?

  We ran to the bridge. It was a boat; no, not Inès Bencharki’s boat, but a little dark-green riverboat; crooked chimney coughing smoke; pots of flowers on the deck. And from the bridge, we saw two more boats, one yellow, one black, already moored by the riverbank.

  Rosette and Maya ran to see.

  Anouk turned towards me, once more alight with expectation. ‘You know what this means, don’t you?’ she said.

  The river-rats were back in town.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Friday, 27th August

  THE RIVER-RATS. AN invasion of them, moored beside the old jetty; narrow wooden riverboats of the kind they never make any more; some brightly painted, some drab, like old potbellied caravans with their little tin chimneys and corrugated roofs. By noon, there were already a dozen of them round the back of Les Marauds. You could see them from Armande’s house overlooking the river, and as evening fell we could see their lights beginning to shine across the Tannes and hear the sounds of activity as meals were cooked, greetings made, and the little floating community prepared to set up camp for the night.

  Anouk is convinced it is a sign. Of what, she is uncertain; but to her, the return of the river-rats signifies a change in the wind.

  Well, Anouk, you may be right. The wind has dropped. The sky is clear. On the Boulevard des Marauds, families are preparing to break fast on the seventeenth day of Ramadan. A rive
r of stars overhead; the lights along the Boulevard; the constellation of riverboats scattered across the sleeping Tannes.

  Tonight, we were alone at last. Alyssa has gone home, and the house is back to its normal size. But Rosette, who loves the riverboats, wanted to go and see them again; and Anouk wanted to check her messages, but of course there’s no reception here.

  I’ll admit, I was happy to see them go. Too many people; too much to do; far too many anxieties. Half an hour alone, I thought, would give me back my perspective. I made a cup of hot chocolate and took it into the garden; the air is still cool after the long rain, and the scents of wet earth and lavender are just beginning to reawaken. Below me, the streets of Les Marauds. Above me, the stars.

  I closed my eyes. Slowly, the sounds of the evening descend; the chirr of crickets; the church bells; the tick-tick-tick of the old house as it settles into the damp earth like a tired old lady into a chair. A ribbon of music – perhaps a flute – floats above Les Marauds. Eight years ago, when the river-rats came, I was preparing my first chocolate festival. Anouk was six. Roux was a stranger. Armande was still alive. Now, listening to that music, I can almost believe that nothing has changed. I can almost believe that I have not changed.

  Everything returns, said Armande. The river brings everything back in the end. Dear Armande. If only it could. If only you were with me now. The things I could tell you – the secrets I know—

  Everyone confides in someone. Much of the Catholic Church’s appeal is surely the confessional and its promise of absolution. Reynaud held confession every day, without exception. Now that Père Henri is in charge, confession is a weekly event, timed to coincide with services. Some of the old people miss Reynaud. People like Henriette Moisson and Charles Lévy, who rarely speak to anyone otherwise. To them, he is more than just a priest; he is a friend, a confidant. Old Mahjoubi was the same to the people of Les Marauds: and perhaps in my way I was too, in the days of the old chocolaterie. But to whom do we turn when we need to confess? Who is there to listen to me?

  The chocolate had gone cold. I poured it into the bushes. The night, too, was chilly; I stood up, ready to go indoors. And then I saw something, on Armande’s tree. We must have missed it last week, as we collected the last of the fruit: a single, perfect peach, just ripe; miraculously unblemished.

  And so I picked it; its scent was faint, but came to life with the warmth of my hands. I broke it open and tried it. End-of-summer peaches are too often tasteless and watery, but this one was still good; still sweet; still slightly musky with the rain.

  Armande was right; it’s always a shame to let good fruit go to waste. I should plant the stone by Armande’s grave, I told myself: she’d like that. There’s plenty of room by the cemetery wall, and in summer the children will creep in and steal the peaches. She’d like that, too. I know she would. I put the stone in my pocket. Across Les Marauds, I could see riverboats still continuing to arrive, the coloured lanterns at their bows scrawling fire across the water. Why so many? Why today? And could Inès be among them?

  It seems unlikely. And yet—

  I know the travelling community. If anyone can find Inès, the river-rats will sniff her out. And as for Reynaud, wherever he is, surely the thought of the river-folk invading Lansquenet-sous-Tannes will be enough to bring him out from wherever he’s hiding. He may not be the same Reynaud who tried to ruin my chocolate festival eight years ago, but his mistrust of outsiders remains. As soon as he hears the news, he’ll come home. Everything comes home in the end.

  I looked at my watch. It was past nine o’clock. Time for Rosette to go to bed. I knew where she and Anouk had gone; to the boardwalk, by the Tannes, perhaps to seek out old friends. I decided to go in search of them – it’s only a ten-minute walk from the house – and headed off into Les Marauds, where the Ramadan lights along the boulevard were echoed by those on the river.

  I walked past the al-Djerba house. The shutters were half open, and as I passed I saw them all having dinner – everyone laughing and talking – and the cat asleep on the window-ledge. That cat must have at least three homes. Keep a cat indoors and all it wants is to go outside again. Keep it outside, and it cries to get in. People are not so different. At least Maya got her wish. If only everything were as simple.

