Page 13 of The Strawberry Thief
‘Narcisse is quiet and well-behaved, but shows no natural ability.’
‘Narcisse is quiet and attentive, but often mistakes the letters of the alphabet. Diligent study and practice in lettering will significantly improve his deficiencies in reading and writing.’
‘Narcisse is an attentive pupil, although his speech impediment hinders him from contributing in recitation, and his continued inability to distinguish certain letters means that, once again, he is bottom of the class.’
For a long time I remained in ignorance, both of my father’s dyslexia (though I never heard that word spoken until many decades after his death) and his mysterious speech impediment. In fact, it never occurred to me that my father might not be silent by choice, but might actually beafraidof speaking.
At table, he never said a word, except to thank Tante Anna for the meal, which he did with the humility that some people reserve for God. He spent most of his time alone in his garden and on the farm, while Tante Anna kept the house, cooked meals and raised the children as she thought best, which was perhaps more harshly than he himself would have chosen to raise them. But Tante Anna was mistress of the farm; hers was the voice that mattered. And Tante Anna believed that children should be well-behaved and obedient, and go to church, say their prayers, and be respectful of adults.
Tante Anna noticed everything: a speck of mud on a school smock; a missing button from a shirt. And although dutiful, she was not warm: she cared for us for the good of our souls, not for the good of our childish hearts. My sister Mimi was especially troublesome. Undersized from the very start, and subject to fits and seizures, Mimi was not expected to live beyond infancy; and when she did, Tante Anna saw it more as a curse than a mercy.
Another mouth to feed, at a time when food was not always plentiful. A useless girl, at a time when girls were valued less than livestock. And to cap it all, by simply being born, she had caused the death of her mother – none of these things made Mimi’s continued survival a reason for rejoicing. But against all odds, Mimididsurvive – in spite of Tante Anna’s outspoken belief that she was doomed from the outset. In spite of her size, her refusal to feed, her seizures, her unexplained fits of laughter, little Mimi clung to life, and grew, like the stubborn dandelion that manages to take root and flower even in the least welcoming of places. Mimi lived; a stubborn, stunted little thing that managed, in spite of everything, to try to grow towards the light.
You might have thought that caring for a younger, disabled sister would have been an unbearable chore. I was, after all, only four years old when Mimi, like an unwanted gift, was left to take my mother’s place. I should have hated the pitiful thing. But somehow, I didn’t hate her. Starved of affection as I was, I learnt to love my sister, first with the love that a child may give to a battered toy, or a stray dog, and then with a fierce protectiveness. It wasn’t that my father was lacking in affection; it was simply that he had never learnt how to show it. As for Tante Anna, she was not given to demonstrations of weakness. She had raised my father alone; she had already buried two husbands. Whatever softness might have been in her had long ago been calcified. Now she was like that cross she wore; hard and sharp-edged and merciless. She was not a bad or cruel woman at heart, but there was no kindness in her; just a sense of duty that she mistook for religious devotion, but which owed rather more to her pride and her fear of what the neighbours might say.
She raised me without tenderness, but in the knowledge that I would one day be a man, a worthwhile citizen. Mimi had no such potential. As a girl, she was worthless; a burden on the family. No-one would ever marry Mimi, not for any dowry. She would never learn to speak, or obey more than the simplest of instructions. She would always be subject to mysterious fits and seizures, and although she seemed perfectly content – even happy – with her lot, Tante Anna saw her as a punishment from God for some as-yet-undeclared sin, and hardened her heart accordingly.
I say all this, Reynaud, so that you may understand that my antipathy towards the Church is nothing personal. Tante Anna’s religion was as cold as stone, as dry as dust; and her God never answered a single one of the prayers that I made to him.
What rubbish,mon père. Does he think God actually answersprayers? God has no time to listen to petty grievances. Did he think that God would drop everything to look into his little life? Did he hope for divine intervention every time something went wrong? You see, this is the problem,mon père. People take things too literally. They expect the universe to revolve around their little preoccupations. They have no sense of the scale of things, no sense of their own insignificance. So God didn’t answer your prayers? Do not imagine you are alone. God doesn’tcarethat you are alone, or that you are suffering. If God made the stars, then why would He care whether or not you fast for Lent, or whether you drink alcohol, or even if you live or die—
Forgive me,père. My patience with parishioners has never been especially great. These people seem to think that God owes them His attention. Or failing His, that I owe them mine. My sheep are such petty animals; forever bleating; forever straying. And my job is far from pastoral; it mostly consists of crowd control. Not that I can imagine doing any other; but I too have made my sacrifices. Narcisse is not the only one who has called out to God, and heard no reply.
