Peaches for Monsieur Le Curé (16 page)

CHAPTER FIVE

Friday, 20th August

WIND MAKES PEOPLE
excitable. Every Schoolteacher knows that – yes,
père
, and every priest. The White Autan has so far brought a spate of quarrels, bursts of temper and petty acts of vandalism – three planters overturned in the square, graffiti on the scorched wall of the old
chocolaterie
– which suggests that this year the
Vent des Fous
has found its way into the collective brain, making fools of everyone.

Caro Clairmont is one of them. The wind brings out the worst in her. To me she is especially cloying, in that poisonous way I know too well; calling round yesterday to see if I needed anything, and managing before she left to deliver a number of barbed little shots – disguised as sympathy, of course – and to wish me well for the future.

‘Why, are you going away?’

She looked slightly flustered. ‘No, I—’

‘Oh. I must have misunderstood.’ I gave her my most vicious smile. ‘Give my regards to your son, by the way. He’s a fine boy. Armande would have been proud.’

Caro twitched. It is common knowledge in Lansquenet that she and Luc do not agree on a number of issues, including his choice of university and his decision to study literature instead of joining the family business, as well as the matter of Armande’s house. Armande’s will made it very clear that the house belongs to Luc, but Caro believes it should be sold, and the money invested elsewhere. Of course, Luc will not hear of this, which has caused a certain tension in the Clairmont household. In any case, any mention of Luc or his plans is enough to bring on that twitch again. But satisfying though it is to needle Caro, it does not improve my position here. Père Henri Lemaître has done his work well, speaking of my situation (of course, in the utmost confidence) to all those women in Lansquenet who can most be trusted to spread the news.

Meanwhile, it has been two weeks since I last took confession. Even so, I hear things that Père Henri fails to notice. Henriette Moisson and Charles Lévy have fallen out over a cat, which technically belongs to Charles, but which Henriette feeds so often and so lavishly that it has attached itself to her. Charles resents this, and, the other day, trying his hand at investigative action, went so far as to hide himself in Henriette’s back garden, in the hope of collecting photographic evidence of the animal’s abduction, at which Henriette set up a scream that a
perverti
was spying on her, which roused the whole street – at least until the truth was discovered. The object of all this attention seemed quite unmoved by the disturbance, finishing the dish of minced steak that Henriette had prepared for him before going back to sleep on a cushion in front of the fire.

Henriette has already tried to confess to me a number of times. I tell her to ask for Père Henri Lemaître, but I don’t think she understands.

‘I looked for you at confession,
père
, but you were not in church,’ she said. ‘Instead I found some
perverti
sitting inside the confessional!

I told him if I saw him again I would call for the police—’

‘That was Père Henri Lemaître,’ I said.

‘Why? What was
he
doing there?’

I sighed and finally told her that she could come round to my house if ever she needed confession. I also spoke to Charles Lévy, telling him that if he wishes to keep his cat, he should let it sleep indoors and feed it something more than scraps.

This morning I met him coming out of Benoît the fishmonger’s with a small, wrapped package and a look of satisfaction.

‘Monkfish,’ he hissed at me as he passed. ‘Let’s see how she deals with
that
!’ And then he was off, clutching his fish as if it were contraband. He does not know that Henriette has already bought some whitebait, as well as a leather collar inscribed with the name Tati. Charles calls his cat Otto, which Henriette tells me is a silly name for a cat, as well as being unpatriotic.

You see,
mon père
. In spite of all this, some people still speak to me. But Caro Clairmont, Joline Drou – the little set that Armande Voizin referred to as
Bible groupies
– are pointedly ignoring me. I saw Joline this afternoon crossing the square by Saint-Jérôme’s, as I replaced the overturned pots and swept up the earth from the planters. I suspect one of the Acheron boys – I’ve seen them hanging around the square, and I am almost sure the graffiti on the
chocolaterie
wall is also their work: a spray-painted tag, which I must remove today before another one joins it.

