Peaches for Monsieur Le Curé (31 page)

CHAPTER NINE

Thursday, 26th August

THE SUN WAS
low. Soon it would set. It was almost time to take Maya home. I’d promised to bring some pastries, too, and to take Alyssa to see her
jiddo
. We said goodnight to the others. Once more Alyssa put on her
hijab
. As they said goodbye, I caught a look between Anouk and Jeannot – something bright in their colours, like the promise of secrets to come. Then, the rest of us packed up a box of chocolates and the freshly baked peach pastries and headed towards the al-Djerba house.

Alyssa was silent all the way there. Anouk was also silent, checking for messages on her mobile phone. Maya and Rosette ran ahead, playing some kind of noisy game, in which the names
Bam
and
Foxy
seemed to be a recurrent theme. I could see Bam quite clearly, bouncing intermittently across the cobbled boulevard, but so far Foxy has yet to show himself. Presumably Maya can see him. I wonder if Rosette can, too.

We arrived at the green-shuttered house and knocked. Maya’s mother opened the door. She was wearing a yellow
hijab
over jeans and a silk
kameez
. Her pretty face brightened when she saw us.

Maya bugled: ‘Vianne has brought cakes. We made them! I helped!’

Yasmina smiled. ‘I’m glad you’re all here. I was just making dinner. Come in!’ She said something quickly, aside to Alyssa. Alyssa nodded and went upstairs. ‘Please, come in and have some tea. My mother and sister are both here.’

We followed her into the front room, where Fatima and Zahra were sitting with Omi on cushions on the floor. Zahra was wrapped in a brown
djellaba
and her customary
hijab
. Fatima was sewing. Omi looked up as I came in with an expression so unlike her usual look of concentrated naughtiness that I was suddenly sure old Mahjoubi had died.

‘What’s wrong?’ I said.

Omi shrugged. ‘I was hoping perhaps my Du’a was with you.’

I shook my head. ‘I’m sorry, no.’

‘Her mother has taken her,’ Fatima said. ‘Karim is in pieces.’

‘Really?’ I said. ‘I had no idea they were so close.’ I did not mention Karim’s visit to Armande’s house, but Zahra must have heard something in my voice, because she gave me a searching look. Fatima did not notice.

‘Karim is devoted to Du’a,’ she said.

Omi made a scornful noise. ‘That’s why he never speaks to her, or even bothers to
look
at her if she happens to be in the room.’ She looked at Fatima defiantly. ‘She may have you wrapped around her thumb, but that woman is not who she says she is.’

‘Omi, please,’ Zahra said. ‘Hasn’t there been gossip enough?’

Omi ignored her. ‘I know these things. I may be old, but I’m not blind. I say that woman is Karim’s first wife, and Du’a is their daughter.’

Hastily, I intervened. ‘I brought supplies,’ I told them. ‘Home-made peach jam pastries. I hope you’ll try them when you can.’

‘I’ll try one now,’ said Omi.

‘Omi,
please
—’

I held out the box. She looked inside. ‘So
this
is your magic, Vianne,’ she said. ‘It smells like the flower fields of
Jannat
.’ She gave Rosette her turtle smile. ‘And you helped make these, little one?’

‘We all did.’ That was Anouk. ‘I’ve been making chocolate since I was five.’

Omi’s smile broadened. ‘Well, if these don’t bring the old man downstairs—’

‘He’ll come,’ Maya said. ‘I asked my Jinni to make him well.’

Omi looked surprised. ‘You did? Your Jinni, eh?’

Maya nodded earnestly. ‘He promised me three wishes,’ she said.

I said: ‘Rosette has an imaginary friend. I think Maya wanted one, too.’

‘Oh. I see. And what next? Let me think. Maybe he’ll turn you into a princess. Or make me young and thin again. Or give you a magic carpet made of tiny butterflies, that can fly you anywhere in the world without ever needing a passport—’

Maya gave her a stern look. ‘That’s just silly, Omi,’ she said.

Omi cackled. ‘Then it’s a good thing I have you to keep me sensible.’

