And yet, old Mahjoubi welcomed me – even flirted with me, in his way. Perhaps because he is too old to see me as a woman at all. Perhaps because he is too secure in himself to see me as a threat.
The air is very close and still. The Autan must be almost due. Whether it is the Black or the White Autan, a breath of wind will bring relief. Today is the eighth day of Ramadan. Six more days till the full moon. I think of the Moon on my Tarot card, that woman with her distaff and yarn, and I wonder when she will show herself. Maybe when the wind blows.
Meanwhile, we have business elsewhere. I leave Les Marauds sleeping. From this distance it looks like a crocodile sprawled across the marshes, head almost buried in the reeds, twitching slightly in its sleep. Its spine is the Boulevard des Marauds; broad and grey and cobbled. Its jaws are the bridge, upturned at the corners. Its legs are the short, squat alleys that jut out of the boulevard at right angles. And its eye is the mosque; half closed for now as the sun shines on the crescent moon that perches on the minaret. Is it dangerous? Reynaud thinks so. But I am not like Francis Reynaud, who sees every stranger in Lansquenet as a potential enemy. The men outside the gym are young; unsure of themselves and their territory. But the man to whom Les Marauds turns – Mohammed Mahjoubi – is different. I am sure that whatever problems Reynaud may have encountered in dealing with this community can be solved through humour and dialogue. As Mahjoubi told me himself, people are the same everywhere. Scratch off the paint, and what you find is the same, however far you go. I learnt that from my mother; from all the places we called home. And now, with the air like syrup and the Tannes so slow that it might be asleep, Rosette and I begin the climb up the narrow street into Lansquenet, all white and gleaming in the sun, with the church bells ringing morning Mass fit to wake a sleeping crocodile.
CHAPTER NINE
Wednesday, 18th August
ARRIVING AT THE café des Marauds, I found Marie-Ange behind the bar again, chewing gum, watching TV and looking more sullen than ever. Today, purple eye-shadow, purple lipstick, and a purple streak in her hair. I hope the intended recipient of all this glamour appreciates the effort.
I ordered a café-crème. ‘Is Joséphine here this morning?’
The girl gave me a flat look. ‘Sure she is. Who shall I say?’
‘Tell her it’s Vianne Rocher.’
I was expecting to find her changed. These things are so often inevitable. Grey hairs, laughter lines; kisses from the lips of time. But occasionally, someone changes so much that they can barely be recognized; and when Joséphine Muscat stepped through the bead curtain into the bar, it took me a moment to recognize my old friend in the woman who faced me.
It was not that she had aged. In fact, I thought she looked younger. She’d been a somewhat graceless woman when I first met her eight years ago; now she was pretty and self-assured, and her hair, which had been a dull mid-brown, had been changed to a smart blonde crop. She was wearing a white linen dress and a colourful necklace of little glass beads; she saw me at the terrasse and her face lit in a smile that I would have recognized however many years had gone by.
‘Oh, Vianne! I didn’t dare believe it!’
She hugged me tightly and sat down in the wicker chair opposite.
‘I wanted to see you yesterday, but I had to work. You look wonderful—’
‘So do you, Joséphine.’
‘And Anouk? Is she here?’
‘She’s with Jeannot Drou. They always were inseparable.’
She laughed. ‘I remember. So long ago. Anouk must be nearly grown up by now—’ She broke off, suddenly subdued. ‘You heard about the fire, of course. I’m sorry, Vianne.’
I shrugged. ‘It’s not my place any more. I’m only glad no one was hurt.’
She shook her head. ‘I know. But the shop – it’s always been yours in my mind. Even after you were gone. I’d always hoped you might come back, or at least that the people who rented it would be half as nice as you.’
‘I take it they weren’t?’
She shook her head. ‘That horrible woman. That poor little girl.’
I’d heard those words from Joline Drou, but, coming from Joséphine, they surprised me.
‘Why do you say that?’
