Do I sense a kindred spirit? No. But I do recognize a challenge. Though there’s little enough to be had from the chocolaterie at present, Yanne’s life is not entirely without appeal. And, of course, she has that child. That very interesting child.
I’m staying in a place just off the Boulevard de Clichy, ten minutes’ walk from Place des Faux-Monnayeurs. Two rooms the size of a postage stamp at the top of four flights of narrow stairs, but cheap enough to suit my needs and discreet enough to preserve my anonymity. From there I can observe the streets; plot comings and goings; become a part of the scenery.
It’s not the Butte, which is out of my league. In fact, it’s rather a big step down from Françoise’s nice little place in the 11th. But Zozie de l’Alba doesn’t belong; and it suits her to live below the salt. All kinds of people live here: students, shopkeepers, immigrants, masseuses both registered and unregistered. There are half a dozen churches in this small area alone (debauch and religion, those Siamese twins); the street yields more litter than fallen leaves; there’s a perpetual smell of drains and dogshit. On this side of the Butte the pretty little cafés have given way to cheap takeaways and off-licences, around which the tramps congregate at night, drinking red wine from plastic-topped bottles before bedding down in the steel-shuttered doorways.
I’ll probably tire of it soon enough; but I do need a place to lie low for a while, until the heat on Madame Beauchamp – and Françoise Lavery – dies down. It never hurts to be cautious, I know – and besides, as my mother used to say, you should always take time to pick the cherries.
3
Thursday, 8th November
WHILST WAITING FOR my cherries to ripen, I have managed to collect a certain amount of local knowledge on the inhabitants of Place des Faux-Monnayeurs. Madame Pinot, the little partridge of a woman who runs the newsagent-souvenir-bric-a-brac shop, has a busy mouth for gossip, and has acquainted me with the neighbourhood through her eyes.
Through her I know that Laurent Pinson frequents the singles bars, that the fat young man from the Italian restaurant weighs over three hundred pounds but still goes into the chocolaterie at least twice a week, and that the woman with the dog who passes every Thursday at ten o’clock is Madame Luzeron, whose husband had a stroke last year and whose son died when he was thirteen. Every Thursday she goes to the cemetery, says Madame Pinot, with that silly little dog in tow. Never misses. Poor old thing.
‘What about the chocolaterie?’ I asked, selecting Paris-Match (I hate Paris-Match) from a small shelf of magazines. Above and below the magazines there are colourful displays of religious tat: plaster Virgins, cheap ceramics; snow-globes of the Sacré-Coeur; medallions; crucifixes; rosaries; incense for all occasions. I suspect Madame may be a prude; she looked at the cover of my magazine (which shows Princess Stephanie of Monaco, bikinied and cavorting blurrily on some beach somewhere), and pulled a face like the back end of a turkey.
‘Not much to say, really,’ she said. ‘Husband died down south somewhere. But she’s fallen on her feet all right.’ The busy mouth puckered again. ‘I reckon there’ll be a wedding before long.’
‘Really?’
She nodded. ‘Thierry le Tresset. He owns the place. Let it out cheap to Madame Poussin because she was some kind of friend of the family. That’s where he met Madame Charbonneau. And if ever I saw a man head-over-heels—’ She rang up the magazine on the till. ‘Still, I wonder if he knows what he’s taking on. She must be twenty years younger than he is – and he’s always away on business, and her with two kids, one of them special—’
‘Special?’ I said.
‘Oh, haven’t you heard? Poor little thing. That’s got to be a burden for anyone – and if that wasn’t bad enough,’ she said, ‘you’re not telling me the shop makes much of a profit, what with the overheads, and the heating, and the rent—’
I let her talk for a little while. Gossip is currency to people like Madame, and I sense that I have already given her much to think about. With my pink-streaked hair and scarlet shoes I too must be a promising source of tittle-tattle. I left the shop with a cheery goodbye and the sense that I’d made a good start, and returned to my place of employment.
It’s the best vantage point I could have hoped for. From here I can see all Yanne’s customers, monitor comings and goings, keep track of deliveries and keep my eye on the children.
