Chocolat

by Joanne Harris

  I shook my head, feeling suddenly cold.

  Childishly: “I wasn’t bad, was I, Vianne?”

  I shivered. The pages felt scaly beneath my fingers. “No,” I assured her. “You weren’t bad.”

  “I looked after you all right, didn’t I? Never gave you up. Not even when that priest said — said what he said. I never.”

  “No, Maman. You never did.”

  The cold was paralysing now, making thought difficult. All I could think of was the name, so similar to mine, the dates…And didn’t I remember that bear, that elephant, its plush worn down to the red sailcloth, carried indefatigably from Paris to Rome, Rome to Vienna? Of course it might have been one of her delusions.

  There were others, like the snake under the bedclothes and the woman in the mirrors. It could have been make believe. So much of my mother’s life was just that. And besides…after so long, what did it matter?

  At three I got up. The bed was hot and lumpy; sleep a million miles away. I lit a candle and took it into Josephine’s empty bedroom. The cards were back in their old place in Mother’s box, shifting eagerly beneath my grasp. The Lovers. The Tower. The Hermit. Death. Sitting cross-legged on the bare floor I shuffled them with something more than mere idleness. The Tower with its falling people, its walls crumbling, I could understand. It is my constant fear of displacement, the fear of the road, of loss. The Hermit with his hood and lantern looks very like Reynaud, his sly pale face half-hidden in shadows. Death I know very well, and I forked my fingers at the card — avert! — with the old automatic gesture. But the Lovers? I thought of Roux and Josephine so alike without knowing it, and could not suppress a prick of envy. And yet behind it I felt a sudden conviction that the card had not yet given up all its secrets. A scent of lilac spilled across the room. Maybe one of Mother’s bottles had a broken seal. I felt warm even in spite of the night chill, fingers of heat reaching into the pit of my stomach. Roux? Roux?

  I turned the card over, in haste, with trembling fingers.

  One more day. Whatever it is can wait one more day. I shuffled the cards again, but I do not have my mother’s deft touch and they slipped out of my hands onto the wood. The Hermit fell face-up. He looked more like Reynaud than ever in the flickering candlelight. His face seemed to grin viciously in the shadows. I’ll find a way, he promised slyly. You think you’ve won, but I’ll still find a way. I could feel his malevolence at my fingertips.

  Mother would have called it a sign.

  Suddenly, on an impulse I only half understood, I picked up the Hermit and held him up to the candle flame. For a moment the flame flirted with the stiff card, then the surface began to bubble. The pallid face grimaced and blackened.

  “I’ll show you,” I whispered. “Try to interfere and I’ll?.”

  A gout of flame flared alarmingly and I dropped the card onto the boards. The flame extinguished, spraying sparks and ash onto the wood.

  I felt jubilant. Who rings the changes now, Mother?

  And yet tonight I cannot rid myself of the feeling that I have somehow been manipulated, pushed into revealing what would have been better left alone. I did nothing, I tell myself. I intended no malice.

  Still, tonight, I can’t get the idea out of my mind. I feel light, insubstantial as milkweed fluff. Ready for any wind to blow away.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  Friday, March 28, Good Friday

  I SHOULD BE WITH MY FLOCK, PERE. I KNOW IT. The church is thick with incense, funereal with purple and black, not a single piece of silver, a single wreath of flowers. I should be there. Today is my greatest day, pere, the solemnity, the piety, the organ ringing like a giant underwater bell — the bells themselves silent, of course, in mourning for the crucified Christ. Myself in black and purple, my voice the middle note of the organ intoning the words. They watch me with wide, dark eyes. Even the renegades are here today, black-clad and hair greased. Their need, their expectation fills the hollow in me. For the briefest moment I really feel love, love for their sins, for their ultimate redemption, for their petty concerns, their insignificance. I know you understand, for you were their father too. In a very real sense you died for them as much as did Our Lord. To protect them from your sins and from their own. They never knew, did they, pere? Never found out from me. But when I found you with my mother in the chancery…A massive stroke, the doctor said. The shock must have been too great. You retreated. Went away into yourself though I know you can hear me, know that you see better than you ever did before. And I know that one day you will come back to us. I have fasted and prayed, pere. I have humbled myself. And yet I feel unworthy. There is still one thing I have not done.

  After the service a child — Mathilde Arnauld — came up to me. Putting her hand in mine she whispered, smiling: “Will they bring chocolates for you too, Monsieur le Cure?”

  “Will who bring chocolates?” I asked, puzzled.

  Impatiently: “But the bells, of course!” She gave a chuckle. “The flying bells!”

  “Oh, the bells. Of course.”

  I was taken aback and for a moment did not know how to answer. She tugged at my soutane, insisting. “You know, the bells. Flying to Rome to see the Pope and bringing back chocolates.”

