Peaches for Monsieur Le Curé (21 page)

‘There are worse things than
zina
,’ I said.

I thought Du’a looked slightly shocked.

‘Does Alyssa have a boyfriend?’

Du’a nodded. ‘She used to,’ she said. ‘She talked to him on the internet. But then her father took the computer away, and so I let her use mine instead. At least, I did until the fire.’

‘Oh. I see.’ An internet friend. Anouk does not have a computer. At home, she spends hours in the internet café on the Boulevard Saint-Michel, talking with her friends – or most often with Jean-Loup, who uses virtual media to compensate for his all-too-frequent trips to hospital. ‘Is this someone she knows in real life? Someone from the village, perhaps?’

Once more, Du’a nodded. ‘Maybe. I think so. She never said.’

‘I see.’ And suddenly I did. It explained everything. The football games in the village square; the coffee mornings with Caro Clairmont that had so suddenly come to an end; Caro’s disillusionment with the Les Marauds community; the coolness that had arisen between the village and the Boulevard P’tit Baghdad.

In Caro’s world, tolerance means reading the right kind of newspaper; occasionally eating couscous and calling oneself a liberal. It does not extend to allowing her son to fall in love with a
Maghrébine
. And as for Saïd Mahjoubi, to whom people look for spiritual guidance; a man who defines himself by his faith—

I left the children to their game. Children are strangely accepting. Even the Acheron children exist below the radar of parental prejudice. It doesn’t take much to make them forget the differences between them. A cardboard box with puppies inside; a hiding-place in an abandoned house. If only the world were as simple for us. But we have the uncanny knack of focusing on
difference
; as if excluding others could make our sense of identity stronger. And yet, in all my travels, I have found that people are mostly the same everywhere. Under the veil, the beard, the soutane, it’s always the same machinery. In spite of what my mother believed, there is no magic to what we do. We see because we look beyond the clutter of what others see. The colours of the human heart. The colours of the soul.

It was still raining as I came out. A hard, fat rain, that spackled the ground like firecrackers in the wind. And now I know what I have to do. I think I knew it from the start. From the day I first arrived and saw her standing in the sun, motionless, veiled to the eyes, watching the crowd like a basilisk.

I made a call from my mobile phone. Not to Roux, this time, but to Guy, who supplies my chocolates. This time, my order was modest, just a box or two of couverture chocolate and a few utensils. But as my mother always said,
on some days, only magic works
. It isn’t a grand kind of magic, no; but it’s all we have, and I need it now.

Then I headed back into the rain in search of Inès Bencharki.

CHAPTER FOUR

Tuesday, 24th August

IN LES MARAUDS
the streets were deserted. The Black Autan was out in force. The sky had acquired a sulphurous look, and against it the raindrops were almost black. The few birds that still braved the wind were tumbled like pages of newspaper along the barricade of trees that grow on the riverbank. The air smelt salty, although the sea is over two hours’ drive away, and in spite of the rain and wind it was warm; a vaguely unpleasant, milky warmth, as if something were festering. And from every window, every pair of shutters, came that sensation of being watched; an all-too-familiar feeling, remembered from so many places along the road.

Here, people are wary of strangers, I know. Children are warned against us. The way we dress, our accent, even the kind of food we eat – everything marks us as different; potentially hostile; dangerous. I remember taking Anouk to school when we first arrived in Lansquenet; the way the mothers looked at us, taking in every difference. The brightly coloured clothes; the shop; the child; the absent wedding ring. Now, I almost belong here. Except in Les Marauds, of course, where every centimetre of space is crossed with invisible tripwires; every one a broken rule, an inadvertent transgression.

Still, there is one house, I know, where I am not a stranger. Perhaps because of the peaches; or perhaps because the al-Djerbas were here when Les Marauds was still part of Lansquenet, and not a population apart.

I made my way to the green door. At my feet, the drains were an orchestra and the gutters spouted exuberantly. My hair was plastered to my face; even through Armande’s old raincoat, my shirt and jeans were wet. I knocked, and seemed to wait a long time before Fatima came to open the door. She was wearing a blue sequinned kaftan and a harried expression. On seeing me, her face assumed a look of concern.

‘Vianne! Are you all right? You must be soaked—’

In seconds, I was in the house, sitting on cushions in front of the fire, while Yasmina ran to fetch towels and Zahra prepared some mint tea. Omi was in the living room, resting on a low couch, and from the kitchen came the smell of something cooking; coconut and cumin seeds and cardamom and rising dough – bread, I guessed, for that evening’s
iftar
.

Omi gave me her turtle grin. ‘You promised to bring me chocolates.’

I smiled. ‘Of course. I’m awaiting supplies.’

‘Well, hurry. I won’t live for ever.’

‘I’m sure you can hang on for a week.’

Omi laughed. ‘I’ll do my best. And what are you doing, Vianne Rocher, running about in the rain like this?’