She made a face. ‘You’d understand if you met her,’ she said. ‘That is, if she deigned to talk to you. But she hardly talks to anyone here, and when she does, she’s so rude—’ She saw my doubtful look. ‘You’ll see. She’s not like the other Maghrébines. Most of them are really nice – or were, before she came along. But then she arrived, and started everyone wearing the veil—’
‘Not everyone,’ I said. ‘I’ve seen plenty of women without it.’ I told her about my visit to the al-Djerba house, and my chat with Mohammed Mahjoubi.
‘Oh, he’s a sweetheart,’ she said. ‘I wish I could say the same for his son.’ Mahjoubi has two sons, she says. Saïd, the eldest, who runs the gym, and Ismail, who married Yasmina al-Djerba.
‘Ismail’s OK,’ said Joséphine. ‘And Yasmina’s lovely. She even comes here with Maya for lunch. But as for Saïd—’ She pulled a face. ‘Religion. He got it in a big way. Married his daughter at eighteen to a man he met on a pilgrimage. Since then I haven’t had a chance to talk to either of Saïd’s daughters. They used to come here all the time. They liked to play football in the square. Now they creep around like mice, draped from head to foot in black. I heard he fell out with his father about it. Old Mahjoubi doesn’t approve of the veil. And Saïd doesn’t approve of the way old Mahjoubi does things.’
‘His choice of reading matter, perhaps?’ I told her about old Mahjoubi’s secret passion for Victor Hugo.
She smiled. ‘For a priest, or whatever he is, he seems a bit eccentric. Apparently he tried to ban women from wearing the veil at mosque. Didn’t approve of the girls’ school, either. I don’t think he likes that woman any more than the rest of us do.’
‘You mean Inès Bencharki. Sonia Mahjoubi’s sister-in-law.’
She nodded. ‘That’s right. Before she arrived, none of this would have happened.’
‘None of what?’
She shrugged. ‘The fire. That girls’ school. Women wearing face-veils – in Paris, perhaps, but in Lansquenet? She was the one who started that. Everybody says so.’
Well, that’s true, at least. I’ve heard this before from Reynaud, Guillaume, Poitou and Joline as well as from Omi al-Djerba. What is it about Inès that unites both Les Marauds and Lansquenet in dislike and suspicion?
Rosette, meanwhile, had been playing outside by the fountain in the square. It’s not really a fountain – just a trickle of water that comes from an ornamental tap and splashes into a stone trough – but the sound of water is pleasant on a hot, still day like this, and from the terrasse of the Café des Marauds I could see Rosette darting in and out of the square of shade that was cast by Saint-Jérôme’s tower, carrying water in her hands to splash across the cobblestones.
Now I saw the familiar shape of a boy in a Lion King T-shirt, followed by that of a shaggy dog, come round the side of Saint-Jérôme’s and stop by the fountain.
Rosette gave a crow of welcome. ‘Pilou!’
By my side, Joséphine stiffened.
‘That’s my little Rosette,’ I said. ‘You’ll meet her in a minute.’ I smiled. ‘We already met Pilou.’
For a moment I thought she looked furtive. Then her expression softened. ‘He’s terrific, isn’t he?’
I nodded. ‘Rosette thinks so, too.’
‘That woman doesn’t approve of him,’ she said, with a glance towards the square. ‘He tried to talk to her daughter once. She gave him such a mouthful! He was only being friendly.’
‘Perhaps it was the dog,’ I said.
‘Why? He never does any harm. I’m sick of trying to be sensitive. I’m sick of that woman looking down her nose at me because my son happens to have a dog, because I don’t wear a headscarf, because my café serves alcohol—’ She broke off. ‘I’m sorry, Vianne. Forg
et I spoke. It’s just that – seeing you again—’ Her eyes filled with tears. ‘It’s been too long. I’ve missed you so much.’
‘I’ve missed you too. But look at you now—’
‘Yes, look at me.’ She wiped her eyes impatiently. ‘Old enough to know better than to get all sentimental about the past. Another café-crème? On the house. Or would you rather have chocolate?’
I shook my head. ‘The café looks great.’
