‘There’s a story some of you may know,’ he said in his new, compelling voice. ‘A scholar and his disciple were on a journey together. They came to a swollen river. They saw a young woman standing there. She could not cross the river alone, and so the scholar picked her up and carried her to the other side.
‘Many miles later along their road, the disciple said to the scholar: “Why did you help that woman, master? She was alone, un-chaperoned. She was young and beautiful. Surely, this was very wrong. She might have tried to seduce you. And yet, you took her in your arms. Why?”
‘The scholar smiled and said to him, “I carried her across the river. But you have been carrying her ever since.”’
There was silence as old Mahjoubi finished his tale. All faces turned towards him. I saw Paul Muscat, still ashen; Caro Clairmont; Louis Acheron; Saïd Mahjoubi, looking like a man who has suffered a paralysing stroke.
Then Karim spoke again. His voice was lower than before, and for the first time his colours showed a sign of uncertainty.
‘Get away from me, old man.’
Mahjoubi took a step forward.
‘I said, get away. This is a war. A holy jihad.’
Mahjoubi took another step. ‘A war against women and children?’
‘A war against immorality!’ Now Karim’s voice was strident. ‘A war against the poison that threatens to infect us all! Look at you, you old fool. You don’t even see what’s under your nose. You don’t understand what has to be done! Allahu Akhbar—’
And with those words, he shoved the Bic into Du’a’s face. There was a click, and then a whoosh, and then all of these things seemed to happen at once:
A kind of sigh came from the crowd as Karim’s right arm blossomed with flame. So did Du’a’s abaya; she screamed; and for a split second I saw Karim’s expression through the heat haze; his ecstatic look changing to one of realization as the flames leapt on to his face, turning from blue to yellow, and then someone came hurtling towards him – a figure in black, with ferocious intent. It was Inès; her arms flung wide; her black abaya parted like wings to embrace the flaming figures.
She took Karim by surprise; he fell sideways against the balustrade, still holding Du’a with one hand. The wood was brittle, old pitch pine bleached blond by two centuries of sun and rain, and the force of the impact was enough to send the three of them over the edge, trailing rags of fire and smoke, into the slipstream of the Tannes.
Almost at the same time, another figure came hurtling through the broken balustrade. He moved as smoothly as a bird diving into the river. I barely had time to recognize his red hair and to call his name—
‘Roux!’
We ran to the balustrade. For a moment we saw nothing but the shreds of Du’a’s abaya floating downstream from the jetty. Then something surfaced; a flash of red; a blur of something paler; and then we saw Roux, swimming towards the bank, with Du’a clinging to his neck—
Later, we found that the discarded robe had taken most of the damage; beneath it her kameez was intact, and even her hair was barely scorched. But, though Roux went back to look, Inès and her son were gone.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Wednesday, 1st September
IT TOOK OUR saviour Three days to rise. It took me a little longer. I can’t help feeling sorry for that; I hear it was quite a business. They carried me home – or someone did: if I am to believe the accounts that are circulating around Lansquenet, there must have been a hundred or more in the group that rescued me.
Imagine the tableau: Caro Clairmont in the role of the Magdalene; Père Henri as Saint Peter. Yes, he was there – she texted him rather than calling the police – and as soon as his sermon in Pont-le-Saôul was finished, he came running to save the day; by which time the crisis was over and his flock barely noticed he was there.
He wanted to give me the Last Rites. Caro would have let him, too, if Joséphine hadn’t intervened. From what I hear from Jean-Philippe – who, I am glad to say, was undamaged but for a headache and a nasty cut on the scalp – the intervention was both Rabelaisian and (according to Caro) unnecessarily aggressive. She ejected Père Henri Lemaître forcibly from the sickroom, at which point he was subjected to further abuse from Henriette Moisson, who, recognizing the perverti who tried to impersonate Monsieur le Curé, chased him out of the house with a broom, screaming like a Fury. Vlad was outside, explains Pilou. He doesn’t usually bite, but the combination of Henriette’s cries, the flying broom, the unfamiliar priest, well—
I think the word is awesome.
