Page 14 of The Strawberry Thief
Yannick pulled a doubtful face. ‘I’m not allowed to eat chocolate,’ he said, and my mind went back to another boy who was not allowed to eat chocolate. Luc Clairmont has grown into a fine young man without a trace of his childhood stutter, who visits his mother once a year and lives with his wife in Paris. If Caro had let him eat chocolate, maybe things would have been different. Who knows? These things matter to a boy.
I said: ‘Sometimes, being told not to do something just makes us want it all the more. Sometimes, a little of what you crave is better than total abstinence.’
Yannick looked surprised, as the boy I once was would have looked surprised. ‘I guess so,’ he said. ‘What’sabstinence?’
‘Something priests mention rather too much, I’m afraid,’ I said. ‘Especially during Lent.’
The boy looked at me suspiciously, but seeing that I was not mocking him, smiled. When he smiles, his face lights up, and he reminds me somehow of Narcisse – not that the old man ever smiled much at me, but nevertheless, there was something. Some distant family resemblance.
My father, the murderer. Why do those words affect me so? Perhaps it has to do with the boy, who seems rather odd, perhaps even slow. Is this why his parents keep him at home? If it is, then perhaps it is good that Rosette and he seem to have made friends. Not that Rosette is exactlyslow, but certainly she isdifferent. Maybe having a friend her own age will help her develop more normally. I was about to ask Rosette what she thought of her new property when I saw Michèle Montour at the end of the lane, and heard her voice raised stridently:
‘Yannick! What are you doing out there!’
The boy turned away, thrusting the jar of jam into my hands. ‘Please! Don’t tell my mother.Please!’ Then he dived into the bushes from which he had emerged, closely followed by Rosette, whose mocking jackdaw-call I heard moving away into the wood.
A moment later, Michèle Montour was upon me. High heels, tailored trousers and a spotless white silk shirt – hardly the kind of outfit, I thought, suitable for moving house. Her face was rigid with annoyance as she looked at the jar of jam in my hands.
‘Did my son take that?’ she said.
A small, strategic lie,père, is preferable to exposing another soul to the sin of rage. Besides, Yannick had looked desperate.
‘Ah, this?’ I said, looking down at the jar. ‘Er, one of my parishioners. A gift.’
‘A gift?’ repeated Michèle Montour.
‘Well, actually, more of a sacrifice,’ I said. ‘You know how during Lent, some people find it hard to resist temptation. My parishioner thought it better to, er – deliver himself from—’
Michèle Montour made a derisory sound. ‘My son,’ she said sharply, ‘is a compulsive overeater. It is a medical condition that must be strictly monitored. If unsupervised, Yannick will be happy to eat continually. This is detrimental, both to his looks and to his health, and needs to be dealt with strictly.’
‘I see. It must be hard for you.’
‘Mon père, you have no idea.’
‘Is that why you took him out of school?’
Her lips tightened. ‘My son has other – issues,’ she said. ‘Behavioural and social issues. My husband and I thought it better to keep him at home.’
I nodded. ‘I see.’
And yes, I did see. Michèle Montour is deeply vain. Having an unsatisfactory son must irk her profoundly. Sothisis why she does not speak of him to her friends; why, in almost two years, I have only just seen him. I sense Michèle Montour would love to boast of her son’s achievements: his prowess on the sports field; his dutiful attention to her. Instead, she must dwell on her sacrifice; the fact that she must teach him at home; her patience and long-suffering in the name of motherhood. It has soured her, and yet she assumes an air of practised martyrdom when telling me about it. I know that look; I have seen it before on the face of Caroline Clairmont. I have heard that note in her voice:Mon père, I try not to complain. Motherhood is my cross to bear, and – don’t think I’m complaining,père,but no-one knows how I have suffered over the years. No-one but you, of course,mon père: I don’t know what I would have done without your help.In fact, I have done little to help but bite my tongue and listen: Caroline Clairmont uses the confessional as a means of airing her woes rather than seeking absolution. Michèle Montour has something of the same passive-aggressive style, although in Caro Clairmont’s case, it comes with the kind of wan, wilting tone of voice that tests my patience to the full, and in the case of Madame Montour, it takes a distinctly combative tone.
She shot a disapproving look at the half-empty jar of jam. ‘Some people –gulliblepeople,mon père– do not believe that my son Yannick suffers from a genuine medical condition. They allow him to cajole them. Some of them even give him sweets. These people are complicit,mon père, in his misbehaviour. I hope that if you witness this, you will know how to intervene.’
‘Of course.’ I felt my face growing hot. ‘Of course I will, Madame Montour.’ And, head held high, I left the scene, still carrying the ridiculous jar. A mocking bird-call followed me all along the hawthorn hedge, along with the sound of footsteps, one set light, the other rather less so. I pretended not to hear them, but left the jam jar on the wall at the end of theAvenue des Francs Bourgeois. I did not turn to investigate the sounds I heard from the hawthorn hedge, but by the time I reached the house the two-litre jar of jam was gone.
5
Friday, March 17
So that was Yannick. Now he’s my friend. He’s funny, and he likes to eat, and sometimes he can get upset, and he doesn’t look at you when he’s talking to you. It’s weird who his parents turned out to be. Madame Montour doesn’t like me atall. She only bothered to learn my name when she found out about Narcisse’s will. But I like Yannick. He’s nice; and he didn’t laugh at me, and he has no other friends.
I get that. Making friends isn’t easy when you’re different. And I don’t mean to be jealous when I see Pilou getting on the school bus with his friends. But he never waves to me. He should wave. He’s fine with me when we’re alone, but when his friends are with him – BAM! – it’s like he doesn’t see me.
I told Yannick. He understood. ‘I used to have a friend,’ he said. ‘He was called Abayomi. We were the two kids at primary school who always used to get left out. Then we went to thecollègein Marseille, and there were lots of other kids like him, but no other kids like me.’
I signed:I get it. That sucks.
‘So, why don’t you talk in the regular way? Did you have an accident?’
