Peaches for Monsieur Le Curé (18 page)

CHAPTER NINE

Sunday, 22nd August

PÈRE HENRI LEMAÎTRE
is busy today. Morning Mass in Lansquenet, then Florient, Chancy and Pont-le-Saôul. With Lansquenet added to his list of parishes, he has cut down on weekday services in some of the smaller communities, but Sunday Mass is still a priority everywhere along the Tannes. Standing here on the bridge now, I can hear the bells from their steeples borne to me on the Autan wind – Saint-Jérôme’s double carillon, the twin bells of Florient’s Sainte-Anne, the cracked and characteristic sound of Chancy’s little chapel bell. With so much activity in the air, it seems wrong for me to be idle; more so to be here without my soutane, looking like a tourist.

And yet I will not hide,
mon père
. Let the flock think what they please. Walking to church in their Sunday suits, hats crammed down against the wind, the women in their high-heeled shoes on the uncertain cobbles, they look at the same time a little shamefaced and oddly triumphant; unruly sheep who know that the dog has a thorn in his paw. I know what they’re thinking.
Reynaud has earnt his comeuppance. Serves him right for thinking that he could be above the law
.

It is only a matter of time now till word comes from the Bishop. Perhaps he will send Père Henri Lemaître with the news of my relocation – perhaps to another village where my reputation is intact; perhaps to an inner-city parish in Marseille or Toulouse, to teach me the value of community relations and interracial
entente cordiale
. In any case, Père Henri insists, this is
not
a punishment. It is merely the Church’s way of deploying its human resources where they are most needed. It is not up to the priest to decide where and how he will be deployed. A good priest should have the humility to make whatever sacrifice the Church demands; to look into his soul and uproot the weeds of selfishness and pride. And yet,
mon père
, you understand, I’ve lived in Lansquenet all my life. This is where I belong; this place, with its cobbled streets and crooked rows of houses. This countryside, with its marquetry of little fields and strip-farms. This scouring wind; this river; this sky. This wholly unremarkable place – except to those who call it home.

I told Père Henri the other day,
a priest has no friends
. In good times, he has followers; in bad times, only enemies. Set apart by his calling, his vows, he has to be more than human; every day walking the tightrope of faith, knowing that if he falters, those who applauded yesterday will turn upon him in a pack today, wallowing in his disgrace, overjoyed to see him brought low.

The sheep are almost ready to turn. Few people greet me this morning. Guillaume Duplessis was one of them, and so was Henriette Moisson; but Charles Lévy looked furtive, and Jean Poitou, of whom I’d thought better, pretended to be talking to Simon Cussonet when he passed by on the way to church. Everyone ignores me in his or her particular way. Louis Acheron is contemptuous; Joline Drou regretful, but firm. Georges Clairmont is sheepish and guilty; Caro sweetly triumphant.

Everyone knows he did it, of course. They’ll never manage to prove it, but—

Do you really think he’ll go?

Oh, yes. It’s only a matter of time. He’s always been so difficult. Do you remember, when Vianne Rocher—

Shh! Be quiet! Here he comes
.

They file past the bridge towards the church, faces lowered into the wind. The weather is turning again; the sky has veered from blue to mackerel-grey. I hear their voices, carried downwind, echoing the sound of the bells:

He looks so different without his soutane
.

What’s he doing, staring like that?

The Autan must have driven him mad
.

Well, Caro, perhaps it has. But at last I feel very empty – as if my head were full of seeds that the wind has blown away. I thought I was necessary to this place; that, whatever else happened, Lansquenet would always be my kingdom, my parish, my refuge, my home. People called me
Father
. And now—

‘
Mon père
?’ A voice at my shoulder. ‘Can I offer you a drink?’

Joséphine doesn’t go to church. I’ve always known the reason. She, unlike Caro Clairmont, has never made a secret of her dislike of me, which makes it all the more perverse of her now, when most of the village shares her opinion, that she should choose to seek me out and offer hospitality.

