Peaches for Monsieur Le Curé

by Joanne Harris

  But although I myself may deplore the loss, I will be in the minority. Caro Clairmont has been complaining for years about those pews, which are narrow and hard (Caro herself is neither). And of course, if they are taken out, her husband, Georges, will be the one to reclaim, restore and ultimately sell them, at an absurdly inflated price, in Bordeaux, to wealthy tourists looking to furnish their holiday homes with something nicely authentic.

  It’s hard not to get angry, père. I’ve given my life to Lansquenet. And for it all to be snatched away – and for such a reason—

  It all comes back to that blasted shop. That blasted chocolaterie. What is it about that place that attracts trouble? First it was Vianne Rocher – then, Bencharki’s sister. Now, even gutted and empty, it seems to be doing its best to provoke my downfall. The Bishop is certain, he tells me, that nothing links me to the fire. Hypocrite. You notice that he does not say that he believes in my innocence. What he says, very reasonably, is that, whatever the outcome of the investigation into my conduct, my position here has been compromised. Perhaps another parish, then, where my history is not known …

  Damn his condescension. I will not go quietly. I refuse to believe that, after everything I have done for this community, no one here has faith in me. There must be something I can do. A gesture to earn myself some goodwill among my people and those of Les Marauds. Trying to talk with them has not helped; but maybe action will plead my cause.

  Which is why this morning I decided to go back to Place Saint-Jérôme and do what I could to make amends. The shop is structurally sound: it requires little more than a thorough clean, some tiles on the roof, some replacement wood and plasterwork and a few coats of paint to make it like new. Or so I thought; I also believed that if others saw me helping out, some of them would lend a hand.

  Four hours later, I ached all over, and no one had even spoken to me. Poitou’s bakery is opposite; the Café des Marauds just down the road, and no one had even thought to bring me as much as a drink in this crushing heat. I began to understand, père, that this was my penance – not for the fire, but for my arrogance in believing that I could win back my flock with a show of humility.

  After lunch, the bakery closed; the sun-bleached square was silent. Only Saint-Jérôme’s tower offered some relief from the sun; as I dragged pieces of charred debris from inside the shop on to the kerb, I lingered awhile in its shadow, then took a drink from the fountain.

  ‘What are you doing?’ said a voice.

  I straightened up. Sweet Jesus. Of all the people I would rather not see – the Clairmont boy is no trouble, of course, but he’ll tell his mother, and I would have much preferred him to see me surrounded by friendly volunteers, cleaning up the Bencharki place, instead of exhausted, filthy and sore, surrounded by nothing but burnt wood.

  ‘Nothing much.’ I shot him a smile. ‘I thought we could show solidarity. You wouldn’t want a mother and child to come back to a place like this—’ I indicated the charred front door and the blackened mess that lay beyond.

  Luc gave me a guarded look. Perhaps the smile had been a mistake.

  ‘All right, it makes me uncomfortable,’ I confessed, dropping the smile. ‘Knowing that half the village thinks I was the one responsible.’

  Half the village? If only it was. Right now I could count my supporters on the fingers of one hand.

  ‘I’ll help,’ Luc said. ‘I’ve got nothing but time just now.’

  Of course, his university term begins in late September. As I recall, he is studying French literature, to Caro’s disapproval. But why would he want to help me now? He never liked me, not even when his mother was one of my devotees.

  ‘I’ll bring a van from the wood-yard,’ he said, indicating the debris. ‘First I’ll help you clear this up, and then we can see what kind of supplies we’re going to need.’

  Well, I was in no position to refuse. After all, it was pride that got me into this. I thanked him and set to work again, dragging out the debris. There was far more of it than I’d thought, but with Luc’s help, by the end of the day we had cleared out all the wreckage from downstairs.

  The bells for Mass began to ring; the shadows lengthened in the square. Père Henri Lemaître, looking as if he’d stepped out of a refrigerated storage box just for priests, came sauntering out of Saint-Jérôme’s, his soutane nicely pressed, his hair in a fashionably boyish style, his freshly laundered collar only a shade whiter than his teeth.

  ‘Francis!’ I hate it when he calls me that.

