Peaches for Monsieur Le Curé (23 page)

I felt myself flush. ‘This isn’t the same. Alyssa isn’t a baby bird.’

‘Isn’t she?’ said Inès. ‘You’ll be telling me next she’s kept her fast and she
hasn’t
cut her hair.’

‘Did Maya tell you that?’ I said.

‘I don’t need a child to tell me. You think you’re the only one who sees things?’

I thought of what Alyssa had said: that Inès Bencharki was an
amaar
, an evil spirit in human form, sent to corrupt the innocent. I’ve heard that accusation before – more than once – on my travels. People with insight – people like us – are often seen as sinister. My mother called herself a witch. That was her style; I never did. That word is overburdened now with history and prejudice. Those people who say that words have no power know nothing of the nature of words. Words, well placed, can end a regime; can turn affection to hatred; can start a religion, or even a war. Words are the shepherds of lies; they lead the best of us to the slaughter.

I said: ‘My mother was a witch.’

She laughed and said: ‘I should have guessed.’

And at that she turned and went back inside – behind her, that glimpse of colours, like the twist in the eye of a marble – and then the door closed behind her and I was left standing at the side of the Tannes, with the black wind screeching in the wires and the rain beginning to fall again.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Wednesday, 25th August

MIDNIGHT, AND THE
rain has stopped. The sky is cloudy agate. The August full moon – the one which, according to folklore,
père
, is causing all our problems – is all in rags, a supplicant on the night’s horizon. I cannot sleep. My fingers hurt. My mind is all static and restlessness. I can already feel tomorrow like an avalanche ready to fall; the telephone calls, the visitors, the poised inevitability of a life about to be toppled.

Outside, the wind is relentless. It tugs at me like an eager child. It strikes me how few possessions I have – the cottage belongs to the Church, as does all the furniture, most of the books, and the pictures. A canvas rucksack with a broken strap – the one I took with me to the seminary more years ago than I like to think – would easily take everything I own. Aside from my priest’s clothes, which of course I would leave behind, what do I have? A couple of shirts; a pair of jeans, three T-shirts, socks and underwear. A thick, hand-knitted sweater that I wear in winter, when it’s cold. A scarf. A hat. A toothbrush. A comb. The copy of Saint Augustine you gave me when I was a boy. My father’s watch. Your rosary, with the green glass beads; a cheap thing, but I am fond of it. A brown envelope of photographs, papers and documents. Some money. Not much. Forty-five years, neatly packed up in a single rucksack.

Now why did I do that,
père
? It’s absurd. I’m not going anywhere. For a start, I have nowhere to go. It’s the middle of the night. It’s raining. And yet, I can see myself stepping out, rucksack on my shoulder. Leaving the key in the front door, closing the gate behind me. Going down the deserted street in my coat and walking boots, feeling the sky above my head. The sky must feel different to a man who has no home to go to. The road, too, must feel different. Harder on the feet, somehow. My boots are well worn and comfortable. I can walk for hours before I need to think about what to do next.

Mon père
, that sounds so attractive. To know that every step I take takes me further from Père Henri Lemaître. To have no responsibility, no choices to make but where to sleep, what to eat, whether to turn right or left. To abandon desire and to offer myself to the randomness of the universe—

Randomness?

Well, yes,
père
. Of course, I know God has a plan. But in recent years I’ve found it increasingly hard to believe that the plan is running as smoothly as He intended. The more I think about it now, the more I see God as a harried bureaucrat,
wanting
to help, but crippled by paperwork and committees. If He sees us at all,
père
, it is from behind a desk piled high with accounts and works-in-progress. That’s why He has priests to do His work, and bishops to oversee them. That is why I bear Him no grudge. But try to juggle too many balls, and this is what happens. Some go astray.

The wind has cleared my head, somehow. History is filled with the stories of men who abandoned conventional life for a life on the road. My namesake, Saint Francis, is one of them. Maybe I’ll go to Assisi.

I must have slept a little,
père
. I awoke feeling stiff. My rucksack was propped against the front door. For a moment, clinging to sleep, I couldn’t remember leaving it there. Then I remembered, and felt afraid. The certainties of the past few hours were slipping away as daybreak approached. First thing in the morning, I usually go to Poitou’s, for croissants or
pain au chocolat
. Today, I did not. I don’t want Poitou talking about me all over the village, and besides, to go to the bakery at this stage would be almost like tempting myself to stay, when I had already decided to leave.

I made coffee and toasted a piece of stale bread. It smelt better than it tasted, but it was enough to remind me how hungry I’d been. I am not as good at going hungry as I once was,
père
. I no longer keep my Lenten fast. If I left, I told myself, I’d have to get used to hunger. Saint Francis ate roots and berries, of course. I suppose they must have sustained him. But I would find it difficult to go without my breakfast croissant.

