Peaches for Monsieur Le Curé

by Joanne Harris

  That surprised me a little, père. I’d imagined her black all the way through, like a twist of charred paper. She lifted her arms into the air as if the wind might lift her up. And then she reached round the back of her head and untied the strings of her face-veil—

  I did not see her face, père. She was facing the water. But I could see the black flag of the niqab fluttering at her fingertips. If only she would turn round—

  I know, mon père. All I can say is that at that moment the Black Autan must have driven me mad. I called out her name. She started to turn. And then I heard a sound behind me, and something – perhaps a coat or a scarf – was flung around my head. At the same time I was pushed forward, and I fell awkwardly on to my knees, with the weight of my assailant on my back. Something – an arm – angled around my neck. I tore at it without success. I couldn’t breathe. I started to choke. Dark chrysanthemums bloomed across my vision.

  A medium level of pressure applied to the carotid artery can bring unconsciousness in under ten seconds. Death follows within a minute if the pressure is not released.

  And now, here comes the Black Autan: cold; rushing; pitiless. It fills my head; consumes me; sweeps me away into darkness.

  Autan blanc, emporte le vent.

  Two more seconds—

  And I’m gone.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Wednesday, 25th August

  IT WAS ALREADY after noon by the time we left the house. This was partly because of Rosette, who, having helped make the truffles, wanted to help deliver them, leading the way in her red rubber boots, splashing in every puddle and singing at the top of her voice – ‘Bam bam BAM, bam badda-BAM!’ – while Anouk stayed indoors with Alyssa and I tried to marshal my erring thoughts.

  I fought the temptation to phone Roux. There’s nothing more he can tell me. Besides, if what I suspect is true, it is I, not Roux or Joséphine, who have been at fault in this affair. My mother was right: I was never supposed to build my life around one man. I never needed Roux. I should not have interfered.

  The wind is losing momentum. But the rain continues, relentless. Today it is a warm rain; mild and warm as mother’s milk. I think of Inès Bencharki; of Omi and Alyssa’s belief that she is Karim’s mistress. Is this what I am to Joséphine? A scorpion, a witch who has poisoned her life?

  I should leave today, I know. I should go home while I still can. But isn’t it too late for that? Already I am too involved in the life of Les Marauds. I cannot abandon Alyssa, and the problem of Inès Bencharki remains. Besides, I promised to help Reynaud salvage his reputation. In less than two weeks I have become entangled in half a dozen secrets, from Du’a’s hideaway in the loft to Omi eating macaroons in defiance of Ramadan. But Lansquenet is like that. It looks so inoffensive, with its crooked little houses with the hollyhocks against the walls. But this is only a device to draw in the unwary. Like the sundew that draws in the fly with its many honeyed strands, it pulls me in and keeps me here, making those connections—

  Pilou was fishing from the bridge as I crossed into Lansquenet. Vlad was with him; both were wet through, but with the insouciance of small boys and dogs everywhere, neither seemed to care much.

  ‘I’ve made some chocolates,’ I said. ‘Want to try one?’

  Pilou grinned. He has a most engaging smile, though even with my new knowledge I cannot see any of Roux in him. He has his mother’s eyes, though; and her restless energy, although he has none of her awkwardness. A bright and happy little boy, and yet, if my suspicions are right, I have stolen his father.

  I chose him a milk chocolate truffle. ‘I think you’ll like these best,’ I said.

  I did not say that his favourites would be my strawberry and black pepper squares, because I don’t have the time or resources to make special chocolates for everyone. But all boys like milk chocolate best. He ate it with noisy appreciation, while Rosette watched him eagerly.

  ‘Wow, these are amazing,’ he said. ‘You really made them?’

  ‘It’s what I do.’ I smiled at him. ‘Is your mother home?’

  ‘Dunno,’ he said. ‘I think she went to see the curé.’ Pilou grinned at my look of surprise. ‘She brings him pains au chocolat.’

  ‘Pains au chocolat?’ I said.

