But seven and eleven are continents apart. I have done my work well enough, I hope. Enough, I hope, to keep the animal in its cage, and the wind becalmed, and that village on the Loire nothing more than a faded postcard from an island of dreams.
And so I keep my guard on the truth, and the world goes on as always, with its good and bad, and we keep our glamours to ourselves, and never interfere, not even for a friend, not even so much as a rune-sign sketched across the lid of a box for luck.
It’s a small enough price to pay, I know, for nearly four years of being left alone. But I sometimes wonder quite how much we have already paid for that, and how much more there is to come.
There’s an old story my mother used to tell, about a boy who sold his shadow to a peddler on the road in exchange for the gift of eternal life. He got his wish, and went off pleased at the bargain he had struck – for what use is a shadow, thought the boy, and why should he not be rid of it?
But as months passed, then years, the boy began to understand. Walking abroad, he cast no shadow; no mirror showed him back his face; no pool, however still, gave him the slightest reflection. He began to wonder if he was invisible; stayed in on sunny days; avoided moonlit nights; had every mirror in his house smashed and every window fitted with shutters on the inside – and yet he was not satisfied. His sweetheart left him, his friends grew old and died. And still he lived on in perpetual dusk, until the day when, in despair, he went to the priest and confessed what he had done.
And the priest, who had been young when the boy made his deal, but who now was yellow and brittle as old bones, shook his head and said to the boy: ‘That was no peddler you met on the road. That was the Devil you bargained with, son, and a deal with the Devil usually ends in someone or other losing their soul.’
‘But it was only a shadow,’ protested the boy.
Once more, the old priest shook his head. ‘A man who casts no shadow isn’t really a man at all,’ he said, and turned his back and would say no more.
And so at last the boy went home. And they found him next day, hanged from a tree, with the morning sun on his face and his long, thin shadow in the grass at his feet.
It’s only a story. I know that. But it keeps coming back to me, late at night when I can’t sleep and the wind-chimes jangle their alarm and I sit up in bed and lift up my arms to check my shadow against the wall.
More often now, I find myself checking Anouk’s, as well.
3
Wednesday, 31st October
OH, BOY. VIANNE ROCHER. Of all the stupid things to say. Why do I say these stupid things? Sometimes I really just don’t know. Because she was listening, I suppose, and because I was angry. These days I feel angry a lot of the time.
And maybe too it was because of the shoes. Those fabulous, luminous high-heeled shoes in lipstick, candy-cane, lollipop red, gleaming like treasure on the bare cobbled street. You just don’t see shoes like that in Paris. Not on regular people, anyway. And we are regular people – at least Maman says so – though you wouldn’t know it, sometimes, the way she goes on.
Those shoes—
Tak-tak-tak went the lollipop shoes, and stopped right in front of the chocolaterie while their owner looked inside.
From the back, at first I thought I knew her. The bright-red coat that matched her shoes. Coffee-cream hair tied back with a scarf. And were there bells on her print dress, and a jingling charm-bracelet around her wrist? And what was that – that faintest gleam in the wake of her, like something in a heat-haze?
The shop was shut for the funeral. In a moment, she would be gone. But I really wanted her to stay, and so I did something I shouldn’t, something Maman thinks I’ve forgotten about, something I haven’t done for a very long time. I forked my fingers behind her back and made a little sign in the air.
A breeze, vanilla-scented, nutmeg milk, dark roast of cocoa beans over a slow fire.
It isn’t magic. Really it isn’t. It’s just a trick, a game I play. There’s no such thing as real magic – and yet it works. Sometimes, it works.
Can you hear me? I said. Not in my voice, but a shadow-voice, very light, like dappled leaves.
She felt it then. I know she did. Turning, she stiffened; I made the door shine a little, ever so slightly, the colour of the sky. Played with it, pretty, like a mirror in the sun, shining it on and off her face.
Scent of woodsmoke in a cup; a dash of cream, sprinkle of sugar. Bitter orange, your favourite, 70 per cent darkest chocolate over thick-cut oranges from Seville. Try me. Taste me. Test me.
