Page 34 of Vianne

As she spoke, a second raindrop fell on the cobbles in front of me. Then another. Then a third; as large as five-franc pieces. There came a rolling of thunder like the sound of a lorry coming downhill, and a sudden drenching rain, darkening the cobbles. Khamaseen had disappeared.

I ran for the nearest balcony, under which a man was standing.

Light-eyed; maybe thirty years old, and wearing a kind of dark cape, revealing a clerical collar.

I felt a sudden lurch of alarm – my mother’s fear of the Man in Black still lives in me like a splinter – but there was nowhere else to run without risking the downpour.

I saw the man’s eyes flick to my face as I ran under the balcony, my shirt already stuck to my skin, my hair in rat’s-tails under my scarf.

I’d tucked the bag with the mimosa soap under my arm; it felt heavy.

I pulled it out; the paper was wet. But there was no bar of soap inside.

Instead, I found my mother’s cards, neatly bound together with twine, ready to go back into the box in which she’d kept them all my life.

For a moment I almost believed that I’d been struck by lightning.

I gasped, and felt the cards in my hand shuffle, almost by themselves; caught a scent of mimosa from the sodden paper.

How had she found these? How had she known how to return them to me?

The man in the dark cape looked at me. I saw he was younger than I’d thought; not much older than I was. Maybe a séminariste , I thought: or a newly ordained deacon.

‘Are you all right?’ He sounded concerned. ‘You’re not going to faint, or anything?’

I shook my head. ‘I don’t think so.’

The young man said nothing. His eyes were a curious shade of pale green, like the harbour water.

‘Are you a visitor to Marseille?’

He nodded. I thought he looked ill at ease, like someone who expects to be robbed. Perhaps it was just my interruption of his silent communion with the rain. ‘My – ah – colleagues from the seminary all went to see the basilica.’

I notice he did not say friends . ‘Yes, it’s beautiful,’ I said.

He shrugged. ‘I’d prefer something less – flashy.’

I smiled. ‘I thought that was the point.’

‘I don’t think God needs gilding.’ He saw my expression and frowned. ‘Did I say something funny?’

‘No, not at all. More priests should think the way you do.’

He gave a small and chilly smile. ‘I’m not a priest. Not yet.

But soon—’ His sea-glass eyes seemed to darken.

‘My own village priest sadly suffered a stroke. The bishop thinks it unlikely that he will return to his duties. I would have moved back straightaway, but the bishop feels I should take time – to travel the country, to understand all the opportunities available – before going back to my village.’

‘That seems sensible,’ I said.

He shrugged again. ‘I’ve seen enough. I take no joy in travelling.’

We watched in silence for a time, as the rain hammered down on the cobbles. My bare feet in their sandals were splashed with mud from the dusty street; the awning above us was a drum; the gutters tumbled with water.

‘What makes you want to go back there?’ I said, as the rain began to abate. ‘Why not a different village, at least? Or a city, like Marseille? Or even another country?’

He gave me a look that might have been of pity or of scorn. ‘There’s no way to explain,’ he said. ‘You either belong to a place, or you don’t. I suppose everyone feels the same about somewhere.’ He looked down at my ankles, which were splashed with street mud. ‘Even Marseille.’

‘Not everyone. Some of us follow the wind.’

‘Follow the wind,’ he repeated, as if the idea was new to him.

I did not explain. I do not expect the wind to be something he has ever thought about.

Some of us are barnacles, made from birth to cling to the rocks of faith, or fear or family.

And some of us are thistledown, lighter than the air we breathe – until, perhaps, a thunderstorm drives us into the gutter.

Vianne will be autumnal now, with the plane trees beginning to turn along the banks of the river. I wonder what the priest’s village is like. I wonder if he would welcome me there. I wonder what it feels like to belong so completely to a place that all others feel wanting.

‘The rain has stopped,’ observed the priest.

I looked. So it had. A gleam of grey light pierced the dissipating clouds. ‘I should be getting on,’ I said. ‘This city isn’t as welcoming in autumn as in summertime.’

He looked at me. ‘I wish you luck.’

‘What’s the name of your village?’ I said. ‘Perhaps I’ll pass by there someday.’

‘You wouldn’t know it,’ said the priest. ‘Its name is Lansquenet-sous-Tannes. No one goes there. I like it that way.’

I noticed he did not tell me that I would be welcome to visit. I stepped out from under the balcony, holding my mother’s pack of cards very tightly in my hand. ‘Safe journey home to your village, mon père .’

I do not know why it felt as if I had made a confession.