Concerto to the Memory of an Angel (2 page)

The old woman took the two packages the butcher handed to her.

“Thank you, Marius.”

The butcher shuddered. Behind the cash register his wife swallowed a hiccup. Coming from Marie Maurestier, the use of his first name was compromising. Apart from family and friends, no one in the village called Monsieur Isidore by his first name, because he wasn't the type to allow such familiarity. He was taken aback, and absorbed the shock, while his wife, teeth clenched, handed the change to Marie, not daring to say anything: she and her husband would sort things out later.

Marie Maurestier went out, wishing everyone a good day. Hasty, confused murmurs returned the courtesy.

In the street she ran into Yvette and her baby. Without greeting the mother, she went straight up to the infant.

“Hello my darling, what's your name?” she asked in a sugary voice.

At the age of four months, the child obviously could not reply, so Yvette answered for him.

“Marcello.”

Still snubbing the mother, Marie smiled at the infant as if he were the one who had spoken.

“Marcello? What a pretty name . . . so much more elegant than Marcel.”

“I think so too,” said Yvette approvingly, satisfied.

“How many brothers and sisters do you have?”

“Two sisters, three brothers.”

“So you're the sixth? Well that's very good, it's a good number.”

“Oh, is it?” exclaimed Yvette, surprised.

Without answering her question, Marie continued her conversation with the child: “And why Marcello? Is your daddy Italian?”

The mother blushed. Everyone in the village knew that Yvette slept around and probably didn't know the identity of this father any more than any of the previous ones.

Turning at last to Yvette, Marie gave her a big smile and went into La Galette Dorée. The people in the boulangerie had been listening to her conversation with Yvette, and now they felt embarrassed.

Could one qualify Marie Maurestier's behavior just now as kind or malicious? It was impossible to say. When Marie Maurestier expressed an opinion, no one thought she was being sincere: she was pretending. Regardless of what she might be trying to convey through her gestures or her words, what came across, first and foremost, was control: by mastering the slightest flicker of her eyelashes, or modulating her voice with virtuosity, she seemed to be manufacturing compassion, anger, sobs, silences, or agitation. She was a fascinating actress because you could see her acting. With Marie, it was not that artifice was hidden to give an illusion of something natural; on the contrary, artifice confirmed the insincerity of her nature. Marie Maurestier was theatrical and never let herself go; she always preserved her self-awareness. Some people viewed this as proof of her falseness; others saw it as an expression of dignity.

“Half a baguette, please!”

No one bought half baguettes anymore except for Marie Maurestier; if anyone dared to try, the young baker became indignant and sent the miser packing. But the day he tried to explain to Marie that he sold an entire baguette or nothing at all, she replied, “Fine. The day you manage to bake a loaf of bread that does not go stale in three hours, I will buy one every other day. Let me know. Until then, I will buy half a baguette.”

While she was waiting for her change, a tourist could not help but cry out, “Madame, would you be so kind as to give me your autograph in my notebook?”

Marie scowled, as if she might lose her temper, but then she said very clearly, “Of course.”

“Oh thank you, Madame, thank you! I admire you so much, you know. I've seen all your programs on the television.”

Marie gave the woman a look that meant “useless imbecile,” appended her signature, handed back the notebook and left the boulangerie.

How did Marie Maurestier manage to live with fame that did not dwindle with time? While she may have given the ostensible impression that she bore it as a burden, certain details suggested that she also found it rather amusing; as a notable citizen, she found it perfectly natural to occupy a place of honor at festivals, weddings, and banquets. When the media wanted to question her or take her photograph, she immediately contacted her lawyer to negotiate a fee. The previous winter when she was bedridden with a nasty flu, she was secretly pleased when the inhabitants, concerned they might lose their historical monument, paraded past her house to ask for news. That summer, one roasting afternoon when she stopped off at the café to drink a peppermint cordial, she found herself short on cash and rather than apologize to the café owner, she merely said “With all the money I have brought you, the least you can offer me in return is a drink.”

