Page 17 of The Strawberry Thief
I know. I’m aware that this manuscript is preying on my mind. But I will not abandon it. I owe that much, at least, to Narcisse, who left it to me for a reason. What that reason is,mon père, I currently have no idea: but now I am sure there is more to it than malice or resentment. But it is getting late,mon père. No more of Narcisse’s story today. Today is his memorial.
It has already been a week since he died. It takes time to make arrangements. And Narcisse left no instructions for the disposal of his ashes; just a small sum to cover costs, and a reminder –No flowers. But he has lived in Lansquenet for longer than anyone else I know: he deserves his space in the churchyard, whatever his attitude to me. And I know Michel and Michèle will approve; a place in the churchyard – even a niche – carries a certain status. And though Narcisse was cremated – a secular ceremony, as requested – his ashes will be placed in a niche in the outer wall of the churchyard, the place marked with a metal plaque that I myself have paid for.
I know. It feels a little like pettiness, under cover of piety. But Narcisse was not a believer, and so what happens to his ashes should not be of any concern to him. It is tome, however – and not simply because he was the black sheep of my flock,père, or because I do not like to lose. Many people were fond of Narcisse: people who would like to pay their respects. This ceremony at the church will give them that opportunity.
This morning I looked for the graves of Narcisse’s father and great-aunt. Neither are buried in Lansquenet – although I did find the sister’s grave, hidden away beneath a yew tree, grown so broad that its skirt has engulfed a dozen graves. An hour with a pair of secateurs, and my hands were covered with those small red lesions inflicted by the toxic sap of the yew tree. But there it was: her gravestone: a stone that would have been costly, especially during the War; a sandstone crown garlanding the simple inscription. Moss and lichen have grown in the cracks, but the words are still discernible:
Naomi Dartigen: 1942–1949.
Now she is like all the others.
And now I try to imagine the pain that came with that inscription. Who chose it? Surely not the great-aunt, in all her hard-edged piety. The father, then? Who else was there? Certainly not the boy Narcisse, who must have been no older than eleven when his sister died. There is no mention on the stone of how the tragedy came about. But then, there are so many ways in which a child of that era could have died. I imagine Narcisse’s manuscript would enlighten me: but I have read enough of that today. My eyes are beginning to blur again, and my head is aching. Perhaps I need new spectacles.
I reach for my freshly ironedsoutane; put on a clean white collar. This is not an official event, and so I will keep it simple: no alb or chasuble for Narcisse, just thesoutane, the collar and a stole in a subdued shade of violet. I have not gone out of my way to publicize the ceremony. The village has its own way of disseminating information; and by the time I reach the church, everyone will be waiting.
Michèle Montour delivered the urn earlier this morning. A brown plastic urn, made to look like bronze, and small enough to fit into the niche. It sits on my mantelpiece, which is otherwise bare except for a handful of pocket change and a palm cross left over from Easter. Strange, to be reading his manuscript in the company of his ashes.
And now I wonder to myself as I close the green folder; if this is Narcisse’s confession tome, then why doIfeel like the penitent? Why does my mind keep going back to the events of that summer, to the fire on the riverboat, to those two unfortunate people? River-folk mostly go by nicknames. Names are words of power. To know a man’s name is to make a connection, and I wanted no connection with the crime. And yet I sought them out,mon père. I found them in the paper. Not on the front page, but on the fourth, under the news of a lightning-strike that had burned down a church in Montauban. Pierre Lupin, known as Pierrot La Marmite, and Marie-Laure ‘Choupette’ Dupont, his common-law wife: aged 32 and 28 respectively, both overcome by fumes on their boat. A candle left unsupervised was named as the probable cause of the blaze, though everyone knew that the couple drank; were probably blind drunk when the bedclothes had begun to burn.At least they didn’t suffer, you said. But doesn’t everyone say that? Doesn’t everyone want to believe that Death is a merciful release, instead of a breathless agony of terror and confusion?
A little glass of wine,mon père, to steady my nerves for the service. I should not brood on these distant events. Everyone dies. God’s will prevails. I only wish I still believed this as I did when you were alive. But now I have no confessor,mon père: no-one to tell me how to proceed – unless perhaps Narcisse himself, still watching from beyond the grave.