The bodies of Inès and Karim Bencharki were found by police divers on Monday. Still locked in that final, fervent embrace; her charred black robe enshrouding them both. Joséphine told me her story. I wish I’d known it sooner, père. I wish I could have known her face.
As for myself, I spent three days half in, half out of consciousness. Delirium, pneumonia, dehydration, exhaustion – all briskly dealt with by Cussonet, the village doctor, and Joséphine, who has barely left my side since the moment I arrived.
During that time, she tells me, there has been a stream of visitors. Some of them I remember: Guillaume Duplessis; Charles Lévy; Luc Clairmont and Alyssa Mahjoubi. Many from Les Marauds, bringing gifts, mostly of food. And, of course, Vianne Rocher: Vianne with a flask of hot chocolate; Vianne with a handful of mendiants; Vianne with a jar of peach jam and a smile like a summer sunrise.
‘How are you, Monsieur le Curé?’
I smiled. (I’m getting better at that.) ‘I’ll mend. Though I may need chocolate.’
She gave me an appreciative look. ‘I’ll do my best.’
‘How’s Du’a?’
She shrugged. ‘It’s going to take some time. The al-Djerbas are looking after her.’
‘Good. They’re good people. What about you?’
‘I thought we might stay another week. At least until you’re back on your feet.’
That took me by surprise. ‘Why?’
That smile again. ‘Oh, I don’t know. Perhaps I’m getting used to you.’ She reached into her pocket and pulled something out. I was expecting a chocolate. Instead, I saw in the palm of her hand a single, dry peach stone.
‘The last of Armande’s crop,’ she said. ‘I was going to plant it by her grave. And then I thought of your garden. You don’t have a peach tree, do you?’
‘No.’
‘Then plant it,’ she said. ‘Next to the wall, where it’s sunny. It might take a few years to bear fruit, but with time and patience … In China, the peach is a symbol of eternal life, did you know that?’
I shook my head.
I took the peach stone, not wanting to say that I might not be here to see it grow. My house belongs to the Church, after all, and my position is precarious. Today, the Bishop called me. Joséphine picked up the phone. He wants to drop by tomorrow; there are things to discuss, he says. I imagine Père Henri Lemaître has already told his version of the story. I do not expect an endorsement. Although my name has been cleared, I doubt whether this will change anything much. I have brought the Church into disrepute; defied the Bishop’s orders; caused friction with Les Marauds. I have no defence; I am guilty as charged. And yet—
While I was inside the whale, I had plenty of time to think. To remember what is important. To understand where I want to be. And I have realized that Lansquenet is more than just a parish to me. I cannot leave, even though the Bishop will probably ask me to. If that means giving up the Church, so be it, père. I’ll start again. Perhaps try my hand at carpentry, or gardening, or teaching. It’s hard to imagine, but then, père, I’ve never had very much imagination. Still, it’s easier for me to picture that than accepting another parish.
At Saint-Jérôme’s, Joséphine tells me I am sorely missed. Since the incident with Vlad, Père Henri has not returned. The bells have been mute since last Saturday, and no one has come to say Mass since then. Perhaps he’s waiting for me to leave. Perhaps the Bishop has told him to stay away until I am gone.
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Dusk, and the moon is rising. I can see it from my bed. I sleep with the shutters open; I have never liked the dark. Since my time inside the whale, I find I like it even less. When I awake from uneasy dreams, I want to see the stars.
Next door, in the parlour, I can hear Joséphine moving about. Nothing I can say to her will persuade her to go home for long. She goes back for an hour at a time to see Pilou and to check the café, but Paul is looking after the place, and doing a reasonable job, for a change. Perhaps this ought to surprise me. But since what happened in Les Marauds, I find that very little does. People are not always what they seem, and even a wretch like Paul-Marie may one day live to surprise us.
I can see Vianne’s peach stone on my bedside table. How very like her to give it to me. Vianne, who never stays in one place long enough for any kind of seed to grow. Eternal life. Well, I never. The moon is in its last quarter, and across the Tannes I can just hear the sound of the evening call to prayer. Here, in the real world, it no longer sounds as threatening. I left those fears inside the whale, along with a lot of other things. I doubt if this makes me a better man. But something inside me has changed; something I am just beginning to explore, as a man might explore, with the tip of his tongue, the tender place inside his mouth from which an aching tooth has been pulled.
