Peaches for Monsieur Le Curé

by Joanne Harris

  But what I saw the other night – and here again, this morning – suggests that he, too, has a dark side. His treatment of Alyssa; his lack of respect for old Mahjoubi; and now, his arrogant dealing with Roux. We already know that he is capable of infidelity. Now, I’m beginning to wonder if he isn’t capable of more. He has shown he can be aggressive. Is he also violent? Could Sonia be afraid of him? And what about Inès and Du’a? Are they deliberately avoiding him?

  Zahra was watching me, a curious look in her dark eyes. It was the same look that had been in her eyes last night, around the back of the gym. Were they old Mahjoubi’s things that Zahra had been carrying? Or did they perhaps belong to Inès?

  I looked up at the minaret that stands at the top of the boulevard. Slender; bone-white; elegant; crowned with a silver crescent moon. And across the river, the little square tower of Saint-Jérôme’s; plain; inflexible; unadorned. Two towers, facing each other across the Tannes like pieces on a chessboard—

  ‘You know where she is, don’t you?’ I said.

  Zahra nodded. ‘I saw her last night. I told her about your friend Reynaud, and everything that has happened here. And then I spoke to Sonia.’ She shot a glance at the girl, then spoke a few dozen words in Arabic.

  ‘What did she say? Has she seen Reynaud?’

  ‘No.’ Zahra shook her head. ‘But I know where he is. I’m sorry, Vianne. I have known almost from the beginning.’

  I stared at her. ‘But – why?’

  She shrugged. ‘I thought I was protecting Inès.’

  ‘And now?’

  She looked at me and smiled. ‘And now, she wants to talk to you.’

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Saturday, 28th August, 10.00 a.m.

  TEN O’CLOCK. THE end of Mass. Even here, inside the whale, Père Henri continues to taunt me. Of course, I’d know my bells anywhere. Their voices are unmistakable. And in a minute there he’ll be, sitting in my confessional, hearing their secrets, handing out Avés, once more taking my place—

  A tap on the grille. It was Maya again. Maya and Rosette, in fact: two little pairs of feet, one decorated with Disney princesses, the other lemon-yellow. And a jaded-looking cat, firmly held by Maya and emitting a series of mournful yowls.

  ‘So. You found the cat, then.’

  She gave me a luminous, happy smile. ‘Last night. I took him to Jiddo’s house.’

  ‘Wonderful.’ In fact, père, I was feeling less than vibrant. My head was spinning, and my throat was so sore that I could barely make myself heard. ‘What next, I wonder? A pony? A date with the Pope? A singing hat?’

  ‘That’s just silly. Hats don’t sing.’

  I tried to get a grip on myself. I must be light-headed with fever. The urge to laugh was almost overwhelming – and yet, mon père, I am not a man naturally given to laughter. I thought of Karim Bencharki’s threats and managed to focus a little.

  ‘Please. Maya. Did you tell Vianne?’

  ‘Uh-huh. I told her all about you.’

  ‘What did she say?’

  ‘She said it was nice.’

  I tried again. ‘Listen, Maya. I’m not a Jinni. Karim Bencharki put me here.’

  Maya put her head to one side. ‘If you’re not a Jinni,’ she said, ‘then how can you grant wishes?’

  ‘Maya! Would you listen to me?’

  ‘My third wish—’

  There’s no arguing with the implacable logic of childhood. For the first time in decades, I found myself close to tears. ‘Please, Maya. I’m sick. I’m cold. I’m hurt. I’m afraid of dying here—’ Suddenly, the narrow grille had become the screen of the confessional. But this time, I was the penitent and Maya the confessor. It was ridiculous, and yet I couldn’t stop myself. Perhaps because I was feverish; perhaps because even a five-year-old girl was better than no confessor at all. ‘I’m a priest, and I’m afraid to die. How absurd is that, eh? But I never believed in Paradise. No, not really. Not in my heart. Hell I can believe in. But heaven seems like the kind of thing you tell children when they’re afraid of the dark. Faith is about obedience; adherence to rules; keeping order. Otherwise, we’d have anarchy. Everybody knows that. That’s why the Church has its hierarchy; a stable pyramid of command; every member in his place and briefed on a need-to-know basis. The public accepts what we choose to reveal. God, in His turn, does the same. Order. Control. Obedience. Because if we let people know the truth – that even we have no certainties – then everything the Church has built over the past two thousand years would be nothing but a handful of paper and dust—’

  I stopped to draw breath. In fact, père, I was starting to feel dizzy. Three days without proper human contact have left me feeling very strange. I stretched my fingers towards the grille – I thought if Maya saw me, she might believe my story. With an effort, I could just reach.

