The slab that I use for tempering is cross-hatched with tiny blemishes. I can read them better than the lines on my own hand, although I refrain from doing so. I’d rather not see the future there. The present is already more than enough.
‘Is there a chocolatière in the house?’
Thierry’s voice is unmistakable; big, bluff and friendly. I heard him from the kitchen (I was making liqueurs, the most awkward of my chocolates to make). A jangle of bells; a stamping of feet – a silence as he looked around.
I came out of the kitchen, wiping melted chocolate on my apron.
‘Thierry!’ I said, and gave him a hug, hands splayed out to spare his suit.
He grinned. ‘My God. You’ve really made some changes to this place.’
‘Do you like it?’
‘It’s – different.’ I may have imagined the trace of dismay in his voice as he took in the bright walls, the stencilled shapes, the finger-painted furniture, the old stuffed armchairs and the chocolate pot and cups on the three-legged table, and the window display with Zozie’s red shoes among the mountains of candied treasure. ‘It looks—’ he broke off, and I caught the arc of his gaze, that little flick towards my hand. His mouth tightened a little, I thought, as it does when he doesn’t like something. But his voice was warm as he said, ‘It looks terrific. You’ve worked wonders in this place.’
‘Chocolate?’ said Zozie, pouring a cup.
‘I – no – well, OK then, just the one.’
She handed him an espresso cup, with one of my truffles on the side. ‘It’s one of our specials,’ she told him, smiling.
He looked round once more at the piled boxes, glass dishes, fondants, ribbons, rosettes, cracknels, violet creams, mocha blanc, dark rum truffle, chilli squares, lemon parfait and coffee cake on the counter-top with an expression of slightly blank amazement.
‘You made all these?’ he said at last.
‘Don’t look so surprised,’ I said.
‘Well, for Christmas, I guess . . .’ He frowned a little as he looked at the price tag on a box of chilli chocolate squares. ‘People really do buy them, then?’
‘All the time,’ I said with a smile.
‘Must have cost you a fortune,’ he said. ‘All this painting and decorating.’
‘We did it ourselves. All of us.’
‘Well, that’s great. You’ve worked so hard.’ He tried his chocolate, and once more I saw his mouth tighten.
‘You know, you don’t have to drink it if you don’t like it,’ I said, trying not to sound impatient. ‘I can make you a coffee if you’d prefer.’
‘No, this is great.’ He sipped it again. He’s a terrible liar. His transparency should please me, I know; but instead it gives me a twitch of unease. He is so vulnerable beneath his self-assurance; so unaware of the ways of the wind. ‘I’m just surprised, that’s all,’ he said. ‘Everything seems to have changed practically overnight.’
‘Not everything,’ I said, smiling.
I noticed Thierry didn’t smile back.
‘How was London? What did you do?’
‘I went to see Sarah. Told her about the wedding. Missed you like crazy.’
I smiled at that. ‘And Alan? Your son?’
That made him smile. He always does when I mention his son, although he rarely speaks of him. I’ve often wondered how well they get on – that smile is a little too broad, perhaps – but if Alan is anything like his father, then it’s quite possible that their personalities are too similar to make them friends.
I noticed he wasn’t eating his truffle.
He looked slightly abashed when I pointed it out. ‘You know me, Yanne. Sweets aren’t my thing.’ And he gave me that big, brash smile again – the one he gives when he speaks of his son. It’s really quite funny when you think about it – Thierry’s sweet tooth is quite pronounced, but he feels slightly ashamed of it, as if admitting to a taste for milk chocolate places his manliness in doubt. But my truffles are too dark, too rich, and their bitterness is strange to him—
I handed him a milk chocolate square.
‘Go on,’ I said. ‘I can read your mind.’
But just at that moment Anouk came in from the rainy street, all tousled and smelling of wet leaves, with a paper twist of hot chestnuts in one hand. For the past few days, there has been a vendor selling them in front of the Sacré-Coeur, and Anouk has taken to buying a packet every time she passes by. Today, she was in high spirits; looking like a stray Christmas bauble in her red coat and green trousers, with her curly hair all spangled with rain.
