And then, at about the same time, that woman moved into the shop. Karim Bencharki’s sister and her child, a girl of eleven or twelve. They were no trouble, and yet at once trouble seemed to follow them. Nothing you could identify. No incidents, no arguments. I called on them, to introduce myself and to offer support if they needed it. The woman barely even spoke. Eyes lowered, head bowed, veiled from head to foot in black – I understood that my help was neither welcome, nor needed. I left her alone. She had made it clear that she wanted no contact with such as me.
But I always took care to greet her whenever we happened to cross in the street, though she never even nodded to me, or acknowledged my greeting in any way. As for the child, I rarely saw her. A little snippet of a thing, big eyes under her headscarf. I tried to speak to her once or twice. Like her mother, she never replied.
And so I watched from across the square, just as I had eight years ago, when Vianne Rocher moved into town. I expected to find at least a clue as to the woman’s activities.
Why had she moved from her brother’s house? Why had she chosen to live apart from the community in Les Marauds?
But the woman in black gave nothing away. There were no deliveries of goods; no tradesmen; no workmen; no family. She did have a number of visitors – all of them women, all Maghrébines, all of them with children. The mothers never stayed long, but the children – all girls – often stayed for the day, sometimes over a dozen of them. I didn’t recognize most of the girls, or even their mothers, dressed as they were, and it took me some time to realize that she was opening a school.
French schools – at least, the public ones – work on a strictly secular basis. No religious bias, no prayers, no symbols of faith of any kind. Girls like Sonia and Alyssa Mahjoubi had always managed to deal with this. But some of the other girls had not; and I was conscious that Zahra Al-Djerba, for instance, had never attended secondary school, but remained at home to help her mother. Our tiny village primary school had found a way to accommodate. But in the larger towns, like Agen, the problem of the headscarf remained. And now it seemed that Les Marauds had found itself a solution.
Most of the schoolgirls were dressed alike, in black, with scarves to cover their hair; little widows before their time, faces shyly averted. The hijab scarves, though mostly black, are all subtly different in style; some knotted, some pinned, some artfully draped, some wrapped around elaborate chignons, some demure as nuns’ coifs.
The girls never talked to me, of course, but some of them occasionally shot curious glances at the church, with its whitewashed walls and its tall steeple and the statue of the Virgin teetering over the main door, and it strikes me how seldom we see them here now, on our side of the river. Within three months of its opening, I had counted fifteen Maghrébine girls, aged from ten to sixteen years old, coming to school in a single group; talking and giggling behind their hands as they crossed the bridge into Lansquenet.
But by then Les Marauds was teeming with life – a hundred and fifty people or more, Moroccans, Algerians, Tunisians, Berbers – which, I suppose, is nothing to someone used to Paris or Marseille, but which, in Lansquenet-sous-Tannes, counts as half a village.
Why here? In our neighbouring villages there are no ethnic communities. Perhaps the presence of the mosque; perhaps the little school; perhaps the fact that a whole street was available for development. In any case, in less than eight years our new arrivals have multiplied like dandelions in spring, and in doing so have turned Les Marauds from a single colourful page to an entire foreign chapter.
Now I watched as Vianne Rocher took in the reality. The narrow streets have changed very little in two hundred years; but as for the rest, everything is different. The first thing to strike a visitor is the scent of incense mixed with that of fragrant smoke and unidentified spices. There are lines of washing hanging out between the balconies; men in long robes and prayer caps sit on their porches, smoking kif and drinking tea. There are no women among them. The women most often stay indoors; we rarely see them in the streets, and these days more of them wear black. The children, too, stay separate; the boys play football or swim in the Tannes; the girls help their mothers, look after the younger ones or cluster in giggling groups, to fall silent as soon as I appear. The sense of aloofness is palpable. It was more so today, of course; I imagine that after the fire in the shop, the village gossips have been at work.
