'I keep thinking about that man,' she said at last. 'You know, the one who was in this morning.’

'Roux.’

She nodded. 'His boat catching fire…’ she said tentatively. 'You don't think it could have been an accident; do you?’

'He doesn't think so. He said he smelt petrol.’

'What do you think he would do if he found out' – with an effort – 'who did it?’

I shrugged. 'I really don't know. Why, Josephine, have you any idea who it was?’

Quickly: 'No. But if someone did know – and didn't tell:..’

She let the phrase falter miserably. 'Would he – I mean what would…’

I looked at her. She refused to meet my gaze, rolling the apricot absently, over and over across her hand. I caught a sudden glimpse of smoke from her thoughts.

'You know who it was, don't you?’

'No!'

'Look, Josephine, if you know something-' 'I don't know anything.’

Her voice was flat. 'I wish I did.’

`It's all right. No one's blaming you.’ I made my voice gentle, coaxing.

`I don't know anything!' she repeated shrilly. `I really don't. Besides, he's leaving, he said so, he isn't from here and he should never have been here and-' She bit off the phrase with an audible click of her teeth.

`I saw him this afternoon,' said Anouk, through a mouthful of brioche. `I saw his house.’

I turned to her in some curiosity. `He talked to you?’

She nodded emphatically. `Course he did. He said he'd make me a boat next time, a proper wood en one tha t won't sink. That is, if the bussteds don't set that one afire as well.’

She manages his accent very well. In her mouth the ghosts of his words snarl and prance. I turned away to hide a smile.

`His house is cool,' continued Anouk. `There's a fire in the middle of the carpet. He said I could come whenever I liked. Oh.’

She put a guilty hand to her mouth. `He said as long as I don't tell you.’

She sighed theatrically. `And I did, Maman. Didn't I?’

I hugged her, laughing. `You did.’

I could see Josephine looking alarmed.

`I don't think you ought to go into that house,' she told her anxiously. `You don't really know that man, Anouk. He could be violent.’

`I think she's all right,' I winked at Anouk. `As long as she does tell me.’

Anouk winked back.

Today there was a funeral – one of the old people from Les Mimosas down the river – and business was slow, out of fear or respect. The deceased was a woman of ninety-four, says Clothilde at the florist's, a relative of Narcisse's dead mother. I saw Narcisse, his one concession to the occasion being a black tie with his old, tweed jacket, and Reynaud, standing starkly in the doorway in his black and white, his silver cross in one hand and the other extended benevolently to welcome the mourners. These were few. Maybe a dozen old women, none of whom I recognized, one in a wheelchair pushed by a blonde nurse, some round and birdy like Armande, some with the almost translucent thinness of the very old, all in black, black stockings and bonnets and headscarves; some in gloves, others with their pale twisted hands clasped to their flattened breasts like Grunewald virgins. I saw mainly their heads as they made their way to St Jerome's in a tight softly clucking group; among the lowered heads the occasional grey-faced glance, bright black eyes flicking suspiciously at me from the safety of the enclave whilst the nurse, competent and resolutely cheery, pushed from the back. They seemed to feel no distress. The wheelchair-bound one held a small black missal in one hand and sang in a high mewing voice as they entered the church. The rest remained silent for the most part, bobbing their heads at Reynaud as they passed into the darkness, some handing him a black-bordered note to read out during the service. The village's only hearse arrived late. Inside, a black-draped coffin with a lone spray of flowers. A single bell sounded flatly. As I waited in the empty shop I heard the organ play a few listless, fugitive notes, like pebbles dropping into a well.

Josephine, who was in the kitchen taking out a batch of chocolate-cream meringues, came in quietly and shuddered. `It's gruesome,' she said.

I remember the city crematorium, the piped organ music – a Bach toccata – the cheap shiny casket, the smell of polish and flowers. The minister pronounced Mother's name wrong – Jean Roacher. It was all over within ten minutes.

Death should be a celebration; she told me. Like a birthday. I want to go up like a rocket when my time comes, and fall doum in a cloud of stars, arid hear everyone go: Ahhhh! I scattered her ashes across the harbour on the night of the Fourth of July. There were fireworks and candyfloss and cherry-bombs blatting off the pier and the sharp burn of cordite in the air and the smell of hotdogs and frying onions and the faint whiff of garbage from the water. It was all the America she had ever dreamed of, a giant amusement park, neons flaring, music playing, crowds of people singing and jostling, all the slick and sentimental tawdriness she loved. I waited for the brightest part of the display, when the sky was a trembling eruption of light and colour, and I let them drift softly into the slipstream, turning blue-white-red as they fell. I would have said something, but nothing seemed to be left to say.

`Gruesome,' repeated Josephine. `I hate funerals. I never go to them.’

I said nothing, but watched the silent square and listened to the organ. At least it wasn't the same toccata. Undertakers' assistants carried the coffin into the church. It looked very light, and their steps were brisk and barely reverent on the cobbles.

`I wish we weren't so close to the church,' said Josephine restlessly. `I can't think with that going on right next door.’

`In China, people wear white at funerals,' I told her. `They give out presents in bright red packages, for luck. They light firecrackers. They talk and laugh and dance and cry. And at the end, everyone jumps over the embers of the funeral pere, one by one, to bless the smoke as it rises.’

She looked at me curiously. `Did you live there too?’

I shook my head. `No. But we knew plenty of Chinese people in New York. For them death was a celebration of the dead person's life.’

Josephine looked doubtful. `I don't see how anyone can celebrate dying,' she said at last.

`You don't,' I told her. `Life is what you celebrate. All of it. Even its end.’

I took the pot of chocolate from the hot plate and poured two glasses.

After a while I went into the kitchen for two meringues, which were still warm and treacly inside their chocolate envelopes and served with thick creme Chantilly and chopped hazelnuts.

`It doesn't seem right, doing this, at this moment,' said Josephine, but I noticed she ate anyway.

It was almost noon when the mourners left, dazed and blinking in the bright sunshine. The chocolate and meringues were all finished, the dark kept at bay for a little longer. I saw Reynaud at the doorway again, then the old women went away in their minibus – Les Mimosas lettered on the side in bright yellow – and the square was back to normal again. Narcisse came in when he had seen off the mourners, sweating heavily in his tight collar. When I gave him my condolences he gave a shrug.

`Never really knew her,' he said indifferently. `Great aunt of my wife's. Went off to Le Mortoir twenty years ago. Her mind was gone.’

Le Mortoir. I saw Josephine grimace at the name. Behind all its mimosa sweetness, that's all it is, after all. A place in which to die. Narcisse is merely following convention. The woman was long dead already.

I poured chocolate, black and bittersweet. `Would you like a slice of cake?’ I offered.

He deliberated for a moment. `Better not while I'm in mourning,' he declared obscurely. `What kind is it?’