  I gave him my most diplomatic smile.

  ‘How good of you to do all this,’ he said, as if I had done it for him. ‘If only you’d told me this morning, I could have put in a word after Mass—’ His tone implied that he himself would have been more than happy to help, if only the burden of caring for my parish had not been thrust upon him. ‘And, speaking of Mass—’ He cast a critical glance at my sooty, sweating person. ‘Were you thinking of attending this evening? I have a change of clothes in the vestry that I’d be more than glad—’

  ‘No, thanks.’

  ‘It’s just that I notice you haven’t been to Mass, or taken Communion, or attended confession since—’

  ‘Thank you. I’ll bear it in mind.’

  As if I’d take the Host from him, and as for confession – well, père. I know it’s a sin, but let’s just say that the day I take a penance from him will be the day I leave the Church for ever.

  He gave me a look of sympathy. ‘My door is always open,’ he said.

  And then, with a last gleam of his toothpaste-commercial smile, he was gone, leaving me very far from serene, fists clenched behind my back.

  That was enough. I called it a day. I went home before the crowd for Mass began to gather in the square. Those bells pursued me all the way, and when I arrived at my front door I saw that someone had tagged it in black aerosol. It must have been recent; I could still smell the paint fumes in the warm air.

  I looked around; I saw no one but a trio of boys on mountain bikes at the end of the Rue des Francs Bourgeois. Teenagers, from what I could see; one dressed in a loose white shirt; the other two in T-shirts and jeans, all three wearing the chequered scarves that Arab men sometimes wear. They saw me and cycled off at speed towards Les Marauds, shouting something in Arabic. I do not know the language, but from their tone and their laughter I guessed it was probably not a compliment.

  I could have followed them, mon père. Perhaps I should have done so. But I was tired and – yes, I confess – maybe just a little afraid. And so I went inside instead, and had a shower, and poured a beer, and tried to eat a sandwich.

  But through the open window I could still hear those bells ringing for Mass, and beyond them, the voice of the muezzin carried over the river like a ribbon of smoke on the evening air. And I would have liked to pray, but somehow all I could think of was Armande Voizin, her snapping black eyes, her impertinent ways, and how she would have laughed at all this. Perhaps she sees me. The thought appals. And so I fetch another beer and watch the sun set over the Tannes, while in the east a crescent moon rises over Lansquenet.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Tuesday, 17th August

  THIS MORNING, ROSETTE and I went off to find out what had happened to Joséphine. The shops were all shut in Les Marauds – a clothing store, a grocer’s, a shop selling rolls of fabric – but we saw a little café there, staffed by a glum-looking man in a white djellaba and taqiyah prayer hat, polishing tables, who saw me look in and paused in his task just long enough to say, ‘We’re closed.’

  I suspected as much. ‘When do you open?’

  ‘Later. Tonight.’ He gave me a look that reminded me of Paul Muscat, in the days when he ran the Café des Marauds; a look that was both appraising and curiously hostile. Then he went back to his tables. Not everyone here is welcoming.

  Cross man, signed Rosette. Cross face. Let’s go.

  Bam was at his most visible; a bright orange scribble of light at her heels. I saw a mischievous
look pass over her face; the man’s hat slipped and fell on to the floor.

  Rosette made a crooning sound.

  From the corner of my eye, I saw Bam do a somersault.

  Hastily I took her hand. ‘It’s all right. We’re going,’ I said. ‘This isn’t the café we’re looking for.’

  But arriving at the Café des Marauds, instead of finding Joséphine, I found a sullen girl of about sixteen, watching TV from behind the bar, who told me that Madame Bonnet had driven down to Bordeaux to pick up a truckload of supplies, and might be back quite late.

  No, there was no message, she said. Her face showed neither recognition nor curiosity. Her eyes were so heavily made up that I could barely see them, loaded as they were with shadow and mascara. Her lips were glossy as candied fruit, and her jaw moved placidly around a sizeable wad of pink gum.

  ‘I’m Vianne. What’s your name?’

  She stared at me as if I were insane. ‘Marie-Ange Lucas,’ she said at last, in the same vaguely sullen tone. ‘I’m covering for Madame Bonnet.’