She turned around. I knew she would. Seemed surprised to see me, but smiled all the same. I saw her face – blue eyes, big smile, little bridge of freckles across the nose – and I liked her so much right away, the way I liked Roux when we first met—
And then she asked me who had died.
I couldn’t help it. Maybe it was because of the shoes; maybe that I knew Maman was standing behind the door. Either way it just came out, like the light on the door and the scent of smoke.
I said, ‘Vianne Rocher,’ a little too loud, and just as I’d said it, Maman came out. Maman in her black coat with Rosette in her arms and that look on her face, that look she gets when I misbehave, or when Rosette has one of her Accidents.
‘Annie!’
The lady with the red shoes looked from her to me, and back to my mother again.
‘Madame – Rocher?’
She recovered fast. ‘That was my – maiden name,’ she said. ‘Now it’s Madame Charbonneau. Yanne Charbonneau.’ She gave me that look again. ‘I’m afraid my daughter’s a bit of a joker,’ she told the lady. ‘I hope she hasn’t been annoying you?’
The lady laughed right down to the soles of her red shoes. ‘Not at all,’ she said. ‘I was just admiring your beautiful shop.’
‘Not mine,’ said Maman. ‘I just work here.’
The lady laughed again. ‘I wish I did! I’m supposed to be looking for a job, and here I am, ogling chocolates.’
Maman relaxed a little at that, and put Rosette down to lock the door. Rosette looked solemnly at the red-shoe lady. The lady smiled, but Rosette didn’t smile back. She rarely does for strangers. In a way, I was pleased. I found her, I thought. I kept her here. For a while, at least, she belongs to me.
‘A job?’ said Maman.
The lady nodded. ‘My flatmate moved out last month, and there’s no way I can pay for the whole flat on nothing but a waitress’s salary. My name’s Zozie – Zozie de l’Alba – and by the way, I love chocolate.’
You couldn’t help liking her, I thought. Her eyes were so blue, her smile like a slice of summer watermelon. It dropped a little as she looked at the door.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘It’s a bad time. I hope it wasn’t a relative?’
Maman picked up Rosette again. ‘Madame Poussin. She lived here. I suppose she would have said she ran the place, although to be honest, she didn’t do much.’
I thought of Madame Poussin, with her marshmallow face and her blue-checked pinafores. Rose creams were her favourites, and she ate far more of them than she ought to have done, though Maman never said anything.
It was a stroke, Maman said, which sounds quite nice, like a stroke of luck, or someone smoothing down the bedclothes over a sleeping child. But it came to me then that we would never see Madame Poussin, ever again, and I felt a kind of dizziness, like looking down and seeing a big sudden hole right at your feet.
I said, ‘Yes, she did,’ and began to cry. And before I knew it her arms were around me, and she smelt of lavender and delicious silk, and her voice in my ear was whispering something – a cantrip, I thought, with a twist of surprise, a cantrip, just like the days in Lansquenet – and then I looked up and it wasn’t Maman there at all. It was Zozie, her long hair touching my face and her red coat shining in the sun.
Behind her, Maman, in her funeral coat and her eyes dark as midnight, so dark that no one can ever, ever tell what she’s thinking. She took a step �
� still carrying Rosette – and I knew that if I stayed she would put her arms around us both, and I wouldn’t be able to stop crying, though I couldn’t possibly tell her why, not now, not ever, and especially not in front of the lady with the lollipop shoes.
So instead I turned and ran down the bare white alleyway so that for a moment I was one of them, free as the sky. It’s good to run: you take giant strides; you can be a kite with your arms outstretched; you can taste the wind; you can feel the sun racing ahead; and sometimes you can almost outrun them, the wind and the sun and your shadow at your heels.
My shadow has a name, you know. His name is Pantoufle. I used to have a rabbit called Pantoufle, so Maman says, although I can’t quite remember now whether he was real or simply a toy. Your imaginary friend, she sometimes calls him, but I’m almost sure he was really there, a soft grey shadow at my heels, or curled up in my bed at night. I like to think of him sometimes still, keeping watch over me as I sleep, or running with me to beat the wind. Sometimes I feel him. Sometimes I see him even now, though Maman says that’s just my imagination, and doesn’t like me talking about it, even as a joke.