  I know Reynaud and Joséphine have mostly resolved their differences, but the vision of my old friend bringing Reynaud breakfast seems as bizarre as that of the curé encouraging her advances. It’s the kind of thing Caro might have done – before the fire at the school, that is. But now—

  I suddenly realized I hadn’t seen Reynaud since Sunday night. Last week, he called by every day to bring us bread from the bakery. I’d assumed that for the past three days the rain had kept him from his morning walk. Now I remembered what I’d seen when I was making the chocolates – that vision of Reynaud, walking alone—

  ‘Is he all right?’ I said to Pilou.

  ‘I’m not supposed to tell,’ he said.

  ‘Tell me what?’

  Pilou shrugged. ‘I think he got into a fight,’ he said. ‘With some of the people in Les Marauds. Du’a says there are bad people there. People who blame him for the fire. Anyhow, he’s staying home. At least until things calm down.’

  That explains it. ‘Oh, I see. Maybe I’ll take him some chocolates.’

  It took us the rest of the afternoon to honour all my promises. A box of truffles to Narcisse, who has been so generous with gifts of fruit and vegetables. Another to Luc, who lent us this house, and without whom we might never have come here at all. A third to Guillaume, with strict instructions not to feed the chocolates to his dog: and with each visit those sundew filaments wrap tighter around the two of us, making it harder for us to leave, cocooning us in sweetness.

  Rosette signed: I like it here.

  Of course she does. It’s so comforting. So different from Paris, with its sour suburbs and faceless crowds.

  Can we stay? Can Roux come too?

  Oh, Rosette. What can I do?

  I got to the Café des Marauds just as the church bells rang four o’clock. Joséphine was behind the bar, and welcomed us with hot chocolate. She looked delighted to see us, but there was something in her colours that told me she was uncomfortable. I gave her a box of truffles; darkest chocolate rolled in white, the kind that I call Les Hypocrites.

  She tried one. ‘These are wonderful. You haven’t lost your touch at all. Think of what you could do if only you—’ She bit off the end of the phrase so hard that I heard her teeth click together.

  If I what? Moved here for good? Is that what she was trying to say? And why does the thought alarm her?

  I smiled. ‘Just keeping in practice,’ I said. ‘Besides, I thought you’d like some.’

  The café was not crowded; only a few tables were occupied. Behind the bar, I saw Marie-Ange peering out through the bead curtain that led into the back room. I drank my chocolate. It was good. Not quite as good as mine, but still—

  She glanced towards the bead curtain, where Marie-Ange was beckoning persistently.

  ‘I’m sorry, Vianne. I have to go. There’s something I have to deal with.’

  ‘Anything wrong?’

  She shook her head. Her smile was all surface brilliance, hiding unease beneath the waterline.

  ‘No, no. Please finish your chocolate. But you know – it’s always so busy—’

  Once more, I looked around the quiet café. Two youngsters drinking diabolo-menthe; Poitou having his afternoon snack before the bakery opens again; Joline Drou and Bénédicte Acheron, drinking black coffee and watching the street. Neither said anything to me, but I could see them watching Rosette, who had migrated under the table to play with Bam, hooting softly to herself. For a moment I wondered if Rosette might be the cause of Joséphine’s discomfort; some people are uneasy when faced with what is unusual, and clearly Joline and Bénédicte found her vaguely disturbing—

  Or it is because of her father?

  I held out the box of chocolates. ‘Why don’t
you try my Hypocrites? I can tell they’re your favourites.’

  Joline looked flustered. ‘I – I don’t eat chocolate.’

  Bénédicte gave me a superior look. A faded blonde with a sugary smile and too many accessories, she thinks of herself as Caro Clairmont’s natural successor. ‘I don’t think you’ll find many women here do,’ she told me. ‘We have to watch our figures, don’t we?’

  ‘Yes, don’t we?’ I said, and smiled.

  Her colours flared a bilious green. Under the table, Rosette began to sing in her strangely birdlike voice.

  ‘What a sweet little girl you have,’ said Bénédicte in a syrupy tone. ‘What a pity she doesn’t talk.’

  ‘Oh, she sometimes talks,’ I said. ‘It’s just that she waits to have something to say. It’s a pity everyone isn’t like that.’

  ‘Excuse me, madame.’ A voice at my back. I turned and recognized Charles Lévy, who lives down the Rue des Francs Bourgeois, not far from where Reynaud lives. Not one of my regulars, but a pleasant old man nevertheless; always neat and scrupulous. At his side was Henriette Moisson, a very elderly lady I recognized from the chocolaterie days. In her hand she was holding a pink cat collar adorned with a heart-shaped metal tag and was looking bewildered and anxious.

