Peaches for Monsieur Le Curé

by Joanne Harris

  ‘Aren’t you?’ I said.

  She laughed again.

  ‘Then who is it, Alyssa?’ I said. ‘And why is it zina?’

  ‘I thought you could see things,’ she said with contempt, sounding so like Inès that it hurt. Beneath the tightly pinned hijab, she looked so much older than seventeen; at that moment she could have been thirty, or older. ‘I thought you were different from everyone else. But you don’t really see anything. No one here sees anything.’

  She started to cry, a hacking sound as painful as her laughter. I tried to put my arms around her, but she pushed me away.

  ‘Please, Alyssa.’ I tried again. This time, she did not push me away, but her body was rigid in my arms. ‘Please, won’t you tell me what’s wrong? I don’t pretend to know everything, but I don’t judge. I’ll promise you that.’

  For a long time, I thought she would not reply. We simply stood there in the rain, listening to the sound of the Tannes, and the wind tearing the leaves from the trees. Then she took a deep breath and looked at me unswervingly.

  ‘You were right about one thing. I am in love. But not with Luc.’

  ‘Then who?’

  She sighed. ‘Haven’t you guessed? I thought you might have figured it out. You’ve seen him, after all. Everyone’s crazy about him. Sonia, my mother, Zahra, Inès—’ She gave me an unhappy smile. ‘That’s why I wanted to die,’ she said. ‘I’m in love with Karim Bencharki.’

  CHAPTER THREE

  Wednesday, 25th August

  SHE TOLD ME the whole story then, speaking in fierce little phrases. We sat in the shelter of the trees at the end of the Boulevard des Marauds, and she gave me her full confession.

  ‘He was so beautiful,’ she said. ‘All of us were in love with him. When he arrived, we expected him to be some kind of a boring scholar. Our father talked so much about him, but he made him sound so dull, you know? And then he came, and suddenly all the girls wanted to catch his eye. Well, you’ve seen him, haven’t you?’

  Eyes like wild honey; voice like silk. ‘Oh, yes. I’ve seen him.’

  She shrugged. ‘My sister was crazy for him. She’d made such a fuss before they met. Said she didn’t want to get married, said they couldn’t make her. Even planned to run away. And then she saw him, and everything changed. She couldn’t stop talking about him then. And Aisha Bouzana; Jalila El Mardi; Rana Jannat – all making eyes at him, gossiping behind Sonia’s back, saying she wasn’t serious; saying she wasn’t a good Muslim girl. They even brought up those football games we used to have in the village square. It made our mother nervous – imagine the scandal if he pulled out! But Karim didn’t seem to care. He made friends with everyone. Helped Saïd fix up the gym; all the men started going there. It was a place to go for them, a friendly place. And then she came.’

  ‘Inès,’ I said.

  She nodded.

  ‘She didn’t arrive with Karim?’

  Alyssa shook her head. ‘Not then. She turned up for the wedding, though. She’s his only family. And he loves her, he’s so protective of her—’ She made a sound of disgust. ‘Khee! She wears the niqab all the time. In the house. Even with my father. Pretending to be so virtuous. But her eyes are evil. You must have seen that.’

  Once I would have told you that I don’t believe in evil. Now, of course, I know better.

  I thought of Inès Bencharki; the look of contempt in her long dark eyes; the colours she tries so hard to hide. Is a scorpion evil because it has no other choice but to sting? I handled our first meeting badly, I know. I let her take me by surprise. I blundered in, eager, well-meaning, naïve. In short, I behaved like an amateur. Next time, things will be different.

  I said: ‘I don’t think she’s evil.’

  Alyssa shrugged. ‘You don’t know her. When she was in charge of the school, all the girls were afraid of her. She never smiles, never laughs, never takes off her niqab. She’s the reason so many girls are wearing it now – well, that and because Karim always says that a woman in niqab is a queen—’

  ‘He seems devoted to her,’ I said.

  She made a face. ‘That’s right. He is. She’s the only woman he really loves. I don’t know what he sees in her. She must be very beautiful. Or maybe she’s a witch, an amaar. All I know is, she isn’t his sister.’

  ‘How can you be sure?’ I said.

