Page 26 of The Strawberry Thief
‘You’re not a fan of body art?’
‘On other people, yes,’ I said. ‘But I’ve never wanted to be marked in that way.’
Marked. What an odd choice of word, I thought. And yet it is appropriate. People like us bear no distinguishing marks. We display neither scars, nor souvenirs. Unlike Roux, whose whole body is a kind of tapestry of his life – the loves, the grief, the battles, the joys, the many, many journeys – my skin is uncharted territory. The thought of letting this woman use me – or indeed, Roux – as her canvas made me feel inexplicably cold.
‘I don’t think of it as marking,’ she said. ‘I think of it as bringing out something that has been hidden away. A secret. A confession. The Mayans tattooed their bodies, you know, in order to placate the gods. They believed that a tattoo could reveal the shape of the soul beneath the skin.’
I knew that, of course. In my line of work, I’ve had to learn a lot about the land of blood and chocolate. But it made me uncomfortable to hear Morgane speak so openly of the Mayans and their magic, though it suddenly occurred to me that my mother would have loved her.
‘To be honest,’ I said, ‘I’m not sure you’ll find many takers in Lansquenet. It’s really quite a conservative place, compared to some of the larger towns. Can I ask why you chose it?’
She shrugged. ‘No reason. Just a whim. I find that places often choose me, rather than the other way around.’
‘Well, I must go,’ I said.
‘Thanks. If you happen to change your mind, you know where to find me.’
I went back to thechocolateriefilled with a profound sensation of unease. Morgane watched me from the doorway, the baggy black trousers only just hiding those troubling metal feet. Whatever the ancient Chinese believed, I have no reason to think there is evil in Morgane; and yet everything about her makes me uneasy. Her arrival, on the changing wind. The colours around her doorway. The way Rosette was drawn to her in spite of my warnings to stay away. And now her talk of the Maya seems too close to be a coincidence.
For you, I’d recommend something small. An animal, maybe a bird – something with a heartbeat.What does she mean? A tattoo reveals as much as it hides. What did she see in me, I wonder, that made her draw that conclusion?
Still, she won’t last long here. Lansquenet-sous-Tannes has a way of ejecting those who don’t belong. I should know: I was one of them. Rumours and gossip abound here: even a whisper can be enough to make someone feel unwelcome. And therewillbe whispers, I know – whispers, and rumours are currency here. A woman of her age – and with those tattoos – she could be gone by Easter.
The thought is curiously satisfying. I think of my mother’s cards again.Death. The Fool. The Tower. Change.Rosette is far too curious to stay away from here for long. And Anouk is coming from Paris soon; my little Anouk, who does not need another Zozie to seduce her.Death. The Fool. The Tower. Change.So many changes already. The images in the Tarot pack serve to focus the mind. As such, they could be anything; and yet there is power there, born of centuries-old tradition.Death. The Fool. The Tower. Change.Could it be that Morgane’s craft is in some way related to mine?A tattoo can reveal as much as it hides. That sounds to me like a version of:Try me. Taste me. Test me.
I glance across at the purple door, closed once more against the wind.
What did she see in me just now?An animal, maybe a bird. Something with a heartbeat.I can hear Rosette upstairs, sounding cross, stamping on the floorboards. I wonder, did Morgane see Bam? And if so, what else has she seen?
I go into the kitchen. The scent of cacao should be comforting, and yet somehow, it is not.The Mayans tattooed their bodies, you know, in order to placate the gods. If only it were that easy, I think. If only there was a way in which the shedding of blood could placate the wind.
I try to imagine anyone from Lansquenet being interested in Morgane’s brand of temptation. It took them long enough to accept achocolaterieopposite the church – how then could they ever accept someone like Morgane Dubois?
The blinds are drawn when I go to look again.Maybe she has a customer, says a little voice in my mind.Maybe someone else has heard the siren song of that purple door. Someone who has always secretly thought of getting a tattoo. Maybe she saw them looking in. Maybe she offered them coffee and told them tales of the Maya: ‘For you, an animal, maybe a bird—’
Doesn’t matter, I tell myself. She will be gone by Easter.
6
Monday, March 20
In spite of Tante Anna’s unspoken contempt, Mimi remained a happy child. I learnt to keep her out of the way when Tante Anna was entertaining, which she did every week, after church, on a Wednesday afternoon; and there was tea and petits fours, and maybe a tart from the pâtisserie. On Wednesday afternoons, Tante Anna’s friends would wear black gloves and talk about their work with ‘the poor’, as if Mimi and I weren’t wearing cut-down clothes and hand-me-down boots with the soles worn thin as Communion wafers. On such days the pair of us were kept well out of the way, and because Tanta Anna was in no position to check what we were doing, we often took the opportunity to escape, exploring the neighbouring woods and fields and playing in the river.
There was one place that Mimi liked best: a place where an ancient oak tree stood next to an old well. There was a pump beside the well, but no-one used it any more. Instead they used the pump that stood in the square behind the church, the one that they use for the cemetery. Mimi used to spend hours by that pump, watching the water trickle into the shallow stone trough beside the well while I pumped the rusty handle, or dabbling her hands in the muddy water and laughing like a mad thing. The well was capped with a wooden lid, screwed on to prevent accidents. Mimi knew never to climb onto that rotten circle of wood, in case it gave way and she fell. And in spite of her handicap, I was never impatient with her, or teased her as other boys might have done. I know you won’t believe that, Reynaud. Patience is hardly a virtue I’d expect you to believe of me. Well, maybe my memory isn’t as good as it was, or maybe it was just Mimi who managed to get the best out of me. Either way, we got along. I was a solitary boy, inattentive at school, silent and sullen of temperament. In this I was like my father, or so my aunt would tell me. There was no warmth in the comparison. I sensed that she would have liked me to be different, perhaps to be the kind of boy who helps out at church, who sings in the choir, who plans his first Holy Communion. I stoutly refused to do these things, in spite of – perhaps even because of – Tante Anna’s disapproval. The priest – not your predecessor, but the man who came before him – though praising my aunt’s devotion to the Church, was stern on the subject of children. But Mimi was impossible to keep quiet during services and, as I acted as her minder, I usually managed to escape them too. This meant a weekly black mark for my aunt, who resented us both accordingly. And so it went on; my childhood became an ongoing series of escapes, reprimands and punishments. Until the letter from Rennes. The letter that changed everything.
I had reached the mid-point of Narcisse’s manuscript. I would have read further,mon père, were it not for a loud knock at the door. It was Michèle Montour, and from the expression on her face, I understood she had come to complain.
‘Mon père,’ she said, ‘I’m afraid I was obliged to miss the service on Sunday. But I was speaking to Vianne Rocher.’
Oh. I wondered if I was expected to invite the woman in. I supposed I should; just as they say that vampires must be invited in before they can feed. ‘I suppose you’re very busy?’ I said, hoping for an affirmative response.
‘Oh, no,mon père,’ said Michèle Montour. ‘I can always make time for you.’
So much for my lukewarm welcome. ‘Come in,’ I said. ‘I’ll make coffee.’
She followed me into the drawing-room, bringing with her a powerful scent of gardenia. ‘You’ve been reading my father’s confession,’ she said, squinting at the scribbled words. No doubt for a mention of her name, I told myself. Not that she would have found one, I thought. So far, Narcisse’s confession extends only to the distant past.
I closed the folder. ‘Confidential, I’m afraid,’ I said, and, tucking it under my arm, I went to make the coffee for both of us. If I’d left her alone with it, she would have peeked. Her kind always do.
