‘Monseigneur, I have no idea.’
‘Monsieur le Curé! Glad you’re well.’
That was Paul-Marie Muscat, at the back in his wheelchair. Pilou was sitting beside him, with Vlad, a piece of string firmly attached to his collar. I saw Joséphine next to them, smiling as if her heart might break. Then, Georges Poitou and his wife. The Acheron family – all of them, even the eldest son, Jean-Louis, who never usually goes to church. Then Joline Drou and her son, Jeannot; Guillaume Duplessis; Georges and Caro Clairmont – Caro, with an air of concern that made me want to wring her neck. Narcisse, who takes Communion twice a year, if he remembers to, but rarely attends otherwise; Henriette Moisson; Charles Lévy; even the Englishman, Jay Mackintosh—
And then there were people who, for good reason, had never been part of my congregation. Zahra al-Djerba. Sonia Bencharki. Alyssa Mahjoubi. Their father, Saïd. And old Mohammed Mahjoubi, too – all of them carrying flowers and fruit. And, of course, there was Vianne Rocher. And Anouk, and Rosette, and the river-rats; ragged people, tattooed people, crowding my church to the vaulting—
And on every surface, every ledge, there were candles. Hundreds, thousands of votives, every single one a prayer; on the altar; by the font; beneath the statues of Saint Francis and the Virgin. We don’t have as many on Christmas Eve; but today, on a Thursday morning in September, Saint-Jérôme’s was like a cathedral.
‘Glad to see you well, mon père.’
‘Did you get my flowers?’
‘I hope you enjoyed the wine, mon père.’
‘Will you be taking confession?’
I turned to the Bishop. ‘I had no idea—’
But monseigneur was smiling. There may have been a little frost in that toothpaste-commercial smile, but the Bishop is politician enough to know when to change allegiance.
‘How wonderful to see so many here,’ he said, addressing the villagers. ‘Yes, of course – don’t crowd Père Francis – I’m sure he’ll agree to say a few words.’
Well, père, I have never said Mass to such a large crowd of people. Of course, I had nothing prepared – but to my surprise, the words came to me more easily than ever before. I don’t remember quite what I said, but I talked about community, and what it really means to belong; and of the kindness of strangers; and of being in the darkness, watching the light from the windows of other people’s homes; and of being inside the whale, and of being a stranger in a foreign land – and when I had finished, the Bishop was gone.
As Vianne would have said, the wind had changed.
CHAPTER ONE
Wednesday, 8th September
WELL, PÈRE HENRI never came back. after that, no one expected him to. Lansquenet, with Joséphine’s help, has once more reclaimed Francis Reynaud. Père Henri’s remaining groupies – Caro Clairmont among them – know better than to voice their dissatisfaction. After all, they were the ones who fêted Karim Bencharki.
Reynaud, against doctor’s orders, was back to work from that day forth. He still looks thin and rather pale, but says that anything is better than taking confession from his bed. Besides, he tells me in his caustic way, he already has enough gifts of food to open up a shop of his own. Of course, Reynaud is not a man who knows how to deal with affection. It bewilders him slightly, and makes him wonder what he is doing wrong. As a result, when taking confession, he is more than usually strict with Avés. His people understand this, and play penitence accordingly. Besides, they feel responsible. They want to make him happy.
Joséphine has still not left. I wonder now if she ever will. This evening I called to say goodbye, and found her on the terrasse, drinking hot chocolate and watching Pilou sitting on the side of the bridge. Pilou had his fishing-pole, and Paul-Marie was beside him, with Vlad lying next to him on the road. I could only see Paul from the back as he sat there in his wheelchair, but there was something about his posture that made me want to look again—
‘I know it’s stupid,’ said Joséphine. ‘People don’t change. Not really. But over the past few days he’s been—’ She shrugged. ‘You know. Just different.’
I smiled. ‘I know. I’ve seen it too. And no, people don’t often change – but sometimes they grow, if you give them the chance. Look at Reynaud.’
She nodded.
Of course, you’d have to know him very well to sense the change in Monsieur le Curé. But something has altered, something that few other people would notice. I do, because it’s in his colours. And Joséphine, because—
‘Did you see? They finished the old chocolaterie.’
I shook my head. ‘I’ll have to look.’
I’m aware that over the past two weeks Luc Clairmont and his father have been working hard to restore the place. Roux volunteered to help them, which is why we’ve barely seen him, but on my way to the café today I omitted to check on their progress.
‘What’s going to happen to the place now?’
She shrugged. ‘Your guess is as good as mine.’
