Page 35 of The Strawberry Thief
Ink
1
Tuesday, March 21
And so,mon père, I have failed to retrieve Narcisse’s confession. My fault, of course, yet who could have known that woman would lie so shamelessly? Mad thoughts of breaking into the house, firmly pushed aside.Père, is this really what I have become? And yet, if Narcisse has included any mention of that long-ago incident …
Incident? Really? Is that what it was?
And now his voice is in my head, as if it weren’t enough to have all this on my conscience. Yes,mon père, Narcisse’s voice, as dry as a handful of autumn leaves, and close, as close as a mouth pressed into the whispering shell of my ear. Marvellous. As if there weren’t already enough ghosts in my life. I came home last night feeling hopeless and drained, and my sleep – such as it was – was filled with dark imaginings. If only I could sleep,mon père. Sleep and never awaken.
This morning I tried to calm my nerves by doing a little gardening. I do enjoy the ritual: the weeding, the planting, the small spring bulbs – crocus, tulip, daffodil – raising their heads above the soil in joyful resurrection. If only we did the same,mon père. But all we do is get older.
The sun was hot. I was sweating. Not in mysoutanetoday, but in jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt. The Bishop disapproves of thesoutanein a non-clerical context. And to be fair, it’s less practical when it comes to kneeling down.
My father, the murderer. It’s harder to get up nowadays from that kneeling posture. It feels like more of a penitence, which I take as a good thing, but the process of weeding and planting makes it rather too much of a pleasure. I have always had difficulty reconciling pleasure with faith. Perhaps this is why Vianne Rocher has always aroused such feelings in me. It occurs to me that maybe she could help me with my predicament – but no. I cannot ask for her help. This mess is of my making.
So pray, said the little dry voice in my ear.Isn’t that what you’re good at?
Is it? I don’t think so. It has been some time since I prayed, Narcisse. The sad truth is that I do not believe God is really listening. To others, perhaps, but not to me. And yet, for the first time in months, I feel in need of His presence.
There was no crucifix nearby, no altar before which to kneel. Only a bucket of weeds and a spade. And yet I found myself praying –Please –just that one word, like a frightened child. If asked what else I wanted to say, I might have found it impossible, but I suppose I was childishly hoping that somehow God might understand.
I used the spade to haul myself up, pushing the damp hair from my eyes. No more gardening today. I looked over the garden wall, and saw, to my surprise, a round face staring through the fuchsia hedge. It was Yannick Montour whom I had already met, rather briefly, a few days before.
The voice in my ear said:See? It works. God has answered your prayers, my son.
‘I can do without your sarcasm, thanks.’
Yannick Montour looked puzzled. ‘What?’
‘I’m sorry. I was just thinking aloud.’ I put my hands into the small of my back, feeling the muscles crackle. ‘It’s nice to see you again, Yannick. Is Rosette Rocher with you?’
Shyly, Yannick shook his head. He looked awkward and a little intimidated, and I wondered if his mother had sent him to report on my movements. It would be just like her to do that, I thought. To gloat over her victory.
And then,mon père, I had an idea. I suppose Narcisse’s voice put it there, but it leaped out at me nevertheless, radiant in its clarity.Two can play at that, it said. And after the strawberry jam incident, I knew exactly what weapons to use. I said:
‘Do you like cake, Yannick?’
The boy’s eyes opened very wide.
‘Chocolate cake? Mocha cake?Bavaroise, with whipped cream?’
The boy seemed to glance to one side, as if to check that he was really the one I had been addressing. Then he gave a hopeful nod.
‘Really? What a coincidence. I just happen to be going to thechocolateriein the square. What would you say to a slice of cake? A slice of cake, and a little chat?’
He followed me without a word.
2
Wednesday, March 22
Rainy in Paris. I love you. A. xxxx.The extra kisses convey a kind of uneasy compensation. When Anouk was small, she would sayI love youwhen she was preparing to make mischief.
I start to write:I love you, too,then I think better of it. Instead I send her a photograph, taken on my phone, of the church, and the whitewashed wall across the square; the almond tree outside the door blossoming against the sky. I banish the urge to gild it a little; to colour it in shades of home; to writeCome back, where you belongin tiny, secret letters. But that is a dangerous game, I know. We do not play it any more. There is too much at stake, and the wind is a co-conspirator, promising gold and delivering nothing but handfuls of autumn leaves.
But it works, says my mother’s voice.It really works. I called you. Just the way you called Rosette—