  ‘Pleased to meet you, Marie-Ange. I’ll take a citron pressé, please. And an Orangina for Rosette.’

  Anouk had gone looking for Jeannot Drou. I hoped she’d have more luck finding him than I was having with Joséphine. I took our drinks on to the terrasse (Marie-Ange did not volunteer to bring them), and sat under the acacia tree, watching the deserted street that led over the bridge into Les Marauds.

  Madame Bonnet? I wondered why my old friend, having gone back to her maiden name, should have chosen to keep the madame. But Lansquenet has its own way of imposing respectability. A woman of thirty-five or so, running her own business without the help of a man – such a woman cannot be a mademoiselle. I learnt this myself eight years ago. To these people, I was always Madame Rocher.

  Rosette finished her drink and began to play with a couple of stones she had found in the road. It doesn’t take much to amuse her; with her fingers she made a sign and the stones shone with a secret light. Rosette gave a little crow of impatience and made the stones dance on the table-top.

  ‘Run off and play with Bam,’ I said. ‘Just stay where I can see you, all right?’

  I watched her as she made for the bridge. I knew she could play for hours there, dropping sticks over the parapet and racing them to the other side, or just watching the reflections of the clouds as they sailed overhead. A shimmer in the hot air suggested the presence of Bam; I finished my citron pressé and ordered another.

  A small boy of eight or so put his head around the café door. He was wearing a Lion King T-shirt that came almost down to the hem of his faded shorts, and sneakers that gave every indication of having recently been in the Tannes. His hair was bleached by the sun, his eyes a sunny summer-blue. He was holding a piece of string, which, as it travelled into view from behind the angle of the door, revealed at its end a large, shaggy dog that had also recently been in the Tannes. Boy and dog stared at me with open curiosity. Then they both made a run for it, heading down the road to the bridge, the dog barking madly at the end of its lead, the boy skidding alongside, each step sending a small, contained explosion of road dust from under his grubby sneakers.

  Marie-Ange brought me my second pressé. ‘Who’s that?’ I said.

  ‘Oh, that’s Pilou. Madame Bonnet’s son.’

  ‘Her son?’

  She gave me a look. ‘Of course.’

  ‘Oh. I didn’t know,’ I said.

  She gave a shrug, as if to convey her total indifference to both of us. Then she collected the empty glasses and went back to watching her TV show.

  I looked back at the boy and his dog, now splashing in the shallows. In the haze they looked gilded – the boy’s hair in the sunlight, even that disreputable dog – caught in a matrix of diamonds.

  I saw Rosette watching the boy and his dog with curiosity. She is a sociable little thing, but in Paris she tends to be left on her own; the other children won’t play with her. Partly because she doesn’t speak; partly because she frightens them. I heard Pilou call something to her from underneath the bridge; in a moment she had joined him and the dog, and was splashing in the water. It’s very shallow at that point; there’s a bank of sandy, gritty stuff that might almost pass as a small beach. Rosette would be all right, I thought: I let her play with her new friends as I slowly finished my citron pressé and thought about my old friend.

  So – Madame Bonnet had a son. Who was the father? She’d kept her name; she clearly hadn’t remarried. Today, there was no one here but Marie-Ange; no sign of any partner. Of course, I had lost touch with my friends when I moved to Paris. A change of name, a change of life, and Lansquenet had been left behind along with so many other things that I had thought never to revisit. Roux, who might have told me the news, had never been good at writing letters, sending me picture postcards with nothing but a single-line scrawl from wherever he happened to be. But he’d lived in Lansquenet for four years: most of that time at the café itself. I know he despises gossip, but knowing how close I’d been to her, why on earth hadn’t he told me that Joséphine had had a child?

  I finished my drink and paid for it. The sun was already very hot. Rosette is eight, but small for her age; the boy Pilou may be younger. I wandered down towards the bridge, wishing I had brought a hat. The children were building a kind of dam across the sandy shallows; I could hear Rosette babbling in her private language – bambaddabambaddabam! – and Pilou giving orders, apparently in preparation for an attack by pirates.

  ‘Forward! Aft! The cannons! Bam!’