  I passed the Mahjoubi house as well, but the shutters were closed. There was no sign of life. I hope Alyssa and her family have managed to find some common ground. And now, at the end of the boulevard, the shadow of the minaret falling across the alleyway that marks the entrance to Saïd’s gym – and in the alley, a woman in black, carrying what looked like a cardboard box. I stopped in the shadows. The woman hadn’t noticed me. She moved quickly and furtively, opened the door to the gym, went in—

  Who could that be? I asked myself. Everyone was at dinner. And why would a Muslim woman enter an all-male gym anyway?

  There was a little passageway at the other side of the gym. I waited there, hidden from sight, for the woman to reappear. In less than five minutes she was back, but without the cardboard box. The woman was veiled from head to foot, but even so I recognized Zahra al-Djerba. I stepped out into the alleyway.

  ‘Zahra?’

  Her colours betrayed her. Behind the veil, I sensed her alarm. But her voice was calm enough as she said: ‘Oh, it’s you, Vianne. I was just dropping off some of old Mahjoubi’s things.’

  ‘To the gym?’

  She gave a shrug. ‘I didn’t want to intrude. Besides—’

  ‘You didn’t want to see Karim.’

  She started. ‘Why do you say that?’

  I smiled. ‘Just something your grandmother said. And he is very handsome, isn’t he?’

  ‘Yes, handsome,’ she said. ‘And dangerous. Don’t worry. He’s hardly likely to turn my head.’ I was surprised at her dry tone. After Alyssa’s confession and my own first meeting with him, I had formed a certain idea of Karim. Women and men of all ages, from Omi to Alyssa, believe he’s unfaithful to his new wife, but all of them seem to blame Inès rather than Karim himself – and yet Zahra seems almost amused at the thought that she, too, might fall for his charm. ‘I’m sorry, I have to go,’ she said. ‘The others will wonder where I am.’

  I watched her as she hurried back up the Boulevard des Marauds. I believed what she’d told me about Karim, but the rest still puzzled me. Why bring old Mahjoubi’s things to the gym? And why does she mistrust Karim, when everyone else adores him?

  I walked up to the door of the gym. As always, the neon sign was lit. Everything was quiet inside. I pushed at the door. It was open. Inside, the scent of chlorine over a watery, swampy smell; these old buildings flood easily, and the Tannes is at its highest. Other than that, I saw nothing unusual; nothing but the shapes of running machines and vaulting horses outlined in neon against the dark.

  I called: ‘Hello?’ No answer.

  I closed the door and went back on to the boulevard. Through the narrow passageway that leads down to the riverbank, I could see lights and hear voices and music. The river-gypsies were celebrating. I followed the boulevard towards the jetty; through the trees I could see their fires and shadows as they came and went. There’s something about a campfire that has always drawn me. That’s why I found myself moving, almost without being aware of it, towards the jetty and the lights, where someone was on the riverbank, roasting potatoes over a fire contained in a metal barrel. Two others were watching from the deck of a riverboat, and a third was practising monkey-jumps and shouting: ‘Bam! Bam! Badda-bam!’

  I stepped out from between the trees.

  ‘Maman!’ cried Anouk. ‘We found Joséphine! And look! Look who else we found!’

  Joséphine had got up as soon as I arrived on the jetty. She was wearing jeans and a fisherman’s sweater, and her hair was a pale corona in the lights from the water.

  ‘I meant to come and find you,’ she said. ‘But—’

  But I wasn’t listening. All my attention was focused on the figure on the riverbank; the light
from the campfire gilding his face, making his paprika hair into a circlet of wildfire—

  ‘Hello, stranger,’ the figure said.

  Who else could it be? I thought.

  It was Roux.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Friday, 27th August

  JOSÉPHINE BEGAN TO explain. ‘I went to look for the boat,’ she said. ‘I thought if I found it, then maybe Reynaud—’ She shrugged. ‘I didn’t. I found Roux instead. And that woman was with him.’

  Roux smiled. Roux has a very engaging smile, easy and at the same time curiously reluctant, which reaches all the way to his eyes. This time there was a question there. I climbed up on to the jetty and put my arms around him. He smelt of campfire smoke and of something unidentifiable, but familiar as the sound of the wind. Perhaps it was the smell of home. I found his lips with mine; we kissed. For a time, the question was answered.

  I said: ‘Don’t you ever turn on your phone?’

  He grinned. ‘I lost the charger. And then, when I got your messages—’

  ‘It doesn’t matter any more. You’re here now. But where’s Inès?’

  Now Roux told his tale. He’d come down by train two days ago, and had joined up with some friends in Agen. Everyone on the river knows Roux; he’s done work on practically every boat from the Garonne to the Haut-Tannes, and people trust him instinctively. They’d found the black boat downriver, moored illegally just out of Agen, with Inès and Du’a still on board. Roux had recognized it at once; he’d fixed the engine and brought it home.

  ‘What about Inès?’

  He shrugged. ‘She said she’d been having problems here. She never meant to take the boat. But when it drifted downriver, she didn’t know how to bring it back.’

  ‘She told you all that?’

  ‘Why wouldn’t she?’

  It’s true, of course; people talk to Roux. There’s something about him that invites trust. Children; animals; people in need; like the Pied Piper, he acquires followers wherever he goes. And yet, there is a remoteness in Roux that no one has ever overcome; a deep and quiet reluctance to talk about anything to do with the past; a refusal to explain himself, whatever the circumstances. Hence his refusal to discuss Joséphine, or even to mention Pilou’s existence, though he must have known that his silence would make him look guilty.