  ‘Because I know,’ said Alyssa. ‘Because of the way he looks at her. Or rather, doesn’t look at her. When she’s there, he’s different. Everybody’s different. She’s like the bitter drop in the broth that changes the taste of everything.’

  ‘Zahra al-Djerba likes her,’ I said.

  ‘Zahra wants to be her.’ Alyssa’s voice was scornful. ‘She never used to be like that; talking politics; wearing niqab. But she copies everything Inès does now. Says we need to reclaim what’s ours. She does it to impress Karim. Not that he’d ever notice her.’

  ‘Tell me about Karim,’ I said.

  She sighed. ‘I’m cold. Can we go home?’

  ‘Of course we can. We can talk on the way.’

  Like so many victims, she blames herself. She must have encouraged him somehow. Perhaps by wearing Western dress, to which he was unaccustomed. If she had worn niqab, or even proper hijab, she says, then it would never have happened at all. But Alyssa was young and naïve; used to playing with boys in the square; listening to music; watching TV. She never saw it coming. And when she did, it was too late; zina was in the room with them both.

  ‘At first, we never even touched,’ she said. ‘We only talked in private. Even then, I knew it was wrong. Karim wanted to help me. But when he tried to pray with me, all I could think of was his face, and the way he moves, and his mouth, like a peach—’

  He’d been having problems with Sonia, she said. Sonia had found sex painful at first, and hadn’t wanted to try again. Karim had been feeling lonely and hurt. He’d confided in Alyssa because she and Sonia were so close, but by then their friendship had deepened, and had started to veer towards something else.

  ‘The first time we kissed, it was terrible. Karim blamed himself. Not me at all. He would have moved away at once, except that he would have had to explain to my sister what had happened. Instead we gave du’a for guidance, and tried not to be alone together. Karim spent all his time at the gym. I started to wear hijab. But it wasn’t easy. We were living in the same house. I thought if I dressed differently, said my prayers more often, tried to be more serious, then maybe things would change back. But by then there was something inside me that didn’t really want to change. And then, one night, he came to my room.’

  That was just four weeks ago. Since then, it had happened twice more. Once when they were alone in the house, once more at the back of the gym. Both times he had begged for forgiveness, and Alyssa had blamed herself.

  Then, Inès had intervened.

  ‘Inès?’

  Alyssa nodded. ‘Yes. Maybe he told her. Maybe she guessed. But somehow, Inès knew everything.’ She shivered. ‘She was very calm. She told me to stay away from Karim, or she would tell my parents. She would tell my sister. And Sonia was three months pregnant. What would that kind of news do to her? And then she looked at me over her veil and said, Do you think you’re the only one? Do you think it hasn’t happened before? Do you think he can ever belong to you when he already belongs to me?’

  We were approaching Armande’s house. All the lights were on inside. It looked like a Chinese lantern; cheery and festive and welcoming. I guessed Anouk and Rosette must be up.

  Alyssa looked at me warily. ‘You won’t tell anyone else?’ she said.

  I shook my head. ‘Of course not.’

  She gave a fierce little nod. ‘Now you see why I had to get away. She told me herself – he belongs to her. She has him in her power. And ever since, she’s been watching me. Watching, waiting to catch me out. She never talks to me. But she hates me. I can see it in her eyes.’

  ‘Why did she stop living with you?’

&nbs
p; Alyssa made a face. ‘Jiddo wasn’t happy that she always wore niqab in the house. He doesn’t like the niqab, he thinks it’s wrong for girls to wear it nowadays. He quarrelled with my father about it. And he doesn’t like Father spending so much time at the gym. Holding court, he calls it. Anyway, he moved out, and so did Inès, soon afterwards. She said she didn’t want to be the cause of a family argument. But by then it was too late anyway. She had poisoned everything.’

  We were standing in Armande’s front porch. The rain had stopped, at least for a time. Even the wind had calmed a little, and I wondered if the Black Autan was finally coming to its end.

  ‘I’m sorry I shouted at you,’ she said. ‘I was ungrateful. I owe you so much.’

  I smiled. ‘You don’t owe me anything. Now get inside before you catch cold.’