With no other outlet, Mimi became the focus of my affection. That strange little girl, who never learnt to speak more than a dozen words, but who smiled and laughed almost constantly, was closer to me than anyone I have ever known. Perhaps that is why Rosette Rocher has come to mean so much to me. She reminds me of Mimi – or at least, Mimi as she might have been if she had not died at seven years old, cruelly and needlessly, while God’s attention was turned elsewhere—
That’s it,père. No more today. Every word feels like an attack – on me, on the Church, on God – and there’s only so much a priest can take. This confession – if that’s what it is – needs time, and he knows that, whatever my faults, I will stay until the end. But for now, I shall wander along to the farm and have a word with Michèle Montour. Maybe the elusive Yannick will be there. In any case, it will make a change.
This was what I told myself as I set off towards the farm. But Narcisse’s voice followed me as I went down theRue des Maraudsand over the fields and alongside the wood. A very persistent voice, for one who had so little to say to me in life. But,mon père, I have always heard the voices of the dead best of all, perhaps because of who I am, or maybe because of the things I have done. The voices of the dead are loud, and they clamour for company.
I was never a good man. Arighteousman, perhaps, but not good. I know this, now; too late, of course, to undo certain actions. All I can do is move forward, and try to be better than I was.My father, the murderer. How easily he writes those words. Whom did the father murder? I am not sure I want to know. Does the father not deserve peace? What good does it do to bring these things back into the light, things which should have been left in the dark?
Did he confess his crime,mon père? Was he absolved, as long ago you absolved me? Mine was a boy’s trick, an accident: and besides, you said the river-rats were vermin; scum; weeds in the garden of the Lord. Mine were only the hands, you said. God’s will had been working through me.
Years later, I came to understand that God had nothing to do with it. And my guilt was not for you to absolve, which is why it sometimes still weighs on me. I saysometimes. To be fair, there are days when I hardly think of it, and when I do, it is often as something that happened to me long ago, when I was someone different. They say the human body replaces itself every seven years. Blood cells; skin cells; bone cells. All different. I have shed my skin many times since the houseboat fire on the Tannes. I should be a new man by now. But on days like this, when the morning sun shines in a certain way on the fields; when the air is cool, and the primroses show their faces from under the hedge, the boy I once was seems very close, almost close enough to touch—
I was so lost in my thoughts,mon père, that I almost cried out when I saw the boy. Instead I made a strangled sound, to which the boy responded with a squawk of alarm, and Rosette, who was moments behind him as he emerged from the bushes, gave one of her mocking bird-calls.
‘Rosette!’ I said.
The boy gave me a look. He looked nothing like the boy I once was – being brown-haired, round-faced and somewhat on the plump side – and yet he looked thoroughly guilty. I noticed that he was carrying a two-litre jar of what looked like strawberry jam. The jar had been opened – and recently. It was now close to half empty, adorned with sticky handprints.
‘Is that from Narcisse’s farm?’ I said. There were no other farms nearby.
The boy nodded, still looking guilty.
‘Then you must be Yannick Montour.’
Once more, the boy nodded. He didn’t look much like either of his parents, both of whom were slightly built, and his thin upper lip and narrow eyes gave him a somewhat petulant look. I smiled and held out my hand. ‘I’m Francis Reynaud, priest of Lansquenet,’ I said. ‘I’ve heard a lot about you.’
The boy looked surprised. ‘Have you?’ he said.
‘No, not really,’ I said, and smiled. ‘In fact, you’re rather a mystery man. But I understand you’re coming to stay?’
The boy nodded.
‘Then welcome to Lansquenet-sous-Tannes.’ I shook his hand, which was distinctly sticky. Rosette made her bird-sound again. It occurred to me that if I had eaten a whole litre of strawberry jam – even with the help of a friend – I would have had serious problems. Still, many things are allowed at fifteen that are no longer permissible after the age of fifty-five. Eating jam from the jar is one of them.
I said: ‘I see you’ve met Rosette. Her mother owns the chocolate shop.’
