I asked him what he meant to do with the house, now that he owned it outright.
He shrugged. ‘I’m not sure. Maybe live in it. That is, if my parents—’ He bit off the phrase. ‘You heard about the fire, of course.’
I nodded.
‘Accidents happen,’ he said. ‘But Maman thinks there’s more to it than that. She thinks Reynaud lit the fire.’
‘Does she?’ I said. ‘And what do you think?’
I remember Caro Clairmont; one of Lansquenet’s most fervent gossips, she has always taken sustenance from the scandals and dramas of village life. I could imagine the covert glee with which she had welcomed Reynaud’s disgrace; tempering those rumours with extravagant shows of sympathy.
Luc shrugged. ‘Well, I’ve never liked him much. But I don’t think he did it. I mean, he’s cold and kind of stiff-necked, but he wouldn’t do a thing like that.’
Luc was in a minority. We heard the rumour a dozen times more before the day was over. From Narcisse, bringing vegetables from his shop; from Poitou, the baker; from Joline Drou, the schoolteacher, who called by to see us with her son. In fact, most of Lansquenet seemed to be passing through Les Marauds today – with one surprising exception – as word of our arrival spread like dandelion seeds on the wind.
Vianne Rocher is back, they said. Vianne Rocher is home at last—
But that’s absurd. I have a home. It’s moored on the Quai de l’Elysée. I don’t belong here any more than I did eight years ago, when Anouk and I first arrived. And yet—
‘It would be so easy,’ Guillaume said. ‘You could fix up the old chocolaterie. A lick of paint, we could all lend a hand—’
I caught a flash from Anouk’s eyes.
‘You should see our houseboat in Paris,’ I said. ‘Right underneath the Pont des Arts, and in the mornings the river’s all covered in mist, just like the Tannes.’
The flash subsided, veiled under long eyelashes.
‘You ought to come and see us, Guillaume.’
‘Oh, I’m too old for Paris.’ He smiled. ‘And Patch is used to first-class travel.’
Guillaume Duplessis is one of the few who do not believe in Reynaud’s guilt. ‘It’s just a malicious rumour,’ he says. ‘Why would Reynaud burn down a school?’
Joline Drou was certain she knew. ‘Because of her, that’s why,’ she said. ‘That burqa woman. The woman in black.’
Anouk and Rosette had gone outside, and were beating a dusty carpet with a pair of old brooms. Joline’s son, Jeannot, was with them – a lad of Anouk’s age, whom I remembered from the days of the old chocolaterie. He and Anouk had been good friends, in spite of his troublesome mother.
‘Who is she?’ I said.
Joline arched an eyebrow. ‘Apparently, she’s a widow, the sister of Karim Bencharki. I know Karim – he’s very nice – he works at the gym in Les Marauds. But she’s very different. Aggressive. Aloof. They’re saying her husband divorced her.’
‘You mean you don’t know?’ Joline is one of Lansquenet’s most assiduous gossips. I found it hard to believe that she hadn’t found out every detail of the newcomer as soon as she moved into town.
Joline shrugged. ‘You don’t understand. She never talks to anyone. She’s not like the other Maghrébins. I don’t even know if she speaks French.’
‘You’ve never tried to find out?’
‘It’s not as easy as that,’ said Joline. ‘How do you even start to talk to someone who never shows their face? We used to be quite friendly with some of the women in Les Marauds. Caro used to invite a group of them to her house for tea. People think we’re just rural folk, but we’re very multicultural here. You’d be surprised, Vianne. I’ve even started eating couscous. It’s really very healthy, you know, and not as fattening as you’d think.’
I hid a smile. Joline Drou and Caro Clairmont think they can enter a culture because they like eating couscous. I imagined those tea parties at Caro’s house; the conversation, the little cakes, the china, the silver, the canapés. The well-meaning discussions, intended to promote entente cordiale. I winced at the thought.
‘What happened?’ I said.