‘Yes, doesn’t it?’ She looked around. ‘Amazing what a lick of paint and a bit of imagination can do. I remember what it used to be like—’
So did I: the yellowed walls, the greasy floor, the smell of old smoke that seemed to be part of the grain of the place. Now the walls are whitewashed and clean; the terrasse and the window-ledges are lined with red geraniums. A large and colourful abstract painting dominates the far wall—
She saw me looking. ‘Pilou did that. What do you think?’
I thought it looked good, and said so. I also wondered why she had not said a word about Pilou’s father. And then I thought of my little Rosette, who draws and paints so beautifully—
‘You didn’t remarry, did you?’ I said.
For a moment she was silent. Then she gave me a luminous smile and said, ‘No, Vianne. I never did. I thought one day perhaps I might, but—’
‘What about Pilou’s father?’
She shrugged. ‘You told me once that Anouk was yours, and no one else’s. Well, my son and I are like that. We’re brought up to believe that there’s someone there, a soulmate waiting for all of us. Pilou is my soulmate. Why would I need anyone else?’
She hadn’t quite answered the question, I thought. Still, I told myself, there’s time. Just because I once thought that Roux might fall for Joséphine, just because Pilou had said that his father was a pirate, just because the cards are bad, that doesn’t automatically mean that my suspicions are justified. Even the fact that Joséphine hasn’t mentioned Roux once, not even to ask me how he is—
‘Why don’t you come over for dinner on Sunday? Both of you. I’ll cook. Pancakes, cider and sausages, just like the river-rats used to make.’
Joséphine smiled. ‘I’d like that. And what about Roux? Is he here too?’
‘He stayed behind, with the boat,’ I said.
Was that disappointment in the turn of her profile? Was that a furtive gleam of rose, hidden among her colours? I should not spy on my friend, I thought. But the urge was too great to combat. Joséphine has a secret desperate to reveal itself. The question is, do I want to know the thing that she is hiding? Or should I, for my own peace of mind, allow the past to stay buried?
CHAPTER TEN
Wednesday, 18th August
I SPENT THE day in my garden, trying to forget that morning’s scene in the old chocolaterie. I had already told Luc Clairmont not to come round as we had arranged; that the Bencharki woman was dealing with the repairs herself; but I could tell he had already guessed some of what had happened.
Damn the woman. Damn the boy. By now the news will be all over the village. It won’t take long for Père Henri Lemaître to hear of it, and pass on the story to the Bishop. How long after that before I am officially replaced – moved to another parish, or worse, forced to leave the Church for good?
And so I spent the rest of the day digging in the hot sun, stopping every couple of hours for a break and a cold beer, but though my body was tired out by the time I’d finished work, my mind was no less agitated than it had been when I first began.
I do not sleep well nowadays. To tell you the truth, I never did. I find it increasingly difficult, and I often wake at four or five in the morning, soaked in sweat and feeling more exhausted than ever. Physical exercise sometimes helps, but this time, though I ached with fatigue, my mind remained alert, spinning with possibilities.
At one o’clock in the morning I stopped trying to fall asleep and decided to go for a walk instead. I may have had a few more beers than I had intended. In any case, my head ached. The night was cool and inviting.
I dressed in haste – a T-shirt, jeans. (Yes, I do possess a pair, for gardening, fishing and manual work.) No one would see me. The café was closed, and besides, Lansquenet folk rise early and go to bed accordingly.
It was dark out on the street. Streetlights are rare in Lansquenet. In Les Marauds there are none at all, and only a few house lights were visible across the bridge. There were more than I’d expected. Perhaps these people go to bed late.
I wandered down towards the bridge. It’s cooler by the river. There is a stone parapet there that, even long after sunset, still retains the heat of the sun. Below it the river makes a series of small articulate sounds, half percussive, like the keys of some complex musical instrument.
I paused there, wondering whether I should cross the bridge. I am not welcome in Les Marauds. Karim Bencharki has made that plain. And yet, Les Marauds draws me. Perhaps because of the river.
Suddenly, I heard a sound from the far bank of the Tannes. A heavy splash, like a log falling in. My head was still not entirely clear; the other side of the bridge was dark. It took me a moment to understand that there was someone in the water.
I called out. ‘Is someone there?’
