Page 49 of The Strawberry Thief
I cleared my throat, but no-one came. Morgane must have gone out, I thought. And so I turned to go, but as I did, a stack of books caught my eye from the corner of the little table by the big tattooist’s chair. They looked like photo albums. Of course, I thought. This is her work. Her archive of designs. Seized with a great curiosity, I picked up an album, opened it. As I had thought, it was filled with photographs. Some were Polaroids, faded with time, some scratched like ancient records. But all of them were of her work; of the people she has collected. Young, old, white, brown; she had them all in her album, and, moving to the most recent shots, I saw my friends and neighbours: Roux, unsmiling and shirtless and looking straight into the camera; Joséphine, grinning shyly and slightly out of focus. Jeannot Drou was there as well, and Zézette, and Blanche, and their daughter Saphir, and Jojo LeMollet, Sofia Zidane, and Nadine Poitou, and Saïd Lellouche. Even Ying, the solicitor, one hand raised to show the spray of delicate plum-blossom on her wrist. And once more, on the final page, Anouk, with her purple hair and her smile like the coming of summer—
I threw the book onto the table. It was impossible. It was a trick. Just like the trick with the mirrors. The woman had known I was coming here. She’d left me this book as a warning.
Don’t mess with me, Vianne Rocher. Don’t interfere with my business.
I closed the album abruptly, certain that Morgane had entered the room. I turned, but the room was still empty, speckled birds and fronds of fern reflected from every surface. I went to replace the album. But as I did, I noticed a folder lying on the table. Smaller than the album, green, and tied with a length of pink legal tape, I thought I recognized it, though from where, I was uncertain. I picked it up. It opened at a bookmark – a drawing of a monkey, reading a book, and laughing.
I flicked through the rest of the folder. It was filled with loose pages. Closely handwritten, in ink that varied from light blue to rusty-black. A diary? The writing suggested another age, an age in which children were required to write on squared paper, and practise their calligraphy. And then, I suddenly realized that this was Narcisse’s confession, given by Ying to Francis Reynaud at the reading of the will. How had it come into Morgane’s hands? And how did a drawing of Rosette’s come to be used as a bookmark?
It occurred to me that maybe all this was something to do with Michèle Montour. After all, she has made no secret of her resentment of Narcisse’s will. Could she have enlisted Morgane’s help to get hold of the document? And was Morgane’s interest in Rosette connected to Narcisse’s legacy?
In any case, I told myself, the document was no business of hers. It must go back to Francis Reynaud. I put the folder under my arm and went back out into the square. The small bell rang as I left, but nothing else marked my departure. The square, too, was mostly clear, except for a couple of children crossing over from Poitou’s bakery. I moved towards thechocolaterieat an unobtrusive pace, opened up again, and went to sit behind the counter. The folder lay on the countertop, Rosette’s bookmark protruding.Just one page,I told myself.Just to see if it mentions Rosette.
I knew I was breaking a confidence. I knew the confession was meant for Reynaud. But just then all I could think about was the fact that Morgane must have read the file, at least up to the bookmarked page. And if there was information there that she could use against me or Rosette …
I opened the folder, and started to read.
3
Wednesday, March 29
Reynaud, it was so easy. I never even gave it a thought. I remember Tante Anna on the stairs, and Mimi on the stone slab, and the jars of preserves and pickles and jellies shining in the undersea light. Murder is that cool, blue light. Murder is like the squares on a quilt, motley and multicoloured.
I remember her looming over me from the top of the cellar steps. I remember her shiny little black boots at the level of my eyes. Without even thinking, I reached out an arm and yanked at a stockinged ankle. She gave a great cry of outrage, which turned into a wail of alarm as she toppled and started to fall. I sprang back to give space and she fell, arms outstretched, to the cellar floor and I heard the sound of wrist and collarbone breaking. There were only half a dozen steps. Not enough to kill her outright, even with luck. But then, Reynaud, I took a jar of strawberry jam from one of the shelves – a two-litre Mason jar, from the batch that Tante Anna had made that week – and before she could react, or scream, or know what I was doing, I let gravity do what I could not, and smashed it into the back of her head, taking care to use the base of the jar, which would not break under the impact.
