‘They used to play here,’ said Joséphine. ‘I remember your Luc playing football with Alyssa and Sonia.’
Caro made a scornful noise. ‘You don’t understand their culture,’ she said. ‘You can’t expect boys and girls to mix. It’s not what they’re used to, and it can lead to all kinds of trouble.’ She gave her icing-sugar smile. ‘You should bear that in mind,’ she said.
‘Why?’ said Joséphine softly.
‘Well, your boy seems very friendly with Inès Bencharki’s daughter. And having seen what happens when the children of two cultures mix—’ She broke off abruptly, looking annoyed, and I wondered if she was thinking of Luc. ‘What I mean is, we have to be sensitive,’ she finished, glancing sharply at Georges, who so far hadn’t spoken a word. ‘Some people just aren’t compatible with our kind of community.’
‘People like Inès?’ I said. ‘Or maybe Alyssa Mahjoubi?’
Caro stiffened visibly. ‘Obviously, you know more about it than I do,’ she said. Then, turning to Père Henri: ‘Come on, mon père. We have work to do.’
At which she and her entourage proceeded past us into the church, where, in Reynaud’s absence, even now the ancient pews are being removed to make way for practical plastic chairs, and video screens are soon to arrive to herald the entry of Saint-Jérôme into the twenty-first century.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Thursday, 26th August
JOSÉPHINE WAS FURIOUS. ‘How could they do that to Reynaud? They know how much he loves this place. They’d never dare if he was here—’
That was certainly true, I thought. Like old Mahjoubi, Francis Reynaud is not a friend of the new ways. Not for the first time, I wondered how two men with so much in common should have become such enemies.
‘Come home with me,’ I said to her. ‘We’ll make some chocolate and talk. There’s nothing we can do here, anyway.’
And so we went back to Armande’s house, and I made hot chocolate with cardamom, and put in a batch of peach pastries, ready in twenty minutes, using the freshly made peach jam and a splash of whipped cream with Armagnac. Rosette and Maya helped, rather messily, in the kitchen, Rosette singing her wordless song, Maya joining in solemnly with improvised lyrics of her own while tapping the table with a wooden spoon.
‘Home-made jam—’
‘Bam badda-bam—’
‘Vianne’s peach jam for Ramadan!’
Joséphine couldn’t help laughing. ‘And here I was thinking boys were the most fun.’
‘We should take some of these to my jiddo tonight,’ said Maya, when the pastries were done. ‘He can eat some for iftar. My Jinni has put magic inside to make him feel all better.’
‘I hope so,’ I said.
Not magic, precisely; but we all have our secrets. A whisper; a sign; a pinch of spice. The turn of a friendly card. A song.
Maya smiled. ‘It’ll work,’ she said. ‘It’s one of my three wishes.’
Well, Maya. Perhaps it will. Stranger things have happened. I already know from my visit to him that old Mahjoubi’s affliction has nothing to do with disease. Its cause is waswaas: those whispers that creep into the mind and bring troubled dreams, depression, despair. The quarrel with his son. The fact that he is no longer regarded as a suitable leader. Alyssa’s departure, in such mysterious circumstances – all these must have contributed to the old man’s sudden decline.
‘We’ll bring some when I take you home. Alyssa wants to see him too. I’m sure that, between you, you’ll make him well.’
‘Foxy will do it,’ said Maya.
At five o’clock, Anouk came back with Pilou, Luc, Jeannot and Alyssa; all in excellent spirits and splashed with paint from head to foot. I sent them to wash and change their clothes, and put in another batch of peach pastries, while Vlad lay in front of the kitchen stove, smelling strongly of fresh paint, and dreamt, and twitched his busy paws. Then I made some more chocolate, with extra sugar, marshmallows and cream, and we sat around Armande’s scarred old kitchen table, eating and drinking and laughing, as if we’d lived there all our lives instead of not even a fortnight.
‘The shop looks fabulous,’ said Anouk. ‘Nearly as good as it was before. Now all it needs is a new sign—’
I looked at her. She glanced at Jeannot. ‘That is, if anyone wanted to make it a chocolaterie again. It wouldn’t be so difficult. All you’d need would be to put in a counter, and some glass display cabinets, and maybe a couple of tables and chairs—’
Rosette signed: I like it. I drew monkeys on the wall.
‘It was just a thought,’ said Anouk. ‘But I don’t think it’s a school any more.’
