Read Online Peaches for Monsieur Le Curé by Joanne Harris - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Joanne Harris
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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 thought 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
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 thought 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
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