Nowadays Maman hardly ever jokes, or laughs the way she used to do. Perhaps she’s still worried about Rosette. I know she worries about me. I don’t take life seriously enough, she says. I don’t have the right kind of attitude.
Does Zozie take life seriously? Oh, boy. I’ll bet she doesn’t. No one could wearing those shoes. I’m sure that’s why I liked her at once. Those red shoes, and the way she stopped at the window to look, and the way I was sure she could see Pantoufle – not just a shadow – at my heels.
4
Wednesday, 31st October
WELL, I LIKE to think I have a way with children. Parents, too; it’s part of my charm. You can’t be in business without a certain charm, you know, and in my particular line of business, when the prize is something far more personal than mere possessions, it’s essential to touch the life you take.
Not that I was particularly interested in this woman’s life. Not then, at least – although I will admit I was already intrigued. Not so much by the deceased. Nor even by the shop itself – pretty enough, but far too small, and limiting, to someone of my ambitions. But the woman intrigued me, and the girl—
Do you believe in love at first sight?
I thought not. Neither do I. And yet—
That flare of colours through the half-open door. That tantalizing hint of things half-seen and half-experienced. The sound of the wind-chimes over the threshold. These things had awakened first my curiosity, and second my spirit of acquisition.
I’m not a thief, you understand. First and foremost I’m a collector. I have been since I was eight years old, collecting charms for my bracelet, but now I collect individuals; their names, their secrets, their stories, their lives. Oh, some of it’s for profit, of course. But most of all I enjoy the chase; the thrill of pursuit; the seduction; the fray. And the moment at which the piñata splits—
That’s what I love best of all.
‘Kids,’ I smiled.
Yanne sighed. ‘They grow so fast. A blink, and they’re gone.’ Way down the alley, the girl was still running. ‘Don’t go far!’ Yanne called.
‘She won’t.’
Yanne looks like a tamer version of her daughter. Black bobbed hair, brows straight, eyes like bitter chocolate. The same crimson, stubborn, generous mouth, lifting a little at the corners. The same obscurely foreign, exotic look, though beyond that first glimpse of colours through the half-open door, I could see nothing to justify the impression. She has no accent; wears well-worn clothes from La Redoute; plain brown beret at a slight angle, sensible shoes.
You can tell a lot from a person by looking at their shoes. These were carefully without extravagance: black and round-toed and relentlessly uniform, like the ones her daughter wears for school. The ensemble slightly down-at-heel, a shade too drab; no jewellery but for a plain gold ring; just enough make-up to avoid making a statement.
The child in her arms may be three at most. The same watchful eyes as her mother, though her hair is the colour of fresh pumpkin and her tiny face, no bigger than a goose egg, is a blur of apricot freckles. An unremarkable little family, at least on the surface; and yet I couldn’t rid myself of the idea that there was something more that I couldn’t quite see, some subtle illumination not unlike my own—
Now that, I thought, would be worth collecting.
She looked at her watch. ‘Annie!’ she called.
At the end of the street Annie waved her arms in what might have been exuberance or revolt. In her wake, a gleam of butterfly-blue confirms my impression of something to hide. The little one, too, has more than a hint of illumination, and as for the mother—
‘You’re married?’ I said.
‘I’m a widow,’ she said. ‘Three years ago. Before I moved here.’
‘Really,’ I said.
I don’t think so. It takes more than a black coat and a wedding ring to make a widow, and Yanne Charbonneau (if that’s her name) doesn’t look like a widow to me. To others, perhaps, but I can see more.
So why the lie? This is Paris, for pity’s sake – here, no one is judged on the absence of a wedding band. So what little secret is she hiding? And is it worth my finding out?
‘It must be hard, running a shop. Here, of all places.’ Montmartre, that strange little stone island with its tourists and artists and open drains, and beggars and strip-clubs under the linden trees, and nightly stabbings down among the pretty streets.