Joline pulled a face. ‘They stopped coming round when that woman moved in,’ she said. ‘She’s nothing but trouble. Walking around with that veil on her face, making people uncomfortable. Those women are all so competitive. It caught on like a fashion craze. Everyone started wearing it. Well, maybe not everyone, but you know. It drives men crazy, apparently. Keeps them guessing what’s underneath. Makes their imaginations work overtime. Of course, Reynaud didn’t like it. He’s always been stuck in the past. He has no idea how to cope with a multicultural France. You heard about all that fuss with the mosque? And afterwards, with the minaret? And then, when that woman opened the school—’ She shook her head. ‘He must have cracked. That’s all I can say. It wouldn’t be the first time—’
‘How many pupils were there?’ I said.
‘Oh, perhaps a dozen or so. God knows what she was teaching them.’ She hunched a shoulder pettishly. ‘Those burqas don’t want to mix with us. They think we’ll corrupt them with our loose morals.’
Or perhaps they’re just sick of being patronized and misunderstood, I thought, but did not comment.
‘Isn’t there a daughter?’ I said.
She nodded. ‘Yes, poor little thing. Never plays with any of ours. Never talks to anyone.’
I looked out of the window, to where Anouk and Jeannot were sword-fighting with brooms while Rosette hooted encouragement. Living and travelling as we did for so long, my daughter and I have had more contact with different kinds of folk than anyone in Lansquenet. We have learnt to see to some extent beyond the layers in which we hide ourselves. The niqab – or, as Joline wrongly calls it, the burqa – is only a layer of fabric. And yet, in the eyes of such as Joline it has the power to change an ordinary woman into an object of suspicion and fear. Even Guillaume, usually so tolerant, had little to say in defence of the woman from the chocolaterie.
‘I always raise my hat when I meet her,’ he said. ‘It’s what I was taught to do as a boy. But she never says as much as hello: never even looks at me. It’s rude, Madame Rocher, plain rude. I don’t care who anyone is, I always try to be polite. But when someone won’t even look at you—’
I understand. It must be hard. But I have no moral high ground to take. For years I fled the Man in Black, seeing only my mother’s fear and the black soutane of a hostile faith. For years I was like Guillaume and the rest, blinded by my prejudice. Only now do I see the truth; that my Man in Black is just a man, as vulnerable as any other. Is Lansquenet, with its Woman in Black, really any different? And could it be that under her veil, she too, like Reynaud, is in need of help?
CHAPTER TWO
Monday, 16th August
NIGHT WAS BEGINNING to fall at last. The sky was veering from watermelon-red to a deep and velvety jewel-box blue. The wistful call of the muezzin sounded faintly across Les Marauds. At the same time, from across the river, the Lansquenet church bells began to ring, announcing the end of Mass. A dozen families had already invited us to dinner, had we wanted to socialize, but Rosette was already half asleep, and Anouk was glued to her iPod again. Both of them looked exhausted. Perhaps the fresh air; the change of scenery; the stream of friends and visitors. I set out a simple evening meal of olives, bread, fruit and cheese, with dandelion-leaf salad spiced with yellow nasturtiums. We ate mostly in silence, listening to the sounds of the night from the open window: crickets; church bells; frogs; evening birds; the ticking of Armande’s old clock, with its grinning, parchment-yellow face. I noticed Rosette wasn’t eating; just pushing olives around her plate like pieces in an elaborate game.
‘What’s wrong, Rosette? Aren’t you hungry?’
‘She misses Roux,’ explained Anouk.
‘Rowr,’ said Rosette mournfully.
‘We’ll see him soon. You’ll like it here,’ said Anouk, hugging her. She looked at me. ‘Joséphine didn’t come. I though
t she’d be the first to say hello.’
She was right. I’d noticed that. Of course, the café is open all day; Joséphine must have been busy. All the same, I thought she might have dropped by during her lunch break. Perhaps she didn’t want to be around all those other people; people like Caro and Joline who only wanted to gossip and stare. Perhaps she was understaffed today, or meant to call at closing time. I hope so; of all those we left behind, perhaps Joséphine is the one I missed most; Joséphine with her soulful eyes and her air of stoic defiance.
‘We’ll go tomorrow,’ I promised Anouk. ‘Maybe she was busy today.’
We finished the meal in silence. Anouk and Rosette both went to bed. I stayed alone with a glass of red wine and wondered what Reynaud was doing now. I imagined him in his little house, watching the last of the sunset, listening to the church bells ring while his rival said Mass in his place. And then, because I was restless, I opened the door and went outside.