  It has become an obsession. A one-word refrain, a whispered-shouted-chonls to every thought. I could not prevent my voice from rising in anger, crumpling her eager face into dismay and terror. I roared: “Why can no-one here think of anything but chocolates?” and the child ran wailing across the square, the little shop with its gift wrapping window grinning at me in triumph as I called after her too late.

  Tonight there will be the ceremonial burial of the Host in the sepulchre, the acting-out of the last moments of Our Lord by children of the parish, the lighting of the candles as the light fails. This is usually one of the most intense moments of the year for me, the moment at which they belong to me, my children, black-swathed and grave. But this year, will they be thinking of the Passion, of the solemnity of the Eucharist, or will their mouths be watering in anticipation? Her stories — flying bells and feasting — are pervasive, seductive. I try to infuse the sermon with our own seductions, but the dark glories of the Church cannot compare with her magic carpet rides.

  I called on Armande Voizin this afternoon. It’s her birthday, and the house was in commotion. Of course, I knew there was to be a kind of party, but never suspected anything like this. Caro mentioned it to the once or twice — she is reluctant to go, but hopes to use it as an opportunity to make peace with her mother once and for all — though I suspect even she does not anticipate the scale of the event. Vianne Rocher was in the kitchen, having spent most of the day preparing food. Josephine Muscat volunteered the cafe’s kitchen as. a supplementary cooking area, for Armande’s house is too small to cope with such lavish preparations, and when I arrived a whole phalanx of helpers were bringing dishes, pans and tureens from the cafe to Armande’s house. A rich, winey smell came from the open window, and in spite of myself I found my mouth watering. Narcisse was working in the garden, fixing flowers onto a kind of trellis constructed between the house and the gate. The effect is startling: clematis, morning glory, lilac and seringa seem to trail down the wooden structure, forming a thatch of colour above, through which the sun filters gently. Armande was nowhere to be seen.

  I turned away, unsettled by this excessive display. Typical of her to have chosen Good Friday for this celebration. The lavishness of it all — flowers, food, crates of champagne delivered at the door and packed with ice to keep it cool — is almost blasphemous, a mocking cry in the face of the sacrificed god. I must speak to her about it tomorrow. I was about to leave when I caught sight of Guillaume Duplessis standing beside the wall, stroking one of Armande’s cats. He raised his hat politely.

  “Helping, are you?” I demanded.

  Guillaume nodded. “I said I might give a hand,” he admitted. “There’s still a lot of work to do before tonight.”

  “I’m amazed you want to have anythin
g to do with this,” I told him sharply. “Today of all days, too! Really, I think Armande’s taking it too far this time. The expense, quite apart from the disrespect to the Church…”

  Guillaume shrugged. “She’s entitled to her little celebration,” he said mildly.

  “She’s more likely to kill herself with overeating,” I snapped tartly.

  “I think she’s old enough to do what she likes,” said Guillaume.

  I eyed him disapprovingly. He has changed since he began his association with the Rocher woman. The look of mournful humility has gone from his face and there is something wilful, almost defiant, in its place.

  “I don’t like the way her family tries to run Armande’s life for her,” he continued stubbornly.

  I shrugged. “I’m surprised that you, of all people, can take her side in this,” I told him.

  “Life’s full of surprises,” said Guillaume.

  I wish it were.

  THIRTY-SIX

  Friday, March 28, Good Friday

  AT SOME POINT QUITE EARLY ON I FORGOT what the party was all about and began to enjoy myself. While Anouk played in Les Marauds, I orchestrated preparations for the largest and most lavish meal I had ever cooked, and became lost in succulent detail. I had three kitchens: my own large ovens at La Praline where I baked the cakes, the Cafe des Marauds up the road for the shellfish, and Armande’s tiny kitchen for the soup, vegetables, sauces and garnishes. Josephine offered to lend Armande the extra cutlery and plates she might need, but Armande shook her head, smiling.

  “That’s all dealt with,” she replied. And so it was; early on Thursday morning a van arrived bearing the name of a large firm in Limoges and delivered two boxes of glass and silverware and one of fine china, all wrapped in shredded paper. The delivery man smiled as Armande signed the goods receipt.

  “One of your granddaughters getting married, hein?” he asked cheerily.

  Armande gave a bright chuckle. “Could be,” she replied. “Could be.”

  She spent Friday in high spirits, supposedly overseeing things but mostly getting underfoot. Like a mischievous child she had her fingers in sauces, peeped under dish covers and the lids of hot pans until finally I begged Guillaume to take her to the hairdresser in Agen for a couple of hours, if only to get her out of the way. When she returned she was transformed: hair smartly cropped and set under a rakish new hat, new gloves, new shoes. Shoes, gloves and hat were all the same shade of cherry red, Armande’s favourite colour.

