Chocolat

by Joanne Harris

  “The other day,” she said, with forced casualness. “I forgot to pay for something.”

  She has long fingers, oddly delicate in spite of the calluses on the fingertips. In repose her face seems to lose some of its dismayed expression, becoming almost attractive. Her hair is a soft brown, her eyes golden. “I’m sorry.”

  She threw the ten-franc piece onto the counter with a kind of defiance.

  “That’s OK.”

  I made my voice casual, disinterested. “It happens all the time.”

  Josephine looked at me for a second, suspiciously, then sensing no malice, relaxed a little. “This is good.” Sipping the chocolate. “Really good.”

  “I make it myself,” I explained. “From the chocolate liquor before the fat is added to make it solidify. This is exactly how the Aztecs drank chocolate, centuries ago.”

  She shot me another quick, suspicious glance.

  “Thank you for the present,” she said at last. “Chocolate almonds. My favourite.”

  Then, quickly, the words rushing out of her in desperate, ungainly haste, “I never took it on purpose. They’ll have spoken about me, I know. But I don’t steal. It’s them”— contemptuous now, her mouth turned down in rage and self-hatred — “the Clairmont bitch and her cronies. Liars.”

  She looked at me again, almost defiantly. “I heard you don’t go to church.”

  Her voice was brittle, too loud for the small room and the two of us.

  I smiled. “That’s right. I don’t.”

  “You won’t last long here if you don’t,” said Josephine in the same high, glassy voice. “They’ll have you out of here the way they do everyone they don’t approve of. You’ll see. All this”— a vague, jerking gesture at the shelves, the boxes, the display window with its pieces montees — “none of this will help you. I’ve heard them talking. I’ve heard the things they say.”

  “So have I.” I poured myself a cup of chocolate from the silver pot. Small and black, like espresso, with a chocolate spoon to stir it. My voice was gentle. “But I don’t have to listen.” A pause while I sipped. “And neither do you.”

  Josephine laughed.

  The silence revolved between us. Five seconds. Ten.

  “They say you’re a witch.”

  That word again. She lifted her head defiantly. “Are you?”

  I shrugged, drank. “Who says?”

  “Joline Drou. Caroline Clairmont. Cure Reynaud’s bible groupies. I heard them talking outside St Jerome ‘s. Your daughter was telling the other children. Something about spirits.”

  There was curiosity in her voice and an underlying, reluctant hostility I did not understand. “Spirits!” she hooted.

  I traced the dim outline of a spiral against the yellow mouth of my cup. “I thought you didn’t care what those people had to say.”

  “I’m curious:” That defiance again, like a fear of being liked. “And you were talking to Armande the other day. No-one talks to Armande. Except me.”

  Armande Voizin. The old lady from Les Marauds.

  “I like her,” I said simply. “Why shouldn’t I talk to her?”

  Josephine clenched her fists against the counter. She seemed agitated, her voice cracking like frostbitten glass.

  “Because she’s mad, that’s why!” She waved her fingers at her temple in a vague indicative gesture. “Mad, mad, mad.”

  She lowered her voice for a moment. “I’ll tell you something,” she said. “There’s a line across Lansquenet”— demonstrating on the counter with a callused finger — “and if you cross it, if you don’t go to confession, if you don’t respect your husband, if you don’t cook three meals a day and sit by the fire thinking decent thoughts and waiting for him to come home, if you don’t have children — and you don’t bring flowers to your friends’ funerals or vacuum the parlour or — dig -the — flowerbeds!” She was red-faced with the effort of speaking. Her rage was intense, enormous. “Then you’re crazy!” she spat. “You’re crazy, you’re abnormal and people — talk- about — you behind your back and — and — and—” She broke off, the agonized expression slipping from her face.

  I could see her looking beyond me through i1e window, but the reflection against the glass was enough to obscure what she might be seeing. It was as if a shutter had descended over her features; blank and sly and hopeless.

  “Sorry. I got a bit carried away for a moment.” She swallowed a last mouthful of chocolate. “I shouldn’t talk to you. You shouldn’t talk to me. It’s going to be bad enough already.”