Passing the row of little shops that line the Boulevard des Marauds, we found them closed and shuttered. It was seven forty-five; the hot wind had dropped, and a couple of stars were beginning to show. The sky was a darkly luminous blue; with, on the western horizon, a stripe of startling yellow.
And then it began, as I’d known it would. The distant sound of the call to prayer. Distant, but clearly audible in the throat of the old brick tower: Allahu Akhbar – God is great.
Yes, of course I know what it means. Did you think that because I’m a Catholic I have no knowledge of other faiths? I knew that in a moment the streets would be filled with men going to mosque: the women would mostly stay indoors, preparing for the evening. And as soon as the moon was visible, there would be celebration; traditional foods from the homeland brought in for the occasion; fruits and nuts and dried figs; little deep-fried pastries.
Today is the fifth day of Ramadan, the Muslim month of fasting. It has been a long day. To go without food is one thing, perhaps; but to go without water on a day like today, when the harsh wind sweeps across the land, bleaching everything dry and white—
A woman, followed by a child, crossed the street in front of us. I could not see her averted face; but her black-gloved hands gave her away. It was the woman in black, I knew; the woman from the chocolaterie. It was the first time I’d seen her since the fire had gutted the house, and I was glad of the opportunity to check that she was being cared for.
‘Madame,’ I said. ‘I hope you’re all right—’
The woman did not even look at me. The face-veil that she always wears left only the narrowest letter-box through which to post my condolences. The child, too, seemed not to hear, and, reaching for her headscarf, tugged it a little closer, as if for added security.
‘If you need any help—’ I went on, but the woman had already passed us by, diving into a side street. By then, the muezzin had finished his chant, and the worshippers going to mosque had started to crowd the boulevard.
One of them I recognized, standing at the door of the mosque. It was Saïd Mahjoubi, old Mahjoubi’s eldest son and the owner of the gym. A man in his forties; bearded; robed; wearing a prayer cap on his head. He does not smile often. He was not smiling now. I greeted him with a raised hand.
For a moment he just looked at me. Then he started towards us with a strutting, stiff-legged, nervous walk, like that of a cockerel ready to fight.
‘What are you doing here?’ he said.
I was surprised. ‘I live here.’
‘You live across the river,’ said Saïd. ‘And if you know what’s good for you, you’ll stay across the river.’ A couple of other men had stopped, hearing Saïd’s raised voice. I heard an exchange in Arabic, an urgent typewriter-clatter of sounds in which not a single word was intelligible to me.
‘I don’t understand,’ I told him.
Saïd shot me a dark look and said something in Arabic. The cluster of men surrounding him telegraphed their approval. He moved a little closer. I could almost smell his rage. Now the voices in Arabic sounded hostile; aggressive. I was suddenly, absurdly convinced that the man was about to strike me.
Vianne took a step towards us. I’d almost forgotten she was there. Anouk was watching cautiously; behind her, Rosette was chasing shadows in a nearby alleyway.
I wanted to tell her to stand aside – the man was angry enough not to care that a woman and her children were near – but her presence seemed to calm Saïd. Without saying anything, or even appearing to touch him, she made a sign with her fingers – some gesture of appeasement – and the man took a wary st
ep backwards, looking suddenly slightly confused.
Had he realized his mistake?
Or did she whisper something?
If she did, I heard nothing. But in any case, the atmosphere, which had been close to violence, was gone. The incident – if there had been an incident – was averted.
‘Perhaps we should go,’ I said to Vianne. ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have brought you here.’
She smiled. ‘Did you bring me here? Remember, I came to see Armande’s house.’
Of course. I had forgotten. ‘It’s empty. It still belongs to the Clairmont boy. He didn’t want to sell it – but I don’t see him living there, either.’
Vianne was looking thoughtful. ‘I wonder if he’d let us stay? Just for a few days, while we’re here? We’d look after the place, clean it up, tidy up the garden—’
I shrugged. ‘Perhaps. But—’
‘Good,’ she said.
Just like that. Decided. Almost as if she’d never been gone. I had to smile – and I am not a man who smiles easily or often.
