is going deaf, claims it’s my imagination. It is not; and on a day like this, so still that I can hear every ripple on the Tannes, every cry of every bird, the call of the muezzin cuts through the early morning like rain.
Rain . Now there’s a thought. It has not rained at all this month. We all could use a little rain – to make the gardens flower, to wash away the dust from the streets, to cool down these infernal nights. But not today. The sky is clear.
I drank a cup of coffee and went up to Poitou’s bakery. I bought a bag of croissants and some bread, and took them over to Armande’s house, leaving the bag by the front door where Vianne Rocher would find it.
The streets of Les Marauds were silent. I guessed folk were having breakfast in the last half-hour before sunrise. I saw no one but a girl, all but her face concealed behind a dark-blue hijab , who darted across the main street just as I headed for the bridge. She glanced at me fearfully as I approached, then doubled back and disappeared down a side street opposite the gymnasium.
Saïd’s gym. I hate that place. A mean, half-derelict building at the end of a mean little alleyway. It’s always crowded with young men – never a white face among them – and you can smell the testosterone as you walk by the alley mouth. You can smell the kif , too – many of these young Moroccan men smoke it, and the police are reluctant to take action. In the words of Père Henri Lemaître, we have to be aware of cultural sensitivities. Presumably this also includes the girls who are kept from attending school and the occasional but persistent rumours of domestic violence within some of the families, which are sometimes reported, but never followed up. Apparently old Mahjoubi is in charge of such sensitive issues, which makes it unnecessary for the rest of us to take action, or even to notice these things.
The door of the gym was wedged open – on these warm days it gets hot in there – and although I did not turn my head, I sensed the blast of hostility like invisible shrapnel. Then it was behind me again.
There. It’s done .
I hate the fact that I am afraid of walking past that alleyway. I give myself the penance of walking past it every day, in the hope of beating my cowardice. In the same way, as a boy, I used to dare myself to go near the wasps’ nest under the wall at the back of the churchyard. The wasps were fat and loathsome, mon père , and terrified me in a way that transcended the simple fear of being stung. I feel the same about Saïd’s gym – that prickle of adrenaline, the sweat that stings at my armpits and gathers at the nape of my neck; the barely perceptible quickening of my step as I pass the place; the way my heart, too, quickens in fear, then slows in relief when the penance is done.
Bless me, Father, for I have sinned .
Ridiculous. I’ve done nothing wrong.
I arrived at the bridge into Lansquenet. From the parapet I could see old Mahjoubi on his terrace, sitting in the wicker rocking-chair that seems almost a part of him. He was reading – no doubt the Qur’an – but he looked up when he saw me and gave me an impudent little wave.
I returned the greeting with as much composure as I could. I will not allow myself to be drawn into undignified competition with this man. He grinned – even at that distance I could see his teeth – and I caught the brief sound of laughter from the half-open door of the house. The face of a small girl appeared at the door, topped with a yellow ribbon. His granddaughter, I believe, come to visit from Marseille. As I passed, the laughter redoubled.
‘Hide the matches! Here comes Monsieur le Curé.’
Then a sharp command – Maya! – and the little face withdrew. In its place I saw Saïd Mahjoubi, glaring beneath his prayer cap. God forgive me, I almost prefer old Mahjoubi’s mockery. Saïd continued to glare at me, openly hostile; menacing. The man thinks I am guilty, père . Nothing I say will
Rain . Now there’s a thought. It has not rained at all this month. We all could use a little rain – to make the gardens flower, to wash away the dust from the streets, to cool down these infernal nights. But not today. The sky is clear.
I drank a cup of coffee and went up to Poitou’s bakery. I bought a bag of croissants and some bread, and took them over to Armande’s house, leaving the bag by the front door where Vianne Rocher would find it.
The streets of Les Marauds were silent. I guessed folk were having breakfast in the last half-hour before sunrise. I saw no one but a girl, all but her face concealed behind a dark-blue hijab , who darted across the main street just as I headed for the bridge. She glanced at me fearfully as I approached, then doubled back and disappeared down a side street opposite the gymnasium.
Saïd’s gym. I hate that place. A mean, half-derelict building at the end of a mean little alleyway. It’s always crowded with young men – never a white face among them – and you can smell the testosterone as you walk by the alley mouth. You can smell the kif , too – many of these young Moroccan men smoke it, and the police are reluctant to take action. In the words of Père Henri Lemaître, we have to be aware of cultural sensitivities. Presumably this also includes the girls who are kept from attending school and the occasional but persistent rumours of domestic violence within some of the families, which are sometimes reported, but never followed up. Apparently old Mahjoubi is in charge of such sensitive issues, which makes it unnecessary for the rest of us to take action, or even to notice these things.
The door of the gym was wedged open – on these warm days it gets hot in there – and although I did not turn my head, I sensed the blast of hostility like invisible shrapnel. Then it was behind me again.
There. It’s done .
I hate the fact that I am afraid of walking past that alleyway. I give myself the penance of walking past it every day, in the hope of beating my cowardice. In the same way, as a boy, I used to dare myself to go near the wasps’ nest under the wall at the back of the churchyard. The wasps were fat and loathsome, mon père , and terrified me in a way that transcended the simple fear of being stung. I feel the same about Saïd’s gym – that prickle of adrenaline, the sweat that stings at my armpits and gathers at the nape of my neck; the barely perceptible quickening of my step as I pass the place; the way my heart, too, quickens in fear, then slows in relief when the penance is done.
Bless me, Father, for I have sinned .
Ridiculous. I’ve done nothing wrong.
I arrived at the bridge into Lansquenet. From the parapet I could see old Mahjoubi on his terrace, sitting in the wicker rocking-chair that seems almost a part of him. He was reading – no doubt the Qur’an – but he looked up when he saw me and gave me an impudent little wave.
I returned the greeting with as much composure as I could. I will not allow myself to be drawn into undignified competition with this man. He grinned – even at that distance I could see his teeth – and I caught the brief sound of laughter from the half-open door of the house. The face of a small girl appeared at the door, topped with a yellow ribbon. His granddaughter, I believe, come to visit from Marseille. As I passed, the laughter redoubled.
‘Hide the matches! Here comes Monsieur le Curé.’
Then a sharp command – Maya! – and the little face withdrew. In its place I saw Saïd Mahjoubi, glaring beneath his prayer cap. God forgive me, I almost prefer old Mahjoubi’s mockery. Saïd continued to glare at me, openly hostile; menacing. The man thinks I am guilty, père . Nothing I say will
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