I mentioned Inès Bencharki.

‘
Khee
.’ Omi snapped her toothless jaws. ‘And why do you want to bother with
her
?’

I drank my tea. ‘She’s interesting.’

‘Interesting, you call it?
Yar
. I say the woman is trouble.’

‘Why?’

Omi shrugged. ‘It’s her nature. There’s a story about a scorpion that wants to cross a river. She talks a water-buffalo into carrying her across on his back. Halfway across, she stings him. Dying, the buffalo says, “But why? If I die here, then you drown too.” And the scorpion says, “I’m a scorpion. My friend, I thought you knew that.”’

I smiled. I know the story. ‘Are you saying Inès is a scorpion?’

‘I’m saying some people would rather die than give up the chance to sting,’ she said. ‘Believe me, nothing good will come of befriending Inès Bencharki.’

‘But
why
?’

‘That’s what the buffalo said.’ Once more, Omi gave an impatient shrug. ‘Some people can’t be helped, Vianne. And sometimes people leave a trail behind them that poisons everyone who crosses it.’

Believe me, Omi, I know that trail. I’ve crossed it myself a few times. Some people leave poison in their wake, even where they try to do good. Sometimes I lie awake at night, wondering whether I am one of them. What has my gift ever
really
achieved? What have I given to the world? Sweet dreams and illusions; transient joys; promises by the quarter-pound. But my path is littered with failures; with pain and disappointment. Even now, do I really believe that chocolate can change anything?

‘Omi, I need to see her,’ I said.

She looked at me. ‘I suppose you do. Well, wait until your hair dries, at least. And drink some more of this mint tea.’

I did as she said. The tea was good, bright green and smelling of summer. As I sat there, a black cat walked in and draped itself, purring, across my lap.

‘Hazrat likes you,’ said Omi.

I stroked the cat. ‘Is he yours?’

She smiled. ‘A cat belongs to no one,’ she said. ‘He comes and goes, like the Black Autan. But Du’a gave him a name, and now he comes here every day because he knows there is food.’ She pulled out a coconut macaroon from her pocket. ‘Here, Hazi. Your favourite.’

She broke off a piece of the sweetmeat and held it out towards the cat. Hazi extended an elegant paw and snagged the piece of coconut before settling down to eat it with every sign of enjoyment.

Omi finished the macaroon. ‘Hazrat Abu Hurairah was a famous
Sahabi
. He was known as “the kitten man” because he was very fond of cats. My little Du’a named this cat after him. She says he is a stray, but I think he simply prefers the food here.’

‘Who wouldn’t?’ I said with a smile.

‘Well, my daughter-in-law’s cooking
is
the best in Les Marauds. Don’t tell her I said that.’

‘You’re very fond of Du’a,’ I said.

Omi nodded. ‘She’s a good little girl. Well, maybe not so
very
good, but she always knows how to make me smile. And she helps with my little Maya.’

‘Maya sounds like a handful,’ I said.

‘Yes, well, she lives in Toulouse,’ said Omi, as if this explained everything. ‘Yasmina comes for Ramadan, but the rest of the time we don’t see her. She doesn’t really like it here. She says the life is too quiet for her.’

‘I think she underestimates us.’

Us
. Now why did I use that word? But Omi seemed not to notice. She gave me a comic look. ‘
Yar
. Plenty going on round here. And I’ve heard
you
have a visitor.’

I kept a straight face. ‘We have nothing but visitors. The other night it was Joséphine, who keeps the Café des Marauds. But we’ve had half of Lansquenet dropping in at different times.’

Omi gave me another look. Under the sparse, expressive brows, her eyes are milky-blue, like veins. ‘You must think I was born yesterday. As if anything could happen in this village without me knowing about it. Still, if you want to play secrets—’

‘It isn’t my secret to give away.’

Omi shrugged. ‘That’s fair, I suppose. But—’

‘What’s all this about secrets?’ That was Fatima, coming back into the living room with Zahra and some Moroccan sweets. ‘Has my Omi been whispering?’

‘On the contrary,’ I said. ‘Omi is always
very
discreet.’

Fatima laughed. ‘Not the Omi
I
know. Now, try some of these. I have
halwa
, and dates, and macaroons, and rosewater candies and sesame snaps. No, no, not
you
, Omi—’ she said, laughing, as Omi reached for the dish. ‘It’s Ramadan, remember?’

‘I must have forgotten,’ said Omi, and winked.

I noticed that Fatima was looking distracted. ‘Is everything all right?’ I said.

She nodded. ‘It’s my Yasmina’s father-in-law. Mohammed Mahjoubi. He isn’t well. He has moved in with us while Ismail and Yasmina are here. He prefers it to living with Saïd.’

Omi made a rude noise. ‘Say rather he cannot bear to be so close to that woman,’ she said.