I know what she’s thinking. It’s been a week since Reynaud left his sickroom. School terms are beginning again. It’s time to get back to Paris. And yet—
‘You can’t leave today,’ said Omi, when I tried to tell her this morning. ‘Tonight is the end of Ramadan. Tonight, there’ll be harira soup and barley soup and sixteen kinds of briouats, and roast lamb and spiced couscous and chebakia and stuffed dates. Plus I’ll be making coconut sellou to my mother’s recipe, and you will never forgive yourself if you miss the chance to taste it.’
We are all invited, of course. People from both sides of the Tannes; even the river-gypsies. There’s not enough room in the al-Djerba or the Mahjoubi houses to accommodate everyone, but the nights are still mild, and the jetty is the ideal place for a celebration. Already, trestles and benches have been set up on the riverbank, while the boats closest to the jetty are decked with lanterns and fairy lights. All the women will be dressed in their best and brightest clothes – no black today – and scented with patchouli oil and amber and cedar and sandal and rose. There will be games for the children, the minaret will be illuminated and I have made a batch of chocolates, with pistachios, cardamom and gold leaf, tied up in twists of coloured paper, to be given out to everyone.
Not everyone will come, of course. The Acherons remain opposed, and some of the young men from the gym are also refusing to take part. Even so, Lansquenet has never seen such a gathering. Maghrébins; river-rats; villagers and visitors, all here to celebrate the end of a time of sacrifice—
‘No wine, of course,’ said Joséphine. ‘And no dancing. How does that work?’
I laughed. ‘I’m sure you’ll manage.’
She looked at me. ‘You make it sound as if you won’t be there tonight.’
‘Of course I’ll be there.’
Of course I will. But there’s something in the air, Joséphine; something that smells of car exhausts and fog on the Seine and plane trees and rain on the September streets. I know what it is. You know it, too. You’ve felt the pull of the changing wind. Outside in the square, there’s an autumn scent. The shadows are starting to lengthen. Anouk is talking to Jeannot – earnestly, her hand in his – while Rosette and Pantoufle and Bam chase each other like clusters of leaves around the cobbled corners. The light is rosy and somehow sad – the nostalgic light of summers past – and I sense that something is over, but what? The whitewashed church tower is rosewater-pink. The Tannes is a sheet of hammered gold. I can see all of Lansquenet, from Saint-Jérôme’s to Les Marauds. And the people – I can see them too, their colours rising like strings of smoke against the fading summer sky.
So many people. So many stories. All of them interwoven with mine, into this cat’s-cradle of light.
In his garden, Francis Reynaud waters his peach stone and thinks of Armande. On the deck of the black houseboat, Roux lies on his back and waits for the stars. On the bridge, Paul-Marie watches his son catch a perch, and smiles warmly – an unfamiliar sensation, which he has to check with
his fingertips, as a man may check his moustache for crumbs after eating a sandwich. In the mosque, old Mahjoubi gets ready for prayers. The spire of the minaret floats in the sun. In an alley in Les Marauds, François and Karine Acheron sit with Maya around a box with a couple of puppies inside. Du’a sits on the riverbank, watching the Tannes. She no longer wears an abaya, but jeans, a kameez and her red slippers. Alyssa Mahjoubi sits with her; her short hair is uncovered, her eyes full of tears.
You see, everywhere I look, there are things that connect me to Lansquenet. Stories; people; memories; insubstantial as heat haze, and yet they have a resonance, as if those strings of light could play a tune that might finally lead me home. So the chocolaterie is finished at last. I feel a strange reluctance to look. Better, perhaps, to remember it as I first saw it three weeks ago; a ruin, scorched and abandoned. But then, I’ve never been very good at leaving things behind. I tried, but I have always left fragments of myself there too, like seeds awaiting their chance to grow.
I leave Joséphine and Roux to get ready for the evening’s celebrations and walk out into the Place Saint-Jérôme, where the last frame of summer is fading to grey. And yes, the chocolate shop is there, just as it was the day I left; flowerpots on the window-ledge; shutters painted geranium-red; all whitewashed and gleaming and new again, waiting for someone—
Someone like you—
The sound of the muezzin floats across from Les Marauds. At the same time, the church clock strikes the half-hour. Jeannot Drou has gone home, and Anouk is on the street corner, the shadow of Pantoufle at her feet like a signpost marking our road.
Above my head comes a small, creaking sound. It’s the wooden sign above the shop door; fixed to the wall by a bracket. Its voice is small, but persistent; the voice of a tiny bird that chirps: Try me. Test me. Taste me.
