Peaches for Monsieur Le Curé (22 page)

Did Roux ask her to leave with him? Did she refuse? Did he change his mind? While he was in Paris with me, was she waiting in Lansquenet, waiting for him to come back to her?

So many unanswered questions. So many doubts. So many fears. The seasons change; lovers and friends are blown away like leaves on the wind. My mother never stayed with a man for more than a couple of weeks. She said:
Only children stay true, Vianne
. For years I followed that motto. Then, along came Roux, and I told myself there was an exception to every rule.

Perhaps I was wrong, I told myself now. Perhaps
this
was what I came here to learn.

‘Are you all right?’ It was Zahra.

‘Thanks.’ I turned towards her. ‘Tell me, Zahra, what made you start wearing
niqab
, when your mother and your sister don’t?’

Her eyes looked startled under her veil.

‘Was it Inès?’

‘In a way, perhaps. Well, anyway, that’s where she is.’ Zahra looked at the black houseboat. ‘But I don’t think she’ll talk to you.’

She left me standing in the rain at the end of the Boulevard des Marauds. The sky had darkened still further – I doubted whether we would see even a glimpse of the full moon that night. I heard the church tower strike four o’clock; as heavy and as ponderous as the air. I looked at Roux’s boat, so silent, so still, moored along the riverbank, and thought of Inès Bencharki. Omi had called her a scorpion trying to cross a river. But in the story the scorpion drowned.

Just then, in my pocket, my mobile rang. I pulled it out; looked at the screen. The caller’s number flashed up.

Of course. Who else would it be?

It was Roux.

CHAPTER FIVE

Tuesday, 24th August

NOTHING STAYS SECRET
for very long. Not in Lansquenet, anyway. I haven’t been out of my house for two days, but already the whispers have started. I can’t lay the blame on Joséphine, or even on Pilou. I know. It started this morning, when Charles Lévy came round again to complain about his missing cat.

Through the tiniest crack in the door, I told him that I was feeling unwell. But Charles Lévy was undeterred. Kneeling on the doorstep, he addressed me through the letter-box, his voice shaking with suppressed emotion.

‘It’s Henriette Moisson,
père
. She takes my Otto into her house. She feeds him, and she calls him Tati. Doesn’t that count as abduction, or false imprisonment, or something?’

I answered him from behind the door: ‘Don’t you think you’re taking all this a little too personally?’

‘The woman has stolen my cat,
père
. How else should I take it?’

I tried to explain. ‘She’s lonely, that’s all. Perhaps if you tried to talk to her—’

‘I
have
tried! She denies it! She says she hasn’t seen the cat. She claims she hasn’t seen him for days, but the whole of her cottage smells of fish—’

My head was aching. My bruised ribs hurt. I was in no mood for this.

‘Monsieur Lévy!’ I yelled through the door. ‘Did not the Good Lord tell us to
love thy neighbour as thyself
? Am I mistaken, or did he mean us instead to complain as much as we possibly can about our neighbours and, using the most flimsy of excuses, spread discord throughout the neighbourhood? Would Jesus have begrudged a lonely old woman the occasional use of his cat?’

There was a silence from outside. Then a voice came through the slot: ‘I’m sorry,
mon père
. I didn’t think.’

‘Ten
Avés
.’

‘Yes,
mon père
.’

After that, word quickly spread that Monsieur le Curé was taking confession through his letter-box. Gilles Dumarin came calling next, ostensibly to ask about a donation to the church flower fund, but in fact for advice about his mother. Then came Henriette Moisson, for absolution of a sin committed when I was not yet in embryo. Then Guillaume Duplessis, to ask me if I needed anything. Then Joline Drou, to report to Caro that something strange was going on. Then Caro herself, disdaining pretence, who flatly accused me (through the door) of having something to hide.

Sitting on the doormat, I said: ‘Caro. Go away. Please.’

‘Not until you tell me what’s going on,’ said Caro in a ringing voice. ‘Have you been drinking? Is that it?’

‘Of course not.’

‘Then open the door!’

When I refused to comply, she left, but returned this evening with Père Henri. I considered pretending to be out, but when Caro came to the window and started peering through the shutters, I knew that this time she would not give up.

I opened the door.

‘Good heavens, Francis!’

