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Authors: Joanne Harris
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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
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
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