Page 43 of The Strawberry Thief
‘You keep away from that place,’ she said.
But Morgane’s my friend!
‘She isn’t your friend. You don’t know anything about her. Remember what happened in Paris, last time someone pretended to be our friend?’
She’s talking about Zozie, I thought. Zozie, who was in the tattoo book. For a moment I wondered if I should tell Maman about that. Then I decided maybe not. It was only a photograph, not even a colour one. Besides, Morgane isn’t like her. She’s nothing like Zozie at all.
7
Sunday, March 26
Another round of confessions,mon père. Tedious for the most part: petty sins and everyday woes. Joline Drou is at odds with her son; Caro Clairmont broke her fast. François Pinson isharbouring thoughtsabout a lady half his age, who luckily has no idea that she is the object of an old man’s infatuation. Guillaume Duplessis uses the confessional to mourn the death of his old dog; Laurent Dumont’s youngest son, Pierre, thinks to shock me by claiming a string of wholly implausible felonies.
But the one confession Idocare about continues to elude me. Narcisse’s tale remains unfinished, although his voice is still in my mind; dry, and surprisingly, not unkind, though speaking with growing urgency.
Tick-tock, it whispers in my ear as I climb into the pulpit.Tick-tock, it says, as I lead the prayers.Tick-tock, it says during the sermon.The longer that folder is out of your hands, the more dangerous it becomes. Who do you think has read it by now? Michèle Montour? Her son? Who else? Vianne Rocher? Caro Clairmont? Maybe even Joséphine?
Michèle Montour came to church today, but did not stay for confession: from the keen look in her eye, I sense that she came to watch me. Yannick was not with her, nor was Michel. She passed me at the church door, eyes like blades, but was silent. I can tell she wants to ask what has happened to Narcisse’s folder, but it was too public a place, and besides, she does not want to give me the advantage in this battle of wits.
So, she hasnotread it yet. That means it must still be out there. My phone call to the solicitor’s has yielded nothing meaningful. Mme Mak is annoyingly correct, quietly refusing to discuss anything more than my own role in executing Narcisse’s will. There is very little more to do, she assures me. Maybe a few papers to sign. It is all very straightforward.
That means Michèle Montour has not yet approached the solicitor. Her threat to contest Narcisse’s will must therefore be linked to the folder. All the more reason to want it back, but there is nothing more I can do. The boy Yannick is on my side. Once he has news, he will come to me. Until then, the best thing to do is nothing.
I left today fully resolved to do precisely that,mon père. A little light gardening, perhaps; or a walk along the Tannes. The river-rats are assembling, as they often do around Easter, staying for a couple of weeks and then moving on upriver. I saw six or seven new boats moored along down by Les Marauds: a group of people around a fire looked up at the sight of my priest’ssoutane. I recognized two of them, friends of Vianne, whom I know only as Blanche and Zézette. Blanche is a stately West African woman; Zézette, a slender young person with a shaved head and many tattoos.
‘Monsieur le Curé!’ Blanche called to me as I passed over the bridge. ‘Come down and say hello to Saphir! We’re having a birthday party!’
Saphir is Zézette’s daughter. I hadn’t seen her for some time: I guessed she must be twelve or thirteen. But I realized as I saw her that my reckoning was woefully out: Saphir is a young woman now, with the kind of jaw-dropping beauty that even a priest cannot fail to see.
‘Eighteen on Wednesday,’ said Zézette, when I ventured to inquire. ‘For her birthday I got her her first tattoo! Want to take a look?’
I started to say not at all, there was nothing I wanted less, but Saphir had already pulled up the sleeve of her blouse. In the tender place between armpit and elbow I saw a cluster of pale yellow flowers with cabbage-green leaves, like a Victorian wallpaper design, or a plate from an old book of botanical illustrations. One of Morgane Dubois’ designs, no doubt: as fresh against the young girl’s skin as dew on one of those pale-green leaves—
‘It’s a primrose,’ said Saphir. ‘My birthday flower, according to the Revolutionary calendar.’
‘Is it?’ I was feeling warm: I wished I had changed out of mysoutanebefore setting out on my walk – better still, I wished I had gone the other way, where I would not have met anyone.
‘March the twenty-second would have been the first day of the growing month.Germinal,they called it. Month of bees and crocuses.’
‘Did Morgane Dubois tell you that?’
Saphir nodded. ‘She chose the design for me.’
‘You trusted her to do that?’
‘Of course,’ said Saphir. ‘She’s an artist.’
I shrugged. I don’t know much about tattoos. Still, if I were to have one, I think I’d want to control the outcome. Of course, I would never get a tattoo. The very idea is ridiculous.
Never say never, Reynaud. Tick-tock.
I shook my head, as if to remove some insect buzzing in my ear. Zézette gave me a humorous look, and handed me a wooden plate. ‘Cake, Monsieur le Curé?’
‘Thank you.’ Of course, I could not refuse. The river-folk have a code of their own. To refuse their hospitality would have been an insult. And so I took the piece of cake – which made me think of Joséphine, and the party she’d had for Jean-Philippe’s girl – and sat down on the riverbank.
The bonfire was small, contained within a ring of stones from the river. The smoke was highly scented: fir, and applewood, and wild sage. It reminded me of something; something I could not identify. Once again I wished I had taken another route home from church.
‘I wondered how a tattoo shop would manage to find customers here,’ I said, between two mouthfuls of cake (walnut and ginger, homemade and good).