Joline was on her way to the beauty shop with Bénédicte Acheron, who has (since their recent falling-out over the issue of Joline’s new frock) replaced Caro Clairmont as Joline’s best friend. Both of them were dressed to the nines, their hair hidden under silk headscarves. Of course, this wind is disastrous to the feminine coiffure, and God forbid that either one should appear in a state of anything less than perfection.

I greeted her. She turned away. A priest should show some dignity. Perhaps it offends her to see me like this, in a T-shirt and a pair of old jeans, sweeping dirt from the pavement. Well, let her be offended. If Caro has not already done so, I imagine Père Henri Lemaître has already told her all about my terrible stubbornness, my refusal to confess, my lamentable insubordination and my ingratitude towards both the Bishop and Père Henri himself. I wondered as I watched her go (her high heels tapping the cobbles) if this was how Vianne was welcomed here, eight years ago – with sidelong glances; disdainful smiles.

Now,
I
am the outcast.
I
am the undesirable. The thought came to me so suddenly that I began to laugh aloud. It was a curious sound,
père
, the sound of my own laughter; and the thought occurred to me then that it was a sound I had not heard in twenty years.

‘M’sieur le Curé? Are you all right?’

I must have let my eyes close. I opened them, and saw a boy holding a dog on a piece of string. It was Joséphine’s boy, Jean-Philippe – she calls him Pilou – looking at me curiously.

Jean-Philippe Bonnet doesn’t go to church. He and his mother are in a minority. And though she has never liked me, Joséphine has never been the kind of woman who uses gossip as currency. That makes her unique in Lansquenet; unique, if not approachable. Her son is eight, with a sunny grin that some find almost infectious. His dog has been an annoyance ever since he acquired it, taking instant objection to a variety of everyday sights and sounds, including other dogs, nuns, church bells, bicycles, men with beards, the wind and most especially women in black, which always send the animal into a fit of barking. It was barking now, I saw. Probably that blasted wind.

‘Yes, I’m fine,’ I told the boy. ‘Can’t you shut that dog up?’

The boy gave me a pitying look. ‘Not really,’ he said. ‘Vlad’s a believer in free speech.’

‘So I understand,’ I said.

‘But he’s
very
corruptible.’ The boy dug into his pocket and produced a biscuit. Vlad fell silent and raised a paw. ‘There,’ said Pilou. ‘The price of peace.’

I shook my head and turned my attention to the graffiti on the
chocolaterie
wall. The wall needs a coat of whitewash. Even so, the colour will show if I do not scrub it clean. I’d brought a scrubbing brush and some bleach.

‘Why are you doing that?’ said Pilou.

I shrugged. ‘Well, somebody has to.’

‘But why
you
? It’s not your house.’

‘I don’t like the way it looks,’ I said. ‘People shouldn’t have to see graffiti on their way to church.’

‘I don’t go to church,’ said Pilou.

‘Yes, I know,’ I told him.

‘Maman says
you
don’t, either.’

‘That isn’t the case,’ I told him. ‘I don’t expect you’d understand.’

‘Yes, I would. It’s because of that fire,’ he said.

Once more, I found myself on the edge of a precipice of laughter. ‘Your mother taught you to speak your mind.’

‘Oh yes,’ said Pilou cheerily.

I scrubbed once more at the spray-painted tag. The paint has sunk into the porous wall, saturating the plaster. The more I scrubbed, the more tenaciously the pigment seemed to cling to the wall. I muttered a curse.

‘That Acheron boy—’ I said, with clenched teeth.

‘Oh it wasn’t
him
,’ said Pilou.

‘How do you know? Did you see something?’

‘Nnn-hnn.’ He shook his head.

‘Then how do you know?’

‘My friend says it’s an Arabic word.’

‘Your friend?’

‘Du’a. She used to live here, before the fire.’

I looked at the boy with some surprise. How curious, that a boy like this – inseparable from his dog, living in the village café, surely a bad influence in every possible sense of the word – should be friends with Inès Bencharki’s child.

‘And what does Du’a say it means?’

Pilou shrugged and knelt down to adjust the makeshift lead on his dog’s collar. ‘It isn’t very nice,’ he said. ‘Du’a says it means
whore
.’

