Noah's Child Read Free Page B

to ankles. But his head sprang out at you: chubby, pink, lively, fresh and innocent, like a baby after a bath. You felt like kissing it and taking it in your hands.
    â€˜Good afternoon, Father,’ said the Comte. ‘This is Joseph.’
    I scrutinized him, trying to understand why his face didn’t really surprise me but also was a sort of confirmation. A confirmation of what? His dark, dark eyes looked at me kindly from behind the light-framed,round lenses of his glasses.
    Then it suddenly dawned on me.
    â€˜You haven’t got any hair!’ I exclaimed.
    He smiled and in that moment I started to like him.
    â€˜I’ve lost a lot and I shave what little I have left.’
    â€˜Why?’
    â€˜To save time on brushing it.’
    I laughed out loud. So he himself wasn’t sure why he was bald? It was too silly . . . The de Sullys were looking at me quizzically. Didn’t they know either? Did I have to tell them? But it was so obvious: Father Pierre Pons’s head was as smooth as a pebble because he had to match his own name − pierre ponce !
    They were still looking baffled so I sensed that I should be quiet. Even if it did make me look stupid . . .
    â€˜Can you ride a bike, Joseph?’
    â€˜No.’
    I didn’t dare admit the reason for this failing: since the beginning of the war my cautious parents had stopped me playing in the street. I was therefore a long way behind children my age in all sorts of games.
    â€˜Well, I’ll teach you,’ said the priest. ‘You try to stay on behind me. Hold on tight.’
    And there in the de Sullys’ courtyard, struggling to be worthy of their pride, it took me several attempts to stay on the luggage rack.
    â€˜Let’s try out in the street now.’
    When I managed it, the Comte and Comtesse came over and kissed me hurriedly.
    â€˜See you soon, Joseph. We’ll come and visit you. Watch out for Big Jack, Father.’
    I hardly had time to grasp that this was goodbye before the priest and I were wheeling through the streets of Brussels. As all my attention was focused on keeping my balance, I couldn’t give in to my sadness.
    With thin rain transforming the tarmac into a slick mirror-like surface, we sped onwards, quivering and wobbling on the bike’s narrow tyres.
    â€˜If we come across Big Jack, lean against me and we’ll chat to each other as if we’ve known each other for years.’
    â€˜Who’s Big Jack, Father?’
    â€˜A Jewish traitor who goes round in a Gestapo car. He points out the Jews he recognizes for the Germans so they can arrest them.’
    As it happened, I’d noticed a slow-moving black car following us. I glanced behind me and, throughthe windscreen, sitting between two men in dark coats, I spotted a pasty sweaty face scouring the pavements of Avenue Louise with beady eyes.
    â€˜Father, it’s Big Jack!’
    â€˜Quick, tell me a story. You must know some jokes, Joseph, don’t you?’
    Without even picking out the best ones, I started churning out my stock of jokes. I would never have guessed Father Pons would find them so funny. He roared with laughter. Intoxicated with this success, I started giggling too, and by the time the car sidled right up to us I was already too full of myself to notice.
    Big Jack stared at us sulkily, patting his flabby cheeks with a small folded white handkerchief. Then, disgusted by our jollity, he told the driver to drive on.
    Shortly after that Father Pons turned down a side street, and the car disappeared from sight. I wanted to carry on with my career as a comedian but Father Pons exclaimed,
    â€˜Stop, Joseph, please! You’re making me laugh so much I can’t pedal properly.’
    â€˜Too bad: you won’t get to hear the one about the three rabbis trying out a motorbike . . .’
    *
    At nightfall we were still travelling. We had left the city far behind and were cutting through the countryside