Free Peaches for Monsieur Le Curé by Joanne Harris Page A

wearing a headscarf. Her hair was in bunches, tied with yellow ribbon. She wore a gold bracelet round one chubby wrist.
    ‘Hello,’ I said.
    The little girl stared.
    ‘I’m afraid I let your beetle escape,’ I said, with a glance at the discarded cane. ‘He looked so sad, tied up like that. Tomorrow, you can catch him again. That is, if he wants to play.’
    I smiled. The child continued to stare. I wondered if she’d understood. In Paris, I’d seen girls of Rosette’s age who hardly spoke a word of French, even though they’d been born there. Usually, they’d mastered the language by the time they left primary school; though some families I’d known were reluctant to send their daughters to secondary school – sometimes because of the headscarf ban, sometimes because they were needed at home.
    ‘What’s your name?’ I asked the child.
    ‘Maya.’ So she did understand.
    ‘Well, I’m happy to meet you, Maya,’ I said. ‘I’m Vianne. I’m staying in that house up there with my two little girls.’
    I pointed to Armande’s old house.
    Maya looked doubtful. ‘That house there?’
    ‘Yes. It belonged to my friend Armande.’ I could see she was unconvinced. I said, ‘Does your mother like peaches?’
    Maya gave a little nod.
    ‘Well, my friend has a peach tree growing up the side of her house. Tomorrow, if you like, I’ll pick some and bring them to your mother for iftar .’
    My use of the word made Maya smile. ‘You know iftar ?’
    ‘Of course I do.’
    My mother and I once lived in Tangier. A vibrant place in so many ways; filled with contradictions. I’ve always used food and recipes as a means of understanding those around me; and sometimes, in a place like Tangier, food is the only shared language.
    ‘How are you breaking the fast tonight? Is there harissa soup?’ I said. ‘I love harissa soup.’
    Maya’s smile broadened. ‘Me too,’ she said. ‘And Omi makes pancakes. She has a secret recipe. They’re the best pancakes in the world.’
    Suddenly the green door opened again. A woman’s voice spoke sharply in Arabic. Maya seemed about to protest, then reluctantly went back indoors. A female figure veiled in black appeared in the doorway as it closed – I raised a hand in greeting, but the door had already slammed shut before I could be certain whether the woman had seen me or not.
    One thing I was sure of, though. The woman I’d just seen at the door was the same woman in niqab I’d seen by the church yesterday, and then again in Les Marauds. Karim Bencharki’s sister, whose real name no one seems to know; the woman whose shadow stretches so far across these two communities …
    Walking home along the Tannes, the calm was almost eerie. The crickets and birds had fallen still; even the frogs were silent.
    On evenings like this, the locals say, the Autan wind is ready to blow; le Vent des Fous , the Mad Wind, that rattles windows, parches crops and stops people from sleeping. The White Autan brings dry heat; the Black Autan brings storms and rain. Whichever way the wind blows, change is never far away.
    What am I doing in Lansquenet? Once more, I can’t help wondering. Did the Autan bring me here? And which one will it be, this time? The White Autan, that keeps you awake, or the Black, that drives you insane?

CHAPTER THREE

    Tuesday, 17th August
    BLESS ME, FATHER , for I have sinned. Of course, you’re not here any more. But I need to confess to someone, père , and to do so to the new priest – Père Henri Lemaître with his blue jeans and his bleached smile and his new ideas – is absolutely impossible. The Bishop is equally so. He actually thinks I lit the fire. I will not kneel to these people, père . I will be damned before I do.
    Of course, you’re right. My sin is pride. I have always been aware of this. But I know that Père Henri Lemaître will destroy Saint-Jérôme’s, and I cannot just stand by and watch. The man uses PowerPoint in his sermons, for God’s sake,