Maybe she feels sorry for me. Wonderful. That’s all I need. To be pitied by Joséphine Bonnet, to be taken home like a stray dog—

I turned and saw her smiling. ‘I thought you could use a coffee.’

‘Do I look so terrible?’

She shrugged. ‘I’ve seen you look better. Listen, I’ve baked an apple tart. Perhaps you’d like to try a slice? On the house?’

I gritted my teeth. All the same, I knew she meant well. She has no reason to like me, or to offer me sympathy, and yet she offers it openly, in defiance of Caro and her poisonous toadies. Of all those I have offended here, I’d thought Joséphine the least likely to show me any compassion, and I found myself unexpectedly moved.

‘You’re very kind.’

I followed her home. Not
quite
like a dog, perhaps, but feeling almost as humble.
The Bishop would have approved
, I thought. But Vianne Rocher would have laughed at the joke.

She served the tart with whipped cream, the coffee with a splash of cognac. With her round face and cropped blonde hair she looks nothing like Vianne Rocher, and yet she has something of her style. That way of waiting quietly; of smiling with her eyes. I ate. I was hungrier than I’d expected. Over the course of the past few days I thought I had lost my appetite.

‘I’m supposed to be having dinner with Vianne,’ she said. ‘I hoped maybe you’d come along, too.’

I shook my head. ‘I don’t think so, thanks.’

‘I’d be so happy if you would.’

I looked at her suspiciously. Was this a trick to humiliate me? She did not seem to be making fun. Instead I thought she looked concerned; hands moving restlessly in her lap as they had in the days before Vianne Rocher. In those days, Joséphine Muscat was as much of an outcast as I am now; a sad, inarticulate woman whose kleptomaniac tendencies she confessed to me every week, just as Paul-Marie confessed his regular abuse of her.

Perhaps that’s why she hated me. Because I knew her secret. Because I was the only one who knew her husband beat her, and allowed him to pay for it in
Avés
instead of intervening. Since then, she has not been to church. God did not protect her. More importantly, neither did I – bound hand and foot by my vows and the secret of the confessional.

And yet, today, the old Joséphine was back – or at least, the ghost of her. These days, she looks so self-assured that no one but I can see the truth; the perpetual crease between her eyes; the way she looks to the left when she speaks to me, like a child telling a lie.
There’s something on her mind
, I thought; something she would like to confess. Something to do with Vianne Rocher—

‘Listen, Joséphine,’ I said. ‘I appreciate the gesture, but I really don’t need to be rescued. Not by Vianne, and not by you. I can look after myself.’

She blinked. ‘You think
that
’s why I invited you?’

No doubt about it; she was sincere. Something was troubling Joséphine which had nothing to do with me, or my current predicament.

‘Is there something wrong?’ I said. ‘Have you quarrelled with Vianne?’

‘Oh,
no
! She’s my dearest friend—’

‘Then what is it?’ I asked her, more gently than I might have done with someone like Caro Clairmont. ‘Why don’t you want to see her?’

I’ll admit, this was a long shot. But Joséphine flinched, and I knew I’d hit home.

‘It’s not that I don’t want to see her,’ she said. ‘But – people change.’ She gave a sigh. ‘I don’t want to disappoint her.’

‘Why do you think you would?’ I said.

‘We had so many plans, she and I. She did so much to help me. I owed her everything, and then—’ She raised her eyes to mine again. ‘
Curé
, I need a favour,’ she said.

‘Anything,’ I told her.

‘It’s been eight years since I last went to church. Somehow it didn’t feel right any more. But now you’re here, I wonder if – you could take my confession?’

That came as a surprise. I faltered. ‘Surely, Père Henri would be—’

‘Père Henri doesn’t know me,’ she said. ‘He doesn’t care about any of us. We’re just another village to him, another step up the ladder to Rome. You’ve been here for ever,
mon père
.’

‘Not quite for ever,’ I told her drily.

‘But will you do it?’

‘Why me?’ I said.

‘Because you understand, of course. Because you know how shame feels.’