Yes,
Henri
. I know what it looks like. Most of the damage is superficial, of course, but even so, it is impressive. For a moment I found myself taking a certain enjoyment in their expressions of disbelief. But the Bishop needed nothing more than the smallest excuse to send me away; and now, it seems, he has found it. Of course, I am not at fault here, says Père Henri (implying the opposite), but this attack on my person proves that I can no longer claim credibility in Lansquenet. For the good of my flock, as well as for my own safety (he says), I am being transferred to another parish. It may take a week or so to arrange, but already the wheels are in motion. An inner-city parish, I am told, where I may improve my social skills, preach to a wider audience and learn to understand the needs of a multi-faith community.

Of course, I am not fooled for a moment. I know I am being punished. Perhaps the Bishop does not know how much. To him, all priests are the same, like pawns. But I have lived in Lansquenet nearly all my life; to send me away is to tear out some essential part of me. I know I haven’t always been as open or as obedient as perhaps I should have been. I may have been resistant to change; defiant to authority. My dealings with the river-folk have not always been cordial. I am sometimes impatient with my flock, even more so with the
Maghrébins
. In short, I have treated Lansquenet as my personal fiefdom, making up rules as I went along, playing the role of dictator and judge. But all the same, to send me away—

Night is beginning to fall. I hurt. Outside, I can hear the Black Autan screeching in triumph as it bears the sound of the
muezzin
over the water towards me.

Autan blanc, emporte le vent
.

Autan noir, désespoir
.

And now, for the first time, I feel afraid. No,
mon père
; I feel despair. The wind that has blown so often for me now has me by the scruff of the neck. It chased away the river-rats; it closed down Vianne’s
chocolaterie
. I thought the wind was on my side; that I would stand here like a rock; immovable and resolute—

But tonight, the wind is at my door. I am no longer immovable. No one wants me here any more. And now I am afraid,
mon père
, that
I
am the one to be blown away.

CHAPTER SIX

Tuesday, 24th August

HIS VOICE WAS
startlingly close, as if he were standing just metres away. My heart gave a sudden, rolling lurch, like a wave so laden with debris that it is close to collapsing.
Trust Roux
, I thought fiercely. Of all the times he could have phoned to give me reassurance, for him to finally do so now seemed curiously typical.

Quickly I took shelter alongside one of the old tanneries. ‘Roux. Where have you been?’ I said. ‘I left you all those messages—’

‘I lost my phone.’ I could hear his shrug. ‘Was it something important?’

I almost laughed. What could I say? How could I tell him my thoughts, my fears, my growing conviction that he had lied, allowing me to believe for four whole years that we could be a family—

‘Vianne?’ He sounded wary. I reminded myself that he always sounds wary on the phone. I wished I could see his eyes. Better still, I wished I could see his colours.

I said: ‘I talked to Joséphine. She has a son. I never knew.’

A shutterclick of silence.

‘Roux. Why didn’t you tell me before?’

‘I promised her I wouldn’t.’

He makes it sound so simple. And yet, behind the screen of words, a thousand writhing shadows. ‘So – do you know the boy’s father?’

‘I promised I wouldn’t tell you.’

I promised
. For Roux, that’s more than enough. To him, the past is irrelevant. Even I have only the barest knowledge of where he came from, who he is. He doesn’t talk about his past. He may even have forgotten it. It’s one of the things I love about him, his refusal to allow the past to have any purchase over him, and yet, it makes him dangerous. A man without a past is like a man without a shadow.

‘Did you leave a boat here?’ I said.

‘Yes. I gave it to Joséphine.’

Again, that shutterclick pause, as if a screen had fallen between us.

‘You gave it to Joséphine? Why?’ I said.

‘She was talking about getting away,’ said Roux, in a careful, toneless voice. ‘She wanted to travel for a while, go upriver, see the world. I owed her for everything she’d done – putting me up for the winter, giving me work, cooking for me. So I gave her the boat. I reckoned I didn’t need it any more.’

Now I could see it all in my mind, clear as scrying with chocolate. And the worst of it was that I’d known all along in some deep, hidden part of my heart, the place where my mother speaks to me.

So, you thought you could settle down? Do you think I didn’t try? People like us don’t do that, Vianne. We cast too long a shadow. We try to keep possession of what little joy and light we have, but everything gets lost in the end
.

He said: ‘When are you coming back?’

‘I’m not sure yet. There’s something I have to do first.’

‘What is it?’ He sounded so close. I imagined him sitting on deck, in the sun, with maybe a can of beer at his side, with the Seine at his back like a stretch of beach and the silhouette of the Pont des Arts black against the summer sky. I saw it all so clearly, like something in a lucid dream. But, as in many of my dreams, I felt disconnected from the scene, moving away uncontrollably, backwards into darkness.