  Inside, Anouk and Rosette were toasting croissants for breakfast. A pan of hot chocolate stood on the stove. It smelt of vanilla and spices. Alyssa took off her hijab and ran her hands through her damp hair.

  ‘Can I have some of that?’ she said.

  ‘Of course. But what about Ramadan?’

  She gave a wry little smile. ‘I’ve already broken too many rules for a cup of hot chocolate to make any difference. My jiddo says that the rules of Islam have become a veil that hides the face of Allah. People are afraid to look. All they care about is the surface.’

  I poured her a cup of hot chocolate. It was good – far better than I’d expected from the ancient jar of cocoa powder in Armande’s little pantry. I mentioned the difference to Anouk.

  ‘Oh, yes!’ she exclaimed. ‘The delivery came. I put it downstairs, where it’s cooler.’

  Good. I’d hoped it would arrive. A box of chocolate-making supplies: some blocks of couverture; packets of cocoa; boxes, rice paper, ribbons and moulds. By no means a large delivery; but enough to fulfil my promises.

  ‘I thought we could start with some truffles,’ I said.

  ‘Sure,’ said Anouk. ‘Can we all help?’

  ‘That’s what I was hoping.’

  Rosette looked up from her breakfast and hooted. Even she knows how to make truffles; rolled in cocoa powder and stored in boxes lined with rice paper, they are the easiest chocolates to make. You don’t even need a sugar thermometer; only a good sense of timing and a nose for the moment when sugar turns and cries out for a spoonful of cream; some cinnamon; a dash of Cointreau—

  ‘I promised Omi al-Djerba I’d make her some of my chocolates. I promised old Mahjoubi, too. And then there’s Guillaume, and Luc Clairmont—’

  ‘And Joséphine and Pilou,’ said Anouk.

  ‘Pilou!’ trumpeted Rosette.

  ‘And some for Jeannot, of course.’

  Anouk gave me a bright and open smile. ‘Of course!’

  I know what that means. One more thing to complicate our return to Lansquenet: one more obstacle on the way back to our home in Paris. I have been so concerned with my own affairs that I have paid less attention to Anouk, but I know from her carefully cheery response that Jeannot Drou has been more on her mind than she would like to admit to me. The Black Autan has brought that, too; the shadow of something I knew was there, but would rather not face at the moment. I know what I was like at fifteen. But then, it has taken me twenty years to scale the wall between sex and love. I was too young. Anouk is too young. I never listened. Neither will she.

  I returned to the chocolate. Chocolate is safe. Chocolate follows specific rules. If it burns, it’s because we failed to follow the directions properly. Love is random, centreless; striking out like pestilence. For the first time since Alyssa arrived, I feel a kind of sympathy for Saïd and Samira Mahjoubi. They have already lost one daughter. They are close to losing another. And as I work on my truffles, measuring, grating the chocolate, melting it slowly in the pan, adding the Cointreau drop by drop, I wonder: do they feel the same? Did they watch as Love stole their daughter away, drawing her inexorably into another’s orbit? Or were they so preoccupied that they never saw it coming?

  I must see Joséphine again. I must see Inès Bencharki. I must find definite answers to the questions that keep me here. In the steam that rises from the pot, I can see their faces now; Joséphine’s eyes looking out at me from over Inès Bencharki’s veil; the Queen of Cups in her black robe, draining the bitter draught to the dregs—

  The fumes from the mixture are pungent and rich; scented with citrus and cinnamon. For a moment it makes my head spin; carnival colours turn in the smoke. Scrying with chocolate is an uncertain business, closer to dreams than to the truth, more likely to throw up fantasies than anything that I can use. It flutters like dark confetti, each piece an ephemeral fragment, gleaming for a second and then going out like a blown spark. For a moment I think I see Roux; then I recognize Reynaud, walking, head lowered, by the Tannes. Reynaud as a vagrant, unshaven and pale, carrying a rucksack with a broken leather strap. What does it mean? Why Reynaud? What role does he play in this?