I looked at the sky. It was still dark. Dawn was more than an hour away. I did not want to be seen as I left, especially not by the people of Les Marauds as they arose for morning prayers. I knew I would have to pass their way if I wanted to follow the river. That seemed the most sensible plan, at least until I had covered enough ground to guarantee I wouldn’t meet anyone who would recognize me. A clean break, I told myself; no explanations, no goodbyes. Not even to Vianne, or Joséphine—

Especially
not to Joséphine.

I finished my breakfast. Time to go.

I washed the dishes in the sink. I watered the plants. I stripped the bed. I loaded the bedclothes into the washing machine on a medium cycle. I put on my boots and raincoat. I hoisted my rucksack on to my shoulder by its one unbroken strap. I turned off the lights.

I said: ‘Goodbye.’

Then I stepped out into the dark.

CHAPTER ONE

Wednesday, 25th August

I KEPT TO
the side streets in les marauds. I’d forgotten how early these people rise. Already the lights were on all the way down the boulevard; warm and coloured squares of light in yellow, red, blue, green.
So this is what it feels like
, I thought.
To be an outsider
. It pleased me, somehow. The thought was almost romantic. Perhaps to be an outsider is simply to know how to look at things from the outside. I checked my watch. Six o’clock. Soon, the
muezzin
would call. I planned to be out of Les Marauds by then. Avoiding the boulevard and the gym, I took one of the little alleyways that lead to the old jetty. There, boats were often moored, back in the days of the river-rats, but now no one uses it any more. There’s a towpath here by the river, once used for dragging barges upstream; I knew if I followed it far enough it would lead me to Pont-le-Saôul, where I could take a bus to Agen, and from there—

To Paris? London? Rome?

A multitude of highways, leading me further and further from home, spiralling out like a spider’s web to every corner of the map—

I tried not to think too hard about what I was about to do.
One step at a time
, I thought.
One foot in front of the other
. The river had risen again, I saw. At this rate, I thought, the banks will burst and flood the Boulevard des Marauds. Les Marauds is used to flooding, of course; the riverside houses are built on stilts to accommodate the rise and fall of the Tannes. But the houses are old; the original wood has been bleached and warped and twisted by time; some reinforced with metal struts that have rusted and corroded over the years. Each year brings them closer to collapse. To restore them would cost a fortune. One day, maybe, one winter’s day, those struts will give way, and that row of crooked houses that makes up the Boulevard des Marauds will come crashing down into the Tannes, one against the other, gathering momentum like a row of deadly dominoes, leaving nothing but a deadfall of wood and broken plaster.

Would that be such a bad thing?

In any case,
père
, it is no longer my concern. I am done with Lansquenet. I have decided what I must do. Let the river decide the rest.

It was then that I saw a houseboat moored against the jetty. Well away from the slipstream, tucked into the riverbank like a sleeper into the crook of his elbow. River-gypsies? Surely not. Their time is long gone. And yet I could see smoke coming out of the chimney – smoke or steam, I wasn’t sure which. There was a light in the window. Someone was home.

Instinctively, I made for the trees. A screen of them stands between the river and the end of the boulevard, and I had no wish to be seen. Whoever was living in that boat was no longer any business of mine. I would join the towpath another way.

But just as I reached the stand of trees, I saw a figure heading my way. A slender figure in black, head to toe, a veil across her features. You’d think they’d be impossible to tell apart; but I knew her from the way she moved. It was Sonia Bencharki.

She must have been running, I suppose. She almost ran into me as I approached. I could hear her breathing, ragged and fast; her eyes above the black veil were wide with alarm and astonishment. I feared she might scream.

I said: ‘It’s all right. Sonia, it’s me. Francis Reynaud.’

If anything, I thought her alarm increased. She gave a tiny, strangled cry.

I said: ‘I was taking a walk, that’s all. I didn’t mean to frighten you.’

Of course, my story failed to explain the rucksack on my shoulder. But the last thing I wanted right now was any kind of attention. Why was Sonia here at all? By the river – alone, at this time?

‘Sonia,’ I said. ‘Is anything wrong?’

She made a sound at the back of her throat.

‘Please,’ I said. ‘I can’t leave you like this. Does your father know you’re here?’

‘No.’ Her voice was a whisper.

I thought of Alyssa. This wasn’t fair. All I wanted was to leave.
Mon père
, I thought:
why make it so hard? How many obstacles must God put in my way?

She is not my responsibility. Alyssa is not my responsibility. Inès Bencharki is not my responsibility. Everything bad that has happened to me over the course of the past few weeks has been the result of my interfering with matters that are not my responsibility. Well, this is where it ends, I thought. Les Marauds has its own priest. Let him deal with the flock himself.

And then I smelt the petrol. My God, had she been
bathing
in it?

‘What were you doing here?’ I said, more harshly than I’d intended. ‘Why do you smell of petrol? Were you going to burn yourself?’

She started to whimper. ‘You don’t understand—’

‘We’re going to get your father,’ I said, taking hold of her by the wrist. ‘It’s up to him to sort this out.’

‘No. No.’ She shook her head so hard that the whole of her body followed suit. The can of petrol that she had been carrying under her robe fell to the ground.