  “I’m working upwards,” she informed me with satisfaction as she settled into her rocker to watch the proceedings. “By the end of the week I might have the courage to buy a whole red dress. Imagine me walking into church with it on. Wheee!”

  “Get some rest,” I told her sternly. “You’ve a party to go to tonight. I don’t want you falling asleep in the middle of dessert.”

  “I won’t,” she said, but accepted to doze for an hour in the late sun while I dressed the table and the others went home to rest and change for the evening. The dinner table is large, absurdly so for Armande’s little room, and with a little care would seat us all. A heavy piece of black oak, it took four people to manoeuvre it out into Narcisse’s newly built arbour where it stood beneath a canopy of foliage and flowers. The tablecloth is damask, with a fine lace border, and smells of the lavender in which she laid it after her marriage — a gift, never yet used, from her own grandmother. The plates from Limoges are white with a tiny border of yellow flowers running around the rim; glasses — three different kinds are crystal, nests of sunlight flicking rainbow flecks across the white cloth. A centrepiece of spring flowers from Narcisse, napkins folded neatly beside each plate. On each napkin, inscribed cards with the name of the guest: Armande Voizin, Vianne Rocker, Anouk Rocker, Caroline Clairmont, Georges Clairmont, Luc Clairmont, Guilaaurrie Duplessis, Josephine Bonnet, Julien Narcisse, Michel Roux, Blanche Demand, Cerisette Planpon.

  For a moment I did not recognize the last two names, then I remembered Blanche and Zezette, still moored upriver and waiting. I realized that until now I had not known Roux’s name, had assumed it to be a nickname, perhaps, for his red hair.

  The guests began to arrive at eight. I left my kitchen at seven for a quick change and a shower, and when I returned the boat was already moored under the house, and the river people were arriving. Blanche in her red dirndl and a lace shirt, Zezette in an old black evening dress with her arms tattooed in henna and a ruby in.her eyebrow, Roux in clean jeans and a white T-shirt, all of them bringing presents with them, wrapped in scraps of gift paper or wallpaper or pieces of cloth. Then came Narcisse in his Sunday suit, then Guillaume, a yellow flower in his buttonhole, then the Clairmonts, resolutely cheery, Caro watching the river people with a wary eye but nevertheless prepared to enjoy herself if such a sacrifice was demanded. Over aperitifs, salted pinenuts and tiny biscuits we watched as Armande opened her presents: from Anouk a picture of a cat in a red envelope, from Blanche a jar of honey, Zezette sachets of lavender embroidered with the letter B ? “I didn’t have time to do one with your initial,” she explained with cheery unconcern, “but I promise I will next year”— from Roux a carved oak leaf, delicate as the real thing, with a cluster of acorns clinging to the stem, from Narcisse a big basket of fruit and flowers. More lavish gifts came from the Clairmonts; a scarf from Caro — not Hermes, I noticed, but silk nevertheless — and a silver flower vase, from Luc something shiny and red in an envelope of crinkly paper, which he hides from his mother as best he can beneath a pile of discarded wrapping-papers. Armande smirks and mouths at me — Wheeee! — behind her cupped hand. Josephine brings a small gold locket, smiles apologetically. “It’s not new,” she says.

  Armande puts it around her neck, hugs Josephine roughly, pours St Raphael with a reckless hand. I can hear the conversation from the kitchen; preparing so much food is a tricky business and much of my attention is given to it, but I catch some of what is going on. Caro is gracious, ready to be pleased; Josephine silent; Roux and Narcisse have found a common interest in exotic fruit trees. Zezette sings part of a folk song in her piping voice, her baby crooked casually into her arm. I notice that even the baby has been ceremonially daubed with henna, so that it looks like a plump little grisnantais melon with its mottled golden skin and grey-green eyes.

  They move to the table. Armande, in high spirits, supplies much of the conversation. I hear Luc’s low, pleasant accents, talking about some book he has read. Caro’s voice sharpens a little — I suspect Armande has poured herself another glass of St Raphael.

  “Maman, you know you shouldn’t?,” I hear her say, but Armande simply laughs.

  “It’s my party,” she declares merrily. “I won’t have anyone being miserable at my party. Least of all me.”

  For the time being, nothing more is said on the subject. I hear Zezette flirting with Georges. Roux and Narcisse are discussing plums.

  “Belle du Languedoc,” declares the latter earnestly. “That’s the best for me. Sweet and small, with a bloom on her like a butterfly’s wing.”

  But Roux is adamant. “Mirabelle,” he says firmly. “The only yellow plum worth growing. Mirabelle.”