I am not sure how it happened. But what began with Vianne Rocher has ended with Inès Bencharki. And now, for the first time in seven days, I know that I will sleep tonight, and that when I awake there will be stars.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Thursday, 2nd September
THIS MORNING, I rose, in defiance of Cussonet’s orders and Joséphine’s disapproval. I was shocked to discover how weak I was, and how long it took for me to get ready. But a visit from the Bishop is rare, and I had no intention of facing him from a horizontal position.
I showered and dressed with particular care, and after some hesitation, chose to put on the old soutane that I have not worn in years. It may be my last chance to do so, I thought, and was vaguely surprised at the pain I felt. Joséphine had gone to check on Pilou, and so I went into the kitchen to find something for breakfast.
Joséphine had told me that a number of people had brought gifts of food. This was no exaggeration – in fact, every surface was burdened with dishes, tins and boxes. There were casseroles and quiches and tarts; biscuits, fruit and pastries; bottles of wine; jars of jam; roasts and tagines and curries and soups and an enormous stack of those Moroccan pancakes. Opening the fridge, I found cheeses, ham, cold meats, pâtés—
Bewildered by sheer volume and variety, I made coffee and a piece of toast, and for the first time in over a week, went out into my garden.
Someone has weeded my flowerbeds. Whoever it was has also pruned an unruly climbing rose, as well as planting a dozen pots of red geraniums and staking out some hollyhocks that had been in danger of collapsing.
I sat on my bench and watched the street. It was early; just past eight o’clock, and the morning sun was gentle. Birds were singing; the sky was clear, and yet I felt a sense of dread. In all my years as priest of Lansquenet, the Bishop has visited only four times, and never for social reasons. I guessed that, after Père Henri’s failure to deliver the message, he meant to deliver it himself.
I know, I know. It’s ridiculous. But I am a priest, père – more than that, I am the priest of Lansquenet. To leave Lansquenet is unthinkable; to give up the priesthood, equally so. Either way it would mean giving up half of my heart. It’s impossible.
I heard the clock strike the quarter. The Bishop was due at nine o’clock. His verdict was inevitable; so was my sentence. I would have paced, but my sickness had left me too weak. Instead I sat and waited with increasing misery for the sound of his car down the boulevard—
Instead, I saw Omi al-Djerba walking slowly down the road. Maya was with her, running ahead with the curious waddling gait of small children. It’s unusual to see people from Les Marauds on this side of the bridge, but since the events of last week, I’m told, it has been a more regular sight.
Maya got there first and looked at me sternly over the wall. ‘So. You’re up at last,’ she said. There was a world of condemnation in those five syllables.
‘Well, I’ve been quite ill,’ I said.
‘Jinn don’t get ill,’ said Maya.
It seems my release from the cellar has done nothing to shake Maya’s belief in my uncanny powers. Even the revelation that I am a priest has left her mostly unmoved. She fixed her solemn eyes on mine.
‘Du’a’s memti died,’ she said.
‘Yes, Maya. I’m sorry.’
Maya shrugged. ‘It wasn’t your fault. You can’t fix everything at once.’
This matter-of-fact response was enough to make me laugh aloud. It was a strange, unhappy sound, but it was laughter nevertheless. In any case it surprised Omi al-Djerba, who peered over the wall at me with a look of reluctant approbation.
‘Well,’ she declared, ‘you look awful.’
‘Happy to oblige,’ I said, putting down my coffee cup.
She made a face that I took for a grin. She is so old that her wrinkles have evolved a topography of their own, each with its own set of expressions. But her eyes, which are baby-blue with age, still have a surprisingly youthful shine. Vianne says she reminds her of Armande, and now, for the first time, I can see why. She has the kind of irreverence that only the very old, or the very young, can achieve.
‘I heard you were leaving,’ she said.
‘You heard wrong.’
