Page 45 of The Strawberry Thief
Is this parenthood,mon père? This perpetual sense of loss? If so, then maybe I am glad that I will never know it first-hand. And yet, I envy them that joy that I will never understand.Mon père, have you never wondered why priests are denied that connection? Surely a parent’s love for their child echoes God’s love for his people? And if we cannot experience that, then how can we truly express His will?
‘I heard Anouk was coming home soon,’ I said.
‘Yes, just for a week or so.’
‘That’s nice. It will give her the chance to catch up with her old friends. Is she not tempted to stay for good, and help in thechocolaterie?’
Vianne shrugged. ‘I thought she might be, once.’
Once more I thought of Jean-Philippe Bonnet. ‘I imagine when you’re young, a place like Lansquenet doesn’t seem very exciting.’
‘Maybe that’s why Morgane Dubois decided to open her business here. Maybe that’s why half the village is sick with tattoo fever.’
Half of Lansquenet? That was surely hyperbole. And yet – I thought of Zézette, and Saphir. How many more of the river-folk are hiding fresh new artwork?
‘Maybe the river people,’ I said. ‘Tattoos are part of their culture. Butourpeople – surely not.’
Vianne Rocher seemed to hesitate, choosing her words carefully. ‘I don’t think you’re aware how fast these things can spread,’ she told me. ‘Joline Drou’s son, Jeannot, was showing Rosette his new ink just the other day.’
‘Joline Drou! Sothat’swhy she—’ I stopped, aware that I was about to break the seal of the confessional. But this would certainly explain the tension between Joline and her son, and if Jeannothadgot a tattoo, it was only a matter of time before his friends followed the trend.
‘Of course, he’s twenty-one,’ went on Vianne. ‘He’s free to make his own mistakes. But young people in Lansquenet aren’t as streetwise as city kids. Jeannot has always been young for his age, young and quite impressionable. Maybe it’s flattering to someone like her to be such a powerful influence: to introduce so many young people to her art for the first time. To her art, and maybe to other things.’
She was right, of course, I thought. A village like ours is susceptible to the brief but violent crazes of youth. I have seen them all before. For a month – or maybe three – all the young people are obsessed. Then the wind changes and they move on. Sometimes there is an injury – a broken ankle, a grazed knee – but most of the time there is nothing to show for the brief moment of madness. Except in the case of Morgane Dubois—
‘What other things?’ I said.
‘Who knows? But Maya Mahjoubi and her friends hang around the place all the time. And Yannick Montour, Jean-Philippe Bonnet – even Rosette. None of them are old enough to be legitimate customers. And yet here she is, encouraging them, luring them in – why?’
I nodded, feeling slightly alarmed. I wondered what Joséphine would say if she knew her son was part of the crowd hanging around the tattoo place. Boys will be boys, I suppose,mon père; though I was never such a boy. And yet, although I agreed with her, it surprised me to hear Vianne Rocher speaking so eloquently against a stranger to the village. It should have pleased me; instead I felt as if our roles had somehow been inverted. After all, who was Morgane? Only a disabled woman trying to make a living. My feelings towards her on the day we met had come from my insecurity. Here, in my garden, among the bulbs, I felt more inclined to be tolerant.
‘I would never have imaginedyoufeeling threatened by a newcomer to the village.’ I meant it as a pleasantry, but Vianne did not smile. Instead she gave me a sharp look.
‘This is serious, Francis. Can’t you see she’s dangerous?’
Dangerous.What a baleful word, like the scent of smoke in the air. It’s a word you used repeatedly,père, the year the river-gypsies came.
‘Surely you’re exaggerating,’ I protested weakly.
She shook her head. ‘You’ve felt it,’ she said. ‘You felt it yourself when you spoke to her. There’s something unwholesome about her, Francis. I can feel it. Trust me.’ She put out her hand to touch mine. ‘Trust me,’ she repeated.
For a moment I felt strangely disconnected from myself. Perhaps I was light-headed from having been on my knees for so long; perhaps it was a reaction to having missed breakfast that morning. But at her touch, I felt a charge, like some kind of latent energy. I felt a sudden heat in my face; a scent of smoke in my nostrils. And haven’t I felt it myself,père? That sense of danger around Morgane, the sense of something about to explode?Her art, and maybe other things. Drink, drugs, pornography? Maybe she spiked my drink that day. That might explain my discomfort.
I said: ‘Of course you’re right, Vianne. I was hoping it wouldn’t come to this. But if I need to take action, I will.’
She nodded. ‘Good. What will you do?’
Good question. Where should I begin? Perhaps I should speak to Morgane. A word of warning should be enough to stress the importance of fitting in. And if not? Our folk are conservative, careful of their children. They still go to church. They would listen to me. A well-written sermon or two should bring the stray sheep back to the fold. And if not? There are other means,mon père. Means I would prefer not to use, but which – if she is dangerous – I will not hesitate to deploy in the protection of my flock.Onlyif she is dangerous—
‘Whatever it takes,’ I said at last.
After all, I have done it before.
10
Monday, March 27
My father was gone for thirteen days. Thirteen days of Tante Anna; thirteen days that felt like months. Four more nights I slept in the yard, picking strawberries during the day, so that by the end of it, my hands were stained purple with their juice, and even the scent of them made me gag.