‘I think you should come home,’ said Roux. ‘You said you’d only be a few days.’

‘I know. It won’t be long now. But there’s—’

‘Something you have to do. I know. But Vianne – there’ll
always
be something. And then there’ll always be something more. That bloody village is like that. And before you know it, you’ll have been there six months and you’ll be picking out fabric for curtains.’

‘That’s ridiculous,’ I said. ‘I’ll only be a few more days.’ I thought of the phone call I’d made to Guy, and of my order for chocolate supplies. ‘Well, call it a week,’ I amended. ‘Besides, if you miss me, you could come here.’

A pause. ‘You know I can’t do that.’

‘Why not?’

Another, longer pause. I could sense his frustration. ‘Why don’t you trust me?’ he said at last. ‘Why can’t it ever be simple?’

Because it
isn’t
simple, Roux. Because, however far you stray, the river brings you home in the end. And because I see more than I want to see, even when I’d rather be blind—

‘Is this because of Joséphine?
Don’t
you trust me?’

‘I don’t know.’

Once more that silence, like a screen full of jumping shadows. Then he said: ‘OK, Vianne. I only hope it’s worth it,’ and I was left with the sound of the sea in my ear, like the surf through a seashell—

I shook my head. My face was wet. The cold had numbed my fingertips. This is my fault, I told myself. I shouldn’t have summoned the wind that day. It feels so harmless, doesn’t it, so effortless and natural? But the wind can change at any time; and these little things we build for ourselves are swept away in front of it.

Did Armande see this coming? Did she guess about Roux and Joséphine? Could she have guessed that her letter-bomb would blow my life with Roux apart? That’s what happens, I suppose, when you open a letter from the dead. Better by far to never look back; like Roux, to cast no shadow.

Still, it’s far too late for that. I imagine Armande knew that, too. Why did I come back to Lansquenet? Why must I face the Woman in Black? For the same reason the scorpion stung the buffalo, knowing it would mean both their deaths. Because we have no choice, she and I. Because we are connected.

The rain had stopped, but the wind had reached that tremulous point of intensity where it plucks at the telephone wires and
keens
– giving the Black Autan a voice: a voice, and maybe a message.
What did you
think
would happen, Vianne? Did you think I’d let you go? Did you think I’d let you belong to someone else for ever?

I left the Boulevard des Marauds and made my way on to the old jetty. That’s where the black houseboat was moored, surrounded by those bare-rooted trees. It’s sheltered by the riverbank, but just a few metres further out the Tannes has become a surging, unruly animal; its sleek surface ramshackle with debris; deadly assemblages of branches and detritus, snarled together with cable and wire. To swim in there now would be more than unwise; even the shallows are treacherous. If Alyssa had jumped from the bridge last night instead of six days ago, she would never have survived: nor would Reynaud, for that matter. I moved a little closer. I called out: ‘Madame Bencharki?’

I knew she was home; I could feel her eyes. I took another step forward. The wind whipped my hair into my face; the ground at my feet was waterlogged.

‘Inès?’

I imagined her watching me, hidden away; watching with feral, suspicious eyes. I wished I’d thought to bring a gift; but the peaches are almost gone, and besides, I had no idea what kind of approach would work with her. Beneath her many veils Inès hides as many different faces: to Omi, a scorpion; to Zahra, a friend; to old Mahjoubi, a subversive; to Alyssa, a figure of dread—

And to Karim?

Once more, I called. This time I thought I heard movement from inside the houseboat. The tiny door to the galley opened. A woman in
niqab
appeared.

‘What do you want?’ Her voice is low and barely accented; and yet, there is something discordant about it, like music played in the wrong key.

‘Hello, I’m Vianne Rocher,’ I said, and held out my hand.

She did not move. Her eyes above the square of cloth were as blank as buttons. I started to say what I had prepared; that I had once lived in the
chocolaterie
; that I was staying in Les Marauds; that I wanted to help her and Du’a.

Inès listened without a word. Standing on the low deck, she seemed to be walking on water. Behind her, a fine spray arose from the Tannes. She might have been a ghost – or a witch.

‘I know who you are,’ she said at last. ‘You are a friend of the priest, Reynaud.’

I smiled. ‘He and I go back a long way. But we weren’t always friends. In fact, he once tried to drive me out of town.’

