Page 28 of The Strawberry Thief
‘Then you must understand my concern.’
I said nothing. From what I understand, there are far less drastic ways to manage the condition than institutionalization. But that was a decision for the boy’s parents, I supposed. Perhaps even for the boy himself, if he could one day escape them. My mind went back to Narcisse’s manuscript, and to his descriptions of Mimi. How did that loving boy become such a sour and reclusive old man? And why did his affection turn to Rosette, and not to his own daughter? I suppose I know the answer to that. Michèle is difficult to love. The irony is that if, instead of hiding her problem son away, she had brought the old man and Yannick together, Narcisse might have taken to the boy just as he had done to Rosette.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘And I sympathize.’
‘But you won’t show me the folder.’
I shook my head. ‘Impossible.’
‘Very well,’ said Michèle. ‘In that case, I shall have to seek help elsewhere.’ She paused, then added: ‘Frankly,mon père, I’m disappointed that you should take the side of someone ofthatsort against a member of your congregation.’
‘Someone of what sort?’ I said.
She coloured angrily. ‘You’ll see. Don’t think I don’t see what’s going on. The kind of people she calls her friends. Those Arab women from Les Marauds. Those travellers, with all the tattoos. And now, there’s even one renting my shop, though if I’d known what kind of business it was, I wouldn’t have given her the lease, though God knows, we need the money—’
‘Wait a minute.’ I was confused. ‘Who are we talking about?’
She gave a humourless laugh. ‘Don’t you know? She said she was an artist. We thought she was opening a gallery. And now I find it’s a tattoo place, and ten to one there’ll be all kinds of scum hanging around there day and night, and don’t tell me that Vianne Rocher wasn’t the one who tipped her off that there was a shop going begging.’ She dabbed a tear of rage from her eye. ‘After all the work I’ve put into building a reputation here, now I’ll be a laughing-stock. No-one will take me seriously. And unless she breaks the terms of the lease – which she might, we can only hope – she’ll be there for a whole twelve months,andit will be a miracle if she doesn’t trash the place—’
‘I can see you’re upset,’ I said. ‘But why blame Vianne Rocher for this?’
She gave a crack of laughter. ‘Don’t think I haven’t seen them,’ she said. ‘Both of them as thick as thieves, mother and daughter alike. I believe the Rocher woman even brought her a welcome gift to celebrate her arrival. Well, all I can say is I hope you’re comfortable withthatsort of person settling into the village. Maybe if it gets popular, you can open a sex shop next to the church, or – why not? – aMcDonald’s.’
And on that note of ultimate condemnation, she rose from her armchair and left, walking very stiffly, like a crane, or a wading bird in search of underwater prey.
7
Monday, March 20
I tried to go back to my reading, but my concentration was broken. Instead I decided to go for a walk, and maybe stop for lunch in Les Marauds, or at the café with Joséphine. But Michèle’s revelation had made me curious. I did not share her outrage, but – a tattoo shop in the Place Saint-Jérôme? In Les Marauds – yes,thatmight work. Rents are low, and the river-rats are fond of tattoos and piercings. But here in the square, and under that name, which sounds like a vendor of graveyard supplies …
Les Illuminés. Yes, it might refer to the illumination of skin. Manuscripts in ancient times were often bound in skin, to preserve the jewelled calligraphy hiding in the pages. But that shop – so clean and bright – was not at all what I’d imagined a tattooist’s to be. Though of course, to be frank,mon père, I had never been inside a tattooist’s in my life, and therefore my expectations were entirely based on prejudice. I am not proud of my prejudices, and nowadays I try not to be as judgemental as once I was, but I have to confess that the thought of a tattooist’s in front of the church appealed to me about as much as the arrival of achocolaterie– and at the beginning of Lent, no less – had once appealed to my younger self.
I wondered who the owner was. If Vianne Rocher had welcomed her, then surely I must do the same? I had certainly meant to,mon père. The fact that I had not done so yet was a clear dereliction of duty.
And had I not seen Joséphine, reflected in the mirrors there? Could Joséphine have got a tattoo? It didn’t seem like her. In fact, I could only think of one resident of Lansquenet who might welcome the presence of a tattooist, and he was already so heavily illuminated that the challenge would probably be to find a piece of unbroken skin.
The blinds were drawn when I came to the square. Those purple blinds, so like the lid of a single winking eye. But the sign on the door saidOpen, and so, with some trepidation I went inside, hearing a little bell ring as I did.
Inside it was all mirrors and chrome, just as I had glimpsed it before, with some kind of a dense pattern reflected on everything. Blue leaves, green vines and speckled birds, like some kind of old-fashioned wallpaper in an English stately home, though looking rather out of place in such an otherwise unrestricted space. Comfortable chairs around a table and a coffee machine; and one rather larger reclining chair, presumably for the process itself—
There were two people sitting on the chairs by the coffee machine. One was the woman I’d briefly glimpsed outside my house the night of the rain – I recognized her ash-blonde hair, and the angle of her jaw – wearing some kind of long garment in draped purple velvet, open at the throat to reveal a pair of perfectly matched tattoos flowering from her collarbones. The other person there was Roux, looking relaxed with a cup in his hand, and wearing a sleeveless black T-shirt that showed the tattoos on his bare arms.
As soon as I entered, the smile on his face faded to a sullen blank. Roux has never liked me – for reasons both of us understand – and I have long since given up any hope of penetrating his reserve.
‘Please, don’t get up,’ I said, as Roux made as if to rise from his chair. Addressing the woman, I said: ‘I’m Francis Reynaud. We’re neighbours. I just wanted to say hello.’
The woman smiled. ‘Morgane Dubois.’
Roux made a sound of derision, not unlike one of Rosette’s bird noises.
‘Please don’t go on my account,’ I said, seeing him standing up. ‘I didn’t mean to disturb you.’
‘I’m done here,’ said Roux. He made a gesture of friendly dismissal at the woman, and, flinging on his jacket – a worn leather garment, sheepskin-lined, that he has worn these past twenty years and refuses to replace – he made for the door and vanished like a feral cat.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said to the woman. ‘I hope I didn’t scare away your customer.’
The woman gave a slow smile that I found unexpectedly sweet. I’d thought she was much younger than I, but now I realized that we were more or less the same age. Perhaps it is those striking tattoos that give that impression of youth; that, or the vividness of the face tucked beneath the nest of hair.