In silence, I finished my
café-cognac
. She’s right, of course. I know it well. That Scylla to the Charybdis of pride, it has been my companion for many years. Its voice is always in my heart, reminding me of my failings, while pride stands by with a flaming sword, barring my way to forgiveness.

Two words.
Forgive me
. That’s all it takes. And yet, I have never spoken them. Not in the confessional, not to a relative, not to a friend. Not even to the Almighty Himself—

‘Will you,
mon père
?’

‘Of course I will.’

CHAPTER TEN

Sunday, 22nd August

MAYA CAME BACK
this morning to help Alyssa finish the Jam. She and Rosette spent a messy half-hour labelling the glass jars and decorating the labels – Rosette with her favourite drawings of rabbits, monkeys and flying snakes; Maya with less practised but all the more exuberant pictures of various kinds of fruit, including pineapples, strawberries and, improbably, coconuts (these are for Omi, she explains), with the word PEECH (or sometimes CHEEP) in capitals on every one.

At five, making friends is easy. It begins with a shy kind of circling, like two little curious animals. Language is no barrier; culture and colour, irrelevant. Rosette puts out a hand to touch the golden bangle around Maya’s wrist; Maya is equally fascinated by Rosette’s red, curly hair. Five minutes later, they are at ease; Rosette signing and chattering in her private language, Maya, who seems to understand, watching her with round, bright eyes.

I noticed that Bam, always curious, had moved in to inspect the newcomer. I can see him quite clearly today, like something glimpsed against the sun. Long tail, whiskery face, eyes alight with intelligence. Maya sees him too, I think; but of course, she’s only five.

After they’d finished the labels, the two of them went out to play while Anouk went off to meet Jeannot Drou, leaving Alyssa and me to complete the task of filling the jars. Alyssa was silent this morning, her face bland and expressionless, and when I tried to draw her out I found her unresponsive.

Perhaps it’s the prospect of Joséphine coming for dinner tonight. Alyssa’s presence in the house makes entertaining difficult, but to cancel at short notice might attract too much attention. Alyssa can always hide in her room – besides, I have my own reasons for wanting to talk to Joséphine.

‘She has a son,’ I said. ‘Eight years old, and she never told me.’

Alyssa was using a wet rag to wipe the jars as I sealed them. Each one topped with a cellophane square, fastened with an elastic band, like a string of paper lanterns filled with a mellow golden light. The smell of hot sugar and cinnamon was like a caress over everything.

‘Who?’ said Alyssa.

I realized I had spoken my thought aloud. ‘My friend,’ I told her. ‘Joséphine.’

My friend
. In their way, the words are almost as unfamiliar as
home
. Friends are the ones we leave behind, so my mother taught me; even now, I invoke the word with a kind of reluctance, as if it were a genie that, once released, might be dangerous.

‘What happened?’ said Alyssa.

‘She reinvented herself,’ I said.

Well, yes. I suppose that’s what it was. Joséphine reinvented herself. How could she not, after all? I am myself a mistress of reinvention. I taught her my technique. And now, for the first time, I understand why my mother never looked back; why she never revisited the places she and I once loved.

‘The trouble with people is, they change. Sometimes beyond recognition.’

‘Is this what happened with your friend?’

I shrugged. ‘Maybe it was,’ I said.

The copper pot was empty. Together, we’d filled every jar in the house. I cook when I am restless; I like the simple recipes; the preparing of ingredients; the knowledge that if I follow the rules the dish will never disappoint. If only people were like this. If only the heart was as simple.

‘What did she do?’ said Alyssa, looking into the copper pot. She ran her finger along the rim as if to lick it; then hesitated. ‘I mean, to reinvent herself? What did she do?’

Good question
, I thought. When I called the other day, she seemed so glad to see me. And yet, I’ve been here over a week—

‘It’s hard to explain,’ I told her. ‘There are so many things that have stayed the same. She looks a little different – she’s cut her hair and dyed it blonde – but underneath she’s still Joséphine, impulsive and warm-hearted and sometimes a little crazy, but there’s something about her that’s different somehow—’

‘Maybe she has something to hide.’