I know. It sounds cold. It wasn’t, Reynaud. I felt more awake than I’d ever been. Feeling awake isn’t always good. But I felt as if a window had opened up into the world; a window through which I could see the truth. Perhaps that’s how Adam and Eve felt, when they ate from the Tree of Knowledge. As if their world had been nothing more than a canvas, nicely painted with pastoral scenes, behind which the truth waited patiently for one of them to tear it aside.
And yet, for all these Biblical thoughts, your God had never seemed less real. Only I was real, Reynaud; and I knew I’d never be the same. Some acts are transformative. Even at eleven years old, I knew that. I’d never play by the Tannes again, or walk in the woods, or pick strawberries in quite the same way ever again, now that I was a murderer.
Tante Anna didn’t die straightaway. She lasted a few minutes. Her face had gone a funny shape, and one eye had disappeared into her head. The other one just looked at me. It was blue, and very bright, and I couldn’t tell if the brightness was anger, fear or hatred. She didn’t say a word, though. But I could hear her breathing. And the blood was softly pooling around; staining the lace of her collar red; etching her onto the cellar stones. Finally the breathing stopped. The brightness went glassy. The blood stopped.
The jar was unbroken. It takes a lot to break the base of one of those jars. I wiped it off with my handkerchief and returned it to the shelf. The War had mostly passed me by, but I knew enough to remember that food was a commodity never to be wasted.
It has taken me hours to read the closely written pages. I read alone, in my bedroom, late into the night, and I never stopped hearing Narcisse’s voice; the voice of the Narcisse I knew, but also the voice of the boy that he had been, the one who had carried this act to his grave, and still felt the weight of it enough to want to confess it to Reynaud.
Why Reynaud, of all people? Narcisse was not a believer. He never even liked Reynaud, and yet the urge to confess tohimwas clearly too strong to resist. Why? There are answers here, I know. That is why I must keep it – at least until I have found them. I know this was not intended for me, and yet I must read it to the end. And what does Rosette know know of all this? Is she aware of the document? I want to ask her directly, but I fear she might not tell me. There’s something here that links them all – Narcisse, Reynaud, Rosette, Morgane. Something about the oak wood that now belongs to my daughter. Michèle Montour already believes that there is a secret surrounding this wood. If only I can discover it—
A cat crossed your path in the snow, and mewed. The Hurakan was blowing.
That phrase. Why do I hear it so often, at night, when the world is sleeping? At first I thought it was my mother’s voice; it sounds almost like her. Then I thought I recognized the voice of Zozie de l’Alba. But now I think of Morgane Dubois, and the way she spoke to me when we met, the way she speaks to me even now from that shuttered window.
Feel me. Find me. Face me.
Once more I bring out my mother’s cards.Death. The Fool. The Tower. Change. Beneath them, I draw the Three of Swords: the card of deepest sorrow. Then the Four of Disks: power. Then the Four of Staves: victory. But for whom? Morgane and I are dangerous spheres, set on an orbit to collide. One of us wants to ride the wind; the other wants to silence it. One of us wants to be deep-rooted oak; one of us wants to be dandelion seeds. And so, for my daughter’s sake, and for mine: one of us will have to go.
The phone at my bedside makes a sound – a single chime, like a tiny bell. Anouk. She must be up very late. And I was so busy with Narcisse’s book that I forgot to send my usual goodnight message.
Coming early. On my own. See you Friday. Got some news! A.xx
I wonder what her news may be. It sounds like change, and in my world, change is not always as exciting as my summer child would hope. Change is often dangerous; its voice too much like the voice of the wind.
I text:Of course. See you Friday! xxx
And yet, there’s something in me that wishes she had kept to her earlier plan. I had hoped Morgane would be gone by the time Anouk arrived. Anouk is trusting. She will see no danger. She will love the purple door, painted in a colour that matches her hair. She will be fascinated by Morgane, and her metal feet, and her many tattoos. And I will be unable to stop her from hearing that whisper, thatcommand—
Find me. Feel me. Follow me.
Forty-eight hours is not very long. And yet, I see what has to be done. Forty-eight hours to change the wind. To course-correct our lives, to change the cruel path of the Hurakan. Forty-eight hours, to dispel Morgane like an unseasonal fall of snow. At first it seems a hopeless task. Morgane Dubois seems impervious to my kind of persuasion. But I know someone who is not. Someone who is capable of taking all kinds of action. Someone who will understand why she cannot be tolerated. Someone who has already proved himself to be more than merely susceptible to the charm of the cocoa bean.