Slow, somewhat bent, as if her body were cumbersome, she went back the way she had come and began to climb the hill to her house. Over time she had become increasingly skilled at acting the victim; she was now remarkably good at maintaining her pose as victim of a judicial error. To be sure, in the beginning she committed a few blunders: for example, not long after her release, a mainstream magazine had pictured her in her garden—smiling, joyous, and carefree, stroking her cat or tending to her beloved roses. The effect was disastrous: such shocking cheerfulness did not befit either a widow—which was what she was—or a woman who has been broken by years of unjustified prison—which was what she was supposed to be; and as soon as the feature appeared, there came a slew of hateful articles in response, raising doubts, exploring the gray zones, trying to revive the hypothesis of her guilt. Subsequently therefore she had adopted a more humble profile, as if she were some great injured bird, and she did not deviate from it.

She walked up the street that ran through the heart of the village. On the hill, above the roofs and the bald plane trees, the vineyards extended in dull regularity, naked and dreary like a crop of barriers, in a month of March where only the gnarled vine stock wound its way around the wire supports.

As she went past the chapel she shuddered.

She could hear a hymn coming from the building. What? Could it be that . . .

Marie rushed up the steps as quickly as her arthritis and corns would allow, shoved open the door, which gave a resounding creak, and then, transfixed by the scene, she let the swirls of music enfold her like a heady perfume, brushing against her, caressing her, penetrating her.

A young priest was playing the harmonium.

His beauty was pure, indecent. He was alone in the nave, and radiant. His skin was as pale as if he were wearing powder, his lips drawn in the shape of a kiss, his form framed by a golden light that glided in perfect sympathy from the stained-glass window to his shoulders. Brighter than any altar, more appealing than the Christ on the cross, the source of subtle sounds that rose scrolling to the vaulted ceiling, the young priest had become the center of the church.

Marie was fascinated by his white hands as they caressed the keys, and she gazed at him with the emotion one feels in the presence of an apparition, until there came from outside the sound of a moped backfiring, which distracted their attention toward the entrance.

When he realized he had a visitor, the priest stopped playing and got up to greet her.

Marie Maurestier felt weak at the knees. He was thin, incredibly tall, in the way of a young yet manly adolescent, and he seemed to glow as he looked at her, like a lover meeting his mistress. As if he were on the verge of spreading his arms to welcome her.

“Greetings, my child. I am so pleased to have taken up this post in Saint-Sorlin. I have just left the monastery, and this is my first parish. I'm very fortunate, am I not, to have landed in such a pretty village?”

Disturbed by the deep, rich, velvety tones of his voice, Marie stammered that it was the village that should be pleased.

Briskly, he stepped closer.

“I am Abbé Gabriel.”

She shuddered. An angelic name, in sharp contrast to the deep timbre of his voice.

“And to whom do I have the honor?” he asked, astonished that she had not introduced herself.

“Marie . . . ”

She hesitated to reveal her name. She was afraid that her name, which had been splashed across so many pages of crime reports, might cast a pall, might spoil his childlike smile. Never­theless, she took the chance.

“Marie Maurestier.”

“I am delighted to meet you, Marie Maurestier.”

Breathless, she noted that he had not recoiled—nor looked frightened or disapproving—when she revealed her identity: how extraordinary! So very unusual . . . He accepted her as she was, without judging, without locking her in a cage like some strange beast.

“Do you go to church sometimes, Marie?”

“I come to the service every day.”

“You have never known a crisis of faith?”

“God would not tolerate my whims. If I did not live up to his expectations, he would quickly bring me up to his level.”

She had wanted to share a humble thought and now she realized she had uttered a phrase filled with pride. To be up to God's level! That He would take the time to bring her up! The priest, after a moment's hesitation, was able to grasp the actual intention of her words.

“Faith is a grace,” he said.

“Exactly! When our belief falters, God gives us a good kick in the ass to make us believe again.”

She was astonished by her own words. “Kick in the ass!” Why had she used this expression that was utterly alien to her vocabulary? What had come over her? She was bawling like a drill sergeant, forthright, impetuous. Did she need to play at being a man when she was in the company of such a gentle soul? Confused, she lowered her eyes, ready to concede her mistake.