The little one is a handful; not noisy, but mischievous, and despite her small size, rather older than I originally guessed. Madame Pinot tells me she’s nearly four years old, and has yet to speak her first word, although she seems to know some sign language. A special child, Madame tells me, with that tiny sneer she reserves for blacks, Jews, travellers and the politically correct.
A special child? Undoubtedly. Exactly how special remains to be seen.
And of course, there’s Annie, too. I see her from Le P’tit Pinson – every morning just before eight and every night after half past four – and she speaks to me cheerily enough: of her school, and her friends, her teachers, the people she sees on the bus. It’s a start, at least; but I sense she’s holding back. In a way, it pleases me. I could put that strength to use – with the right education I’m sure she’d go far – and besides, you know, the greater part of any seduction lies in the chase.
But I’m already tired of Le P’tit Pinson. My first week’s wages will barely cover my expenses, and Laurent is far from easy to please. Worse, he has begun to notice me: I see it in his colours and in the way he slicks his hair; in the new, special care he gives to his appearance.
It’s always a risk, of course, I know. He would not have noticed Françoise Lavery. But Zozie de l’Alba has a different charm. He doesn’t understand it; he dislikes foreigners, and this woman has a certain look, a gypsy look that he mistrusts—
And yet, for the first time in years, he finds himself choosing what to wear: discarding this tie (too loud, too wide); balancing the merits of this suit and that; considering that old bottle of eau-de-toilette, last used at someone’s wedding, vinegary with age now, leaving brown stains on the clean white shirt . . .
Normally I might encourage this, play up to the old man’s vanity in the hope of a few easy pickings: a credit card, some money, perhaps; maybe a cashbox hidden somewhere, a theft that Laurent would never report.
At any normal time, I would. But men like Laurent are easy to find. Women like Yanne, however—
Some years ago, when I was somebody else, I went to the cinema to see a film about ancient Romans. A disappointing film in many ways: too slick with fake blood and Hollywood redemption. But it was the gladiator scenes that struck me as particularly unrealistic; those audiences of computer-generated people in the background, all shouting and laughing and waving their arms in neat patterns, like animated wallpaper. I’d wondered at the time if the makers of that film had ever watched a real crowd. I do – I generally find the crowd far more interesting than the spectacle itself – and though they were convincing enough as animation, they had no colours, and there was nothing real about their behaviour.
Well, Yanne Charbonneau reminds me of those people. She is a figment in the background, realistic enough to the casual observer, but operating according to a sequence of predictable commands. She has no colours – or if she has, she has become adept at hiding them beneath this screen of inconsequence.
The children, however, are brightly illuminated. Most children have brighter colours than adults, but even so Annie stands out, her colour-trail of butterfly-blue flaring defiantly against the sky.
There’s something else as well, I think – some kind of a shadow in her wake. I saw it again as she played with Rosette in the alley outside the chocolaterie, Annie with that cloud of Byzantine hair torched into gold by the afternoon sun, holding her little sister’s hand as Rosette splashed and stamped at the speckled cobblestones in her primrose-yellow wellington boots.
Some kind of shadow. A dog, a cat?
Well, I’ll find out. You know I will. Give me
time, Nanou. Just give me time.
4
Thursday, 8th November
THIERRY WAS BACK from London today, with an armful of presents for Anouk and Rosette, and a dozen yellow roses for me.
It was twelve-fifteen, and I was ten minutes away from closing for lunch. I was just gift-wrapping a box of macaroons for a customer, and looking forward to a quiet hour with the children (Thursday is Anouk’s free afternoon). I looped pink ribbon around the box – a gesture I’d performed a thousand times – tied the bow, then pulled the ribbon taut against the blade of the scissors to curl it.
‘Yanne!’
The scissors slipped, spoiling the curl. ‘Thierry! You’re a day early!’
He’s a big man; tall and heavy. In his cashmere coat he more than filled the little shop doorway. An open face; blue eyes; thick hair, still mostly brown. Moneyed hands still used to working; cracked palms and polished fingernails. A scent of plaster dust and leather and sweat and jambon-frites and the occasional guilty, fat cigar.