It smelt of dust and peaches. Crickets sang in the rosemary hedge. There are no streetlights in this part of town, but the sky, never totally dark, was enough to show me the path across the bridge into Lansquenet.
Below me, Les Marauds was coming alive. Lights shone around shuttered windows; people came and went in the street; the scent of incense and cooking rose from an open kitchen door. It all seemed very different from what it had been only hours ago: the dull, flat heat; the women in hijab scarves and abayas over their day clothes; the bearded men in their white robes; that cautious, watchful silence. Now there were voices; laughter; the sounds of celebration. Days are long during Ramadan. At the end of the day a simple meal comes as a feast, a glass of water a blessing. Stories are told; games played. Children stay up late into the evening.
A little girl in a yellow kameez ran across the boulevard, brandishing a long cane. It made a strident, whirring sound, and I recognized the local game of tying a large flying beetle to a stick with a piece of thread to make an improvised rattle.
Someone called out in Arabic. The child protested. A girl in a dark-blue kaftan came out. The child left the cane by the side of the road and followed the girl into the house. I wandered into Les Marauds, heading for the river. The bridge that links Les Marauds to the rest of Lansquenet stands at a kind of crossroads; this is where the tanneries stood, and where the village mosque now stands. On both sides, the walls of the old bastide remain, broken in places, a reminder to would-be intruders that Lansquenet protects its own.
The bridge is stone; rather low, the river dividing the village in two, like the halves of a sliced fruit. In winter, after the rain, the Tannes runs too high for any but the flattest of boats to pass. In autumn, if the summer has been especially hot, the river sometimes almost dries up, leaving banks of gritty sand divided by sparse rivulets. Just now, the river is perfect. Perfect for swimming; perfect for boats.
That made me wonder once again why Roux chose not to come. He spent four years in Lansquenet after Anouk and I left. So why would he stay in Paris now, loving the countryside as he does? Why has he chosen to stay on the Seine, when the Tannes is so inviting? And I know Rosette misses him – Anouk and I miss him too, of course, but Rosette misses him in a special way, a way that the two of us don’t understand. Of course, she still has Bam – who, in Roux’s absence, has made his presence more than usually apparent; sitting on a stool by Anouk, his tail a gleaming question mark in the yellow lamplight.
Oh Roux, why didn’t you come?
Roux dislikes technology; but I managed to persuade him to carry – if not to actually use – a mobile phone. I tried it now, but predictably it was turned off. I sent a text:
Arrived safely. Staying in Armande’s old house. Everything fine, but some changes. May have to stay a few more days. We miss you. Lots of love, Vx
The act of sending a message home made Roux seem all the more distant. Home. Is it my home now? I looked across at Lansquenet; its little lights; its crooked streets; the church tower, white in the dusk. Across the bridge, the darker half; the streets lit only by house lights; the shadowy spike of the minaret, topped with its silver crescent, challenging the church tower that stands like an upraised fist in the square.
For a while I had thought that this was my home; that I might stay in Lansquenet. Even now, the word home still conjures up that little shop, the rooms above the chocolaterie; Anouk’s bedroom in the loft, with its porthole window. And now I feel divided in a way I never was; half of me belongs with Roux; the other, here in Lansquenet. Perhaps because the village itself is now divided between two worlds; one new and multicultural, one as conservative as only the rural French can be, and I understand it perfectly—
What am I doing here? I thought. Why have I opened this box of uncertainties? Armande’s letter clearly said that someone in Lansquenet needed help. But who is that person? Francis Reynaud? The Woman in Black? Joséphine? Myself, perhaps?
My path had taken me past the house from which the girl in the dark blue kaftan had come. The stick with the captive beetle was lying by the side of the road. I liberated the beetle, which buzzed at me crossly before flying off, and paused to look at the dwelling.
Like most of the houses in Les Marauds, it was a low-roofed, two-storey building, part wood, part yellow brick. It looked to be made from two houses that had been knocked together; the door and the shutters were painted green, and there were window boxes on the sills in which red geraniums were growing. From inside, I could hear voices; laughter; conversation. I could smell cooking, spices and mint. As I passed, the door opened again and the little girl in the yellow kameez dashed out into the street. She stopped as she saw me and stared, bright-eyed; I guessed her to be five or six, too young to be wearing a headscarf. Her hair was in bunches, tied with yellow ribbon. She wore a gold bracelet round one chubby wrist.
