Page 61 of The Strawberry Thief
The Piper
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Friday, March 31
I awoke to the sound of church bells, and the morning light casting its jigsaw-puzzle of leaves over the whitewashed bedroom wall. The sky was blue after the rain; a scent of damp soil and greenery. Rosette was already gone, leaving a drawing of a bird in flight tacked to the open kitchen door and an apple core on the table. So, she has had breakfast, at least. One less thing to worry about.
I opened the shop, knowing that there was little chance of business. Few people choose to buy sweets during Mass. Afterwards, depending on the content of the sermon, some may affect to wander my way, and come in as if by accident. Meanwhile, I made preparations for Anouk’s arrival. I always keep her room ready, in case she should drop by unannounced, but today I also changed the sheets to match the violets by the bed, and placed her old stuffed rabbit on the pillow next to her nightdress, although she has long since outgrown him, and will smile at my sentimentality.
I leave the window open awhile. The air is sweet with birdsong. I am already planning what to make for dinner when she arrives – late and tired, without Jean-Loup, and bearing news. What kind of news? Is she coming home to stay?
Looking out across the square, the tattoo shop is silent. No sign of movement from within: no sign of a customer. I force myself to ignore it, though I am longing to look through the blinds. Everything feels clean today, clean and fresh after the rain, and the only sign of last night’s storm is the blossom that lines the cobblestones, lying thick as snow on the ground.
There is a note pinned to the door. I cannot read it from where I am. The bells ring for Mass, and now the congregation drifts away, blowing like fallen leaves across the square, some heading for the churchyard, some for the Poitou bakery. Someone stops by the handwritten sign, someone wearing a tartan coat. It’s Joséphine. I know her walk. But I haven’t seen that coat for a while, and she doesn’t normally go to church.
She stops to read the sign on the door. Turns to call someone over. It’s one of her waitresses from thecafé, Marie-Ange Lucas. I know her well. Coffee creams are her favourites, and she eats them with a sullen look, as if she were hoping they were something else. Marie-Ange, too, has her back to me now, but I did catch a glimpse of her profile. She looks almost excited, her pale hands fluttering like birds. And now Joline Drou steps over, making it a threesome. Joséphine tries to peer between the shutters at the window. Joline does the same; shielding her eyes to try to see beyond the reflections in the glass.
Something must have happened, then. She turns once more to the other two. Joline’s quarrel with Caro Clairmont must still be ongoing: never would she otherwise deign to talk to Joséphine.
Try me. Taste me. Test me.
I send a tiny suggestion their way; accompanied by the mingled scents of hot sugar, nutmeg, vanilla and cream, with the dark rasp of the Criollo bean underpinning everything, like a handful of minor chords under a lighter melody.
Try me. Taste me.
And of course they come to me, as they always come to me. Joséphine comes first, then Joline, then Marie-Ange with her sullen mouth and her bright and envious eyes.
‘Morgane’s gone!’ said Joséphine. ‘I looked through the blinds, there’s nothing there!’
Joline nodded. ‘The sign saysTO LET. She must have left during the night. How did shedothat? The furnishings – all those mirrors, her gear – how did she move it all so fast?’
‘Andwhywould she move?’ said Marie-Ange. ‘I was going to get a tattoo. I was thinking, a pair of angel wings? Or maybe a star. Do you think she’s really gone?’
I hid a smile. ‘Who knows?’ I said. ‘Perhaps we’ll learn more later.’
They were not the only ones to notice Morgane’s disappearance. Over a dozen customers commented on the sign on the door – including Guillaume Duplessis, who uses his daily walk to collect all kinds of information.
‘Madame Rocher, it’s a mystery.’ After all these years, he still prefers to call meMadame Rocher. ‘In with the wind, out with the wind, she almost reminds me of someone else, who blew in on the wind of the carnival.’
I shrugged. ‘Do you think? We’re nothing alike.’
‘Oh, I don’t know, Madame Rocher. I spoke to her at length, you know. I found her very approachable. We spoke about old Charly, and Patch, and how hard it is to let a friend go.’
Guillaume has been without his dog for a little over three months. Several people have offered to find him another dog, but he says that at his age, he’s too old to accept the responsibility.
‘What would happen when I died?’ he says with his customary earnestness. ‘How could I be sure the dog was cared for properly when I was gone? And besides, dogs are faithful. He’d miss me. He’d pine.’
How like Guillaume, I thought, to put the feelings of an imaginary dog before his own need and loneliness.
‘But Morgane Dubois showed me how I could keep them with me always,’ he said. ‘I was very nervous at first. But when I saw the work she’d done for other people, I knew I could trust her judgement.’
‘Not you too?’ I said, amazed.
‘You think I’m too old for that kind of thing. I’ll admit, I thought that too. But then I thought, if not now, when?’ And he rolled up the sleeve of his shirt to reveal a linear design of two dogs in a basket. It was a simple, striking design, and yet somehow the artist had managed to capture the spirit of both dogs: the boisterousness of the Jack Russell; the rather mournful expression of his elderly predecessor. And there was something in the style that somehow I thought I recognized—
I thought back to the bookmark; the one with the yellow monkey. That tattoo is not Morgane’s usual style. It has none of the stifling intricacy of Morgane’s other designs. Has Rosette shared her art with Morgane? It seems only too likely. And if so, what else has she shared with her?
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