Oh, Anouk. Oh, Rosette. Things are never as simple as that. We were never meant to stay: never meant to settle here. We’ve lived in Paris longer than anywhere else I’ve ever been. To give that up, to admit defeat, is totally unthinkable.
And then, there’s Roux. What would he say? He has tried so hard to build us a life, to find some kind of common ground between his gypsy lifestyle and our own. To leave it now – and for Lansquenet – would be the worst kind of rejection. Would he survive it? Could he adapt? Can a river-rat ever change? Would I even want him to try?
A knock at the door put an end to my thoughts. Joséphine went to answer it. Perhaps she thought it might be Reynaud—
It was Karim Bencharki.
He pushed his way past Joséphine as if she were a curtain, and I was suddenly reminded of Paul-Marie, eight years ago, drunk and enraged, trying to force open the chocolaterie door. His colours crazed; his face was flushed; he was still as handsome as ever, but shining now with a new light, a dangerous light, like wildfire.
Alyssa saw him and froze at once. For a moment the strategy almost worked. In that cramped room, her hair cut short, she looked so unlike her usual self that he might even have missed her. The golden eyes moved fitfully over a half-dozen upturned faces. Then they widened a little as they settled on Alyssa.
‘So it’s true. You are here.’ Then he turned to me and said, ‘I’m very sorry, Madame Rocher. I didn’t mean to barge in like this. I don’t know what she’s been telling you, but Alyssa’s been missing for several days. Her family has been—’
‘Who told you she was here?’ I said.
‘It doesn’t matter. They were right.’ Once more, he addressed Alyssa: ‘What were you thinking, running away? Don’t you know your mother and father are frantic?’
Alyssa answered in Arabic.
He broke in: ‘Never mind. Come home.’
Alyssa said nothing, but shook her head.
‘Come on, Alyssa. Get properly dressed. Your mother’s going crazy—’
‘I don’t care. I’m not going back. And it’s not up to you to order me to.’
A rattle of furious Arabic, through which his hectic colours flared. He took a step towards her. Alyssa shrank back, protesting, while Karim’s voice rose angrily.
‘Stop that! Leave her alone!’ It was Luc. ‘She’s staying with Vianne. She’s perfectly safe. Whenever she wants to come h-home—’ Again, I could hear the ghost of his childhood stammer begin to resurface in his voice, but his gaze was steady enough, and he sounded surprisingly adult. ‘When she’s ready to go back, she will. But it’s up to her to make her choice.’
For a moment Karim held his gaze. Clearly he didn’t remember Luc, who has spent most of the past two years away at university. Then he took another step. Vlad began to growl softly. Karim gave the dog a wary look.
‘Keep your dog under control.’
Alyssa said something in Arabic.
Karim glared at her and took a step back. ‘This is ridiculous,’ he said. ‘Do you want to make an exhibition of yourself?’ He glanced contemptuously at Luc. ‘Is he the reason you ran away? What lies have you told these people?’
Luc said: ‘I think you should l-leave.’
Karim took a closer look at Luc. Then he said: ‘I know your mother. Madame Clairmont, isn’t it? She has been very supportive of us. I wonder what
she’d think if she knew about your interference.’
For a moment Luc was taken aback. Then he spoke up again, this time without the trace of a stammer: ‘This has nothing to do with her. This is my house. Alyssa’s my guest. And Pilou’s dog gets nervous around people who try to threaten my guests.’
I saw surprise in Karim’s eyes. In fact, little Luc had surprised us all. The passive, sullen little boy with the stammer has finally escaped his mother’s dominant influence.
Alyssa was watching attentively, her face alight with the look of someone who has just worked out the answer to a previously unsolvable question. There were still traces of yellow paint in her hair and on her face. She looked incredibly young and almost heart-wrenchingly beautiful.
Karim made a gesture of protest. Now he looked more hurt than angry, as if this were the first time that anyone had resisted his charm. He looked at Joséphine in appeal.
‘Madame Muscat—’
She shook her head. ‘I knew a man like you once,’ she said. ‘But Vianne showed me a long time ago that I didn’t have to run away to take control of my own life. Alyssa knows that now, too. She has friends who care for her. She doesn’t need you, or any man, to tell her what to do any more.’
Karim looked around for support, and found none.
‘I’ll give your regards to my mother,’ said Luc.
Karim turned and made for the door, with a final, dangerous glance that took in Anouk, Rosette and myself. ‘Be careful,’ he said. ‘This is a war. Don’t get caught in the crossfire.’
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 reall
y 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.’