Chocolat

35

Friday March 28 Good Friday

I SHOULD BE WITH MY FLOCK, PERE. I KNOW IT. THE church is thick with incense, funereal with purple and black, not a single piece of silver, a single wreath of flowers. I should be there. Today is my greatest day, pere, the solemnity, the piety, the organ ringing like a giant underwater bell – the bells themselves silent, of course, in mourning for the crucified Christ. Myself in black and purple, my voice the middle note of the organ intoning the words. They watch me with wide, dark eyes. Even the renegades are here today, black-clad and hair greased. Their need, their expectation fills the hollow in me. For the briefest moment I really feel love, love for their sins, for their ultimate redemption, for their petty concerns, their insignificance. I know you understand, for you were their father too. In a very real sense you died for them as much as did Our Lord. To protect them from your sins and from their own. They never knew, did they, pere? Never found out from me. But when I found you with my mother in the chancery… A massive stroke, the doctor said. The shock must have been too great. You retreated. Went away into yourself though I know you can hear me, know that you see better than you ever did before. And I know that one day you will come back to us. I have fasted and prayed, pere. I have humbled myself. And yet I feel unworthy. There is still one thing I have not done.

After the service a child – Mathilde Arnauld – came up to me. Putting her hand in mine she whispered, smiling: `Will they bring chocolates for you too, Monsieur le Cure?’

'Will who bring chocolates?’ I asked, puzzled.

Impatiently: `But the bells, of course!' She gave a chuckle. `The flying bells!' `Oh, the bells. Of course.’

I was taken aback and for a moment did not know how to answer. She tugged at my soutane, insisting. `You know, the bells. Flying to Rome to see the Pope and bringing back chocolates.’ It has become an obsession. A one-word refrain, a whispered-shouted-chonls to every thought. I could not prevent my voice from rising in anger, crumpling her eager face into dismay and terror. I roared: `Why can no-one here think of anything but chocolates?’ and the child ran wailing across the square, the little shop with its gift wrapping window grinning at me in triumph as I called after her too late.

Tonight there will be the ceremonial burial of the Host in the sepulchre, the acting-out of the last moments of Our Lord by children of the parish, the lighting of the candles as the light fails. This is usually one of the most intense moments of the year for me, the moment at which they belong to me, my children, black-swathed and grave. But this year, will they be thinking of the Passion, of the solemnity of the Eucharist, or will their mouths be watering in anticipation? Her stories – flying bells and feasting – are pervasive, seductive. I try to infuse the sermon with our own seductions, but the dark glories of the Church cannot compare with her magic carpet rides.

I called on Armande Voizin this afternoon. It's her birthday, and the house was in commotion. Of course, I knew there was to be a kind of party, but never suspected anything like this. Caro mentioned it to the once or twice – she is reluctant to go, but hopes to use it as an opportunity to make peace with her mother once and for all – though I suspect even she does not anticipate the scale of the event. Vianne Rocher was in the kitchen, having spent most of the day preparing food. Josephine Muscat volunteered the cafe's kitchen as. a supplementary cooking area, for Armande's house is too small to cope with such lavish preparations, and when I arrived a whole phalanx of helpers were bringing dishes, pans and tureens from the cafe to Armande's house. A rich, winey smell came from the open window, and in spite of myself I found my mouth watering. Narcisse was working in the garden, fixing flowers onto a kind of trellis constructed between the house and the gate. The effect is startling: clematis, morning glory, lilac and seringa seem to trail down the wooden structure, forming a thatch of colour above, through which the sun filters gently. Armande was nowhere to be seen.

I turned away, unsettled by this excessive display. Typical of her to have chosen Good Friday for this celebration. The lavishness of it all – flowers, food, crates of champagne delivered at the door and packed with ice to keep it cool – is almost blasphemous, a mocking cry in the face of the sacrificed god. I must speak to her about it tomorrow. I was about to leave when I caught sight of Guillaume Duplessis standing beside the wall, stroking one of Armande's cats. He raised his hat politely.

`Helping, are you?’ I demanded.

Guillaume nodded. `I said I might give a hand,' he admitted. `There's still a lot of work to do before tonight.’

`I'm amazed you want to have anything to do with this,' I told him sharply. `Today of all days, too! Really, I think Armande's taking it too far this time. The expense, quite apart from the disrespect to the Church…’

Guillaume shrugged. `She's entitled to her little celebration,' he said mildly.

`She's more likely to kill herself with overeating,' I snapped tartly.

`I think she's old enough to do what she likes,' said Guillaume.

I eyed him disapprovingly. He has changed since he began his association with the Rocher woman. The look of mournful humility has gone from his face and there is something wilful, almost defiant, in its place.

`I don't like the way her family tries to run Armande's life for her,' he continued stubbornly.

I shrugged. `I'm surprised that you, of all people, can take her side in this,' I told him.

`Life's full, of surprises,' said Guillaume.

I wish it were.