Fatima tutted. ‘Omi, please—’

But I was watching Zahra, so different from Yasmina, and yet so very like her. It was not the first time I had noticed her unease where Inès Bencharki was mentioned.

‘What do
you
think of Inès?’ I said, addressing Zahra.

She looked alarmed at the question. In her black
hijab
, pinned in the traditional style, she looks both older and younger than her sister. She also seems painfully shy, and when she speaks, her voice is oddly atonal.

‘I – think she’s interesting,’ she said.

Omi squawked. ‘Well, seeing as you practically
live
in that house—’

Zahra coloured. ‘Sonia’s my friend.’

‘Sonia, is it? I thought you went there to make sheep’s eyes at that young man.’

Now Zahra’s cheeks were on fire. She seemed about to leave the room—

I stood up. ‘Well, that’s lucky,’ I said. ‘I was about to ask if someone could show me where Inès Bencharki lived. Perhaps you could do that, Zahra? I know it’s raining—’

‘Of course I will.’ There was no expression in the girl’s voice, but her eyes were grateful. ‘I’ll get your coat. It’s almost dry.’

As she left, I heard Fatima say, ‘Omi, you’re too hard on that girl.’

Omi cackled. ‘
Life
is hard. She needs to learn. She’d drown in a glass of water.’

I smiled. ‘
Jazak Allah
,’ I said. ‘And thanks for your hospitality. Next time, I’ll bring chocolate. As soon as my supplies arrive.’

At the door, I collected my shoes. Zahra was waiting with my coat. ‘Don’t pay attention to what she says,’ she said in that odd, atonal voice. ‘She’s old. She’s used to speaking her mind. Even when her mind runs on a single broken wheel.’ She opened the door. ‘It isn’t far. I’ll show you.’

There are no house numbers in Les Marauds. It’s one of our eccentricities. Even the street names are unofficial, although now that the area has been redeveloped, that too may change in time. Reynaud tells me Georges Clairmont has been campaigning to have the place designated as some kind of a heritage site (with himself as the main contractor, of course), but there are too many villages like Lansquenet along this part of the river, too many charming little
bastides
, too many old tanneries and picturesque stone bridges and medieval gibbets and statues of mysterious saints for our local officials to care very much about a single street of wood-and-wattle houses, already half eaten away by the Tannes. Only the postman seems to mind if street names and numbers are absent here, and if someone chooses to fix up one of these derelict houses and live there in defiance of planning regulations, no one is likely to stop them, or care much one way or the other.

Zahra had put on her
niqab
to walk me to the Bencharkis’ house. Beneath it, her face was unreadable. It makes her bolder, more confident. Even her posture is different. She turned to me as we walked and said:

‘Why do you want to see Inès?’

‘I used to live in her house,’ I said.

‘That’s not a very good reason.’

‘I know.’

‘She draws you, doesn’t she?’ she said. ‘I know. I can tell. You’re not the first. We’ve all had dealings with Inès in some way or other. When she first came here and opened the school, it seemed like such a good idea. We’d had nothing but problems with the village school, and that Drou woman who wanted the
hijab
banned. And Inès’s brother was so friendly with the Mahjoubis, and it all seemed so perfect for a while.’

We had reached the end of the boulevard. Beyond that, the houses were derelict. The last house had a red door.

‘That’s where the Mahjoubis live. Karim and Sonia live there, too.’

‘But not Inès?’

She shook her head. ‘Not any more.’

‘Why not? Wasn’t there space?’

‘That’s not why,’ said Zahra. ‘In any case, you’ll find her
there
—’ And she pointed to some fig trees growing by the water’s edge, where an old jetty rises above a Gothic tangle of tree-roots. It’s where the river-rats moored their boats, in the days when they still came every year, and now I saw it: a riverboat, low in the water and painted black, moored in the shelter of the trees.

‘The boat? She’s living there?’ I said.

‘She borrowed it. It was already here.’

I know. I recognize that boat. Too cramped for two adults, it might just take a single woman and her child. As long as they didn’t need too much space, or bring too many possessions—

I didn’t think that would be a problem for Inès Bencharki. But—

‘What about Du’a?’ I said.

‘We look after her most of the time. She helps out with our little Maya. Sometimes she stays with Inès, sometimes not. She comes to our house for
iftar
.’

‘But why a boat?’

‘She says it feels safe. Besides, no one has claimed it.’

That doesn’t surprise me. Its owner has not been here in over four years. But why would Roux leave his boat here if he didn’t mean to return?

Unless it wasn’t meant for him, but for someone else—

Someone else?

A single woman and her child. Roux’s reluctance to come here with me, although I know he stays in touch with some of his friends from Lansquenet. Joséphine’s reluctance to talk to me about the father of her son. Four years ago, when Roux was still here. Pilou must have been four years old. Old enough to travel, perhaps. Old enough for Joséphine to think about moving upriver …