The frustration I had felt over the past few weeks had reached the point of combustion. Anger made me pitiless. I know,
père
. I’m not proud of this.

‘What
is
it with you people?’ I said. ‘First your sister, then you! Are you crazy? Do you want to die? Do you
really
believe that if you die during Ramadan, God will give you a free pass into Paradise?’

She looked at me blankly. ‘I don’t want to die.’

‘Then
what
?’

Her reply was inaudible.

‘Then
what
?’

She winced at my raised voice. ‘I wanted Inès to go away.’

That woman again. ‘Who the hell is she? And how has she managed to somehow infect the whole of Les Marauds with her insanity?’ I stopped. ‘Hang on a minute,’ I said. ‘How exactly did you propose to make her go away?’ I indicated the petrol can. ‘Sonia, what were you planning to burn?’

Sweet Jesus. The penny dropped. It felt like repeated blows to the head. The houseboat. The petrol can. Sonia. The school. The graffiti in Arabic.
Whore
. The act that sent my world crashing down, that has made me a pariah, both in Les Marauds and Lansquenet, that has cost me my reputation, my pride—

‘
You
lit the fire,’ I told her. ‘Why?’

‘I wanted her to leave,’ she said. Her voice was like tiny metal tacks being hammered into a piece of wood. ‘I want her to go away for good. Back to wherever she came from. She was never supposed to stay. She only came for the wedding. If she goes, then Karim will be mine all the way through, the way he was supposed to be. But for as long as she’s around—’

‘You could have killed someone,’ I said. ‘Inès, or her daughter, or one of the people who came to help—’

She shook her head. ‘I was careful,’ she said. ‘I lit the fire at the front of the house. The fire escape is at the back. And I threw stones at the windows, to make sure they were awake.’

For a moment I was speechless. That it should be
Sonia
who had tried to burn down the school – Sonia, whom I’d always liked, who used to play with the boys in the square and drink
diabolos
at Joséphine’s—

‘Have you any idea of the harm you’ve done? You do know everyone blames
me
?’

‘I’m sorry about that,’ she said.

‘Oh, so that excuses it?’ Anger made me intemperate. My voice ripped into the silence like fire. ‘Arson, attempted murder, and lies?’

Surprisingly, she did not cry. I’d rather expected her to,
père
, but her voice was as small and as hard as before. ‘I’m four months pregnant, Curé,’ she said. ‘If he divorces me now, I’m alone. I get nothing. He can stay here or go back to Morocco if he likes. I have no rights. Do you understand?’

‘Why would he divorce you?’ I said.

‘He will if he finds out I lit the fire. I told you before. He worships Inès. And don’t expect my father to help. He loves Karim like a favourite son. My mother – she thinks he’s an angel come down from
Jannat
to save us all. And as for Inès—’

She looked away. The
muezzin
began the call to prayer. It’s really quite a musical chant, taken out of context. The chimney of the old tannery provides a resonant platform from which to harangue the faithful.
Hayya la-s-salah. Hayya la-s-salah
. In moments, the streets will be busy again. So much for my quiet exit.

She said: ‘He goes to her at night. I hear him getting out of bed. He comes back smelling of perfume, and
her
. I know it’s her. I can feel it. I can see and feel and hear everything, and yet I can’t speak. She’s bewitched him. He’s under her spell. We both are.’

This is ridiculous, père
, I thought.
I have forsaken the way of the cloth, and here I am taking confession again
. ‘There are no witches,’ I told her. ‘Have you spoken to Karim?’

‘No.’

‘Why not?’

‘I tried,’ she said. ‘But he just gets angry. Then my mother and father say that I’m not being obedient. They say I should be more like Inès, modest and respectful.’

‘What about your grandfather? Have you tried confiding in him?’

For the first time, I saw a smile in her eyes. ‘Dear Jiddo. But he doesn’t live with us any more, and so I don’t see him as often. My father and he had an argument; my father says he’s a bad influence. And Jiddo doesn’t like it that my father has taken his place at the mosque. He lives with the al-Djerbas now, my Uncle Ismail’s family. They’re saying he’s ill. That he’s going to die.’

‘I’m sorry,’ I said. I realized I was; Mohammed Mahjoubi has been here for years. In spite of our disagreements, I have always considered him an honest man. If he dies, he will leave a space in this community. I wish the same were true of me.

‘Go home,’ I said. ‘And change your dress. That one reeks of petrol.’

She looked at me uncertainly. ‘You won’t tell Karim, or my father?’

‘No. As long as you leave Inès alone. Whatever is between you, you should solve it honestly. That means openly, with words, not with dangerous pranks like this.’

‘You
promise
you won’t tell them?’

‘As long as you stop this nonsense right now.’

She gave a sigh. ‘All right.’

‘Two
Avés
.’

She looked at me in surprise.

‘Joke.’

I think you need to be a priest to really see the humour,
père
. But she smiled with her eyes. I like that.

‘
Jazak Allah
, Curé,’ she said.

Then she quietly crept away.