I looked at her inquiringly.

‘Sometimes, when you feel that way, you just can’t face being with your friends. It’s not that you don’t want to see them, but you know you can’t talk to them, either.’ She put her finger into her mouth and sucked it. ‘
There
. I broke my fast. What would my mother say if she knew?’

‘I’m sure your mother wouldn’t care. They all just want to know you’re safe.’

Fiercely, Alyssa shook her head. ‘You don’t know my mother. People think my father’s the tough one, but that isn’t true. My mother would rather see me dead than have me bring shame into the family.’

I said, ‘I’m assuming this isn’t about you licking a jam pot before the sun sets.’

Alyssa gave a reluctant smile. ‘I suppose you think that’s stupid.’

I shook my head. ‘No, not at all.’

‘But you don’t believe in religion.’

‘You’re wrong. I believe in lots of things.’

‘You know what I mean—’

‘Of course I do.’ I made her sit down at the table. Between us, the rows of jam jars shone like Chinese lanterns. ‘I’ve met a lot of believers, one way or another. Some of them were honest and good; others used their religion as an excuse to hate other people, or to impose their own rules—’

Alyssa sighed. ‘I know what you mean. My mother’s obsessed with little things. But she never wants to hear about the things that are really
important
. It’s always
don’t sleep on your stomach
, or
don’t wear make-up
, or
don’t talk to boys
, or
don’t wear that, don’t eat that, don’t say that, don’t go there
. My grandfather says Allah doesn’t care what you eat or what you wear as long as your heart’s in the right place and as long as we care for each other.’

‘I like your grandfather,’ I said.

‘Me too,’ said Alyssa. ‘But since he and my father fell out, I don’t see him much any more.’

‘Why did they fall out?’ I said.

‘My grandfather doesn’t like
niqab
. He said the girls shouldn’t be wearing it in school. He doesn’t like Sonia wearing it. She never used to wear it before.’

‘So why does she wear it now?’

She shrugged. ‘Maybe she’s like your friend,’ she said. ‘Maybe she has something to hide.’

I thought about what Alyssa had said as she and I prepared for tonight. The pancakes would be easy, but the batter, made to an old recipe, with buckwheat flour and cider instead of milk, needed to rest for a couple of hours. Eat them on their own, or with salted butter, or sausages, or with goat’s cheese, onion marmalade, or duck
confit
with peaches. I remembered making them for Roux and the river-gypsies, the night their boats were set on fire. I remember it so well; the column of sparks from the bonfire leaping up like a firecrake; Anouk, dancing with Pantoufle and Roux – Roux as he was then, laughing, telling jokes, long hair tied back with a piece of twine; barefoot on the jetty.

Joséphine wasn’t there, of course. Poor Joséphine, in the tartan coat she wore whatever the weather; hair designed to hide her face and the bruises that so often settled there; poor, suspicious Joséphine, who trusted no one, least of all the river-gypsies, who did as they liked, and travelled all over the river, reinventing themselves as they pleased wherever they moored their houseboats. Later, when she had escaped from Paul-Marie and his abuse, she began to understand the price of that freedom; Roux’s boat, gutted and burnt; his friends moving on without him; the hatred of our village folk for those who abide by their own rules, see stars more often than streetlights, who do not pay taxes, or go to church, or fit into the community. An outcast herself, she warmed to that. Childless, he brought out the mother in her. I thought they could be more than friends, and yet—

You wanted him yourself. Where’s the harm in that, Vianne?

The voice is not that of my mother this time, or even of Armande Voizin. It’s the voice of Zozie de l’Alba, who sometimes still reappears in my dreams. Zozie de l’Alba, who saved my life because she wanted it for herself; Zozie, the free spirit, the stealer of hearts; and her voice is harder for me to ignore than all my other whisperers.

You wanted him. You took him, Vianne. Joséphine didn’t stand a chance
.