I said: ‘At least take a look at the house. For all you know, it’s falling down.’
‘It isn’t falling down,’ she said.
I had no doubt that she was right. Luc Clairmont would never have let his grandmother’s house go to ruin. I surrendered to the inevitable.
‘She used to leave the door keys under a flowerpot in the yard. They’re probably still there,’ I said.
I was not at all certain that I should be encouraging her to stay, but the thought of Vianne Rocher back in Lansquenet, even now, at this difficult time, seemed almost irresistible.
Vianne herself seemed unsurprised. Perhaps her life is always like this; solutions to her troubles offering themselves like suitors for her favour. Mine is as painfully intricate as a ball of razor-wire, where movement in any direction may cut. I wonder whether I shall be cut during this little interlude. I think it very likely I shall.
Vianne Rocher smiled at me.
‘Oh, and one more thing—’ she said.
I sighed.
‘Do you like peaches?’
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Sunday, 15th August
LES MARAUDS. THAT’S where trouble starts. Les Marauds, where it all began. That’s where I first met Armande, walking by her little house. That’s where the trouble always starts; it’s where the river-rats moored their boats; where Anouk used to play with Pantoufle along the reedy banks of the Tannes. And it’s where Armande told me to go, if only I’d been thinking clearly.
There used to be a peach tree growing up the side of my house. If you come in summertime, the fruit should be ripe and ready to pick.
It was – an elderly peach tree, its limbs half calcified with age, its dagger-shaped leaves scorched by the sun. But she was right – the fruit was ripe. I picked three, still warm from the sun and downy as a baby’s head. I handed one to Anouk, then Rosette. Then I gave one to Reynaud.
The scent of peaches was all around; a sleepy, end-of-summer scent that seemed to leave a glow in the air like a trace of sunset. Armande’s little house is on a rise, slightly apart from the rest of Les Marauds, and from this vantage point we could see down towards the river. There were lights along the boulevard; they shone on the water like fireflies. Already we could hear the quiet sounds of the evening: voices; sounds of pots and pans; children playing in back yards; crickets and frogs by the water’s edge as the birds fell silent.
Anouk had found the back-door key where Armande had always left it; but the door was already unlocked, like so many doors in Lansquenet. The gas and electricity have both been cut off, but there’s Armande’s range if we want to cook, and a pile of logs at the back of the house. There’s linen in the cupboard and woollen blankets in lemon, rose, vanilla and blue. There’s a double bed in Armande’s room, a folding cot in the room upstairs and a sofa in the living room. I’ve stayed in worse places.
‘I really like it here,’ said Anouk.
‘Bam,’ agreed Rosette affably.
‘Then it’s settled,’ I told them. ‘We’ll stay the night, and talk to Luc in the morning.’
Reynaud was still holding his peach, looking stiff and awkward. His sense of correctness is so pronounced that he would rather have slept in a ditch than use an empty house without the formal permission of the owner. As for the peaches, I had no doubt that by his standards they too were stolen, and he looked at me with the same unease that Adam must have looked at Eve when she handed him the forbidden fruit.
‘Aren’t you going to eat that?’ I said. Anouk and Rosette had finished theirs in greedy, luscious mouthfuls. It occurred to me that I had only once seen Reynaud eat – to him, food is a complicated business, as much to be feared as savoured.
‘Listen, Mademoiselle Rocher—’
‘Please,’ I said. ‘Just call me Vianne.’
He cleared his throat. ‘I appreciate your not asking me the obvious question,’ he said. ‘But I think you should know that, until further notice, I have been relieved of my duties as priest of Lansquenet, pending an inquiry into the fire at the old chocolaterie.’ He took a deep breath and went on. ‘Of course, I need not tell you,’ he said, ‘that I am in no way responsible. I was not arrested. I have never been accused. The police simply came to ask questions. But for a man in my position—’
I could well imagine the scene, viewed from behind the shutters. All of Lansquenet’s gossips must have been out in force that day. The shop, half burnt and derelict. The fire truck, an hour too late. The police car parked outside the church. Or even worse – outside Reynaud’s house, his little cottage on the Rue des Francs Bourgeois, with its neat beds of marigolds.