  ‘I wonder if you could help,’ said Charles. ‘We’re looking for Monsieur le Curé.’

  Joline said: ‘But it’s Wednesday. You know he doesn’t do Wednesdays.’

  Charles Lévy gave her a look. ‘No, not Père Henri,’ he said. ‘I’m looking for Curé Reynaud.’

  Joline raised an overplucked eyebrow. ‘Reynaud? Why do you want him? Everyone knows he’s crazy.’

  ‘He seemed perfectly sane when I saw him on Sunday,’ I said.

  ‘Well, Caro saw him yesterday. She thinks he’s having a meltdown. It was only a matter of time, she says. He’s always been the type, you know.’

  Charles ignored her and addressed me again. ‘I believe you are friends with Monsieur le Curé,’ he said. ‘I was speaking to him about my cat. My Otto, whom Madame Moisson has partly adopted. I am fond of my cat, madame. But Curé Reynaud made me understand that perhaps her need may be greater than mine. However, Otto has now disappeared, and Madame Moisson suspects me.’

  Henriette gave him a scornful look. ‘My Tati would never run away.’

  ‘He’s a cat,’ said Charles. ‘Of course he would. And if you called him by his name, which he understands, and responds to—’

  ‘Otto. That’s a Boche name,’ said Henriette contemptuously.

  ‘My grandfather was German,’ said Charles.

  Henriette made a scornful sound. ‘No wonder the cat doesn’t want to stay. You’ll be telling me he took this off by himself next!’ She held out the pink collar. I saw that the heart-shaped metal tag was inscribed with the name TATI.

  ‘I found it by the river,’ she said. ‘My Tati loves his collar.’

  ‘By the river?’ I frowned. ‘Would Otto – or Tati – be a black cat with a little white smudge on the side of his nose?’

  ‘You’ve seen him!’ said Charles.

  ‘I think I have. Although in Les Marauds I believe he goes by the name of Hazrat, and has developed a passion for coconut macaroons.’

  Henriette gave a wail. ‘No! Les Marauds? Those Maghrébins! A cat isn’t safe in their neighbourhood. They’ll make my Tati into cat kebabs—’

  I assured her Tati was an honoured guest, and promised to bring word of him soon. Henriette was not entirely reassured, but consented to eat a truffle. Charles joined her, sitting down only when Henriette was comfortably seated.

  ‘Thank you, Madame Rocher,’ he said, softly, to avoid being heard by Joline and Bénédicte. ‘I’ve tried Monsieur le Curé’s house, but he won’t talk to anyone any more, not even through his letter-box.’

  ‘His letter-box?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Charles. ‘He’s been taking confession. He’s not allowed to take it in church. Not now Père Henri’s in charge.’

  ‘That perverti,’ said Henriette. ‘Do you know he was hiding in the confessional when I last went to church? He was even dressed as a priest, pardi!’

  ‘Père Henri is a priest,’ said Charles.

  ‘You’d have thought a perverti like that wouldn’t be allowed,’ said Henriette.

  Charles took another chocolate, apparently to calm his nerves. ‘You see what she’s like?’ he hissed at me. ‘The sooner we find Otto, the better. He seems to calm her down, somehow.’

  ‘I’ll find him. I promise,’ I told them both.

  But their words had reawakened my doubts. Something was wrong with Francis Reynaud. Staying indoors for fear of attack; taking confession through his letter-box; appearing to me through a chocolate haze; behaving so uncharacteristically that Caro Clairmont had managed to spread the rumour that he was going mad—

  I gathered up Rosette and Bam and what was left of my chocolates. The sense of unease that was nagging at me had now become an imperative. I made my way to Reynaud’s cottage on the Rue des Francs Bourgeois and knocked at the door. No answer. The shutters were open; looking inside, I saw no sign of anyone. I tried the door again. No reply. Then I turned the doorknob.

  The door was not locked. That in itself was not much of a surprise. Lansquenet has barely any crime; even now, most people don’t bother to lock their doors. There was a thief, a few years ago; so Narcisse was telling me. One of the Acheron cousins, I think; but since he was caught, there has been no one.