  “Is that what Armande says?” I asked gently.

  “I have to go.” Her clenched fists dug into her breastbone again in the recriminatory gesture which seemed so characteristic of her. “I have to go.”

  The look of dismay was back on her face, her mouth turning downwards in a panicked rictus so that she looked almost dull witted. And yet the angry, tormented woman who had spoken to me a moment ago was far from that. What whom — had she seen to make her react in that way? As she left La Praline, head pushed down into an imaginary blizzard, I moved to the window to watch her. No-one approached her. No-one seemed to be looking, in her direction. It was then that I noticed Reynaud standing by the arch of the church door. Reynaud and a balding man I did not recognize. Both were staring fixedly at the window of La Praline.

  Reynaud? Could he be the source of her fear? I felt a prick of annoyance at the thought that he might be the one who had warned Josephine against me. And yet she had seemed scornful, not afraid, when she mentioned him earlier. The second man was short but powerful; checked shirt rolled up over shiny red forearms, small intellectual’s glasses oddly at variance with the thick, fleshy features. A look of unfocused hostility hung about him, and at last I realized I had seen him before. In a white beard and red robe, flinging sweets into the crowd. At the carnival. Santa Claus, throwing bonbons to the crowd as if he hoped he might take out someone’s eye. At that moment a group of children came up to the window and I was unable to see more, but I thought I knew now why Josephine had fled in such haste.

  “Lucie, do you see that man in the square? The one in the red shirt? Who is he?”

  The child pulls a face. White chocolate mice are her special weakness; five for ten francs. I slip a couple of extra ones into the paper cornet. “You know him, don’t you?”

  She nods. “Monsieur Muscat. From the cafe.”

  I know it; a drab little place down at the end of the Avenue des Francs Bourgeois. Half-a-dozen metal tables on the pavement, a faded Orangina parasol. An ancient sign identifies it; Cafe de la Republique. Clutching her cornet of sweets the small girl turns to go, reconsiders, turns again. “You won’t ever guess his favourite,” she says. “He hasn’t got one.”

  “I find that difficult to believe,” I smile. “Everyone has a favourite. Even Monsieur Muscat.”

  Lucie considers this for a moment. “Maybe his favourite is the one he takes from someone else,” she tells me limpidly. Then she is gone, with a little wave through the display window.

  “Tell Anouk we’re off to Les Marauds after school!”

  “I will.”

  Les Marauds. I wonder what they find there to amuse them. The river with its brown, stinking banks. The narrow streets drifted with litter. An oasis for children. Dens, flat stones flick-flacking across the stagnant water. Secrets whispered, stick swords and shields made of rhubarb leaves. Warfare amongst the blackberry tangle, tunnels, explorers, stray dogs, rumours, purloined treasures…Anouk came from school yesterday with a new jauntiness in her step and a picture she had drawn to show me.

  “That’s me.” A figure in red overalls topped with a scribble of black hair. “Pantoufle.” The rabbit is sitting on her shoulder like a parrot, ears cocked. “And Jeannot.” A boy figure in green, one hand outstretched. Both children are smiling. It seems mothers — even schoolteacher mothers — are not allowed in Les Marauds. The Plasticine figure still sits beside Anouk’s bed, and she has stuck the picture to
the wall above it.

  “Pantoufle told me what to do.” She scoops him up in a casual embrace. In this light I can see him quite clearly, like a whiskered child. I sometimes tell myself I should discourage this pretence of hers, but cannot bear to inflict such loneliness upon her. Maybe, if we can stay here, Pantoufle can give way to more substantial playmates.

  “I’m glad you managed to stay friends,” I told her, kissing the top of her curly head. “Ask Jeannot if he wants to come here some day soon, to help takedown the display. You can bring your other friends too.”

  “The gingerbread house?” Her eyes were sunlight-on-water. “Oh yes!” Skipping across the room with sudden exuberance, almost knocking over a stool, skirting an imaginary obstacle with a giant leap, then up the stairs three at a time — “Race you, Pantoufle!” A thump as she slammed, the door against the wall — bam-bam! A sudden stabbing sweetness of love for her, taking me off guard as it always does. My little stranger. Never still, never silent.