  The chocolate mixture is ready now. Ten seconds longer, and it would burn. I take the copper pan off the heat; in moments the steam will dissipate. With it, the colours and that hint of something momentous to be revealed. Maybe I’ll call on Reynaud today. Or maybe I’ll make it tomorrow. Yes, maybe tomorrow would be best. After all, there’s no urgency. Reynaud is not my main concern. Other people need me more.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Wednesday, 25th August

  I SHOULD HAVE left at that moment, père. but the streets had already started to fill with people on their way to the mosque. And so I stayed watching among the trees, the boulevard on one side, the river on the other. I could still see that houseboat tucked into the river bend, just like in the days of the river-rats, and now that I knew who was living there, conflicting emotions tore at me.

  The river people have always been a source of contention in Lansquenet. They pay no taxes; they go where they like; they work as and when they need to. Some are more honest than others, but it’s easy enough to break the law when tomorrow you’ll be gone; when you have no community to protect, no loyalty to anywhere. That’s why I don’t like the river-folk: because they do not contribute; because they have chosen to cut themselves off from the mainstream of society. It’s the same reason I hate the niqab – I can say this to you, père, because you don’t report to the Bishop – I hate the niqab because it allows the wearer to sever links with the rest of us; to scorn even the simplest connections that bring two cultures together.

  A smile, a simple greeting, père – have you ever tried saying hello to a woman in niqab? Even these are denied us. I’ve tried so hard to be sensitive. To learn to accommodate their beliefs. But there is nothing in the Qur’an instructing women to hide their face. No, père. They choose to reject us. Our efforts to understand their ways have not been reciprocated.

  Look at Inès Bencharki. All I’ve ever done was try to make her feel at home. And look how that turned out, eh? Well, she is Père Henri’s responsibility now. He is welcome to her. Let him try where I have failed. I am free of her at last.

  All this was going through my mind as I watched the last of them enter the mosque. The streets were deserted; at that moment I could have left without being seen. Instead, I made for the jetty.

  I know, père. It was unreasonable. I could leave without saying goodbye to my friends. I could leave without informing the Bishop. But I could not leave without seeing her – a woman who, since her arrival, has never even shown me her face, or spoken to me unless it was absolutely necessary. Why am I drawn to her like this? Sonia said she was a witch. I told her there was no such thing. I lied, père. I’ve known witches.

  I moved a little closer to the houseboat tethered by the bank. The rain had lulled to a fine mist, and I could see a filament of smoke coming out of the chimney. She might have been back in her house by now, if she had allowed me to help with repairs. Instead, she threw me out like a thief. She may even be responsible for setting those men on to me the other night. What was it they said
again? This is a war. Keep out of it—

  But now I know who lit the fire. I could clear my name at last; one word to the Bishop and I could be reinstated. Père Henri Lemaître and Caro Clairmont would be forced to eat their words. The whole of Lansquenet would know that I have been unjustly condemned.

  But that would mean betraying a trust. Sonia Bencharki confessed to me. Not officially, of course. But it was a confession, nevertheless. Therefore, it is sacrosanct. Even if I managed to talk to Inès, I would not be free to tell her the truth. Better to leave with the last of my pride intact. Better to do it now. And yet—

  That houseboat, like a coffin moored along the riverbank. That woman, in her veil, so like the dark screen of the confessional. What do I hope to hear from her now? Or am I the one who needs to confess?

  I moved a little closer. The Tannes was pebbled with shots of rain. The black houseboat shone sleekly in the greenish light of dawn. I must have been standing there for a long time, because at some point, in the distance, I remember being aware of the sound of the worshippers leaving prayers and making their way home through the streets.

  No movement yet from the houseboat. Nevertheless, I knew she was in there. I picked up a stone and threw it. It hit the deck and bounced twice.

  For a moment, there was silence. Then a door opened. The woman emerged. I could tell she hadn’t seen me; she squinted out from the doorway. She did not look at all afraid; she was clearly expecting someone.

  Karim Bencharki, perhaps? Either way, it was none of my business. Still I watched from between those trees; feeling both guilty and strangely exhilarated. The furtive, voyeuristic joy of being outside and looking in; the knowledge that I was unobserved—

  The woman came out on to the deck. She moves like a dancer when she is alone; her steps are almost silent. The wind caught at her black robe, bringing a partner into the dance. Underneath, I saw something bright; a sudden flash of turquoise.