Page 55 of The Strawberry Thief
‘I’d been living with her for twenty-nine years,’ my father went on. ‘God only knows why she took me in, but she was never a mother to me. In her eyes, I would never grow up: I would always be that boy, the boy who’d never quite been a son. But then I met Naomi. I met your mother, and everything changed.’
Ah, that old tale again,père. Love is transformative. Love redeems. I’ve heard this story so many times, from hopeful women with broken teeth; from hopeful men in denial.Love changes everything. Love made me a better person. This is the dream they are sold,mon père. This is their hope of salvation. And yet, the world still turns, with all its burden of sin and misery. Love changed Narcisse’s father, he says; and yet he stayed at Tante Anna’s farm, to bear the brunt of her ridicule. Love crosses continents, and yet he never left his village until murder forced him to do so.
My father paused for a moment, and smiled. ‘Until then I hadn’t realized how much one person can change someone’s life. But Naomi did. She did, somehow. Naomi saw me.Heardme, even when I was silent. She came to us just before the War, with a group of Polish refugees. She was nineteen. I was twenty-five. She went to live with a Jewish family down the Boulevard de Marauds. She came to the farm in summer, to help with the picking and harvesting. In those days the farm was very hard work. We had fields of maize and wheat, three orchards, a vineyard, a strawberry field, as well as potatoes, onions, cabbages, parsnips, beans and Jerusalem artichokes. We needed to bring in labour, and Naomi and the others were there. We got to be friends. She was funny and kind. One day I asked her to marry me.’
My father finished his cider. I could tell that in his mind, he was far away from the cellar; the slab; the thing under the tarpaulin. His face was animated; his eyes were bright and shining with the past.
‘Of course, Tante Anna protested. A Jewess! A foreigner! Was I mad? I must have been, because for once she did not change my decision. I married Naomi quietly, in a synagogue in Agen, and she came to live with us on the farm. Of course, Tante Anna hated her. But she needed me there, and besides, Naomi was at my side. I know you don’t remember her much, Narcisse, but your mother was very strong. Stronger than anyone I’ve known; strong and sweet as peach liqueur.’
I tried to remember my mother, Reynaud. You read all kinds of stories in which children remember their mothers by a lullaby, a certain word, a certain scent or feeling. But all I could remember was the photograph by my father’s bed: the single wedding photograph, taken by a man in Agen eighteen months before I was born. My father, clumsy in his suit, with a smile as broad as a tractor grille; my mother, small and unremarkable, her dark hair half hidden under a light-coloured hat. Mimi, with her small features, looked a little like her. It made me sad I couldn’t remember anything about her, and so I simply said: ‘I know,’ and hoped he would be satisfied.
My father sat silent for a while next to the body of Mimi. His smile had faded, and I knew that he was back in the present day.
‘Tante Anna delivered Mimi, you know,’ he said, putting down the empty cider bottle. ‘You were born in hospital – delivered by a midwife – but by the time Mimi was born, Agen was occupied territory, and even in the villages, things had got too dangerous. Rather than risk attracting attention, Tante Anna delivered the baby herself – and your mother bled to death because we couldn’t save her.’
‘I didn’t know,’ I said.
He shrugged. ‘You were too young to understand.’
And now, I thought, I’m a murderer. What a journey I had made, from motherless child to this. What a journey – well, Reynaud, you should know. You made it, too.
And here it comes. I knew it would, once the story neared its end. My hand began to tremble. My head was like a live grenade. This was what I’d been waiting for: the few incriminating lines that make the difference between Heaven and Hell. I wanted to read them, and yet my mind seemed incapable of reading the words. The looping script danced in front of my eyes like the patterns of Morgane’s tapestry. In spite of the space around me I felt completely unable to move—
And then, once more, I heard the sound of the church door opening. Freed of my paralysis, I quickly closed the folder and hid it underneath my pew. Absurd, I know; and yet I could not rid myself of the idea that anyone who set eyes on it would instantly know its secrets. I turned, and saw Vianne Rocher standing by the confessional. She was wearing a bright red coat, and in the greenish light of the church, she looked peculiarly out of place. She never attends services. I have seen her here, in Saint Jerôme’s, maybe twice in twenty years. I stood to greet her. She walked down the aisle and I saw that she was holding a silver box, tied with a long red ribbon.
‘I hope I’m not disturbing you.’
‘Of course not.’ It was not quite a lie. I confess I felt a certain relief at this surprise interruption. My head was aching, my vision was blurred with the effort of reading the script, and I realized that I had left my spectacles at home.
‘I thought you might like something sweet,’ she said. ‘You’ve been looking a little tired lately.’
I had to laugh. ‘A little,’ I said.
‘Easter’s a busy time for us all.’
If only she knew, I told myself. If only my business was like hers: my concerns as sweet and harmless as wondering how many chocolate hens orcornets-surpriseto put on display.
‘I’ve been trying something new. Something a little more potent than the usual truffles andmendiants.’ She handed me the silver box. ‘I thought you could try one out for me. Tell me if the recipe works.’
I took the box. It was very small and light, and yet I could smell what was inside – complex and heavy with spices.
‘But it’s Lent,’ I said.
‘Not for long,’ said Vianne. ‘Besides, this is research, not greed. I need to test your palate.’
I opened the box. A single chocolate, perfectly round, topped with a circle of scarlet glaze and polished to an impossible shine. How does she get them so shiny? I thought. And why do I think it looks like an eye?
‘Go on. Try it, Francis,’ she said.
I hesitated. I could smell the rich dark scent – she uses only the finest beans, shipped from a plantation off the west coast of Africa – the chocolate infused with spices, the names of which sound like islands in a vanished archipelago. She tells me their names –Tonka. Vanilla. Saffron. Clove. Green ginger. Cardamom. Pink peppercorn.I have never travelled,père, and yet those names take me elsewhere, to undiscovered islands, where even the stars are different.
I pick up the chocolate. It is perfectly round, a marble between my fingers. I used to play with marbles once, long ago, when I was a boy. I used to put them to my eye and turn them round and round, to see the colours winding through the glass. I put the chocolate, whole, in my mouth. The red glaze tastes of strawberries. But the heart is dark and soft, and smells of autumn, ripe and sweet; of peaches fallen to the ground and apples baked in cinnamon. And as the taste of it fills my mouth and begins to deliver its subtleties, it tastes of oak and tamarind, metal and molasses. And once more I am by the Tannes, breathing the scent of smoke and soil, and I want to tell her everything, I want her to hear my confession—
‘I found Narcisse’s document at the new tattoo place,’ she said. ‘I thought maybe you should have it back. Don’t worry, I haven’t read it,’ she added, as she saw me flinch. ‘I only saw enough to know what it was.’
My mouth was on fire. ‘Shehad it?’ I said.
‘I suppose she must have taken it,’ said Vianne Rocher. ‘I don’t know why.’