‘I missed you,’ he said, and kissed my cheek. ‘I’m sorry I couldn’t make it back in time for the funeral. Was it terrible?’
‘No. Just sad. No one came.’
‘You’re a star, Yanne. I don’t know how you do it. How’s business?’
‘OK.’ In fact, it’s not; the customer was only my second that day, not counting the ones who just come to look. But I was glad of her presence when he arrived – a Chinese girl in a yellow coat, who would no doubt enjoy her macaroons, but who would have been far happier with a box of chocolate-coated strawberries. Not that it matters. It’s not my concern. Not any more, anyway.
‘Where are the girls?’
‘Upstairs,’ I said. ‘Watching TV. How was London?’
‘Great. You should come.’
As a matter of fact I know it well; my mother and I lived there for nearly a year. I’m not sure why I haven’t told him this, or why I have allowed him to believe that I was born and raised in France. Perhaps a yearning for ordinariness: perhaps a fear that if I mention my mother he may look at me differently.
Thierry is a solid citizen. A builder’s boy made good through property, he has had very little exposure to the unusual and the uncertain. His tastes are conventional. He likes a good steak; drinks red wine; loves children, bad puns and silly rhymes; prefers women to wear skirts; goes to Mass through force of habit; has no prejudice against foreigners, but would prefer not to see quite so many of them about. I do like him – and yet the thought of confiding in him – in anyone—
Not that I need to. I’ve never needed a confidant. I have Anouk. I have Rosette. When did I ever need anyone else?
‘You’re looking sad.’ The Chinese girl had gone. ‘What about lunch?’
I smiled. Lunch cures sadness in Thierry’s world. I wasn’t hungry; but it was that or have him in the shop all afternoon. So I called Anouk, wheedled and struggled Rosette into her coat, and we went across the road to Le P’tit Pinson, which Thierry likes for its dilapidated charm and greasy food, and I dislike for the same reasons.
Anouk was restless and it was time for Rosette’s nap, but Thierry was full of his London trip: the crowds, the buildings, the theatres, the shops. His company is renovating some office buildings near King’s Cross, and he likes to oversee the work himself, going down by train on Monday and coming back for the weekend. His ex-wife Sarah still lives in London with their son, but Thierry is at pains to reassure me (as if I needed it) that he and Sarah have been estranged for years.
I don’t doubt it; there’s no subterfuge in Thierry, no side. His favourites are the simple wrapped milk chocolate squares you can buy from any supermarket in the country. Thirty per cent cocoa solids; anything stronger and he sticks out his tongue like a little boy. But I do love his enthusiasm – and I envy him his plainness and his lack of guile. Perhaps my envy exceeds my love – but does it matter so very much?
We met him last year, when the roof sprang a leak. Most landlords would have sent a workman – if we were lucky – but Thierry has known Madame Poussin for years (an old friend of his mother’s, he said), and he fixed the roof himself, staying for hot chocolate and playing with Rosette.
Twelve months into our friendship now, and we have already become an old couple, with our favourite haunts and our comfortable routines, although Thierry has yet to stay the night. He thinks I’m a widow, and touchingly wants to ‘give me time’. But his desire is there, unvoiced and untested – and would it really be so bad?
He has broached the subject only once. A single oblique reference to his own mansion flat on Rue de la Croix, to which we have been invited many times and which longs, as he says, for a woman’s touch.
A woman’s touch. Such an old-fashioned phrase. But then, Thierry is the old-fashioned type. In spite of his love of gadgetry, his mobile phone and his surround-sound hi-fi, he remains loyal to old ideals; to a simpler time.
Simple. That’s it. Life with Thierry would be very simple. There would always be money for necessary things. The rent for the chocolaterie would always be paid. Anouk and Rosette would be cared for and safe. And if he loves them – and me – isn’t that enough?
Is it, Vianne? That’s my mother’s voice – sounding very like Roux these days. I remember a time when you wanted more.
As you did, Mother? I told her silently. Dragging your child from place to place, always, for ever on the run. Living – just – from hand to mouth, stealing, lying, conjuring; six weeks, three weeks, four days in a place and then move on; no home, no school, peddling dreams, shuffling cards to map our journeys, wearing seam-stretched hand-me-downs, like tailors too busy to mend our own clothes.
