Peaches for Monsieur Le Curé (15 page)

CHAPTER THREE

Thursday, 19th August

I‘D EXPECTED TO
find activity. Instead, Les Marauds was lifeless; streets deserted; shops closed. It might have been six in the morning instead of almost ten thirty. The sun was hot, the air very still, with a kind of eerie clarity.

Only Saïd Mahjoubi’s gym seemed open for business this morning. I wondered if he even knew that his daughter was missing. Surely, if he
had
known, he would have closed the gym for the day. But here it was business as usual, with nothing to suggest that a girl might have vanished overnight—

The red door opened. Two men came out. One was young, a teenager, in a sleeveless shirt and combat shorts. The other, in his thirties, was, quite simply, one of the most beautiful men I have ever seen. Graceful in that muscular way which hints at ballet, or martial arts; light olive skin; cropped black hair and a mouth of Oriental precision, drawn from a single voluptuous line …

‘Can I help you,
mademoiselle
?’

For a moment, I was thrown. The last time I’d walked past the gym, I’d sensed an open hostility. But this man was different; he smiled at me, and I found myself the focus of a charm that was as potent as it was disarming.

Behind me, the teenage boy had gone. I was alone with the stranger. His eyes, beneath thick brows, were dark and soulful, glazed with gold.

‘I’m staying here for a few days. I’m Vianne Rocher—’

‘Hello, Vianne Rocher. I’ve heard about you. I’m Karim Bencharki.’

Once more, I was taken aback.
This
was Karim Bencharki?

Reynaud had said he was Westernized. Even so, I’d expected him to display some traditional features – a prayer hat, or at least a beard, like Saïd Mahjoubi. But
this
man might have been anyone, from any kind of background. I checked his colours. A flick of the wrist; a fork of the fingers, nothing more. But he saw it; those eyes are acutely alert. I sensed a keen intelligence there; a deep and earnest intensity; and glossing over it all, that charm, which seems so easy and self-assured—

I confess – I was almost smitten. No one could have failed to respond to the warmth of those honey-glaze eyes. At least, no woman – though maybe Reynaud has filters through which he perceives these things. Certainly he never thought to mention the thing that would take me by surprise, then wring me like a wet rag and leave me stupidly speechless. It is a cheap kind of glamour, of course; and yet for some, it really works. Zozie de l’Alba was one of them; Karim Bencharki is another.

For a moment I struggled to find the words. At last I said: ‘You’ve heard of me?’

The colours between my fingers crazed. Kaleidoscope colours, like pieces of glass spinning at my fingertips.

‘Yes, of course. From my sister,’ he said. His smile pinned me like a moth on a board. ‘Another of Reynaud’s lost crusades.’

‘I’m not sure what you mean,’ I said.

‘Just that you’re not the only one to get into trouble with the priest. He has quite a reputation where people like us are concerned.’

‘People like us?’

‘Undesirables. People whose faces will not fit, who don’t keep to their side of the river.’

‘We had a little encounter,’ I said. ‘Looking back, I don’t think it was very wise of me to open a sweet shop in front of the church, right at the very beginning of Lent—’

He laughed at that. He has perfect teeth. ‘My sister had the same problem,’ he said.

‘Didn’t Reynaud approve of the school?’

‘He never made any pretence of it. Right from the first, he was antagonistic. Inès remembers him standing there, in his black robe, watching. Every day watching, not saying a word, stiff with disapproval.’

I was struck by the similarity of his account to what Reynaud himself had said. That Woman in Black, never speaking – could it be that both sides of this conflict are jumping at shadows of themselves?

‘Where is your sister living now?’

‘With me, until the repairs are done. It’s better she lives with her family.’

His words sounded both casual and proprietary, and I remembered the feeling I’d had at the al-Djerba house; the sense that Inès Bencharki might be more than just a sister. His first wife, perhaps? She has his name. Of course, she might have gone back to her maiden name. Still, Omi had hinted at something. But if so, why would Inès live alone? And why would Karim Bencharki lie?

‘My sister has had a troubled life,’ went on Karim in a gentle voice. ‘Her husband died young, our parents are gone, she has only me to look after her. And now, just when she is beginning to make a fresh start, this happens.’

I said it was a pity.

‘More than that,’ said Karim. ‘It is a scandal and a disgrace. And that priest is responsible. He should be made to pay. And he will.’

I decided against defending Reynaud in favour of finding out more. I said, ‘You think he started the fire, then?’