  ‘Maya. I’m here. Look at me.’

  Maya pressed her face to the grille. Rosette joined her; I saw her red curls shining in the sunlight. Both of them looked in at me; two earnest little faces, solemn and implacable. For a moment I imagined them as judges, ready to pass sentence.

  ‘My third wish—’

  I gave a howl. But my throat was so sore and my head so weak that all that emerged was a whimper. Maya went on oblivious:

  ‘My third wish is for Du’a to come home. The riverboat came back, but Du’a and her memti weren’t there. And so you must bring Du’a back, just like you did with Hazi. And after that, you’ll be free. Just like Disney Aladdin.’

  I gave up. It was hopeless. I’d given everything I had, and still it wasn’t enough.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I whispered. I’m still not sure why.

  Maya’s face withdrew from the grille. For a moment, Rosette lingered. I already knew that talking to her would be a waste of time, and yet there is a kind of intelligence in those curious, birdlike eyes.

  ‘Tell your mother I’m here,’ I said. ‘Please. Tell someone. I’m begging you.’

  Rosette made a soft clucking sound. Does that mean she understood? Then she put her hand on the grille. It felt like absolution. And right at that moment the pile of crates beneath my feet gave way at last, tipping me sideways into the dark and into the freezing water.

  For a moment I was entirely submerged. For a second or two I panicked, struggling for the surface, then I hauled myself to my feet, pushed my dripping hair out of my eyes and slowly, painfully, made my way back towards the cellar steps.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Saturday, 28th August, 10.15 a.m.

  NO ONE BUT Omi saw us leave. But as we turned on to the boulevard, leaving the scene on the jetty behind, I was certain I caught a curious look from under a loosely tied headscarf. Omi al-Djerba is too old for niqab; in fact, she tells me with glee, at her age, surely even hijab is an unnecessary precaution. Well, she may be old, but her eyes are still keen, and her curiosity is endless; so it didn’t surprise me to see her, just a few minutes later, following at a distance, up the boulevard, past the al-Djerba house and towards the bridge into Lansquenet.

  Zahra had persuaded Sonia to come with us. Sonia had seemed reluctant at first at the idea of seeing Inès, but Zahra spoke to her again in low and furious Arabic, a phrase in which I caught the name Karim, which seemed to persuade her.

  Now she looked over her shoulder. ‘Omi is following us,’ she said.

  ‘Don’t let her catch up,’ said Zahra.

  The three of us quickened our step. Omi pretended innocence, looking at the view from the bridge. But by the time we had reached the Place Saint-Jérôme, she had abandoned all pretence, had picked up her skirts and was scurrying as fast as she could to catch up.

  It was ten fifteen; Mass was over, but the square was still busy with people. A group of men were playing pétanque in the patch of red shale behind the church, and there must have been twenty customers in the queue outside Poitou’s bakery. Some of them looked curiously at Zahra and Sonia in their black robes. In Les Marauds, niqab confers a kind of invisibility. Ac
ross the river, the opposite is true. A black robe catches the eye; a veil invites speculation. Joline Drou was coming out of Poitou’s with a pastry box; the ribbon exactly the same shade of pink as her little church suit and pillbox hat. She gave us a look of compassion and passed by in a cloud of Chanel No. 5.

  Zahra stopped outside the old chocolaterie. The pétanque-players were watching us now; a little group of middle-aged men, among them Louis Acheron.

  ‘I bet she’s a hot little number,’ he said with a look of appraisal at Sonia. ‘I wouldn’t mind seeing what’s under that.’ He did not attempt to lower his voice; as far as Louis is concerned, all niqabis are blind and deaf.

  ‘And I bet that man’s penis is very small,’ retorted Omi smartly, reminding me very much of Armande.

  ‘Omi, go home,’ Zahra said. ‘This has nothing to do with you.’