Her eyes showed no expression. Her hands, gloved in black, stayed at her sides. Her feet, too, were hidden beneath her
abaya
– in fact, but for those expressionless eyes, she might have been a trick of the light, with nothing beneath her
niqab
but air.

‘Some people are saying he lit the fire. That isn’t true,’ I told her. ‘Reynaud’s a good man, in spite of his faults. He isn’t a sneak or a coward. The person who lit that fire is both. And now they’re letting him take the blame—’

‘Is that why you came? To plead his case?’

‘I thought you might need help,’ I said.

‘Thank you, I don’t.’ Her voice was flat.

‘You’re living on a
boat
,’ I said.

‘So what?’ said Inès Bencharki. ‘You think living on a boat is hard? Believe me, I have known much worse. This country is easy compared with mine. Easy, and soft, and lazy.’ Her voice had risen in contempt; her eyes had narrowed above the veil. And now I could see her colours at last, flaring in the sullen light, giving her plain black
abaya
a brilliant lining of moiré silk. I reached for her thoughts instinctively; came back with a plundered handful. A basket of scarlet strawberries; a pair of yellow slippers; a bracelet of black jet beads; a woman’s face in a mirror. And silks; embroidered, coloured silks; gauze like misted spider’s web; chiffon scattered with crystals; wedding-dress white; saffron-gold; mulberry-purple; forest-green—

So much colour; bewildering. Without it, you might never have guessed that she and Karim were related; but scratch the surface, and there they are, those colours that cannot be concealed.

She flinched. It was as if I had touched her in some forbidden, intimate way. Her eyes widened in outrage, and now I could see their colour, too – a green so dark it might almost be black, into which a droplet of gold has dissolved.

She said: ‘Stop that!’

I held out my hand. ‘It’s all right, Inès. I understand.’

She laughed, a jangly, discordant sound. ‘Is that what you think? That you understand? Because you see a little more than all these other blind people?’

‘I came here for a reason,’ I said. ‘I had a letter from the dead. It told me I was needed here. And then I saw
you
—’

‘And you thought – what? Poor, downtrodden Muslim woman in
niqab
, victimized by the
kuffar
? Poor, frightened widow, will welcome any offer, however patronizing, of friendship – or of chocolate? Yes, I know all about you,
Vianne
—’ she went on, seeing my look of surprise. ‘I know how you came here eight years ago and charmed everyone into loving you – yes, even that odious priest. You think I haven’t heard all that? You think Karim hasn’t told me? That woman from the café, she talks about you all the time. So does the old man with the dog, and the baker, Poitou, and the florist, Narcisse. They make you sound like an angel come down from
Jannat
to save us. And now, Fatima al-Djerba and her mother have caught it too – ah, how they all love the chocolate woman, who thinks that because she once went to Tangier she understands our culture—’

I listened to her in silence, stunned by the depth of her contempt. Whatever I’d expected from our first encounter, it wasn’t this; this opening of the floodgates, this outpouring of venom.
A scorpion
, Omi had said. And now I was drowning, and the worst of it was that I had no one to blame but myself. The buffalo in the story is as much a slave to its nature as the scorpion is to hers; and didn’t a part of me
want
to be stung, to prove what I’ve always secretly known? That nothing lasts; that magic can fail; that everything we work for and love comes back to the same blank wall in the end—

Was
this
the lesson I came here to learn? Is
this
why I came back to Lansquenet?

‘I know you’re hiding Alyssa,’ she said.

I shivered, feeling suddenly cold.

‘You think I don’t hear? You think I don’t see? You think because I wear
niqab
I don’t pay attention the way you do? You think because you can’t see me, I don’t notice
every
thing?’

‘It’s nothing to do with
niqab
,’ I said. ‘And I’m not
hiding
Alyssa. She’s staying with me of her own accord, until she decides what she wants to do.’

Inès made a harsh sound in her throat. ‘I suppose you think you’re helping,’ she said.

‘Someone had to help,’ I said. ‘She was trying to kill herself.’

She fixed me with her green-gold gaze. Beneath the
abaya
she is graceful, poised and straight as a dancer. From the beauty of her eyes, I knew she must be striking.

‘You think like a child,’ she told me. ‘A child sees a baby bird fall from the nest. She picks it up and takes it home. One of two things happens next. The baby bird dies almost at once; or it survives for a day or two, and the child takes it back to its family. But the scent of human is on it now, and the family rejects it. It dies of starvation, or a cat kills it, or the other birds peck it to death. With luck, the child will never know.’