CHAPTER SIX

Saturday, 21st August

AT LAST, A
sign that all is not well among the streets of Les Marauds. I guessed as much when I saw Saïd the other day outside the gym, but now finally the rumour is free, whispering through Les Marauds like rain.

Have you heard?

Have you heard?

I heard it from Omi al-Djerba first. I met her as I walked with Rosette over the bridge into Lansquenet. She greeted me with a cackle, and waved to me to join her.

‘Everything’s going crazy here,’ she told me in her cracked voice. ‘Can you feel it? It’s the wind. The wind sends everyone crazy.’

She smiled at Rosette, with petal-pink gums. ‘Is this your little one here, eh? Does she like coconut macaroons?’ She brought one out of the pocket of her embroidered kaftan. ‘Delicious. We make them for Ramadan.’ She handed one to Rosette, at the same time popping one slyly into her own mouth. ‘This doesn’t count,’ she told me, seeing my surprise. ‘It’s only a bit of coconut. Besides, I’m too old to fast all day.’ She winked at Rosette. ‘
Bismillah!
’

Rosette puffed out her cheeks and signed:
Monkeys like coconut too
.

‘Well, of course,’ said Omi, who seemed to have understood perfectly. ‘One more for your little friend.’

Rosette crowed with laughter, her mouth still full of coconut. Omi tweaked her marigold hair. ‘They’re saying Alyssa Mahjoubi has run away from home,’ she said.

‘Who is?’

‘All the flapping tongues. Her mother says she’s ill in bed, but no one has seen her for three days, and Reema Bouzana says she thinks she saw her at midnight on Wednesday, all alone and heading for the village.’

‘Really?’ I said.

‘Of course, women talk. And Reema has always been envious of Samira Mahjoubi. Well, she has a daughter too – still unmarried at twenty-five, and with a tongue on her like a kitchen knife, while Samira’s daughter has landed herself the best-looking man in Lansquenet—’ Omi shot me a comic look. ‘But Alyssa was always the restless one, and Sonia isn’t saying a word. Still, maybe it’s nothing,
inshallah
.’

I looked at her. ‘That’s not what
you
think.’

She laughed. ‘
I
think I’ve never seen Samira Mahjoubi take so many walks. Most of the time she’s too full of herself even to walk to the market. Well, maybe she’s trying to lose some weight. Or maybe she’s thinking of buying up some of those empty houses along the river. Or maybe she’s trying to find the girl before she causes a scandal—’

‘But why would Alyssa run away?’

Omi shrugged. ‘Who knows? These girls. They’re all as mad as each other. But now, with Saïd in charge at the mosque, this isn’t the time for his daughters to suddenly start asserting themselves.’

‘Saïd’s in charge at the mosque?’ I said.

‘
Hee
, didn’t you know that?’ Omi reached absent-mindedly into her pockets and pulled out another macaroon. ‘Since the beginning of Ramadan. People were complaining that Mahjoubi was getting too old, that he was getting too many things wrong, that he was telling stories in mosque that aren’t even in the Qur’an, that he wasn’t in line with current affairs. Well, maybe that is true,’ she said, popping the macaroon into her mouth. ‘But I’d rather trust a wise man than a man with a handful of doctorates, and I still think that
that
old man could teach his son a thing or two.’ She paused to tug her
hijab
into place. ‘
Hee!
This wind. This terrible dust. It whispers
waswaas
to everyone. My Zahra thinks the dust will get into her mouth and break her fast. It gives Yasmina headaches. And my little Maya can’t keep still, she rattles around like a mad thing. No one sleeps. No one prays. Everyone jumps at nothing.’ Once more Omi looked at Rosette. ‘But you and I know better, eh? We say if the wind blows, saddle it up and ride it!’

Rosette laughed and signed:
Giddy-up!

Omi smiled again. ‘That’s right. You don’t have to talk. In a bag of walnuts, it’s the empty one that makes most noise.’ She looked across the street, where a trio of young women in
niqab
was passing by, talking and laughing. All three were in black, except for one, whose veil was tied with a neon-pink ribbon bisecting her face. I smiled and waved in greeting; the conversation stopped at once. I heard it resume when they had passed, although its pitch had dropped by then, and there was no more laughter.