She gave a smile. ‘It’s not so bad.’
‘Really?’ I said. ‘But now that Madame Poussin’s gone—’
She looked away. ‘The landlord’s a friend. He won’t throw us out.’ I thought I saw her flush a little.
‘Good business here?’
‘It could be worse.’
Tourists, ever on the lookout for overpriced tat.
‘Oh, it’s never going to make us a fortune—’
As I thought. Barely worthwhile. She’s putting a brave face on it, but I can see the cheap skirt; the frayed hem on the child’s good coat; the faded, illegible wooden sign above the chocolaterie door.
And yet there is something oddly attractive about the crowded shop window with its piles of boxes and tins, and its Hallowe’en witches in darkest chocolate and coloured straw, and plump marzipan pumpkins and maple-candy skulls just glimpsed beneath the half-closed shutter.
There was a scent, too – a smoky scent of apples and burnt sugar, vanilla and rum and cardamom and chocolate. I don’t even really like chocolate; and yet I could feel my mouth watering.
Try me. Taste me.
With my fingers I made the sign of the Smoking Mirror – known as the Eye of Black Tezcatlipoca – and the window seemed to glow briefly.
Uneasy, the woman seemed to sense the flare, and the child in her arms gave a silent mew of laughter and held out her hand—
Curious, I thought.
‘Do you make all the chocolates yourself?’
‘I used to, once. But not any more.’
‘It can’t be easy.’
‘I manage,’ she said.
Hm. Interesting.
But does she manage? Will she continue to manage now the old woman’s dead? Somehow I doubt it. Oh, she looks capable enough, with her stubborn mouth and her steady gaze. But there’s a weakness inside her, in spite of all that. A weakness – or perhaps a strength.
You have to be strong to live as she does; to bring up two children alone in Paris; to work all hours in a business that brings in, if she’s lucky, just enough to cover the rent. But the weakness – that’s another matter. That child, for a start. She fears for her. Fears for them both, clings to them as if the wind might blow them away.
I know what you’re thinking. Why should I care?
Well, call me curious if you like. I trade in secrets, after all. Secrets, small treacheries, acquisition, inquisition, thefts both petty and grandiose,
lies, damn lies, prevarications, hidden depths, still waters, cloaks and daggers, secret doors, clandestine meetings, holes and corners, covert operations and misappropriation of property, information and more.
Is that so wrong?
I suppose it is.
But Yanne Charbonneau (or Vianne Rocher) is hiding something from the world. I can smell the scent of secrets on her, like firecrackers on a piñata. A well-placed stone will set them free, and then we’ll see if they are secrets that someone such as I can use.
I’m curious to know, that’s all – a common enough characteristic of those fortunate enough to be born under the sign of One Jaguar.
Besides, she’s lying, isn’t she? And if there’s anything we Jaguars hate more than weakness, it’s a liar.
5
Thursday, 1st November
All Saints
ANOUK WAS RESTLESS again today. Perhaps the aftermath of yesterday’s funeral – or perhaps just the wind. It takes her like that sometimes, cantering her about like a wild pony, making her wilful and thoughtless and tearful and strange. My little stranger.
I used to call her that, you know, when she was small and there were just the two of us. Little stranger, as if she were on loan from somewhere or other, and one day they’d be coming to take her back. She always had that about her, that look of otherness, of eyes that see things much too far, and of thoughts that wander off the edge of the world.
A gifted child, her new teacher says. Such extraordinary powers of imagination, such vocabulary for her age – but already, there’s a look in her eye, a measuring look, as if such imagination is in itself suspect, a sign, perhaps, of a more sinister truth.
It’s my fault. I know that now. To bring her up in my mother’s beliefs seemed so natural at the time. It gave us a plan; a tradition of our own; a magic circle into which the world could not enter. But where the world cannot enter, we cannot leave. Trapped inside a cocoon of our own making, we live apart, eternal strangers, from the rest.
The Lollipop Shoes Page 3
