Peaches for Monsieur Le Curé by Joanne Harris

beginning to show. The sky was a darkly luminous blue; with, on the western horizon, a stripe of startling yellow.
    And then it began, as I’d known it would. The distant sound of the call to prayer. Distant, but clearly audible in the throat of the old brick tower: Allahu Akhbar – God is great.
    Yes, of course I know what it means. Did you think that because I’m a Catholic I have no knowledge of other faiths? I knew that in a moment the streets would be filled with men going to mosque: the women would mostly stay indoors, preparing for the evening. And as soon as the moon was visible, there would be celebration; traditional foods from the homeland brought in for the occasion; fruits and nuts and dried figs; little deep-fried pastries.
    Today is the fifth day of Ramadan, the Muslim month of fasting. It has been a long day. To go without food is one thing, perhaps; but to go without water on a day like today, when the harsh wind sweeps across the land, bleaching everything dry and white—
    A woman, followed by a child, crossed the street in front of us. I could not see her averted face; but her black-gloved hands gave her away. It was the woman in black, I knew; the woman from the chocolaterie . It was the first time I’d seen her since the fire had gutted the house, and I was glad of the opportunity to check that she was being cared for.
    ‘ Madame ,’ I said. ‘I hope you’re all right—’
    The woman did not even look at me. The face-veil that she always wears left only the narrowest letter-box through which to post my condolences. The child, too, seemed not to hear, and, reaching for her headscarf, tugged it a little closer, as if for added security.
    ‘If you need any help—’ I went on, but the woman had already passed us by, diving into a side street. By then, the muezzin had finished his chant, and the worshippers going to mosque had started to crowd the boulevard.
    One of them I recognized, standing at the door of the mosque. It was Saïd Mahjoubi, old Mahjoubi’s eldest son and the owner of the gym. A man in his forties; bearded; robed; wearing a prayer cap on his head. He does not smile often. He was not smiling now. I greeted him with a raised hand.
    For a moment he just looked at me. Then he started towards us with a strutting, stiff-legged, nervous walk, like that of a cockerel ready to fight.
    ‘What are you doing here?’ he said.
    I was surprised. ‘I live here.’
    ‘You live across the river,’ said Saïd. ‘And if you know what’s good for you, you’ll stay across the river.’ A couple of other men had stopped, hearing Saïd’s raised voice. I heard an exchange in Arabic, an urgent typewriter-clatter of sounds in which not a single word was intelligible to me.
    ‘I don’t understand,’ I told him.
    Saïd shot me a dark look and said something in Arabic. The cluster of men surrounding him telegraphed their approval. He moved a little closer. I could almost smell his rage. Now the voices in Arabic sounded hostile; aggressive. I was suddenly, absurdly convinced that the man was about to strike me.
    Vianne took a step towards us. I’d almost forgotten she was there. Anouk was watching cautiously; behind her, Rosette was chasing shadows in a nearby alleyway.
    I wanted to tell her to stand aside – the man was angry enough not to care that a woman and her children were near – but her presence seemed to calm Saïd. Without saying anything, or even appearing to touch him, she made a sign with her fingers – some gesture of appeasement – and the man took a wary step backwards, looking suddenly slightly confused.
    Had he realized his mistake?
    Or did she whisper something?
    If she did, I heard nothing. But in any case, the atmosphere, which had been close to violence, was gone. The incident – if there had been an incident – was averted.
    ‘Perhaps we should go,’ I said to Vianne. ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have brought you here.’
    She smiled. ‘ Did you bring me here?