  I poured myself another cup of chocolate, turning as I heard the door-chimes jangle. For a second I saw his face unguarded, the appraising look, chin thrust out, shoulders squared, the veins popping out on the bare shiny forearms. Then he smiled, a thin smile without warmth.

  “Monsieur Muscat, isn’t it?” I wondered what he wanted. He looked out of place, glancing, head lowered, at the displays…His gaze fell short of my face, flicking casually to my breasts; once, twice.

  “What did she want?” His voice was soft but heavily accented. He shook his head once, as if in disbelief. “What the hell did she want in a place like this?”

  He indicated a tray of sugared almonds at fifty francs a packet. “This sort of thing, he?” He appealed to me, hands spread. “Weddings and christenings. What’s she want with wedding and christening stuff?” He smiled again. Wheedling now, trying for charm and failing. “What did she buy?”

  “I take it you mean Joeephine.”

  “My wife.” He gave the words an odd intonation, a kind of flat finality. “That’s women for you. Work yourself senseless to earn money to live on and what do they do, hi? Waste it all on—” Another gesture at the ranks of chocolate gems, marzipan fruit garlands, silver paper, silk flowers. “What was it, a present?”

  There was suspicion in his voice. “Who’s she buying presents for? Herself?”

  He gave a short laugh, as if the thought was ludicrous.

  I didn’t see what business it was of his. But there was a kind of aggression in his manner, a nervousness around the eyes and the gesticulating hands, that made me careful. Not for myself — I learned enough ways to take care of myself in the long years with Mother — but for her. Before I could prevent it an image leaped out from him towards me; a bloodied knuckle etched in smoke. I closed my fists under the counter. There was nothing in this man I wanted to see.

  “I think you may have misunderstood,” I told him. “I asked Josephine in for a cup of chocolate. As a friend.”

  “Oh.” He seemed taken aback for a moment. Then he gave that barking laugh again. It was almost genuine now, real amusement touched with contempt. “You want to be friends with Josephine?” Again the look of appraisal. I felt him comparing us, his hot eyes flicking to my breasts over the counter. When he spoke again it was with a caress in the voice, a crooning note of what he imagined to be seduction. “You’re new here, aren’t you?”

  I nodded.

  “Perhaps we could get together some time. You know. Get to know each other.”

  “Perhaps.” I was at my most casual. “Maybe you could ask your wife to come too,” I added smoothly.

  A beat of time. He looked at me again, this time a measuring glance of sly suspicion. “She’s not been saying anything, has she?”

  Blankly: “What kind of thing?”

  A quick shake of the head. “Nothing. Nothing. She talks, that’s all. She’s all talk. Doesn’t do anything but, he? Day in, day out.” Again, the short, mirthless laugh. “You’ll find that out soon enough,” he added with sour satisfaction.

  I murmured something non-committal. Then, on impulse, I brought out a small packet of chocolate almonds from beneath the counter and handed them to him.

  “Perhaps you could give these to Josephine for me,” I said lightly. “I was going to give them to her, but I forgot.”

  He looked at me, but did not move. “Give them to her?” he repeated.

  “Free. On the house.” I gave my most winning smile. “A present.”

  His smile broadened. He took the chocolates in their pretty silver sachet. “I’ll see she gets them,” he said, cramming the packet into his jeans’ pocket.

  “They’re her favourites,” I told him.

  “You won’t go far in this job if you keep giving out freebies,” he said, indulgently. “You’ll be out of business in a month.” Again the hard, greedy look, as if I too were a chocolate he couldn’t wait to unwrap.

  “We’ll see,” I said blandly, and watched him leave the shop and begin the road home, shoulders slouched in a thickset James Dean swagger. He didn’t even wait to be out of sight before I saw him take out Josephine’s chocolates and open the packet. Perhaps he guessed I might be watching. One, two, three, his hand went to his mouth with lazy regularity, and before he had crossed the square the silver wrapping was already balled in a square fist, the chocolates gone. I imagined him cramming them in like a greedy dog who wants to finish his own food before robbing another’s plate. Passing the baker’s he popped the silver ball at the bin outside but missed, bouncing it off the rim and onto the stones. Then he continued on his way past the church and down the Avenue des francs Bourgeois without looking back, his engineer boots kicking sparks from the smooth cobbles underfoot.

