Page 44 of The Strawberry Thief
‘Oh, word gets around pretty fast,’ said Zézette. ‘And Morgane’sverygood. Look!’ She lifted the front of her blouse to show a fresh tattoo on her midriff. ‘She did this the other day, to match the one she did for Saphir.’
Once more I tried not to look,mon père. But the design was compelling. Another botanical image, this time of a finely detailed sycamore leaf, with a twig and a couple of keys on the side, looking just ready to flutter away …
‘It’s only skin, Monsieur le Curé.’ Zézette looked amused at my discomfort. ‘Maybe you should get one done yourself. A crucifix. Or a holy dove. Or maybe a palm cross, for Easter.’
I shuddered. ‘I don’t think so.’
Saphir gave the kind of smile you see on the face of the Virgin. ‘Never say never,mon père.’
I swallowed the last of my cake, and fled.
8
Monday, March 27
A tattoo shop in Lansquenet. I’d assumed it would never catch on. And yet, in two weeks, it seems to have infected half the village.
The problem is worse than I realized. Passing by the river today, I heard that Zézette and Saphir have new ink; that Jojo LeMollet is going next week, and Blanche is booked in for Thursday. Morgane has glamours to equal my own, and she knows her public as well as her art, spreading the word about her throughout the river community.
How could I let this happen so fast? Why did I hide away for so long? I should have acted immediately, as soon as I first suspected her. Her kind are like spring dandelions, so cheerful and sunny and harmless at first, and then suddenly, everywhere; sending their roots into every crack, invading every flower-bed. That was Zozie; this is Morgane. Her name is in the air like seeds. Even in Les Marauds, she has already made her mark. Passing by Mahjoubi’s shop, I heard two woman discussing her, then, on theBoulevard P’tit Baghdad, two young men, at a table outside.
‘They say she’s amazing,’ said one of them, a boy of no more than Yannick’s age, with a small but hopeful-looking moustache and akeffieharound his shoulders. ‘I wish I could get one, but I’d never hear the end of it.’
The other boy nodded. ‘Pilou saidhewas, but there’s no way his mother’ll let him.’
I stopped at the mention of Joséphine’s son. Could Piloureallywant a tattoo? Of course, he’s at an age at which such a thing seems glamorous. Like smoking, or driving a motorbike, or dating an American girl. But it’s a sign of how much Morgane’s influence is growing here. All of the village has caught the disease: even that part of Les Marauds that considers tattooingharam.
Disease. I sound like Francis Reynaud. But I feel it in every nerve and cell. That dangerous charm. That sickness that spreads like a bruise under skin. I saw Roux’s boat this morning, still moored down by the far end of Les Marauds, but there was no sign of him among the groups of people gathered on the riverbank, or drinking coffee on their decks. I tried not to feel too hopeful. Perhaps he means to move downstream along with the rest of the river-folk. Perhaps he’s even staying until Anouk’s visit is over.
This year, Easter Sunday falls on 16 April. Three weeks until Anouk’s visit. Three weeks to deal with Morgane Dubois, as well as all my business.Deal with her. That, too, is a phrase that ought to belong to Francis Reynaud. But even as every part of me revolts against her presence, I feel a kind of lightness, too. Maybe even of righteousness.
When Zozie de l’Alba strode into my life, I thought she was there to save me. Her humour and her fearlessness made her the sister I’d never had, the friend my Anouk needed. Like Morgane, she was charming. Like Morgane, perceptive. And by the time I understood the price of Zozie’s friendship, she had almost consumed me; my life, my heart, my children …
This time, I know my enemy. This time, I know where I stand. And most of all, I have a friend in the person of Francis Reynaud, who even now is on his knees, not praying, but weeding his garden, where those yearly invaders – dandelions, ragwort, convolvulus – gleefully sink their roots into the beds so lovingly prepared for daffodils, and crocuses, and hyacinth, and peonies.
9
Monday, March 27
There are strawberries growing among my bulbs. Wild ones, seeded from God knows where, poking their pale little fingers among the tulips and crocuses. Wild strawberries are invasive; not quite as invasive as dandelions, but those little heart-shaped leaves conceal a powerful hunger for conquest, sending their runners everywhere, each one an outpost preparing itself for a future invasion.
And yet I cannot bring myself,père, to curb their cheery exuberance. Though more or less worthless in terms of fruit, the little white flowers and pretty leaves make excellent ground cover, keeping the thistles and ragwort at bay without suppressing my daffodils. And besides, in summer, there may be enough of the tiny red berries to put on a tart, or flavour a glassful of sweet white wine. That is, if the birds do not steal them first. They too enjoy their sweetness.
Those strawberries will creep, Reynaud, said Narcisse’s voice in my mind.Let them stay, and in a month, your beds will be nothing but strawberries.
‘There are worse things here than wild strawberries.’
‘Is that so?’ said a voice above me, and for a moment I wondered how Narcisse could sound so like Vianne Rocher—
I looked up. She was watching me from over the garden wall, where the hedge of wild fuchsia and rosemary was already starting to flower. She was wearing a yellow blouse and a matching scarf around her hair.
‘If you want them to fruit,’ she went on, ‘you need to take out the runners. Runners don’t really want to make fruit. They just want to make more strawberry plants. Anouk used to think it was cruel, to throw all those little plants away. When we lived in Paris, I tried growing strawberries in planters. But Anouk was always going into the compost bin to rescue the strawberry runners.They want to be with their friends,she’d say.’
I smiled and stretched my aching back. ‘Children have funny ideas,’ I said.
‘I used to try and explain,’ said Vianne. ‘The runners steal from the mother plant. They take her energy and run as far as they can away from her.But they’re babies, she used to say.You can’t explain that to babies.’
She laughed, a slightly mournful sound. I know she misses Anouk very much. I was suddenly reminded of Joséphine, watching Pilou with his girlfriend.I sometimes envy Vianne, she said.Rosette will always need her.