The Church owns the cottage, of course. The marigolds are Reynaud’s responsibility. So like dandelions, in their way, and yet, to him, there is a world of difference between those sly, invasive weeds and the pretty little yellow blooms that grow with such military straightness.
‘You didn’t need to tell me that. I know you didn’t light the fire.’
His mouth twitched. ‘If only everyone were as certain. Caro Clairmont has been spreading the word like mad, while continuing to pretend sympathy, and hanging on to every word that my successor utters.’
‘Your successor?’
‘Père Henri Lemaître. The Bishop’s new pet. An upstart with too many teeth and a passion for PowerPoint.’ He shrugged. ‘It’s only a matter of time now. You know what they’re like in Lansquenet.’
Oh yes, I do. I’ve been the subject of gossip myself, and I know how fast it spreads. I also know that, in the current climate, any hint of a scandal concerning a member of the priesthood must be seen to be dealt with. The Catholic Church has had too many scandals recently; and even if the police have no evidence to accuse him, Reynaud may end up being condemned by the court of public opinion.
He took another deep breath. ‘Perhaps, Mademoiselle Rocher, if you are going to stay awhile, you might convey your – doubts to any of your friends among the community who seem to take amusement from the situation. Joséphine, Narcisse—’
He broke off sharply and looked away. I stared at him in growing astonishment. The icy precision of his speech was still as apparent as ever, but there was no doubting the look on his face. In his oblique and diffident way, Francis Reynaud was asking for help.
I can barely imagine how difficult it must have been for him to ask. After everything that has happened here, to admit to himself that he needs someone – especially someone like me—
Reynaud’s world is black and white. He thinks this makes things simple. In fact, all his black-and-white thinking does is harden hearts, fix prejudice and blind good folk to the harm they do. And if something happens to challenge the way in which they see the world, when black-and-white thinking at last dissolves into a million shades of grey, men like Reynaud are left floundering, grasping at straws in a hurricane.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘What can you do? Forget I even asked.’
I smiled. ‘Of course I’ll help you if I can. But only on one condition—’
He looked at me bleakly. ‘What’s that?’ he said.
‘For pity’s sake, will you eat that peach?’
CHAPTER ONE
Monday, 16th August
LUC CALLED ROUND this morning. Reynaud told him we were here. He found us over breakfast – peaches and hot chocolate, served in Armande’s mismatched crockery; ancient china translucent as skin, chipped at the gilded edges and hand-painted with the traditional designs of the Sous-Tannes; that tiny oblong of the Gers cut off from the rest by the river Tannes before it joins the larger Garonne. Anouk’s bowl had a painted rabbit; Rosette’s a clutch of chickens. Mine had flowers, and a name – Sylvie-Anne – painted on in curly script.
A relative, perhaps? It looked old. A sister, a cousin, a daughter, an aunt. I wondered what it would be like to have a bowl with my own name on it; given to me by my mother, perhaps, or handed down from my grandmother. But which name would it be, Armande? Which one of my many names?
‘Vianne!’
A call from the open door jolted me from my reverie. Luc’s voice has deepened, and he has lost his childhood stammer. But otherwise he looks the same: brown hair falling over his eyes, a smile that is at the same time open and mischievous.
He hugged me first, and then Anouk, and stared in frank curiosity at Rosette, who greeted him with bared teeth and a pert little monkeyish sound – cak-cakk! – that first startled him, then made him laugh.
‘I brought you some supplies,’ he said, ‘but it looks like you’ve finished breakfast.’
‘Don’t you believe it,’ I said with a smile. ‘The air gives us an appetite.’
Luc grinned and handed out fresh croissants and pains au chocolat. ‘Since it’s my fault you’re here,’ he said, ‘feel free to stay as long as you want. Grand-mère would have liked that.’