Omi shook her head. ‘
Pff
. That was Aisha Bouzana and her friends Jalila El Mardi and Rana Jannat. Silly gossips, all three of them. Rattling like empty nuts. Spreading their talk all over the village. Did you know that Aisha – she was the one with the pink stripe – was telling my Yasmina that Maya’s name is not permitted, according to Islamic law? She says it’s some kind of goddess name in some old pagan religion. As if she cared. It’s just a way of attracting attention. Same as wearing the
niqab
. She never used to wear it before Karim Bencharki came here. None of those young women did. But all at once, when a handsome man happens to mention he likes
niqab
, suddenly dozens of them are wearing the veil and making eyes at each other.’ She gave me one of her humorous looks. ‘You’re not saying
you
haven’t noticed him yet? Looks like an angel? Lives at the gym?’

I nodded. ‘Yes, I’ve noticed him.’

Omi cackled. ‘You’re not alone.’

‘What about his sister?’

‘Inès.’ Her face was suddenly expressionless. ‘We don’t have much to do with her. She mostly stays in the house nowadays. She wasn’t a popular teacher, either.’

‘Why was that?’

The old woman shrugged. ‘Who knows? But I must be going. My little Maya is waiting for me. We will be making pancakes. Oh, not for now, of course. But for later, we have
crêpes aux mille trous
, and
harira
soup, with lemons and dates. At Ramadan, everyone fasts, but we
think
about food all the time; we buy food, we prepare food, we offer food to our neighbours, we even
dream
of food – that is, if this wind allows us to sleep. I will bring some Moroccan sweets; some macaroons, and gazelle’s horns, and almond meringues, and
chebakia
. And maybe then you can share with me the recipe for your chocolate.’

I watched her as she walked away, feeling a little puzzled that even Omi al-Djerba, with her cheery contempt for convention and what the neighbours might think of her, should still be so reluctant to talk to me about Inès Bencharki—

Rosette signed:
I like her
.

‘Yes, Rosette. I like her too.’

She reminds me in so many ways of Armande, whose appetite for everything – food, drink, gossip, life – once scandalized her family. But Omi’s family is different. Their love and respect increases with age. I cannot imagine the al-Djerbas ever thinking of doing what Caro Clairmont tried to do – to bully her mother into a home, or to keep her from seeing her grandchild.

The streets of Les Marauds were empty once more as I made my way back to Armande’s house. Only a couple of people passed, and neither of them greeted me. But all along the Boulevard des Marauds I felt the windows watching me, and heard the whispers in the walls.
The wind cannot keep a secret
, as my mother used to say, and today the wind is telling me that Les Marauds is in distress. Is it because of Alyssa? Or is it some deeper, darker malaise? I look at the sky, which should be clear, but all I can see is that fine, bright dust. It makes Rosette sneeze; and every time she sneezes, Bam rolls in the dust and laughs at her.

She looked at me, bright-eyed. ‘
Pilou
,’ she said.

‘Not today,’ I told her. ‘But remember, he and Joséphine are coming to dinner tomorrow.’

She made a face. ‘
Rowr
.’

Roux.

I hugged her. She smelt of the river and of something sweeter, like baby soap and chocolate. ‘I know you miss him, Rosette,’ I said. ‘I miss him too. All of us do. But we’re having a good time, aren’t we?’

She crowed emphatically and spoke a string of words in her personal language, from which all I caught was
Pilou
and
Vlad
, and (surprisingly)
awesome
. The scribble of red that is Bam today capered madly around her feet, all gilded and dusty with road-bronze.

I had to laugh. My little Rosette is a born comedian. For all her strangeness, my winter child can sometimes bring the sunshine.

‘Come on,’ I said. ‘Let’s get you home.’

And, shielding our eyes against the dust, we turned away from the river and started back up the steep hill towards the place I’d just called
home
, where the first of Armande’s peaches were already beginning to fall.