  TWELVE

  Friday, February 21

  THE WEATHER TURNED COLD AGAIN LAST NIGHT. St Jerome’s weathervane turned and swung in anxious indecision all night, scraping shrilly against its rusted moorings as if to warn against intruders. The morning began in fog so dense that even the church tower, twenty paces.from the shopfront, seemed remote and spectral; the bell for Mass tolling thickly through wadded candyfloss as the few comers approached, collars turned against the fog, to collect absolution.

  When she had finished her morning milk, I wrapped Anouk into her red coat and, in spite of her protests, pushed a fluffy cap onto her head.

  “Don’t you want any breakfast?”

  She shook her head emphatically, grabbed an apple from a dish by the counter.

  “What about my kiss?”

  This has become a morning ritual.

  Wrapping sly arms around my neck, she licks my face wetly, jumps away giggling, blows a kiss from the doorway, runs out into the square. I mime appalled horror, wiping my face. She laughs delightedly, pokes out a small sharp tongue in my direction, bugles, “I love you!” and is off like a scarlet streamer into the fog, her satchel dragging behind her. I know that in thirty seconds the fluffy hat will be relegated to the inside of the satchel, along with books, papers and other unwanted reminders of the adult world. For a second I see Pantoufle again, jumping in her wake, and banish the unwanted image in haste. A sudden loneliness of loss — how can I face an entire day without her? — and, with difficulty, I suppress an urge to call her back.

  Six customers this morning. One is Guillaume, on his way back from the butcher’s with a piece of boudin wrapped in paper.

  “Charly likes boudin,” he tells me earnestly. “He hasn’t been eating very well recently, but I’m sure he’ll love this.”

  “Don’t forget you have to eat too,” I remind him gently.

  “Of course.” He gives his sweet, apologetic smile. “I eat like a horse. Really I do.” He gives me a sudden, stricken look. “Of course, it’s Lent,” he says. “You don’t think animals should observe the Lenten fast, do you?”

  I shake my head at his dismayed expression: His face is small, delicately featured. He is the kind of man who breaks biscuits in two and saves the other half for
later.

  “I think you should both look after yourselves better.”

  Guillaume scratches Charly’s ear. The dog seems listless, barely interested in the contents of the butcher’s package in the basket beside him.

  “We manage.”

  His smile comes as automatically as the lie: “Really we do.”

  He finishes his cup of chocolat espresso.

  “That was excellent,” he says as he always does. “My compliments, Madame Rocher.”

  I have long since stopped asking him to call me Vianne. His sense of propriety forbids it. He leaves the money on the counter, tips his old felt hat and opens the door. Charly scrambles to his feet and follows, lurching slightly to one side. Almost as soon as the door closes behind them, I see Guillaume stoop to pick him up and carry him.

  At lunchtime I had another visitor. I recognized her at once in spite of the shapeless man’s overcoat she affects; the clever winter-apple face beneath the black straw -hat, the long black skirts over heavy workboots.

  “Madame Voizin! You said you’d drop in, didn’t you? Let me get you a drink.”

  Bright eyes flicked appreciatively from one side of the shop to another I sensed her taking everything in. Her gaze came to rest on Anouk’s menu:

  chocolat chaud 10f

  chocolat espresso 15f

  chococcino 12f

  mocha 12f

  She nodded approvingly. “It’s been years since I had anything like this,” she said. “I’d almost forgotten this sort of place existed.”

  There is an energy in her voice, a forcefulness to her movements, which belies her age. Her mouth has a humorous twist which reminds me of my mother. “I used to love chocolate,” she declared.

  As I poured her, a tall glass of mocha and added a splash of kahlua to the froth she surveyed the bar stools with some suspicion.

  “You don’t expect me to climb all the way up there, do you?”

  I laughed. “If I’d known you were coming I would have brought a ladder. Wait a moment.”

  Stepping into the kitchen I brought out Poitou’s old orange chair. “Try this.”