No reply. It occurred to me that this might be someone taking a late-night swim; perhaps one of the Maghrébins, who would not appreciate my interference. On the other hand, maybe a child had been playing too close to the water—
I ran to the other end of the bridge, where the Tannes runs deepest. I wondered if, in my fatigue, I might have somehow dreamt it. But then, I saw a blurry face appear for a moment and vanish again—
I kicked off my shoes and dived from the bridge. I am a competent swimmer. Even so, the cold water made me gasp and struggle for breath as I surfaced. The current, that had seemed so gentle from the parapet of the bridge, now demonstrated surprising strength, which, along with its collection of river debris – sticks and leaves and plastic bottles, cigarette butts, carrier bags and assorted junk – all conspired to drag me down.
I held my breath and followed the current. There was no sign of the figure I’d seen. I dived, but it was too dark. I came up gasping; dived again. I searched beneath the surface, combing the water with my hands, knowing I had only seconds before the victim – whoever he or she was – was swept away and vanished for good. It was almost hopeless, I knew; and yet I knew I had to try.
Père, I am somewhat ashamed to confess that prayer never even occurred to me. My hand closed on a fistful of hair, then a fistful of fabric, and I pulled her to the surface, allowing the current to take us both a little further downriver, over rocks and jutting pieces of wood that lurked viciously just under the surface, until at last I reached the bank and hauled her on to the coarse sand—
City people often forget that moonlight can be surprisingly bright. Even a crescent moon is enough, in a place where there are no street-lamps, to make out a person’s features. This was a girl, I realized, as I pulled back the scarf that hid her face. I knew her at once – after all, I’d seen her often enough in the square when she was a little girl, in jeans and an oversized sports shirt, playing football with the boys. A few years older now, of course; her face very pale in the moonlight; eyes closed, not breathing; her only spark of sentience that of a tiny diamond stud which blinked in one of her nostrils.
It was Alyssa Mahjoubi – Saïd’s youngest daughter – lying dead on the riverbank at two o’clock in the morning.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Thursday, 19th August
AS PUPILS AT the seminary, we attended a class on first aid. I still remember the embarrassment of having to practise mouth-to-mouth resuscitation on the instructor’s dummy, a buxom lady he called Cunégonde, and the laughter of my classmates when I repeatedly failed to revive her.
But skills, once learnt, have a habit of resurfacing when needed most. I’d never had much success with Cunégonde, but with Alyssa Mahjoubi, desperation made me bold; I cupped my mouth
over hers and tried to force the girl to breathe – and between pleading, invective and finally prayer, I managed to pummel and coax her back into the world of the living.
‘Thank God. Oh, thank you, God.’ By then I felt half dead myself. My head was spinning, my chest hurt, and though the night was mild, I was shivering.
Beside me, Alyssa Mahjoubi was coughing up river water. After a moment she sat up and looked at me with eyes that seemed to have swallowed the sky. I told myself she might be in shock. I tried to make my voice gentle.
‘Mademoiselle—’
She flinched at that. I should have called her Alyssa. But people are often so sensitive – and God knows how many Islamic rules I had already broken in saving her life – that I thought it might be better to keep to the formalities.
I tried again. ‘Are you all right?’
Once more, she flinched.
‘Don’t be afraid. You can talk to me. It’s Francis Reynaud. Remember me?’ Maybe she didn’t recognize me without my collar and soutane. I tried a smile, with no response. ‘You must have fallen in, somehow. Lucky I was here, eh? Can you stand? I’ll take you home.’
She shook her head energetically.
‘What? Shall I call a doctor?’
Once more, she shook her head.
‘Is there a family member you’d like me to call? Your sister, your mother, perhaps?’
Again, that gesture. No. No. I was beginning to feel slightly desperate now, and Alyssa, too, was shivering.
I tried for a more jocular tone. ‘Well, we can’t sit here all night.’
No reaction at all from the girl. She simply sat on the riverbank, breathing hard, hugging her knees. She looked like a mouse rescued from a cat; uninjured, but dying from shock. That’s what often happens with mice; they usually die anyway.
Peaches for Monsieur Le Curé Page 10