‘No doubt about it,’ said Karim. ‘He has been linked with such things before. An incident with the river-folk in which a boat was set on fire. And then there was your shop, of course, and the way he tried to close you down. Madame Clairmont has told me all about it. The man thinks he is Mayor of Lansquenet.’

‘
Caro
Clairmont?’

He nodded. ‘Yes. She has been a great supporter of our little community.’

That didn’t really surprise me. Caro Clairmont has always enjoyed making herself indispensable. Once one of Reynaud’s Bible groupies, she has switched her allegiance to a younger priest, Père Henri Lemaître, whose attentiveness and boyish good looks make Reynaud’s aloofness all the more distasteful. I imagine Karim, with his searchlight smile, must present a similar kind of appeal.

What was it that Reynaud said? That Caroline had fallen out with her regular coffee-morning group? Or is it just that she has always preferred the company of handsome young men?

‘You are here with your daughter, is that right?’

I nodded. ‘My daughters. Anouk and Rosette. Perhaps you’ve already seen them around.’

‘If so, I would have remembered them.’ His tone was almost flirtatious. Again, I was surprised at the ease with which he dispenses that charm of his – not a common skill, I guessed, among the men of Les Marauds. He moved a little closer, and I caught the scent of
kif
, mixed with something dark and sweet – chypre, perhaps, or frankincense—

I wondered if he was aware that his sister-in-law was missing. These families are very close. Could Alyssa’s parents have hidden their daughter’s absence, even from Sonia and Karim?

Once more I checked his colours. Few people shine as brightly. Some people cannot help but shine, eclipsing everything in their path. Is this why Reynaud mistrusts him? Or is there another reason?

‘I’d like to meet your sister,’ I said. ‘I’ve heard a lot about her.’

‘Of course,’ said Karim. ‘But I think you should know my sister Inès is very shy. She keeps to herself. She does not – socialize.’

‘But she has a daughter? What’s her name?’

‘Du’a. “A prayer” in Arabic.’

‘How sad for her, to lose her father so young.’

A shadow came over his features. ‘My sister has had a sad life. Du’a is all she has now. Her daughter, and of course her faith. Her faith means everything to her.’

The door to the gym opened then, and a man in a white
djellaba
looked out. I recognized one of the men I’d seen in Les Marauds the day I arrived, and knew this was Saïd Mahjoubi. He did not acknowledge me at all, but instead spoke to Karim in Arabic. I did not understand the words, but I was aware of their urgency, and of the way he glanced at me, quickly, sharply, before looking away.

‘Excuse me. I have to go,’ said Karim. ‘Enjoy your stay here.’

And at that he turned and went back inside, closing the red door behind him.

Left alone, I returned to the boulevard. The late-morning sun was already high, and yet, away from the claustrophobia of the little alleyway, with its scents of chlorine and
kif
and sweat, I was conscious of a welcome sensation of freshness. It was nothing but a breeze, coming across the river, but it smelt of other places, and wild sage on the mountainside, and the peppery scent of the rabbit-tail grass that grows along the sand dunes and crazy-dances in the wind – and I realized what was different.

At last, the calm had broken.

The Autan had begun to blow.

CHAPTER FOUR

Friday, 20th August

PÈRE HENRI LEMAÎTRE
called this morning. I had slept unusually late, and he caught me unshaven and just out of bed. How does he manage to do that,
père
? Does he have a special sense that tells him when I am vulnerable? In any case, he was at my door just as Saint-Jérôme’s clock struck nine fifteen, his eyes shining almost – but not quite – as brightly as his teeth.

‘Good heavens, Francis, you look terrible.’

I wish he wouldn’t call me that.

‘I’m perfectly well, thank you,’ I said. ‘To what do I owe this pleasure?’

He gave me one of those pitying looks and followed me into the house.

‘Just checking on a colleague,’ he said. ‘The Bishop was asking after you.’

The Bishop. This gets better. ‘Oh?’

‘He thinks perhaps you need a rest. He mentioned you were looking unwell.’

‘I thought I
was
having a rest,’ I said, a little tartly. ‘I’m certainly not overwhelmed by parish duties at the moment.’