  Omi gave a cackle. ‘Nothing to do with me, heh? As if I didn’t know you had my little Du’a hidden in there.’

  ‘How did you know that?’ said Zahra.

  Omi grinned. ‘The cat told me.’

  Zahra shook her head irritably. We had already attracted too much attention to hold a discussion outside the shop. ‘All right, you can come in,’ she said. ‘But don’t go telling everyone.’

  * * *

  Zahra knocked. Du’a opened the door. For a moment I didn’t recognize her. I’d only ever seen her in the same black robe as her mother; her hair covered up with a hijab tightly pinned around her face. But now she was wearing a pink kameez over blue jeans and sneakers, and her hair was in a long plait. I’d thought she was ten or eleven; now I could see her properly, I guessed her to be a little older, maybe thirteen or fourteen.

  We followed her into the chocolaterie. With its walls newly painted, it looked almost as it had when Anouk and I first opened it. The stone floor was bare except for a small rug, some cushions and a low table; the house smelt of paint and incense.

  Omi said: ‘My little peach! So you took a trip downriver?’

  Du’a nodded. ‘We saw Rosette’s dad. He helped us fix the engine.’ She gave me a shy smile. ‘He’s awesome. Pilou talks about him all the time.’

  ‘Is your mother here?’ I said.

  She was; in jeans and a red kameez; but unlike Du’a, she had not removed her veil. Even indoors, Inès Bencharki keeps her face hidden, her hair concealed beneath a black scarf. It looks slightly indecent indoors, perverse, unmistakably hostile. The beautiful eyes were once more underlined with a strip of coloured fabric. Above it, her expression was blank, almost indifferent.

  ‘I’m glad you’re safe,’ I told her. ‘People were getting worried.’

  She shrugged. ‘I very much doubt it. I’m not the most popular person here.’ She turned to Zahra, who, like Sonia, had removed her face-veil as soon as she passed the threshold. ‘I told you to bring Vianne Rocher. Why have you brought a committee of fools?’

  Omi laughed. ‘As always, so welcoming. Why are you hiding away in here, when you know your brother is looking for you?’

  ‘Is he now?’ The voice was dry.

  ‘Yes, and if you cared about anyone other than yourself—’

  ‘Stop it, Omi,’ Zahra said. ‘You have no idea what’s going on.’ She turned to Inès. ‘I spoke to the priest. You have to tell them your story.’

  ‘You mean Reynaud?’ I said. ‘Is he here?’

  But Sonia was looking at Inès with an expression of curious intensity. It was the first time I’d seen her without her veil, and I was struck by her resemblance to Alyssa. Both have the same small, delicate features; the large, expressive eyes; the golden stud in the nostril. But whereas Alyssa is vivid and bright, Sonia looks wan and colourless. There were dark circles around her eyes; her mouth was bracketed with sadness.

  ‘Why did you go away?’ she said. ‘If you were going to come back like this, why did you go away at all?’

  Inès shrugged. ‘You don’t understand.’

  ‘Was I supposed to?’ said Sonia. ‘Karim and I were doing just fine before you came to spoil it all. And if you’d left us alone, then perhaps he and I would have had a chance—’

  Inès gave a harsh burst of laughter. ‘Is that what you think? That you had a chance?’

  Slowly Sonia shook her head. ‘I think you’re an evil woman,’ she said. ‘You’ll never let him get away. You put some kind of a spell over him, so he can’t belong to anyone else. You pretend to be so modest, so pure, but everyone knows what you’re really like. And if you think there’s anyone left who still believes you’re his sister—’ She stopped, out of breath and trembling. Her face was paler than ever.

  Inès indicated the floor cushions. ‘Sit down,’ she said in a dry voice. ‘All this drama can’t be good for the baby.’

  In silence, Sonia obeyed. Her eyes were hot and fiercely dry. She looked so young at that moment – younger even than Alyssa – that I found it difficult to believe she was pregnant at all.

  Then Inès turned to the rest of us. Her voice was hard and brittle. I checked her colours; beneath the veil, there was no sign of nerves or distress. In fact she seemed almost contemptuous; serene as only a woman can be who has given up hope of redemption.

