Шоколад / Chocolat

Long red hair tied with scrap of cloth, bare arms tattooed to the shoulder in henna. I stood watching the boats, marvelling at their wretchedness, their defiant poverty. What good are these people doing themselves? We are a prosperous country. A European power. There should be jobs for these people, useful jobs, good housing. Why do they then choose to live like this, in idleness and misery? Are they so lazy? The red haired man on the deck of the black boat forked a protective sign at me and returned to his fishing.

“You can’t stay here,” I called across the water. “This is private property. You must move on.”

Laughter and jeering from the boats. I felt an angry throbbing at my temples, but remained calm.

“You can talk to me,” I called again. “I am a priest. We can perhaps find a solution.”

Several faces had appeared at the windows and doorways of the three boats. I saw four children, a young woman with a baby and three or four older people, swathed in the grey no-colour which characterizes these people, their faces sharp and suspicious. I saw that they turned to Red Hair for their cue. I addressed him.

“Hey, you!”

His posture was all attentiveness and ironic deference.

“Why don’t you come over here and talk? I can explain better if I’m not shouting at you across half the river,” I told him.

“Explain away,” he said.

He spoke with such a thick Marseille accent I could hardly make out his words. “I can hear you fine.” His people on the other boats nudged each other and sniggered. I waited patiently for silence.

“This is private property,” I repeated. “You can’t stay here, I’m afraid. There are people living along here.”

I indicated the riverside houses along the Avenue des Marais. True, many of these are now deserted, having fallen into disrepair from damp and neglect, but some are still inhabited.

Red Hair gave me a scornful look.

“There are also people living here,” he said, indicating the boats.

“I understand that, but nevertheless-”

He cut me short. “Don’t worry. We’re not staying long.” His tone was final. “We need to make repairs, collect supplies. We can’t do that in the middle of the countryside. We’ll be two weeks, maybe three. Think you can live with that, he?”

“Perhaps a bigger village…” I felt myself bristling at his insolent air, but remained calm. “A town like Agen, maybe-”

Shortly: “That’s no good. We came from there.”

I’m sure he did. They take a hard line with vagrants in Agen. If only we had our own police in Lansquenet.

“I’ve got a problem with my engine. I’ve been trailing oil for miles downriver. I’ve got to fix it before I can move on.”

I squared my shoulders.

“I don’t think you’ll find what you’re looking for here,” I said.

“Well, everyone has an opinion.” He sounded dismissive, almost amused. One of the old women cackled. “Even a priest is entitled to that.”

More laughter. I kept my dignity. These people are not worth my anger. I turned to leave.

“Well, well, it’s M’sieur le Cure.” The voice came from just behind me, and in spite of myself I recoiled. Armande Voizin gave a small crow of laughter. “Nervous, he?” she said maliciously. “You should be. You’re out of your territory here, aren’t you? What’s the mission this time? Converting the pagans?”

“Madame.” In spite of her insolence I gave her a polite nod. “I trust you are in good health.”

“Oh do you?” Her black eyes fizzed with laughter. “I was under the impression that you couldn’t wait to give me the last rites.”

“Not at all, Madame.” I was coldly dignified.

“Good. Because this old lamb’s never going back into the fold,” she declared. “Too tough for you, anyway. I remember your mother saying-”

I bit her off more sharply than I intended. “I’m afraid I have no time for chit-chat today, Madame. These people”– a gesture in the direction of the river-gypsies – “these people must be dealt with before the situation gets out of hand. I have the interests of my flock to protect.”

“What a windbag you are nowadays,” remarked Armande lazily. “The interests of your flock. I remember when you were just a little boy, playing Indians in Les Marauds. What did they teach you in the city, apart from pompousness and self-importance?”

I glared at her. Alone in all Lansquenet, she delights in reminding me of things best forgotten. It occurs to me that when she dies, that memory will die with her, and I am almost glad of it.

“You may relish the thought of vagrants taking over Les Marauds,” I told her sharply. “But other people. – your daughter among them – understand that if you allow them to get a foot in the door-”

Armande gave a snort of laughter.

“She even talks like you,” she said. “Strings of pulpit cliches and nationalist platitudes. Seems to me these people are doing no harm. Why make a crusade of expelling them when they’ll be leaving soon anyway?”

I shrugged.

“Clearly you don’t want to understand the issue,” I said shortly.

“Well, I already told Roux over there”– a sly wave to the man on the black houseboat – “I told him he and his friends would be welcome for as long as it takes to fix his engine and stock up on food.” She gave me a sly, triumphant look. “So you can’t say they’re trespassing. They’re here, in front of my house, with my blessing.” She gave the last word special emphasis, as if to taunt me. “As are their friends, when they arrive.” She shot me another of her insolent glances. “All their friends.”

Well, I should have expected it. She would have done it only to spite me. She enjoys the notoriety it affords her, knowing that as the village’s oldest resident a certain license is allowed her. There is no point in arguing with her, mon pere. We know that already. She would enjoy the argument as much as she relishes contact with these people, their stories, their lives. Not surprising that she has already learned their names. I will not allow her the satisfaction of seeing me plead. No, I must go about the business in other ways.

I have learned one thing from Armande, at least. There will be others. How many, we must wait and see. But it is as I feared. Three of them today. Tomorrow, how many more?

I called on Clairmont on the way here. He will spread the word. I expect some resistance – Armande still has friends – Narcisse may need some persuasion. But on the whole I expect co-operation. I am still someone in this village. My good opinion counts for something. I saw Muscat too. He sees most people in his cafe. Head of the Residents’ Committee. A right-thinking man in spite of his faults, a good churchgoer. And if a strong hand were needed – of course we all deplore violence, but with these people we cannot rule out the possibility – well, I am certain that Muscat would oblige.

Armande called it a crusade. She meant it as an insult, I know, but even so… I feel a surge of excitement at the thought of this conflict. Could this be the task for which God has chosen me?

This is why I came to Lansquenet, mon pere. To fight for my people. To save them from temptation. And when Vianne Rocher sees the power of the Church – my influence over every single soul in the community – then she will know she has lost. Whatever her hopes, her ambitions. She will understand that she cannot stay. Cannot fight and hope to win.

I will stand triumphant.

14

Monday, February 24

Caroline Clairmont called just after mass. Her son was with her satchel slung across his shoulders, a tall boy with a pale, impassive face. She was carrying a bundle of yellow hand-lettered cards.

I smiled at them both. The shop was almost empty – I expect the first of my regulars at about nine, and it was eight-thirty. Only Anouk was sitting at the counter, a half-finished bowl of milk and a pain au chocolat in front of her. She shot a bright glance at the boy, waved the pastry in a vague gesture of greeting, and returned to her breakfast.

“Can I help you?”

Caroline looked around her with an expression of envy and disapproval. The boy stared straight in front of him, but I saw his eyes wanting to slide towards Anouk. He looked polite and sullen, his eyes bright and unreadable beneath an overlong fringe.