That
was true; for the past couple of weeks my work has been done by Père Henri Lemaître, who also happens to serve three other tiny villages with no appointed priest of their own. With fewer young men entering the priesthood and fewer people attending church, Lansquenet is unusual in having a resident
curé
, saying Mass twice a day and holding confession four times a week. Other villages have had to get used to hearing Mass only on Sundays, and sometimes having to travel to a different village to do so. No wonder church attendance is down. The Bishop and his kind would have us believe that priests are like kitchen utensils, all of us interchangeable. This may be true in Marseille or Toulouse. But here, people like to have their own church, their own priest for confession. They like to know that the word of God is not brought to them through some celestial telegraph, but through the lips of a man like themselves, a man with calluses on his hands, who knows and understands their lives. I wonder how many confessions Père Henri has heard in Lansquenet. I mean
sincere
confessions, not the kind that Caro Clairmont tells me to attract attention.

‘
Oh
, mon père,
I’m so afraid that I might have unwittingly caused offence. I was with Joline Drou the other day, we were shopping in Agen, and we’d stopped to look at summer frocks. You
might
have noticed I’ve lost some weight. Well, it’s no crime to want to look one’s best, and the way some women let themselves go – anyway. I won’t bore you
, père.’

‘
Quite
.’

‘
Oh. Well – Joline had seen a dress she liked, and I happened to say that it wouldn’t suit. I mean, it can’t have escaped you
, père,
that Joline often chooses clothes that are
far
too young for a woman her age, not to mention the fact that she’s getting just a
teeny
bit plump – I wouldn’t say it to her
face,
but I wouldn’t be a true friend if I let her make a fool of herself, and now I feel so guilty—
’

‘
Enough. Two Avés
.’

‘
But
, mon père—’

‘
Please
, madame.
I don’t have all day
.’

No. Diplomacy and flattery are not among my talents. I’m sure that Père Henri Lemaître would have dealt with her problem more sensitively. I am often impatient, often abrupt. I cannot hide my feelings the way Père Henri Lemaître hides his. I cannot feign interest or sympathy the way he does, or treat my flock as if they were anything but stupid sheep.

And yet I know them better than any priest from the city could. They may be sheep, but they are
my
sheep, and I have no intention of handing them over to Père Henri. How could he understand them, with his toothpaste smile and his winning ways? How could he know that Alain Poitou has become addicted to cough medicine, and doesn’t want his wife to know? That Gilles Dumarin blames himself for allowing his sister to put their mother in Les Mimosas? That Joséphine Muscat used to steal, and still feels the need to do penance? That, following the death of his son, Jean Marron has thought of suicide? That Henriette Moisson, at eighty-five, confesses to me every week a theft committed when she was nine; that of a little sewing set she purloined from her sister, who died over sixty years ago, in a boating accident on the Tannes? That Marie-Ange Lucas is having internet sex with a boy she has never met, and wants to know if it is a sin? Or that Guillaume Duplessis still prays for the soul of a dog that died over eight years ago, and that I, God forgive me, allow him to believe that maybe animals
do
have souls, and will find a place in Paradise?

Whatever my faults,
père
, I know guilt. And I know that some problems cannot be solved by PowerPoint. Or even by a bishop, for that matter.

‘You know why that is, Francis,’ said Père Henri, bringing me back to reality. I had been so lost in my thoughts that it took me a few moments to recall what he had been referring to. He has taken over my duties because, according to him, at least, my office has been compromised by the rumours and gossip that have sprung up in the wake of the fire in the old
chocolaterie
. I suspect that this idea has come from Caroline Clairmont, a firm believer in progress, who sees in Père Henri Lemaître a kindred spirit as well as a possible rung on the ladder of her advancement. She has already seen what the man can accomplish in just two weeks. In six months, then, how much more could be done?

He followed me into the kitchen and sat down, uninvited.

‘Make yourself at home,’ I said. ‘Would you like coffee?’

‘Yes, please.’

‘It’s still my parish,’ I told him, pouring coffee into two cups. He takes his with milk. I prefer black. ‘I’m afraid I don’t have any sugar.’

That smile again. ‘No matter,’ he said. ‘I really shouldn’t, anyway.’ He patted his midsection. ‘Have to keep an eye on the old tum, don’t we, Francis?’

My God, he even
sounds
like Caro. I drank my coffee in one gulp and poured myself another. ‘It’s still my parish,’ I said again. ‘And unless I’m found guilty in some other court than that of gossip and conjecture, I have no intention of leaving.’

Of course, he knows that won’t happen. The police have already spoken to me. There is no evidence at all to link me with the fire, and although the Lansquenet rumour mill continues to turn unabated, the rest of the world has lost interest.