Because Zozie, for all her guile, traded more in truths than lies. She showed us reflections of ourselves; showed our secret faces. There’s darkness in everyone, I know that; I’ve fought against it all my life. But until Zozie, I’d never known how much darkness I carried inside; how much selfishness and fear.

The Queen of Cups. The Knight of Cups. The Seven of Swords. The Seven of Disks. My mother’s cards; their dreamy scent; their faces, so familiar.

Is Joséphine the faded Queen?
Should
Roux have been her Knight? And am I the Moon, unstable, two-faced, spinning her web between them?

At three o’clock in the afternoon, Anouk and Rosette came home, with Pilou, all laughing and breathless from the wind.

‘Pilou has a kite,’ said Anouk, while Rosette echoed her words exuberantly, in sign language. ‘We flew it downriver, the three of us and that crazy dog. Honestly, what a mutt. At one point he actually
jumped
into the river, trying to grab hold of the kite’s tail, and we all ended up having to drag him out, which is why Rosette has weed in her hair and everyone else smells of wet dog.’

‘That isn’t fair,’ protested Pilou. ‘Vlad is
not
a mutt. He is a highly intelligent, highly trained Kite Retriever, descended from the fabled Fishing Dogs of ancient China.’

‘
Dog fish
,’ said Rosette. ‘
Fish dog. Kite fish
.’ And she did a little dance with Bam around the kitchen.

Alyssa had fled upstairs again as soon as she heard the dog barking.

Anouk said: ‘It’s all right. It’s only Vlad. You can come out. He won’t bite you.’

For a moment, I was sure Alyssa wouldn’t come downstairs. But finally curiosity overcame her shyness. She came to sit on the landing, looking down through the banisters. Pilou shot her a passing glance, but seemed more interested in the basin of pancake batter on top of the stove.

‘Is that for tonight?’ he said.

‘That’s right. Do you like pancakes?’

Pilou nodded vigorously. ‘Cooked outside, on an open fire, like the river people used to make. With sausages and cider, of course.’

‘Did you see much of the river people? I thought they’d stopped coming here,’ I said.

‘They did, when I was little,’ he said. ‘Too much trouble in Les Marauds. I guess my father went with them.’ He shrugged and went back to his investigation of what was cooking in the oven.

Once more, I thought of the Queen of Cups. I searched for Roux in Pilou’s face, but saw nothing I recognized. Curly hair, bleached by the sun; round face; snub nose. An air of Joséphine, perhaps, in the eyes, but nothing of Roux – and yet, like Rosette, he loves to paint.

I remembered the abstract painting in the bar at Joséphine’s, and the look in her eyes when she spoke of Pilou’s father. Except that she
hadn’t
spoken of him, I remembered suddenly; she had simply said that Pilou was hers, and no one else’s. It’s what I used to say myself when people asked about Anouk’s father; and yet, to hear it from Joséphine troubles me – more, perhaps, than it should.

‘When’s your birthday?’

He looked surprised. ‘The seventeenth of December. Why?’

Rosette’s is the twentieth of December. So close. So very close. But what would it matter anyway, if what I suspect turned out to be true? Roux doesn’t care that Anouk is not his. Why should
this
be different? And yet, the thought that Roux might have known, might have hidden that knowledge for eight years – four of which he’d spent right here in Lansquenet, working on farms and on his boat, renting a room from Joséphine—

The Knight of Cups has something to hide. His face is marbled with shadows. The Queen holds her cup too languidly, as if it contains something that sickens her. The children have gone upstairs, with Vlad. They are surprisingly silent. I leave them to their game and go out with my phone into Les Marauds.

Once more, there is no message from Roux. His phone is turned off. I write:

Roux, please get in touch! I need—

Of course, I didn’t send it. I’ve never
needed
anyone. If Roux wants to get in touch, he will. Besides, what would I say to him? I have to see him face to face. I have to read his colours.

The weather is turning. I felt it before, talking with Omi in Les Marauds. The wind is as strong as ever, but now the angel-faced clouds have dirty feet. A drop of rain falls on to my face as I reach the top of the hill—

The Black Autan is on its way.