Caro Clairmont, I suppose. You can usually trace gossip back to her door – especially when it’s bad news. My instinctive response surprised me a little; though Omi nodded approvingly.
‘Good,’ she said. ‘They need you here.’
‘That’s not what I’ve been told,’ I said.
Omi made a derisive sound. ‘Some people don’t know what they need until they’re about to lose it. You should know that, Monsieur le Curé. Hee! You men! You think you’re so wise. But it takes a woman to show you what’s right under your nose.’ She laughed, exposing gums as pink as Maya’s rubber boots. ‘Have a macaroon,’ she said, pulling one out of her pocket. ‘It will make you feel better.’
‘Thanks. I’m not a child,’ I said.
She made that noise again. ‘Meh. You’re young enough to be my great-grandson.’ She shrugged and ate the sweet herself.
‘Isn’t it still Ramadan?’ I said.
‘I’m too old for Ramadan. And my Maya is too young.’ She winked and handed Maya a sweet. ‘You priests. You’re all the same. You think fasting helps you to think about God, when anyone who can cook would tell you that fasting just makes you think about food.’ She grinned at me. All her wrinkles grinned, too. ‘You think God cares what you put in your mouth?’ She popped another macaroon. ‘Ah. That will be your bishop.’
That was the sound of a car approaching; the double-bump over the camel-backed bridge; the sound of its straining engine as it rattles up the cobbled street. Most of the streets of Lansquenet are not really built for cars. Most of us drive (I myself do not), but we know how to handle our vehicles, coaxing them over the bumps in the road, slowing down for the ancient bridge, speeding up only at the far end of the boulevard. The Bishop is not familiar with the peculiarities of our streets, and the exhaust of his silver Audi was blowing alarmingly by the time he stopped in front of my house.
The Bishop is in his fifties; square-shouldered, square-jawed, more like an ex-rugbyman than a cleric. He must have the same dentist as Père Henri, because he has almost the same teeth. This morning they were ferocious in their whiteness and good cheer.
‘Ah, Francis!
‘Good morning, monseigneur.’ (He likes to be called Tony.)
‘Such formality! You’re looking well. And this is—’ He looked curiously at Omi, who stared back at him, unabashed.
I gave her a warning glare. ‘Monseigneur, this is Madame al-Djerba. She was just about to leave.�
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‘Was I?’ said Omi.
‘Yes,’ I said.
‘It’s just that I’ve never seen a bishop before. I thought you’d be in purple.’
‘Well, thank you, madame,’ I said. ‘And now, the Bishop and I need to talk.’
‘Oh, don’t mind us,’ said Omi. ‘We’ll wait.’ And she sat down on the garden bench with the look of someone prepared to wait indefinitely, if required.
‘Excuse me, what are you waiting for?’ said the Bishop.
‘Oh, nothing much. But everybody wants to see Monsieur le Curé back on his feet. A lot of people have missed him.’
‘Really?’ The Bishop gave me a look. His surprise was far from flattering.
‘Oh, yes,’ said Omi firmly. ‘That new priest was no substitute. That kind of priest may work in the big city, but not in a village like Lansquenet. Khee! It takes more than a few committees to get to the heart of a village. Père Henri has a lot to learn.’ And then, just as she spoke, there came the sound of bells from Saint-Jérôme’s. My bells, ringing for Mass, although it wasn’t Père Henri’s day.
The Bishop frowned. ‘Isn’t that—?’
‘Yes.’
The bells were too loud to be ignored. We went as far as the end of the street and looked into the empty square. There was no sign of anyone, and yet the church door was open. The bells rang on. I went to the door. The Bishop, after a moment’s hesitation, followed me inside.
The church was filled with people. As a rule, my congregation numbers forty or fifty at best, at Christmas or Easter. The rest of the time, I’m lucky to see a couple of dozen; sometimes fewer. But today, the pews were all full; there were even people standing at the back. Three hundred people, maybe more – half the population of Lansquenet – waiting for me inside Saint-Jérôme’s.
‘What is going on?’ said the Bishop.
Peaches for Monsieur Le Curé Page 36
