Page 66 of The Strawberry Thief
Roux, I killed your parents.
There can be no excuse, I know. My age; the fact that I had thought the houseboats were unoccupied; the fact that I had been brainwashed into believing my actions were righteous. None of that excuses the fact thatIwas the one who lit the fire that caused the death of two people. Just a little fire, on the bank; and yet it grew into a blaze. And though I confessed, and was absolved by Monsieur le Curé himself, that absolution was not his to give, nor mine to claim.
I know that now. I’ve always known. Perhaps that was why I hated you, and all the river-people. Not because of what they are, but because of what I did. And because of what I did, I have been cut off from other people. Perhaps that’s why I hatedthem, too, with all their foolish friendships. I thought myself purer, harder than they – hard as a diamond, wrought in fire – but all the time I envied them. I would have given everything just to erase that one mistake.
I do not mean to imply that because I suffered, I should be absolved. I understand that nothing can change what I did that summer. But after reading Narcisse’s file, I see that there’s one thing I can do. I can tellyou. I can confess to the one other person whose life has been marked by what I did.
I’m not asking for your forgiveness. I simply want you to know how much I regret what I have done. I have no excuse. I am a coward and a murderer. Morgane said you blamed yourself for the death of your parents. But you were a child. You were innocent. I am here to claim what’s mine. See, the mark of Cain on my arm, there for everyone to see—
The words poured out of me like blood, and all I can see now is his face; his eyes as grey as the ocean. I could hope for no sympathy, only the hatred I deserve. I rolled up my sleeve, revealing the patch that covered my still-blurry tattoo – and at that moment, behind him, standing by the galley door, I saw someone else. It was Joséphine.
She was wearing jeans, and a top I liked – blue, with yellow flowers. Her hair was tied up, and tendrils of soft brown hair blew across her face.You said you wanted to see her, said Narcisse’s dry and pitiless voice.Well, you got your wish, mon père. Prayers do get answered, after all.
She must have been in the galley, I thought. She must have heard every word I spoke. For a moment, I stood there in silence, aware of every detail. The wind, the small sounds of the Tannes, the scent of fallen blossom. Inside me, there was a silence deeper than the ocean.
Finally, she knows,I thought. And I have no-one to blame but myself. This was always going to be: I had always known she would find out. Childish of me to imagine that I could hold onto something good in the deluge of my life. Even more so to believe that I might earn forgiveness.
From deep underwater, I heard her voice. Her words came to me from so far away that all I could hear was a rushing sound, like something in a diving-bell. My vision was blurred; my stomach ached; my feet were a thousand miles away. I stumbled down the riverside path, not knowing where I was going; simply aware that I needed to be gone from that place immediately. Someone called after me. I did not turn. There was nothing to turn for. I ran along the side of the Tannes, finally leaving them behind, along with the sound of the river. I skirted the houses along theRue des Marauds,and cut across the ploughed fields, and found myself on the small dirt path leading to Narcisse’s oak wood.
This is the place, I told myself. This is where I will end my life, among the flowering strawberries that I will not live to see ripen. Like the man in the story, I hope that death can somehow redeem me. I do not pray, except to the dark and blasphemous hope that perhaps at last I can disappear, evaporate into the air and not be remembered by anyone—
7
Friday, March 31
I know the story of a girl whose voice was stolen by a witch. Oh, she wasn’t a wicked witch; only a sad and frightened one. All she had was her children: a summer child and a winter child, both of them born wild and full of life and curiosity. And the wind, the jealous wind, would blow around the witch’s house, calling them, calling her, reminding her that magic comes at a price that must be paid one day, in full.
But the witch had known the wind all her life. And she thought that perhaps she could cheat it, and be like the other mothers, and live in a quiet village somewhere, with only the kind of magic that can be hidden away in chocolate.
And so she stole the little girl’s voice, and sacrificed it to the wind, so that only the little girl’s shadow could speak. And thus, she kept her daughter safe, so that only in dreams could she fly away—
But now I am awake,Maman. I know there are no Accidents. Only the wind, reminding us of what we owe for being who we are. Only the magic that lives in us all, and reaches out to everyone. You can’t keep a child like a duck on a lake, wings clipped to fool the wind. The wind is only fooled for a time, and when it returns, it comes with all the force and rage of theHurakan.
And now the wind is blowing again, and I can hear its voice, a voice that could be anyone: Morgane Dubois, or Vianne Rocher, or even Zozie de l’Alba …
Or it could be mine.Ihave a voice. It’s just that I’ve never used it much. I thought it wasn’t safe to use. I thought it didn’t belong to me. But now I can claim my voice again. I can use it. I know how.
Above me, in the trees, the wind is beginning to misbehave. I can hear it taunting me from deep inside the wishing well. I know what it wants. I tell it. ‘BAM!I’min charge now.’
I know what I want to do first. I find a new page in my drawing-book. I draw Narcisse’s farmhouse. Yannick and his mother are outside; I draw her with a flamingo head, Yannick as a sad brown bear. I know how to do the voices, too. All those bird and animal-calls will come in useful after all.
Yannick is shouting. ‘It’s not fair! You never let me have any friends!’
His mother sounds cross and shrill, like the wind. ‘That’s not true, Yannick,’she says.‘I want you to have normal friends, not—’
‘What?’
I know she means me. Yannick’s voice is almost a roar: a bear defending his honey. I almost laugh aloud at the thought, but I don’t want to excite the wind.
‘Normal?’ he says. ‘You mean not like me?’
‘You’re not a freak, Yannick,’ she says. ‘You’re just going through a phase. If only you could make an effort, I’m sure—’
‘I’ve made an effort,’ says Yannick. ‘But underneath, I’m always me. It’s like you’re ashamed of me, Maman. Hiding me away like this. Pretending I’m an invalid. Pretending I’m going to be better someday. Thinking I’ll be different.’
‘But Yannick—’ says his mother, and now she sounds ready to cry. I feel a little sorry for her. She’s his mother, after all. She only wants the best for him. ‘Yannick,’ she says. ‘You’re my only son. All I want is to see you happy.’
‘Then let me be myself,’he says.‘I’ve always been the way I am. I’m never going to be different. And from now on I’m going to choose my own friends, and go my own way, be a freak if I want to. That’s how I’ll be happy, Maman.’