But in defiance of Omi’s pessimism, it was less than ten minutes later that Mohammed Mahjoubi appeared at the door, looking shrunken, but fully dressed in his white
djellaba
and prayer hat. Alyssa was with him, clear-eyed; relieved.

On seeing me, he inclined his head. ‘
Assalaamu alaikum
, Madame Rocher. Thank you for bringing Alyssa once more.’ He held out his hand to Alyssa, who took it, and spoke with her softly in Arabic. Then he addressed the whole room in his heavily accented French.

‘I spoke to my granddaughter yesterday. She promised to consider my words. And today,
Alhumdullila
, she has decided to come home with me. Life is too short and time too precious for foolish quarrels to intrude. Tomorrow, I will speak to my son. Whatever has happened between us, I am still his father.’ He gave the shadow of a smile. ‘And you, my little Maya,’ he said. ‘What have you been doing today?’

‘
We
’ve been making pastries. Magic ones, to make you well.’

‘I see. Magic pastries.’ The smile seemed to brighten slightly. ‘Well, don’t say that to your Uncle Saïd. I don’t think he would approve, somehow.’

‘I hope you will join us for
iftar
,’ said Fatima to the rest of us. ‘We have more than enough. You are welcome.’

And so we sat down on the brightly coloured cushions, the men on one side, the women on the other. Mehdi al-Djerba joined us, with Yasmina’s husband Ismail, who looks very like his brother Saïd, though without the beard, and in Western dress. Mohammed said prayers. Alyssa was quiet, but seemed content. I was amused to see Maya showing Rosette the right way to eat –
this is how we do it, Rosette, and sit up straight on your cushion
– while Bam followed suit, sitting comically straight, gleaming in the shadows.

We began with dates, the traditional way of breaking fast at Ramadan. Then, harissa and rose-petal soup, with
crêpes mille trous
, saffron couscous and roast spiced lamb. Almonds and apricots for dessert, with
rahat loukoum
and coconut rice. Then the pastries we had brought, and chocolates for everyone.

Mohammed Mahjoubi ate little, but accepted a pastry from Maya. ‘You
have
to eat one, Jiddo. Rosette and I helped make them!’

He smiled. ‘Of course. How could I not? Especially if they are magic.’

Omi had no hesitation. The absence of teeth does not trouble her; she simply lets the chocolate melt. ‘This is better than dates,’ she said. ‘Here, pass me another.’

It isn’t
really
magic, of course. But food that has been made with love
does
have special properties. Everyone praised the truffles, and the pastries were soon finished.

By this time Mohammed was looking tired, and announced that he was going to bed.

‘Goodnight,’ he said. ‘It has been a long day. There will be another tomorrow.’ He gave Alyssa a speaking look.

‘But it’s still
early
—’ Maya said. ‘And you promised to play chequers with me—’

‘It’s almost midnight,’ Omi said. ‘And magic chocolates go only so far. Old people are easily tired.’

‘
You
’re not tired,’ Maya protested.

‘I’m indestructible,’ Omi said.

Maya gave the matter some thought. ‘We need the cat,’ she said at last. ‘Hazi will make Jiddo happy again. I’ll ask my Jinni to see to it.’

Yasmina smiled. ‘You do that,’ she said.

While Yasmina put Maya to bed, Zahra went to prepare mint tea; I joined her in the kitchen while the others talked next door. She took off her veil as she made the tea; I noticed she was looking concerned.

‘You’re still worried about Inès.’

She shrugged. ‘If I am, I’m the only one.’

‘You think something might have happened to her?’

Once more, she shrugged. ‘Who knows?’ she said. ‘Maybe she just got tired of everybody gossiping.’

‘Do
you
believe she’s Karim’s first wife?’

She shook her head. ‘I know she is not.’

She sounded very certain of this. ‘Do you believe she’s his sister?’ I said.

She looked at me. ‘I know who she is. But it is not for me to say.’

The tea was strong and fragrant. Zahra uses fresh mint, two generous fistfuls, brewed in an ornate silver pot so large that it requires both hands to lift it. Steam bloomed from the rosebud spout like a cartoon genie.