  ‘Bam!’ Rosette repeated.

  This was a game I knew very well; Anouk had played it with Jeannot Drou and their friends down by Les Marauds, eight years ago.

  The boy looked up at me and grinned. ‘Are you Maghrébine?’

  I shook my head.

  ‘But she talks foreign, doesn’t she?’ he said, with a sidelong glance at Rosette.

  I smiled. ‘Not foreign, exactly. But no, she doesn’t speak much. She understands what you tell her, though. She’s very clever at some things.’

  ‘What’s her name?’

  ‘Rosette,’ I said. ‘And you’re Pilou. What is it short for?’

  ‘Jean-Philippe.’ He grinned again. ‘And this is my dog, Vladimir. Say hello to the lady, Vlad!’

  Vlad barked and shook himself, sending a spray of water arcing over the little bridge.

  Rosette laughed. Good game, she signed.

  ‘What’s she say?’

  ‘She likes you.’

  ‘Cool.’

  ‘So you’re Joséphine’s boy,’ I said. ‘I’m Vianne, an old friend of your mother’s. We’re staying down in Les Marauds, in Madame Voizin’s old house.’ I paused. ‘I’d love to invite you both. And your father, if he’d like.’

  Pilou shrugged. ‘I don’t have one.’ He sounded slightly defiant. ‘Well, obviously I do have one, but—’

  ‘You just don’t know who he is?’

  Pilou grinned. ‘Yeah. That’s right.’

  ‘My little girl used to say that. My other little girl. Anouk.’

  Pilou stared at me, round-eyed. ‘I know who you are,’ he said. ‘You’re the lady from the shop, who used to make the chocolates!’ His grin broadened, and he gave an exuberant little jump in the water. ‘Maman talks about you all the time. You’re practically a celebrity.’

  I laughed. ‘I wouldn’t go that far.’

  ‘We still hold the festival you started all those years ago. We have it at Easter, in front of the church. There’s dancing, and Easter-egg hunts, and chocolate carving, and all kinds of other stuff.’

  ‘Really?’ I said.

  ‘It’s awesome.’

  I remembered my own chocolate festival; the window display, the hand-lettered signs, Anouk at six, half a lifetime ago, splashing in the shallows in her yellow wellington boots, blowing her plastic trumpet while Joséphine danced in front of the church and Roux stood by with that look on his face, a look that was always half
sullen, half shy—

  I suddenly felt uneasy. ‘She never mentioned your father at all?’

  That grin again, as brilliant as sunlight on the river. ‘She says he was a pirate, sailing down the river. Now he’s on the high seas, drinking rum out of coconut shells and looking for buried treasure. She says I look just like him, and when I grow up I’ll get out of this place and have adventures of my own. Maybe I’ll meet him on the way.’

  Now I felt more than uneasy. That sounded like one of Roux’s stories. I’d always thought that Joséphine had something of a soft spot for Roux. In fact, there’d been a time when I’d thought maybe they’d fall in love. But life has a way of confounding our dearest expectations, and the futures that I’d planned for us both have turned out very differently.

  Joséphine dreamt of getting away, and instead has stayed in Lansquenet; I promised myself never to go back to Paris, and Paris is where I came to rest. Like the wind, Life delights in taking us to the places we least expect to go, changing direction all the time so that beggars are crowned, kings fall, love fades to indifference and sworn enemies go to the grave hand-in-hand in friendship.

  Never challenge Life to a game, my mother used to say to me. Because Life plays dirty, changes the rules, steals the cards right out of your hands or, sometimes, turns them all to blank—

  Suddenly I wanted to read my mother’s Tarot cards again. I’d brought them with me, as always, of course, but it has been a long time since I opened the sandalwood box. I’m afraid the technique has deserted me – or maybe that’s not why I am afraid.

  Back in Armande’s house, which still smells of her scent – of the lavender she always kept pressed between her linens; of the cherries in brandy that even now line the shelves of her little pantry – I finally open my mother’s box. It smells of her, just as Armande’s house still smells of Armande; as if in death my mother has shrunk to something the size of a deck of cards, though her voice is as strong as ever.