Père Henri Lemaître gave me a look. ‘It isn’t as black and white as that. As I’m sure you must know, a priest must be absolutely beyond reproach. And in a delicate situation like this, where another culture is involved—’

‘I have no problem with
other cultures
, as you put it,’ I said, trying to keep my temper. ‘In fact—’ I bit off the rest of the phrase. In the heat of the moment I’d been dangerously close to revealing the events of the other night. ‘If there has been antagonism,’ I said at last in a calm voice, ‘then it has been entirely from the community of Les Marauds, where old Mahjoubi has always done his utmost to provoke me.’

Père Henri Lemaître smiled. ‘Yes, the old man was set in his ways. Different times, different styles. The new one, I think, will be easier.’

I looked at him. ‘The new what?’

‘Oh. Didn’t you know? Old Mahjoubi’s son Saïd is taking over his role at the mosque. It seems the old man had been causing concern for some time with his funny little quirks. Some people, it seems, were quite upset. Including you, of course,’ he said, with yet another flash of his teeth.

I thought about that for a moment. It had never occurred to me that old Mahjoubi might also have had his detractors within Les Marauds. But can Saïd Mahjoubi bring the change Les Marauds needs?

‘Saïd’s a sensible man,’ said Père Henri complacently. ‘He understands his community. He knows how to lead, he’s progressive, he’s respected by everyone. I think we’ll find him far easier to involve in dialogue than we did his father.’

People like Père Henri Lemaître never use the easiest phrase. It’s always
involve in dialogue
instead of simply talking. And I couldn’t help but suspect that maybe there was a hidden gibe against me in Père Henri’s words. He has made it all too clear that he thinks I do
not
understand my community. I am
not
the most progressive of men, and after the fire at the old
chocolaterie
I think it is fairly safe to say that I am no longer the most respected. Is this his way of baiting me? Or simply his way of warning me that soon I too shall be replaced?

‘The Bishop thinks you might benefit from a relocation,’ he said. ‘You’ve spent too long in Lansquenet. You’ve started to think of the place as your own. To impose your own rules, not those of the Church.’

I began to protest. Père Henri lifted a hand to silence me.

‘I know you don’t agree,’ he said. ‘But perhaps you need to examine your soul. Your soul, and perhaps your conscience.’

‘My
conscience
!’ I exploded.

He gave me one of his condescending looks. ‘You know, Francis – may I call you Francis?’

‘You already do,’ I pointed out.

‘I hope you’ll forgive my frankness,’ he said. ‘But the Bishop – and others – have mentioned a certain arrogance in your dealings with—’

‘Is
that
why I’m being disciplined?’ My anger was almost too much to contain. ‘And here I was, thinking it was for setting fire to a girls’ school.’

‘No one’s saying that, Francis. And no one has said you’re being disciplined.’

‘Then what
are
they saying?’

He put down his cup. ‘Nothing yet, not officially. I simply thought I’d warn you.’ He shot me that smile of his. ‘You’re really not helping your case, you know. Perhaps God has sent you this trial as a lesson in humility.’

I clenched my fists behind my back. ‘If he has, I’m sure he doesn’t need
you
to help translate his meaning.’

I thought Père Henri bridled a little. ‘I’m trying to be your friend, Francis.’

‘I’m a priest. I have no friends.’

Yesterday was oppressively still. Today, a dry, abrasive wind blows. Tiny flecks of mica ripple and hang in the turbulent air; a scent, like that of old smoke, filters into everything. In the old
chocolaterie
, Luc Clairmont is making repairs. Scaffolding has been erected up the side of one wall; a sheet of plastic covers the roof. Now, with this wind, the plastic sheet rattles and creaks like an old ship’s sail. In the street, women hold their skirts; papers fly; the sun is a disc of silver foil in a sky full of hectic dust. It is the White Autan, of course, so prevalent at this time of year. It usually lasts for a couple of weeks, and stories and sayings abound in its wake.

How I once hated those stories, those little fragments of paganism; seeding themselves like dandelions; invading the garden of our faith. Since then, I have learnt to tolerate, if not entirely trust them. We can all learn from stories, be they holy or profane.

Autan blanc, Autan blanc—

There’s a saying in these parts that the White Autan can either send a man mad, or blow away his demons. It is an old wives’ tale, of course. But, as Armande Voizin used to say, old wives are sometimes worth listening to.

Autan blanc, Autan blanc
,

Autan en emporte le vent
.

And now, as I watch Père Henri leave, head lowered into the scouring wind, I wonder briefly what it would take for the White Autan to blow
him
away.