At least we knew what we were, Vianne.
It was a cheap comeback, and one I would have expected from her. Besides, I know what I am. Don’t I?
We ordered noodles for Rosette and plat du jour for the rest of us. It was far from crowded, even for a weekday; but the air was stale with beer and Gitanes. Laurent Pinson is his own best customer; but for that, I really think he would have closed down years ago. Jowly, unshaven and bad-tempered, he views his customers as intruders on his free time, and makes no secret of his contempt for everyone but a handful of regulars who are also his friends.
He tolerates Thierry, who plays the brash Parisian for the occasion, erupting into the café with a ‘Hé, Laurent, ça va, mon pote!’ and the slap of a big banknote on the bar. Laurent knows him for a property man – has enquired about the price his own café might fetch, rebuilt and refurbished – and now calls him M’sieur Thierry and treats him with a deference that might be respect, or perhaps the hope of a deal to come.
I noticed he was looking more presentable today – shiny-suited and smelling of cologne, shirt collar buttoned over a tie that had first seen the light of day sometime in the late seventies. Thierry’s influence, I thought; though later I came to change my mind.
I left them to it and sat down, ordered coffee for myself and Coke for Anouk. Once we would have had hot chocolate, with cream and marshmallows and a tiny spoon with which to scoop it – but now it’s always Coke for Anouk. She doesn’t drink hot chocolate nowadays – some diet thing, I thought at first – and it feels so absurd to be hurt by that, like the first time she refused her bedtime story. Still such a sunny little girl; and yet increasingly I sense these shadows in her, these places to which I am not invited. I know them well – I was the same – and isn’t a part of my fear just that: the knowledge that, at her age, I too wanted to run, to escape my mother in as many ways as I possibly could?
The waitress was new and looked vaguely familiar. Long legs, pencil skirt, hair tied up in a ponytail – I finally recognized her by her shoes.
‘It’s Zoë, isn’t it?’ I said.
‘Zozie.’ She grinned. ‘Some place, eh?’ She made a comic little gesture, as if ushering us in. ‘Still –’ she lowered her voice to a whisper – ‘I think the landlord’s sweet on me.’
Thierry laughed out
loud at that, and Anouk gave her sideways smile.
‘It’s only a temporary job,’ Zozie said. ‘Until I come up with something better.’
The plat du jour was choucroute garnie – a dish I associate somehow with our time in Berlin. Surprisingly good for Le P’tit Pinson, which fact I attributed to Zozie and not to some renewed culinary zeal in Laurent.
‘With Christmas coming up, won’t you need some help in the shop?’ said Zozie, transferring sausages from the grill. ‘If so, then I’m a volunteer.’ She flung a glance over her shoulder at Laurent, feigning disinterest from his corner. ‘I mean, obviously I’d hate to leave all this—’
Laurent made a percussive sound, something between a sneeze and a call to attention – mweh! – and Zozie raised her eyebrows comically.
‘Just think about it,’ she said, grinning, then turned, picked up four beers with a deftness born of years of bar-work, and carried them, smiling, to the table.
She didn’t say much to us after that – the bar filled up, and as usual, I was busy with Rosette. Not that she’s such a difficult child – she eats much better now, although she dribbles more than a normal child, and still prefers to use her hands – but she can behave oddly at times, looking fixedly at things that aren’t there, starting at imaginary sounds or laughing suddenly for no reason. I’m hoping she will grow out of it soon – it has been weeks since her last Accident – and although she still wakes up three or four times a night I can manage on only a few hours, and I’m hoping the sleeplessness will pass.
Thierry thinks I over-indulge her; more recently he has begun to speak of taking her to a doctor.
‘There’s no need. She’ll talk when she’s ready,’ I said, watching Rosette eat her noodles. She holds the fork with the wrong hand, though there are no other signs that she is left-handed. In fact, she is rather clever with her hands, and especially loves to draw. Little stick-men and women, monkeys – her favourite animal – houses, horses, butterflies, clumsy as yet, but recognizable, in every available colour—
The Lollipop Shoes Page 6
