I could not have known of the sleepers in the houseboat, I tell myself. Wrapped so tight in their drunken darkness that even the fire failed to waken them. I dreamed of them later, charred one into the other, melded like perfect lovers. For months I screamed in the night, seeing those arms reaching longingly towards me, hearing their voices – a breath of ash – mouthing my name from whitened lips. But you absolved me, pere. Only a drunkard and his slattern, you told me. Worthless flotsam on the filthy river. Twenty Paters and as many Aver paid for their lives. Thieves who had desecrated our church, insulted our priest, deserved nothing more. I was a young boy with a bright future ahead, with loving parents who would grieve, who would be terribly unhappy if they knew. Besides, you said persuasively, it might have been an accident. You could never know, you said. God' might have meant it this way.
I believed it. Or pretended to. And I am still grateful.
A touch on my arm. I start, alarmed. Looking into the pit of my memories I am momentarily dizzied by time. Armande Voizin stands behind me, her clever black eyes fixing me. Duplessis is at her side.
`Are you going to do something, Francis, or are you going to let that bear Muscat commit murder?’
Her voice is crisp and cold. One claw grasps her stick, the other beckons witchlike at the closed door.
`It isn't…’
My voice is high and childish, not my own at all. `It isn't my business to interv-'
`Rubbish!' She raps my knuckles with her stick. `I'm going to put a stop to this, Francis. Are you going to come with me, or are you going to stand there all day gawping?’
She does not wait for my answer, but pushes at the cafe door.
`It's locked,' I say feebly.
She shrugs. A single tap with the handle of her stick breaks one of the panes of the glass door.
`The key's in the lock,' she says sharply. `Reach it for me, Guillaume.’
The door swings open as the key turns. I follow her up the stairs. The sounds of screaming and breaking glass are louder here, amplified by the hollow shell of the stairway. Muscat stands in the doorway of the upper room, his thick body half-blocking the landing. The room is barricaded shut; a small gap shows between the door and its frame, throwing a narrow edge of light onto the stairs. As I watch Muscat throws himself again at the blocked door; there is a crashing sound as something overturns, and grunting in satisfaction he thrusts his way into the room.
A woman screams. She is backed against the far wall of the room. Furniture – a dressing-table, a wardrobe, chairs have been stacked against the door, but Muscat has managed to push his way through at last. She could not move the bed, a heavy wrought-iron thing, butt the mattress still shields her as she crouches, a small pile of missiles to hand. She held out through the entire service, I tell myself with some wonder. I can see the signs of her flight; broken glass on the stairs, the marks of leverage against the locked bedroom door, the coffee-table he used as a battering-ram. On his face too, as he turns it towards me, I can see the marks of her desperate fingernails, a crescent of blood on his temple, nose swollen, shirt torn. There is blood on the stairs, a drop, a skid-mark, a dribble. Bloody hand-prints against the door.
` Muscat!' My voice is high, shaking. ` Muscat!' He turns towards me blankly. His eyes are needle-marks in dough.
Armande is at my side, her stick held out like a sword. She looks like the world's oldest swashbuckler. She calls to Josephine `Are you all right, dear?’
`Get him out of here! Tell him to go away!' Muscat shows me his bloody hands. He looks enraged but at the same time confused, exhausted, like a small child caught in a fight between much older boys. `See what I mean, pere?’
he whines. `What did I tell you? See what I mean?’
Armande pushes past me. `You can't win, Muscat.’
She sounds younger and stronger than I, and I have to remind myself that she is old and sick. `You can't put things back to what they were. Back off and let her go.’
Muscat spits at her, looks astonished when Armande spits back with cobra speed and accuracy. He wipes his face, blustering. `Why, you old-'
Guillaume steps in front of her, an absurdly protective gesture. His dog yaps shrilly, but she steps past them laughing. `Don't try to bully me, Paul-Marie Muscat,' snaps Armande. `I remember when you were still a snot nosed brat, hiding in Les Marauds to get away from that drunken father of yours. Haven't changed that much, 'cept you got bigger and uglier. Now back off!' Looking dazed, he stands back. For a moment he seems ready to appeal to me.
`Pere. Tell her.’ His eyes looked as if he'd rubbed them with salt. `You know what I mean. Don't you?’
I pretend not to hear. There is nothing between us, this man and I. No point of comparison. I can smell him, the rank unwashed odour of his filthy shirt, the stale beery breath. He takes my arm. `You understand, pere,' he repeats desperately. `I helped you out, with the gypsies. Remember? I helped you.’
She may be half-blind but she sees everything, damn her. Everything. I see her eyes flick to my face. `Oh, you did?’
She gives her vulgar chuckle. `Two of a kind, eh, Cure?’
'I don't know what you're talking about, man.’ I make my voice crisp. `You're drunk as a pig.’
`But pere' – struggling for words, his face contorting, purple – `pere, you yourself said-.'
Stonily: `I said nothing.’
He opens his mouth again like a poor landed fish on the mud-flats of the summer Tannes.
`Nothing!' Armande and Guillaume lead Josephine away, one old arm tucked around her shoulders. The woman throws me a strange, bright glance which almost frightens me. Dirt streaks her face, and her hands are bloody, but in that moment she is beautiful, disturbing. She looks at me as if for a second she is able to see straight through. I try to tell her not to blame me. I'm not like him; not a man, but a priest, a different species… but the thought is absurd, almost a heresy.
Then Armande leads her away and I am alone with Muscat, his tears staining my neck, his hot arms around me. For a moment I am disoriented, drowning with him in the soup of my memories. Then I pull away, trying for gentleness but in the end with increasing violence, pushing at his flabby belly with palms, fists, elbows. And all the time shouting above his pleading, in a voice not my own, a high, bitter voice: `Get away from me, you bastard, you've spoiled everything, you've-' Francis, I'm sorry, I `Pere-' `Spoiled everything – everything – get away!' Grunting with the effort and finally breaking his thick hot grasp, pulling loose with sudden, desperate joy – free at last! then running down the stairs, turning one ankle over on the loose carpet, his tears, his stupid wailing following me like an unwanted child.
Later there was time to talk to Caro and Georges. I will not speak to Muscat. Besides, rumour has it that he has already left, has packed what he could into his old car and driven off. The cafe is closed, only the broken pane to show for what happened this morning. I went down there when night fell, stood for a long time in front of the window. The sky across Les Marauds was cool and sepia, green with a single milky filament on the horizon. The river was dark and silent.
I told Caro the Church would not back her campaign against the chocolate festival. I would not back it. Can't she see? The Committee can have no credibility after what he has done. It was too public this time, too brutal. They must have seen his face as I did, flushed with hatred and madness. To know a man beats his wife – to know in secret – is one thing. But to see it in all its ugliness… No. He will never survive it. Already Caro is telling the others that she saw through him, that she always knew. She disassociates herself as best she can – Was ever a poor woman so deceived! – as do I. We have been too close, I tell her. We used him when it was expedient. We must not be seen to do so now. For our own protection we must stand back. I do not tell her about the other business, that of the river people, but that too is in my mind. Armande suspects. Out of malice she might talk. And that other matter, forgotten for so long but still alight in her old head. No. I am helpless. Worse, I must even be seen to look upon the festival with indulgence. Otherwise the gossip will start, and who knows where it might end? Tomorrow I must preach tolerance, turn the tide which I have begun and change their minds. The remaining leaflets I will burn. The posters, due for display from Lansquenet to Montauban, must also be destroyed. It breaks my heart, pere, but what else can I do? The scandal would kill me.