  ‘So, everyone thinks I have lied to them. That I am not who I said I was. That I am Karim’s whore, and that Du’a is his daughter.’

  Nobody answered.

  Inès went on: ‘Well, some of that is half right. But be assured, I am nobody’s whore.’

  ‘I knew it!’ Omi said at once. ‘You’re his wife, aren’t you?’

  Inès shook her head. ‘No. I am not.’

  ‘I don’t believe you,’ Sonia said. ‘Why else would he sneak out to visit you at night, when he thinks I’m sleeping? Why does he think of no one else? Why has he been like a crazy man ever since you went away?’

  Inès gave a long sigh. ‘I thought I could avoid all this. I thought that what lies between me and Karim could be buried at last and forgotten. I tried to warn you about him once, as I tried to warn your sister. But the war between Karim and myself has claimed too many casualties. I cannot be silent any more. I am sorry if this causes pain. That was never my intention.’

  Sonia looked puzzled. ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘No, I don’t suppose you do.’ Inès sat down beside her. ‘Make yourselves at home,’ she said. ‘This may take a little time.’

  We seated ourselves on the cushions. Omi reached into a pocket and came out with a macaroon. ‘If I have to listen to this, I need a little sustenance.’

  Inès raised her eyebrows. ‘Old Mahjoubi would say that you are riding the devil’s donkey.’

  ‘The devil’s donkey or Shaitan’s sheep. I’m old. Get on with the story!’

  Above the veil, the smoky eyes narrowed in amusement. ‘Very well. Let me tell you who I am. But first I will tell you who I am not. I am not Karim’s sister. Nor am I his whore – or even his wife. Alhumdullila, I am his mother.’

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Saturday, 28th August, 10.25 a.m.

  FOR A MOMENT the room was silent. Then came a barrage of questions, exclamations, rebuttals. His mother? That was ridiculous. And even if it were true, then why would Inès want to hide it? Why attract suspicion, when she could have had acceptance, respect—

  When finally the questions died down, Inès began her narrative. Her French is both heavily accented and unusually formal; the clipped and painfully accurate French of someone who has learnt the language from textbooks decades out of date. The beautiful eyes were expressionless; the voice as dry as dead leaves.

  ‘I was sixteen years old when I had Karim,’ she said. ‘My family was poor. We lived on a farm in the country, my parents, three brothers, two sisters and I. When I was ten, my parents sent me to the city to work as a maid. I ended up in Agadir, working for a rich family. The family had three children; two little daughters and a son. At first I thought I was lucky. I went to school. I learnt to read. I studied maths and history and French. I learnt to cook
and clean the house.’ For the first time I thought her voice trembled. Then she went on. ‘I was fifteen. The son, Mohammed, was eighteen. He came to my room one night as I slept. He said that if I told anyone, I would be dismissed. He raped me. I told his mother. She threw me out. I told the police. They didn’t care.’

  Even at fifteen, I thought, Inès must have been a remarkably headstrong character. Treated as guilty by the police (the first thing they had asked her about the attack was whether she had been properly dressed), dismissed by her employers, she had tried to find work in another home. But no one would take her without a reference. She slept on the streets and begged for food. Twice she was arrested. On the second occasion, the police had conducted an intimate examination of her, and had discovered that she was pregnant.

  ‘The police called my father,’ Inès went on. ‘He came to Agadir by bus – a six-hour journey. But when he heard my story, he turned his face away from me, and made the journey back alone. My family mourned me as if I were dead. My letters came back unopened. My mother sent me some money – not much, but it was all she had – and told me she never wanted to see me again. Six months later, Karim was born, in Agadir General Hospital.’ Again, her voice seemed to tremble, but for a moment the flat tone took on a note of tenderness. ‘He was so perfect. So beautiful. I thought if my parents could see him, then—’

  ‘You thought they’d fall in love with him,’ I said.

  She nodded. ‘It was a mistake. I knew as soon as I arrived. I had dishonoured the family. Ruined my sisters’ chances. I’d spent all my money coming back home, but I had no home to come back to. I went to my elder brother’s house – I was always his favourite. He’d been married for eighteen months to Hariba, a cousin of mine. They were not happy to see me at all, but still they took me in. And then, when my sister-in-law had gone out, they came.’