That made me think of Maya’s Jinni. Does Maya see her animal friend as Anouk and Rosette see theirs? I have to say, I’m a little surprised that so far I haven’t seen a glimpse of him. Children’s imaginations are very powerful, and I have always been sensitive. But now, in the steam, I found myself catching traces of something else; a pattern like that of frost-feathers on a frozen windowpane. I moved a little closer. The scent of mint enveloped us both.

‘Zahra. Please. I want to help,’ I said, and reached out very delicately – not with my hands, but with my thoughts. It’s a trick that sometimes provides insights, though most of the time it offers me nothing but shades and reflections.

A basket of scarlet strawberries; a pair of yellow slippers; a bracelet of black jet beads; a woman’s face in a mirror
. Whose face is that? Have I seen it before? Or is it the face of the Woman in Black? If so, she is even more beautiful than the gossips would have us believe. And she is young; absurdly young; with the unconscious arrogance of youth, the look of one who does not believe that she will ever grow old, or die, or give up her illusions. Anouk has that look. I once had it myself.

I tried to shape the scented steam, to comb it with my fingers. Its end-of-summer fragrance was clean and sweetly nostalgic. I saw my mother’s cards again, saw them in my mind’s eye; the Queen of Cups, the Knight of Cups, the Lovers and the Tower—

The Tower
. Broken and lightning-struck, it looks far too slender to ever have been any kind of stronghold. A spire as thin as a shard of glass; decorative; windowless. Who – or
what
– is the Tower?

Of course, we have two towers here. One is the tower of Saint-Jérôme’s; that squat whitewashed rectangle with its stubby little spire. The second is the minaret; the disused chimney, now crowned with a silver crescent moon. Which is the Tower on the card? The church spire or the minaret? Which one has been lightning-struck? Which will stand, and which will fall?

A third time, I tried to read the steam. The scent of mint grew stronger. And now once again I could see Francis Reynaud walking along the riverbank, deep in thought, rucksack in hand, shoulders bowed against the rain. And there was something at his feet; a scorpion, black and venomous. He picked it up. And I thought: if Inès is the scorpion, could
Reynaud
be the buffalo? And if so, am I already too late to save them both from drowning?

I saw Zahra watching suspiciously. ‘What are you doing?’

‘Trying to understand,’ I said. ‘Your friend is missing.
My
friend, too. And if you know anything that might help—’

‘I don’t,’ said Zahra. ‘This is a war. I’m sorry you’re mixed up in it.’

I looked at her. ‘What kind of a war?’

She shrugged and retied her face-veil. Behind it, her colours skipped and danced. ‘A war that we can never win; between women and men; old and young; love and hate; East and West; tolerance and tradition. No one really wants it, but there it is. It’s no one’s fault. I only wish things were different.’ She held out the silver teapot. ‘Here, take this. I’ll bring the cups.’

‘Zahra. Wait. If you know anything—’

She shook her head. ‘I have to get back. I’m sorry about your friend.’

CHAPTER TEN

Thursday, 26th August

IT RAINED TWICE
during the night. The first time, I heard the sound of the rain in the alley above my cell, and wished I had saved some drinking water from the bottle in my rucksack. The second time, the broken pipe began to trickle floodwater again, and I knew that the river was rising once more. Nevertheless, I managed to sleep a little, in the dry space at the top of the steps, wrapped up in my overcoat. My feet are wet and freezing. I would sell my soul for a hot bath.

My watch has stopped. Maybe the damp has interfered with the battery. But between the
muezzin
and the machines and the distant sound of Saint-Jérôme’s chime, I find that my sense of time passing is reasonably accurate. This is why I can be certain that it was between ten and eleven o’clock that the door to my cellar was unlocked, and Karim Bencharki came in, alone. A strong scent of
kif
accompanied him. He looked angry and agitated.

He shone his flashlight into my eyes and said: ‘Reynaud, for the last time, what have you done with my sister?’

I told him I didn’t know where she was. But Karim was too angry to listen.

