Page 8 of The Strawberry Thief
My head was already aching,père. The script was barely readable. Like a lazy schoolboy, I found myself scanning the manuscript in search of the salient details. Whom did his father murder? I suppose I will find out eventually, and yet I find it annoying to have this crucial information withheld. Even more annoying is the knowledge that in any case, I must read to the end – in spite of the migraine-inducing script and the thinly veiled insults to the Church that are likely to be scattered throughout the document. I wish I could simply put it aside, or burn it, unread, in the fireplace. But a man’s last confession must be heard – even such a man as this. I took a couple of aspirin, and sat down once again to read.
But I had barely opened the folder when there came the sound of a large vehicle turning into the lane. I stood and went to the window. The Avenue des Francs Bourgeois is narrow, lined with linden trees; the tall van touched their branches as it made its way along. I recognized a removals van, and at the wheel, Michel Montour, in overalls and a baseball cap. He nodded at me as he passed, and I realized that he was heading down the hill towards Narcisse’s farm.
Have he and Michèle decided to move in? It seems likely, if only because Michel used to work in the building trade. It would make sense, I told myself, to renovate the buildings before trying to sell the property. It even made sense for him to move in, to save time and to safeguard his supplies. But the size of the van suggested that the whole household was moving in – perhaps even the mysterious son, of whose existence I had only just learnt.
Perhaps I should call at the farm. I confess,mon père, I was tempted to go – if only to delay reading Narcisse’s manuscript for a few more hours. But if the Montours were moving house, a visitor might not be welcome. Maybe I can call next week, when they have settled down. And yet it irked me that something was happening in Lansquenet without my prior knowledge. A priest should know his flock. This lapse constitutes a failure. I should have asked Vianne Rocher when I had the chance. Now, if I go, I told myself, she will know it is because I saw the removals van.
However, Joséphine Bonnet, who owns the café down the road, could certainly tell me what’s happening. No-one would think twice if I called in. Everyone goes to Joséphine’s. And people talk to her almost much as they talk to Vianne Rocher. She and Vianne are friends, of course, and her customers tell her things that they do not tell me in Confession. Once, this would have angered me. Now, I sometimes find myself wanting to confess toher.
Mea culpa. I wanted to go. The removals van was just an excuse. My head was aching, I was tired, and I was getting hungry again. One glass of wine, I told myself, and maybe a slice of thetourteauthat Joséphine keeps behind the bar. No more than a single slice – after all, it would not do, especially not during Lent – but it would be rude to abstain, and the thought of Joséphine made me weak. I have come to realize in recent years that I am often weak,père, but that I rarely act on it. This is not a substitute for strength; rather, an indication of cowardice. I suspect that God is not fooled.
8
Thursday, March 16
The bar of the Café des Marauds was more crowded than I had expected. I saw a number of the older regulars – Joseph Foucasse, Louis Poireau, and the old doctor, Simon Cussonnet – but most of the people seemed young, although only one boy was known to me. That was Joséphine’s son, Jean-Philippe, and I realized this was a party.
Of course. A birthday party. And there was a cake on the side of the bar, and jugs of iced punch, and lemonade. A party of adolescents, with music and cake and dancing – in fact, all the things that make me feel most ill at ease. I turned to go, but realized that Joséphine had seen me.
‘Francis, you’re not leaving?’
I thought she looked rather tired, her brown hair escaping from its lowchignon. But from her lipstick and her red dress – one I hadn’t seen before – I could tell she was making an effort.
‘You’re busy,’ I said. ‘I ought to go. This looks like a birthday party.’
‘Yes. But the bar’s still open,’ she said. ‘Come on in and have some cake!’
Celebrating has never come naturally to me, and I would much rather have gone home. But Joséphine brought me some wine, and some birthday cake on a flowered plate, and I sat and watched as she served her guests, fussing especially over the boy, who looked both embarrassed and tolerant. He has grown into a fine young man, with fair hair and his mother’s eyes. He is already taller than Joséphine, good-looking as his father, Paul-Marie Muscat, must have been before alcoholism and hatred made him into a monster. I remember the boy playing with Rosette Rocher when they were young, but nowadays he tends to gravitate to the young people from hislycée,most of whom come from Agen, or from other towns and villages along the Tannes.
A pretty girl with dark-blonde hair, in jeans and a sparkly T-shirt, seemed to be taking up a good deal of his attention. She and the boy were sharing a piece of birthday cake; as I watched, they furtively held hands under the table.
‘That’s Pilou’s girlfriend, Isabelle,’ said Joséphine, seeing me watching. ‘It’s her sixteenth birthday today. She came to France when she was three, but she’s half American.’ I thought her voice sounded a little less than enthusiastic at this. Of course, Joséphine is very close to her son: more so because he is all she has. His father passed away several years ago, but he and Joséphine were estranged, and no-one – least of all Jean-Philippe Bonnet – misses him in the slightest.
‘Pretty girl. Is it serious?’
‘Her parents have invited him to go with them to America for the summer,’ said Joséphine.
America. Joséphine found it hard enough to let him go as far as Agen. And yet she must – as both of us know – if he is to grow into adulthood. Some parents find it easy to let their children fly the nest. Others find it impossible. I do not have to be a priest, or to have heard her confession, to know Joséphine Bonnet will find the transition harder than most.
‘I sometimes envy Vianne,’ she said, sitting at the table beside me.
‘Really?’ I was puzzled. ‘Why?’
I know how close she and Vianne have been – although Joséphine no longer calls by thechocolaterieas regularly as once she did. I attribute this to the fact that their children are not as close as they were – or maybe it is because Joséphine is more independent nowadays.
She gave me a rather wistful smile. ‘Rosette will never stop needing her,’ she said. ‘Anouk may move away, but Rosette will never stop being that little girl, playing with Vlad by the riverbank.’ Vlad is Pilou’s dog. Once they were inseparable. Now the boy is at school all day, and the dog has grown old and lazy. He spends all his time asleep by the bar, but I noticed that at the sound of his name, one ear pricked up as if in response to a half-forgotten call.
‘Your son will always need you,’ I said, feeling rather self-conscious. ‘You’re his mother.’ But what do I know? My mother was always too concerned with her own affairs to care whether or not I needed her. I have no children. I never will. Most children make me uncomfortable – with the exception of Rosette Rocher and Maya Mahjoubi. I half expected Joséphine to tell me to mind my own business, but instead she looked at me hopefully.
‘You think so? I don’t mean to interfere with his social life, but the thought of him growing up so fast—’ She lowered her voice, her eyes on the boy, who was laughing now, oblivious. ‘I used to think I was different; that my boy would never be like the other boys. And it’s selfish, I know. Vianne told me long ago that our children are not for us to keep, but to give away. All the same, I envy her. She’ll always have her little girl.’
The cake was lemon vanilla, which I have to say surprised me. Most people buy cakes from thechocolaterie. I said as much, partly to diffuse the melancholy tone, but Joséphine looked furtive then, and I sensed I’d said the wrong thing.
‘Pilou doesn’t want to go to the shop. I called by with him, just for a minute or two, and he was like a cat on hot bricks. I think he feels guilty about Rosette.’
I shrugged. ‘Boys can be awkward. I was.’
She gave a somewhat more genuine smile. ‘For some reason, I can never picture you as a boy.’