  I turn back to my stove and for a while I hear nothing more. It is a self-taught skill, born of obsession. No-one taught me how to cook. My mother brewed spells and philtres; I sublimated the whole into a sweeter alchemy. We were never much alike, she and I. She dreamed of floating, of astral encounters and secret essences: I pored over recipes and menus filched from restaurants where we never could afford to dine. Gently she jeered at my fleshly preoccupations.

  “It’s a good thing we don’t have the money,” she would say to me. “Otherwise you’d get fat as a pig.” Poor Mother. When cancer had eaten away the best of her, she was still vain enough to rejoice at the lost weight. And while she read her cards and muttered to herself, I would leaf through my collection of cookery cards, incanting the names of never-tasted dishes like mantras, like the secret formulae of eterna
l life. Boeuf en Daube. Champignon farcis a la grecque. Escalopes a la Reine. Creme Caramel. Schokoladentarte. Tiramisu. In the secret kitchen of my imagination I made them all, tested, tasted them, added to my collection of recipes wherever we went, pasted them into my scrapbook like photographs of old friends. They gave weight to my wanderings, the glossy clippings shining out from between the smeary pages like signposts along our erratic path.

  I bring them out now like long-lost friends. Soupe de tomates a la gasconne, served with fresh basil and a slice of tartelette meridonale, made on biscuit-thin pate brisee and lush with the flavours of olive oil and anchovy and the rich local tomatoes, garnished with olives and roasted slowly to produce a concentration of flavours which seems almost impossible. I pour the ‘85 Chablis into tall glasses. Anouk drinks lemonade from hers with an air of exaggerated sophistication. Narcisse expresses interest in the tartlet’s ingredients, praises the virtues of the misshapen Roussettetomato as opposed to the tasteless uniformity of the European Moneyspinner. Roux lights the braziers, at either side of the table and sprinkles them with citronella to keep away the insects. I catch Caro watching Armande with a look of disapproval. I eat little. Steeped in the scents of the cooking food for most of the day I feel light-headed this evening, keyed-up and unusually sensitive, so that when Josephine’s hand brushes against my leg during the meal I start and almost cry out. The Chablis is cool and tart, and I drink more of it than I should. Colours begin to seem brighter, sounds take on a cut-glass crispness. I hear Armande praising the cooking. I bring a herb salad to clear the palate, then foie gras on warm toast. I notice that Guillaume has brought his dog with him, surreptitiously feeding him with titbits under the crisp tablecloth. We pass from the political situation, to the Basque separatists, to ladies’ fashions via the best way to grow rocket and the superiority of wild over cultivated lettuce. The Chablis runs smooth throughout. Then the vol-au-vents, light as a puff of summer air, then elderflower sorbet followed by plateau de fruits de mer with grilled langoustines, grey shrimps, prawns, oysters, berniques, spider-crabs and the bigger tourteauxwhich can nip off a man’s fingers as easily as I could nip a stem of rosemary, winkles, palourdes and atop it all a giant black lobster, regal on its bed of seaweed. The huge platter gleams with reds and pinks and sea-greens and pearly whites and purples, a mermaid’s cache of delicacies which gives off a nostalgic salt smell, like childhood days at the seaside. We distribute crackers for the crab claws, tiny forks for the shellfish, dishes of lemon wedges and mayonnaise. Impossible to remain aloof with such a dish; it demands attention, informality. The glasses and silverware glitter in the light of the lanterns hanging from the trellis above our heads. The night smells of flowers and the river. Armande’s fingers are nimble as lacemakers’; the plate of discarded shells in front of her grows almost effortlessly. I bring more of the Chablis; eyes brighten, faces made rosy with the effort of extracting the shellfish’s elusive flesh. This is food which must be worked at, food which demands time. Josephine begins to relax a little, even to talk to Caro, struggling with a crab claw. Caro’s hand slips, a jet of salt water from the crab hits her in the eye. Josephine laughs. After a moment Caro joins in. I find myself talking too. The wine is pale and deceptive, its intoxication hidden beneath its smoothness. Caro is already slightly drunk, her face flushed, her hair coming down in tendrils. Georges squeezes my leg beneath the tablecloth, winks salaciously. Blanche talks of travelling; we have places in common, she and I. Nice, Vienna, Turin. Zezette’s baby begins to wail; she dips a finger in Chablis for it to suck. Armande discusses de Musset with Luc, who stammers less the more he drinks. At last I remove the dismantled plateau, now reduced to pearly rubble on a dozen plates. Bowls of lemon-water and mint salad for the fingers and palate. I clear the glasses, replace them with the coupes a champagne. Caro is looking alarmed again. As I move into the kitchen once more I hear her talking to Armande in a low, urgent voice.