Page 69 of The Strawberry Thief
9
Friday, March 31
The well in which Narcisse and his father disposed of Tante Anna still stands, in a clearing in the wood. There is a little path from the gate, which leads to the location. I wonder vaguely why Narcisse chose to maintain the burial site – in his place I would have preferred to fill in the well and allow the brambles to cover it. Instead, Narcisse has chosen to make a clearing around the well, a clearing that is overrun with furrows and wreaths of wild strawberries.
But someone has been here recently. Earth has been turned over in several parts of the clearing. I suspect Michèle Montour, with her talk of buried treasure. And there are footprints in the grass, and an area next to the well where someone has spent a considerable time.
Rosette? A discarded pencil suggests that I am probably right. It occurs to me that if I die here, the child will probably find me. That would not be a good thing. I have no wish to do more harm. All I want is to disappear and never be seen again by anyone.
Surprisingly, this simple plan is riddled with complications. I cannot hang myself from a tree, for fear of Rosette finding my corpse. An overdose of pills at my home would mean someone – the neighbours, perhaps – having to report the signs of something decomposing next door. Leaping into the Tannes might work, but I am an excellent swimmer,père, and besides, the thought of little Maya or one of her friends discovering me on the riverbankmakes me feel quite nauseous. The same applies to leaping from the church tower, or under a train. A suicide leaves so much work for other people to do,père. So much potential for doing harm; so many duties unfulfilled.
By now I suppose Roux and Joséphine will have spread the news around Lansquenet. Everything I thought I had – my reputation, my flock, my life – held up to contempt and scorn. Everyone will know that the man who claimed to guide them was no more than an imposter. Caro Clairmont and her cronies, who courted me for my status. Poitou, the baker. Joline Drou. Ying-Ley Mak. The Bencharkis. The river folk. The sullen waitress from the café. The postman. The Bishop. Vianne Rocher. Omi Al-Djerba. Little Maya.
And Joséphine –my Joséphine,whispers the blasphemous voice in my mind. Words that I could never say, even before my confession. Now, of course, they will never be said. That, I suppose, should be a relief. She knows that I am a murderer, but at least she will never knowthat.
I look into the open well. The hole looks deep, and smells of rain and vegetation gone to rot. I think of Cain, trying to hide from the Eye of God. I wonder if the drop would be far enough to kill me, or whether I would slowly drown, like a rat in a vat of rainwater. I am afraid to die,mon père. And yet I am also afraid to live. Maybe I always was,mon père. Maybe that is my tragedy.
Suddenly, it occurs to me that I have not yet seen my tattoo. The skin beneath the plastic patch is still inflamed and sensitive. But did Morgane not need me to see the image she designed for me? Is there not some message there that I am meant to understand?
I push up the sleeve of mysoutaneand gently remove the protective patch. The air feels good against my skin, cool and reassuring. I look for the mark of Cain – the Eye, the flame, the bolt of lightning – but there is nothing. No design. Just an area of skin a little more sensitive than the rest, like a patch of sunburn …
What’s this? Is it a joke? A trick?
I inspect the whole of my arm. Nothing there. The blur of violent colours I’d seen is as absent as Morgane herself. But there was a tattoo. There must have been. I saw it. Ifeltit. I spoke aloud.
‘Therewasa tattoo. I know there was.’
My words come back at me from the well, broken into pieces.
And then, once more, I think of the tale of the man who had lived all his life with a secret so dark that only death could absolve it. Was this how she had tricked me into declaring my own secret? Is this the punchline to a joke of which I am the target?
The man in her story was saved, of course. Confession released him from his sin. But it will not release me from mine. Roux cannot absolve me. My whole life has been a series of bitter jokes, of terrible mistakes. Everything that has happened over the years has led me to this.
There is a piece of scrap metal by the side of the old well. I drop it into the cool damp air, and listen for the splash. It comes after a long time, from far away into the dark. Looking down, I can just make out the faded silver disc of the sky reflected in the distant depths. And now from the throat of the well I can almost hear the sound of voices; high, like those of children at play. A trick of the well’s acoustics, perhaps. It reminds me of the tale of the Pied Piper, and how with his music he lured the children of Hamelin underground. Only two children, one lame, one blind, escaped, but spent the rest of their lives dreaming of what might have happened if they had been like the others.
As for the man behind it all, who would not pay the piper his due, he drowned himself in the river, or hid himself underground, like Cain, depending on the version you read.
I realize that I have lost the green folder containing Narcisse’s confession. I must have dropped it, I suppose, somewhere by the riverside. But there can be no going back. Whatever else happens, my path ends here. My duty to Narcisse is done.
Now I must pay the rest of my debt, the one I owe the Almighty. An eye for an eye. A life for a life. Time to pay the piper.
10
Friday, March 31
And now I know what theHurakanhas taken in place of Morgane Dubois, and the world falls down like a tower of cards, like the Tower in my mother’s pack, spilling the pieces of my life among the truffles and nougatines.
Anouk is going away. My Anouk. This moment I have feared so long. A stolen child myself I know that, at heart,allchildren are stolen. They run with the hare, they melt with the snow, they follow the Pied Piper. And sometimes they blow away like confetti on the wind—
Anouk went up to her room to unpack, leaving me to make dinner. Something quick and simple, I thought: a salad of ripe tomatoes, served with baked goat’s cheese, fresh bread and a dish of fat brown olives. I managed to hide my anxiety until she had left the room, but my hands were shaking as I cut up the tomatoes. A little oil, some sea salt, shallots, a handful of fresh basil. Food is the thing that unites us all, that brings us back together. Food is the thing we can provide when there is nothing else we can do. That’s why we serve it at funerals. To remind us that Life always goes on.
The church clock rings six-thirty. It’s late. Rosette should surely be back by now. The shop across the square looks dead: there is no sign of movement. I tell myself that Morgane has left town – silently, unobtrusively, as I might have done twenty years ago, answering the call of the wind. But I do not believe it. I suspect she still has one surprise to bring out of her bag of tricks. One more, final turn of the card.
The goat’s cheese is almost ready. Upstairs, I hear the shower running. Rosette should be here: she knows Anouk has come to visit from Paris. Could Morgane have taken her? No. And yet the fear remains in my mind, coiled tight as a worm in a cherry. The lights are all out in the tattoo shop, and yet there’s something that catches my eye in the darkened window. Maybe a reflection. But then I see a golden blur at the edge of the window—
I turn off the oven and go to the door. To check will take two minutes, no more. Anouk is in the shower, and there is no-one else around. I cross the square at a run, and peer into the shuttered window. There are no mirrors inside; no sign of any human activity. And yet I sense a presence there; something that gleams in the shadows like the golden trail of a mythical beast—
I move to the door. I start to knock. But the door is already open. The catch must be broken, or maybe Morgane forgot to lock it on her way out. It pushes open into the scent of violet and tuberose.