I look up. The sign is blank, ready to be painted. I can almost see it now, in red and yellow lettering; as if the events of the past eight years have been neatly and prettily folded away, leaving no rough edges, no blanks, just the gloss of recovered time.
And it smells of the Americas; the court of Montezuma; spiced, in golden goblets and mixed with wine and pomegranate juice. And it smells of cream and cardamom; of sacrificial bonfires; of temples and of palaces; of vanilla and tonka and mocha and rose. The scent is overwhelming; it rushes through me like the wind; it sweeps me off my feet like love—
Will you stay, Vianne? Will you stay?
Anouk and Rosette are watching me. Both of them have friends here. Both of them are a part of this place, as we are a part of Paris; bound by a hundred invisible threads, which must be broken when we leave—
I reach out my hand to touch the door. It, too, has been painted geranium-red. It’s my favourite colour; Roux, who painted it, must have known. And now can I see the faintest glow, etched in gold around the frame like the tiniest, sweetest of glamours? From the corner of my eye I can see Bam, watching me. Since we arrived in Lansquenet, Bam has been very visible. Now, today, so is Pantoufle; his solemn eyes blink at me from the shadows.
I try the door. It is open. Doors are always open here. It opens a crack: inside, in the dark, is that a flash of kingfisher-blue, a scrawl of exuberant orange? My children are learning, I tell myself, with a strange little tug of pride. They know how to summon the wind. But is it enough? Is it ever enough?
Across the river, in Les Marauds, Roux is getting ready. I know the signs; that distant look of other places in his eyes. Roux would never live in a house. Even a houseboat is limiting. And Lansquenet is small, Roux. Small people. Small minds. In the end, you came with me because you knew she’d never leave—
Quietly, I close the door. Above my head, the invisible bird gives its tiny, persistent call: Try me. Try me.
I hold out my hands to my children. Anouk takes one: Rosette, the other. The call of the muezzin falls silent now over Les Marauds. The sun has set. We don’t look back. We have a party to go to.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Once again, heartfelt thanks to the unsung heroes of this book: to my agent, Peter Robinson; my PA, Anne; everyone at Transworld, especially Marianne Velmans; Kate Samano; Deborah Adams; Claire Ward for the jacket design and Louise Page, who organizes publicity with such efficiency and good cheer. Thank you to Mark, who maintains my website; to the Shed, for Zen moments of inspiration; to Vlad, the Boys, the Melancholy Baritone (in fact, to most of the West End) and to all my friends on Twitter, for biscuits, encouragement and elegant conversation. Thanks too to the proofreaders, copy-editors, sales reps, booksellers, festival organizers and all those who work behind the scenes to keep my books in print. Most of all, thanks to all of you; to the readers, without whom Vianne Rocher would never have found her voice.
And lastly – because we all need something to cling to – to Kevin and Anouchka, who stop the wind from blowing me away.
About the Author
Joanne Harris achieved international fame with her novel Chocolat in 1999. It was shortlisted for the Whitbread (Costa) Prize, and made into an Oscar-nominated film starring Juliette Binoche and Johnny Depp, and in The Lollipop Shoes she returned to the story of Vianne Rocher in Paris. She is the author of many other bestselling novels, the most recent of which is Blueeyedboy. Her hobbies are listed in Who’s Who as ‘mooching, lounging, strutting, strumming, priest-baiting and quiet subversion’. She plays bass guitar, is currently studying Old Norse, and lives with her husband and daughter in Yorkshire, about fifteen miles from where she was born.
Meet up with her at www.joanne-harris.co.uk or follow @joannechocolat on Twitter.
Also by Joanne Harris
THE EVIL SEED
SLEEP, PALE SISTER
CHOCOLAT
BLACKBERRY WINE
FIVE QUARTERS OF THE ORANGE
COASTLINERS
HOLY FOOLS
JIGS & REELS
GENTLEMEN & PLAYERS
THE LOLLIPOP SHOES
BLUEEYEDBOY
RUNEMARKS
RUNELIGHT
With Fran Warde
THE FRENCH KITCHEN: A COOKBOOK
THE FRENCH MARKET: MORE RECIPES FROM A FRENCH KITCHEN
For more information on Joanne Harris and her books, see her website at www.joanne-harris.co.uk or follow @joannechocolat on Twitter
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First published in Great Britain
in 2012 by Doubleday
a division of Transworld Publishers
Copyright © Frogspawn Ltd 2012
Joanne Harris has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.
This book is a work of fiction and, except in the case of historical fact, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
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