‘Hello,’ I said.
The little girl stared.
‘I’m afraid I let your beetle escape,’ I said, with a glance at the discarded cane. ‘He looked so sad, tied up like that. Tomorrow, you can catch him again. That is, if he wants to play.’
I smiled. The child continued to stare. I wondered if she’d understood. In Paris, I’d seen girls of Rosette’s age who hardly spoke a word of French, even though they’d been born there. Usually, they’d mastered the language by the time they left primary school; though some families I’d known were reluctant to send their daughters to secondary school – sometimes because of the headscarf ban, sometimes because they were needed at home.
‘What’s your name?’ I asked the child.
‘Maya.’ So she did understand.
‘Well, I’m happy to meet you, Maya,’ I said. ‘I’m Vianne. I’m staying in that house up there with my two little girls.’
I pointed to Armande’s old house.
Maya looked doubtful. ‘That house there?’
‘Yes. It belonged to my friend Armande.’ I could see she was unconvinced. I said, ‘Does your mother like peaches?’
Maya gave a little nod.
‘Well, my friend has a peach tree growing up the side of her house. Tomorrow, if you like, I’ll pick some and bring them to your mother for iftar.’
My use of the word made Maya smile. ‘You know iftar?’
‘Of course I do.’
My mother and I once lived in Tangier. A vibrant place in so many ways; filled with contradictions. I’ve always used food and recipes as a means of understanding those around me; and sometimes, in a place like Tangier, food is the only shared language.
‘How are you breaking the fast tonight? Is there harissa soup?’ I said. ‘I love harissa soup.’
Maya’s smile broadened. ‘Me too,’ she said. ‘And Omi makes pancakes. She has a secret recipe. They’re the best pancakes in the world.’
Suddenly the green door opened again. A woman’s voice spoke sharply in Arabic. Maya seemed about to protest, then reluctantly went back indoors. A female figure veiled in black appeared in the doorway as it closed – I raised a hand in greet
ing, but the door had already slammed shut before I could be certain whether the woman had seen me or not.
One thing I was sure of, though. The woman I’d just seen at the door was the same woman in niqab I’d seen by the church yesterday, and then again in Les Marauds. Karim Bencharki’s sister, whose real name no one seems to know; the woman whose shadow stretches so far across these two communities …
Walking home along the Tannes, the calm was almost eerie. The crickets and birds had fallen still; even the frogs were silent.
On evenings like this, the locals say, the Autan wind is ready to blow; le Vent des Fous, the Mad Wind, that rattles windows, parches crops and stops people from sleeping. The White Autan brings dry heat; the Black Autan brings storms and rain. Whichever way the wind blows, change is never far away.
What am I doing in Lansquenet? Once more, I can’t help wondering. Did the Autan bring me here? And which one will it be, this time? The White Autan, that keeps you awake, or the Black, that drives you insane?
CHAPTER THREE
Tuesday, 17th August
BLESS ME, FATHER, for I have sinned. Of course, you’re not here any more. But I need to confess to someone, père, and to do so to the new priest – Père Henri Lemaître with his blue jeans and his bleached smile and his new ideas – is absolutely impossible. The Bishop is equally so. He actually thinks I lit the fire. I will not kneel to these people, père. I will be damned before I do.
Of course, you’re right. My sin is pride. I have always been aware of this. But I know that Père Henri Lemaître will destroy Saint-Jérôme’s, and I cannot just stand by and watch. The man uses PowerPoint in his sermons, for God’s sake, and has replaced the village organist with Lucie Levalois playing guitar. The result is undoubtedly popular – we’ve never had so many people coming from other villages – but I wonder what you’d think of it, père, who always used to be so austere.
The Bishop feels that, nowadays, worship should be more about fun than austerity. We have to draw in the young, he says – he himself is thirty-eight, seven years younger than I am, and he wears Nike trainers under his robe. Père Henri Lemaître is his protégé, and so, of course, can do no wrong. Hence his approval of Père Henri’s intention to modernize Saint-Jérôme’s, including display screens for his PowerPoint sermons, and plans to replace our old oak pews with something ‘more appropriate’. By this I suppose he means that oak goes badly with PowerPoint.