  The house was empty. I knew it at once. The sound is subtly different. It smelt very slightly of burnt toast, and of rooms left unaired since the previous day. I went into the bedroom and saw the bed, neatly stripped, with the pillows heaped on the mattress. Everything was scrupulously neat; everything clean and squared away. The plants had been recently watered; no dirty plates in the kitchen; the plastic bowl in the sink turned carefully upside down. In the scullery, I found a load of clean, dry washing in the machine: it still smelt fresh, as if it had been put there some time that morning. The bathroom was as bare as the kitchen; no towels on the towel rail; no toothbrush on the glass shelf.

  Could Reynaud have gone away?

  I moved back into the living room, where Rosette was playing quietly. The sound of her game and of the clock that was ticking above the mantelpiece was all the life there was left in the place. Some people leave a part of themselves in the house where they once lived; but there is no trace of Francis Reynaud; no footprint; no shadow; not even a ghost.

  ‘Where has he gone?’ I said aloud.

  Rosette looked up and hooted at me.

  ‘Bam!’ It’s an invitation to play.

  I shook my head. ‘Not now, Rosette. I’m thinking. Where would he go, without telling us?’

  The river, signed Rosette at once, as if the answer were obvious.

  The river. The thought of it made me feel cold. Swollen now by a week of rain, it must be getting treacherous. And hadn’t old Mahjoubi warned me it was dangerous? I had a sudden, disquieting image of Reynaud standing on the parapet, looking into the water.

  Could it be that Caro was right? Could Reynaud have suffered some kind of a nervous breakdown? Could the stress of the past few weeks have driven him to suicide? Surely not. He isn’t the type. And yet—

  People change, my mother’s voice whispers from the darkness. After all, you changed, didn’t you? You, and Roux, and Joséphine—

  Now it was Armande’s voice: You tried to save me, didn’t you? Just as you did your mother. All the same, we both died.

  ‘Bam!’ said Rosette. ‘Bam bam, badda-bam!’

  That’s right, Rosette. You tell those ghosts. Tell them all to leave us alone. This is just the Black Autan, working its way into my head, giving me unquiet thoughts, making me question my common sense. Reynaud has probably gone for a walk. We’ll see him in the morning. Besides, we have more chocolates to deliver in Les Marauds; coconut truffles for Omi; rose and cardamom for Fatima and her daughters; chilli for o
ld Mahjoubi, that warms the heart and brings courage. And one more package, for Inès; tied with a red silk ribbon. The gift that crosses all cultures; that brings a smile to the sourest face; that pulls back the years and takes us to a simpler, sweeter time. Last time I tried to approach her, I failed. I came unarmed and unaware. This time will be different.

  This time I’m bringing her favourites.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Wednesday, 25th August

  I CANNOT HAVE been unconscious for long, but I awoke in darkness. My head hurt, and so did my back; I guessed that whoever had brought me here had not been especially gentle.

  Where was here? With care, I sat up. A cellar of some kind, perhaps: the floor was flagged; that cellar smell. It was cold and smelt of damp, of mildew and things gone to rot.

  Near by, I could hear the river: its throaty, rushing, roaring sound, charged with floodwater debris, and rolling like a juggernaut.

  I called: ‘Hello?’

  No one answered.

  I could have called again, but did not. I guessed that my attacker might be one of the men who set upon me the other night. If so, did I want to meet him again?

  I tried to explore my surroundings. Feeling my way in a darkness that felt as vast as a ballroom, I found some empty wooden crates, some broken plaster, damp cardboard; bundles of ancient newspaper, and beyond that, at last, a dozen stone steps, leading up to a locked door. There was no doorknob on my side. I slammed against it with my fists. No one came. The door was strong. The sound of my fists against the wood was barely audible above the sound of the river.

  Mon père, I know it sounds absurd. But at first I was not afraid. In fact, I found it hard to believe that I was even here at all; easier by far to think that this was all some kind of dream brought about by stress, fatigue or the pain of my still-throbbing fingers. It is only now that fear has moved in, like the unwelcome guest who gradually takes over the entire house. I see that the darkness is not quite complete; a dim rectangle of daylight frames the door at the top of the steps, and high up the far wall there is a grille, like that of the confessional, through which filters a pallid glow.