‘What did you tell her? What did you say? What were you doing that morning?’

I told him: ‘I didn’t say anything. I don’t know where your sister has gone.’

‘Don’t lie. I know you were spying on her.’ His voice had acquired a razor-blade edge. ‘What did you see by the river? What lies has Alyssa told you?’

‘Please.’ God, I hate that word. ‘This is all a dreadful mistake. Let me out, and I’ll do all I can to help. Just let me go.’

He looked at me. ‘You must be hungry and thirsty by now.’

‘I am,’ I said. ‘Please let me go. Let me go, and we’ll sort this out. If Inès is missing—’

‘What did you see?’

‘I told you. I saw nothing. Why?’

He made a sound of frustration. ‘Hah! Ever since she came here, you’ve never left my sister alone. Spying on her from the church. Asking questions. Pretending to help. What has she told you?
What do you know?
’

‘Nothing at all. As far as I know, your sister hates me as much as you do.’

I could tell he didn’t believe me. Why? What is he so afraid of? What secrets are they hiding? I remembered what Sonia had told me.
He goes to her at night sometimes. She’s bewitched him. He’s under her spell
. At the time, I dismissed it as jealous fantasy. The woman’s his sister, after all. But – what if she were not,
père
? What proof do we have of
who
she is?

‘She isn’t your sister, is she?’ I said.

A pause. ‘Who told you that?’

‘I guessed.’

Another, longer pause. Then Karim seemed to make a decision. He turned off the flashlight, leaving me to squint at his face. ‘I will give you one more chance,’ he told me in a new, cool voice. ‘Next time I come, I will bring my friends. The friends you met on Sunday night, by your house, in the village. And you will tell me everything. Otherwise—’ Karim’s voice grew even cooler and more distant. ‘We can make it look like an accident. We can make it look as if you drowned. Any marks on your body would seem to be the work of the river. No one would know. No one would care. You’re not the most popular man around here. No one would even look for you.’

And at that, he closed the door again, leaving me in darkness.

Of course, he was trying to frighten me. I know that,
père
. I’m not afraid. Karim is not a murderer. He may well be responsible for last Sunday’s attack on me, but that’s not the same as murder. Still—

No one would know. No one would care. No one would even look for you
. That at least is true,
père
. If I disappeared for good, would anyone really miss me?

An hour or so later, the cellar door opened again. I leapt to the foot of the steps at once, fully expecting to see Karim and his friends standing there. Instead, a woman, veiled in black, appeared in the narrow doorway.

‘If you try to get out, I shall scream.’ Her voice was unfamiliar. But so few of those women ever speak (except among themselves, of course) that I hadn’t expected to recognize her. She was young, though: that I could tell. Her French was almost unaccented.

I looked up at her bleakly. The water was up to my ankles. ‘What do you want?’

I saw that she was carrying a cardboard box.

She said: ‘I have brought water and food. I will leave it at the top of the steps. If you hide the wrapping, Karim and the others will not know I was here.’

‘Karim doesn’t know?’

She shook her head. ‘I thought you would be hungry.’

‘Then let me out,’ I said urgently. ‘Please! I swear—’

‘I am sorry,’ she said. ‘I only came to bring the food.’

The food turned out to be some kind of soup in a styrofoam cup, and some bread, olives and dried figs wrapped in a piece of waxed paper. There was water too, in a plastic bottle, and some kind of pastry. When the woman had gone, I ate and drank everything, and hid the papers and the box inside one of the empty crates.

I must get out of here
, I thought; before Karim and his friends come back. The woman in black who brought me food –
could
that have been Sonia? Perhaps. But surely I would have recognized her. Does she even know I am here? If so, she must feel guilty. Perhaps that’s why she brought the food. Perhaps, next time—

If there
is
a next time. Perhaps that was my last meal. The last meal of the condemned man. If only Maya would come back—

Sweet Jesus. Am I so desperate? And yet, she’s all I have now. My last, precarious thread of hope lies in the hands of a five-year-old. Will she remember her promise,
père
? Or has she already forgotten the game?