Noah's Child Read Online Free

where the trees were darkening to black.
    Father Pons wasn’t tiring but he hardly spoke, settling for the odd ‘OK?’, ‘Are you holding out?’ and ‘Not too tired, Joseph?’ Still, the further we went the more I felt we knew each other, probably because my arms were round his waist, my head was resting against his back and I could feel the warmth of his thin body gently seeping through the thick fabric of his robe. At last there was a sign saying Chemlay, Father Pons’s village, and he braked. The bike gave a sort of whinny and I fell into the ditch.
    â€˜Well done, Joseph, you pedalled well! Thirty-five kilometres! For a first time, that’s incredible!’
    I got back up, not daring to contradict the priest. In fact, to my great shame, I hadn’t pedalled on our journey, I had let my legs dangle. Were there pedals I hadn’t even noticed?
    He put the bike down before I had time to see, and took me by the hand. We cut across a field to the first house on the outskirts of Chemlay, a low, squat building. Once there, he gestured to me to keep quiet, avoided the front door and knocked at the door to the cellar.
    A face appeared.
    â€˜Come in quickly.’
    â€˜This is Mademoiselle Marcelle, our pharmacist,’ whispered Father Pons, leading me in.
    Mademoiselle Marcelle hastily closed the door and took us down the few steps that led to her cellar, lit by a measly oil lamp.
    Children found Mademoiselle Marcelle frightening, and when she leaned towards me she lost none of her impact: I almost cried out in disgust. Was it the shadows? The way she was lit from below? Mademoiselle Marcelle looked like all sorts of things, but not a woman; more like a potato on the body of a bird. Her heavy, misshapen features, wrinkled eyelids and dark, dull, rough uneven skin made her face look like some root vegetable harrowed over by a farmer: jabs of his pick had marked out a thin mouth and a couple of small bulges for her eyes, while a few sparse hairs − white at the root and reddish at the ends − suggested the thing might sprout again in the spring. Perched on thin legs, bent forward, with a large stomach which bulged outwards from her neck down to her hips, like a plump red robin, hands on hips and elbows back as if ready to take flight, she peered at me, preparing to peck.
    â€˜A Jew, of course?’ she asked.
    â€˜Yes,’ said Father Pons.
    â€˜What’s your name?’
    â€˜Joseph.’
    â€˜Good. No need to change the name: it’s Christian as well as Jewish. And your parents?’
    â€˜Maman is Léa and Papa’s Michaël.’
    â€˜I want to know their surname.’
    â€˜Bernstein.’
    â€˜Oh, that’s a disaster! Bernstein . . . We’ll say Bertin. I’ll get some papers for you in the name Joseph Bertin. Here, come with me for the photograph.’
    In a corner of the room a stool was waiting for me, in front of a painted background of woods and sky.
    Father Pons tidied my hair, straightened my clothes and asked me to look at the camera, a large wooden box with concertina sides, on a framework almost as tall as a man.
    Just then a flash of light leaped around the room, so bright and disconcerting I thought I had dreamed it.
    While I rubbed my eyes, Mademoiselle Marcelle slipped another plate into the accordion, and the strange lighting phenomenon happened again.
    â€˜Is there more?’ I asked.
    â€˜No, two should be enough. I’ll develop them overnight. You haven’t got fleas, I hope? Anyway, you’ll have to put this lotion on. Or scabies? Well, I’ll give you a good scrub, and rub you down with sulphur. What else? A few days, Monsieur Pons, and I’ll get him back to you, is that all right with you?’
    â€˜That’s all right with me.’
    It wasn’t all right with me, not at all: I was horrified at the thought of staying alone with her. Not daring to admit this, instead I asked,