“Well, my child, shall we meet again at seven o'clock for the service?”

She rounded her lips to speak, then nodded. He's forgiven me, she thought. What a marvelous man!

 

The next morning she was the first to arrive at the church for the chilly morning mass.

When Abbé Gabriel came out of the sacristy, a green silk scarf over his immaculate alb, for a moment she was dazzled: he was just as fresh and charming as she remembered. Together they pushed the prie-dieu, set aside the chairs that were wobbly, arranged the bouquets, and piled up the prayer books, as if they were preparing a reception for their friends.

The village faithful arrived. Their average age was eighty, their clothes were black and their hair was gray; they stood in small groups by the entrance, hesitating to come forward, not out of a sense of hostility toward the new priest but simply to express, through their reserve, how much they had appreciated his predecessor.

As if he understood, Abbé Gabriel went up to them, introduced himself, found the appropriate words to honor the former priest, who had died at the age of a hundred, then encouraged them to sit in the rows next to the choir.

As the priest walked up to the altar, Vera Vernet, who for Marie could be none other than “that old bag,” murmured under her mustache, “They can't be serious, the bishop is making fun of us: he's much too young. They've sent us a seminarian!”

Marie smiled and did not answer. She felt as if she were attending a service for the first time. Through his fervor, through his commitment in every word and every gesture, Abbé Gabriel was reinventing the Christian mass. He quivered as he read the Gospel, and immersed himself in the prayers, eyes closed, as if his salvation depended upon it. The way he conducted the ritual spoke not of routine, but urgency.

Marie Maurestier looked at the venerable parishioners around her, and they seemed to have had their breath taken away by what was happening: it was as if they sat not in church pews but in the seats of an airplane breaking the sound barrier. Nevertheless, they allowed themselves to be swayed by the priest's ardor and gradually made it a point of honor not to behave like lukewarm Catholics. They stood, sat down, knelt, with good grace, whatever the hardship on their creaky joints; their singing was full throated; they recited the Lord's Prayer, making the words ring out, investing the formulas with meaning. After half an hour no one knew who was charming whom—the priest his flock or the flock their priest—their eagerness to outdo each other's enthusiasm was so great; even that goat Vera Vernet wore an inspired expression on her face when she went to take communion.

“Until tomorrow, Father,” murmured Marie as she went down the chapel steps.

She shivered. How delightful, to say “Father” to a man who was so young, while she herself was so old!

As she left the service Marie had a radiant smile on her face, which she took home to hide. She was overjoyed that this priest had come, and it made her ridiculously proud: Gabriel's victory seemed to be hers, as well.

 

It did not take long for Gabriel to win over the village. In a few days his presence in the streets, at the café, and at the vicarage, where he started giving literacy classes in addition to the catechism, confirmed his favorable first impressions: people liked him, he was convincing. Before long the faithful from other villages were coming to attend mass. Saint-Sorlin was proud of having such a priest. Even the non-believers found him delightful.

Marie listened to the growing murmurs of approval as if she were receiving compliments about her own son. “My, they've certainly taken their time to realize what I knew right from the start.”

Without realizing it, her exchanges with the priest were changing her. To be sure, her schedule and habits did not change, but now she experienced unexpected emotions as well.

At six o'clock sharp, the moment she got out of bed, she thought about how Gabriel was getting up at that time, too. While she was washing at her sink, naked in front of the mirror, she imagined him getting ready, naked as well, and how they would meet again soon. When she crossed the threshold of the church, breathless, she felt as if she were entering not just God's house, but Gabriel's, too. In the days of the old priest the church of Saint-Sorlin smelled of God the way a butcher's shop smells of dead meat, with faint, disgusting whiffs of decomposition; but ever since Gabriel had come, there were only scents of lily, incense, and beeswax; the stained-glass windows were clean, the tiles scrubbed, the tablecloths on the altar had been ironed: in short, it was as if God and the nice young man had set up housekeeping together in a cozy little bungalow.