I pour a glass of Père Julien and raise it to the plastic urn. ‘Narcisse, old friend,’ I say to his dust. ‘Now you are like all the others.’
9
Saturday, March 18
It’s Narcisse’s funeral today. Well, not quite his funeral. We already had the funeral bit, at the centre in Agen. But this is amemorial, which means it’s torememberNarcisse, which seems weird, because how could we forget? In any case, I had to wear a dress, a green one with little flowers on it, and Maman wore her sky-blue coat and the dress with the scalloped trim. There were a lot of people in the square when we set off. It wasn’t far: just across the square and down towards the cemetery. There’s a whitewashed wall there, with shelves and little stone alcoves – a bit like a library for the dead. It kind of makes sense. Like Maman says, people are full of stories.
I looked around to see who was there. Maybe fifty people. Some of the old men from thecafé. And Joséphine – but not Pilou. I wondered why he wasn’t there. It wasn’t even a school day. Lots of people from Les Marauds – mostly women, all in black, with veils around their heads like nuns, but with them it’s hard to tell if that’s everyday black or funeral black. Omi was here too, with Maya. She winked at me from her raisin face. And there was Reynaud, all in black too, except for the purple thing round his neck. Not quite a scarf, not quite a shawl, but pretty. I guess even he has to dress up when it’s someone’s funeral.
The new not-a-florist’s is shut today. There’s aCLOSEDsign on the door, and the neon sign is off. Is it because of the funeral? I looked around to see if there was anyone unusual there. But there was no sign of anyone new. Just the Chinese lady, Ying, who smiled at me and waved her hand. And there was Yannick with his parents, his father in a charcoal suit, his mother in black lace gloves and a hat with a little spotted veil. Yannick was wearing a jacket and tie that looked a bit too small for him, and he looked hot and grumpy. I sent him a sly little gust of wind, just to make him notice me –BAM!He did, but just for a second. His eyes bounced off mine like pinballs.
Maman looked at me.Stop it, Rosette.
But he’s my friend, I signed.You know, the one who likes pink marshmallows?
She looked surprised. ‘Yannick Montour?He’s your new friend?’
I wondered if maybe she had thought that Yannick was imaginary. It made me feel suddenly sad and cross that even Maman might be surprised when my friends turn out to be real, live people.
He was in my wood,I signed.He’s nice. He understands things.
Maman gave Yannick a funny look, as if she was still anxious. I wanted to tell her that Yannick was nice, and not at all like his parents, but by then Reynaud had started to talk, so I couldn’t say anything else. He talked about how growing things was like a kind of communion with God, and that’s why Narcisse was really a Christian, even though he hated the Church. It didn’t make much sense to me, and so I watched Yannick instead, and tried to make him look at me by making little stones from the path bounce against the cemetery wall. Then when Reynaud finished talking, he put the urn with the ashes on one of the shallow stone shelves, and screwed a little metal plate into the wall beneath it. There’s just enough room between the wall and the footpath to plant strawberries. I’ll bring some from the clearing. Narcisse would like that. I know he would.
By the time we reached the square again, the not-a-florist’s was open again, and the neon sign was lit. I saw Yannick stop by the entrance, as if something new had caught his eye. There was a paper windmill, I saw, stuck in a flower pot by the door. It made a little clacking sound as it spun round and round. Rainbow colours blinked and flashed like a secret signal. I ran to catch up with Yannick, but Madame Montour gave me a look.
‘Hurry up, Yannick,’ she said. ‘What do you think you’re doing back there?’
Yannick hunched his shoulders and growled, looking more like a bear than ever. That must be what Narcisse looked like when he was a boy, I thought. Like a smaller kind of bear, shaggy brown hair and round shoulders. I bet Narcisse would be happy to know that Yannick and I are friends now. His mother didn’t look happy, though. His mother looked at me like I’d stolen her last pair of shoelaces.
That’s my friend, I said to Maman.Let’s ask him in for chocolate.
Maman looked at Madame Montour, then took my hand and led me away towards thechocolaterie. ‘Perhaps another day, Rosette. This isn’t the time for visitors.’
Why not today? Is it because his mother doesn’t like me?
‘I’m sure that isn’t true,’ she said. But I could tell she was lying.