‘Hey there, jeune fille!’ said Thierry. ‘Where have you been? You’re soaking wet!’
Anouk gave him one of her grown-up looks. ‘I’ve been to the cemetery with Jean-Loup. And I’m not soaking. This is an anorak. It keeps out the rain.’
Thierry laughed. ‘The necropolis. You know what necropolis means, Annie?’
‘Of course I do. City of the dead.’ Anouk’s vocabulary – always good – has improved with proximity to Jean-Loup Rimbault.
Thierry made a comic face. ‘Isn’t that rather a gloomy spot to hang out with your friends?’
‘Jean-Loup was taking photographs of the cemetery cats.’
‘Really?’ he said. ‘Well, if you can bear to drag yourself away, then I’ve booked a table for lunch at La Maison Rose—’
‘Lunch? But the shop—’
‘I’ll hold the fort,’ said Zozie. ‘You enjoy your afternoon.’
‘Annie? Are you ready?’ said Thierry.
I saw Anouk give him a look. Not quite of contempt – though perhaps of resentment. That doesn’t surprise me very much – Thierry, though well-meaning, has a rather old-fashioned attitude towards children, and Anouk must sense that some of her habits – running about with Jean-Loup in the rain, spending hours in the old cemetery (where tramps and undesirables congregate), or playing noisy games with Rosette – do not meet entirely with his approval.
‘Perhaps you should wear a dress,’ he said.
The look of resentment intensified. ‘I like my clothes.’
To tell the truth, so do I. In a city where elegant conformity is the primary rule, Anouk dares to be imaginative. Perhaps this is Zozie’s influence; but the clashing colours she prefers and her recent habit of customizing her clothes – with a ribbon, a badge, a piece of braid – give everything of hers an exuberance I haven’t seen since Lansquenet.
Perhaps this is what she’s trying to recapture – a time when things were simpler. In Lansquenet, Anouk ran wild; played down by the river all day long; talked incessantly to Pantoufle; led pirate games and crocodile games and was always in disgrace at school.
But that was a very different world. Barring the river-gypsies – disreputable, perhaps, even sometimes dishonest, but certainly not dangerous – there were no strangers in Lansquenet. No one bothered to lock their door; even the dogs were familiar.
‘I don’t like wearing a dress,’ she said.
Beside me I could sense Thierry’s unvoiced disapproval. In Thierry’s world, girls wear dresses – in fact, over the past six months he has bought several for both Anouk and Rosette, in the hope that I will take the hint.
Thierry was watching me, tight-mouthed. ‘You know, I’m not really hungry,’ I said. ‘Why don’t we just go for a walk and grab something to eat from a café on the way? There’s the Parc de la Turlure, or there’s—’
‘But I booked,’ said Thierry.
I couldn’t help laughing at his expression. Everything in Thierry’s world has to be done according to plan. There are rules for everything; schedules to be met; guidelines to be followed. A lunch table, booked, cannot be un-booked, and even though we both know that he is happiest in a place like Le P’tit Pinson, today he has chosen La Maison Rose, for which Anouk must wear a dress. That’s the way he is, of course – rock-solid, predictable, in control – but sometimes I wish he wasn’t quite as inflexible; that he could find room for a little spontaneity—
‘You’re not wearing your ring,’ he said.
Instinctively I looked down at my hands. ‘It’s the chocolate,’ I said. ‘It gets on everything.’
‘You and your chocolate,’ said Thierry.
It was not one of our most successful outings. Perhaps it was the sullen weather, or the crowds, or Anouk’s lack of appetite, or Rosette’s continuing refusal to use a spoon. Thierry’s mouth tightened as he watched Rosette hand-arranging her peas into a spiral pattern on her plate.
‘Manners, Rosette,’ he said at last.
Rosette ignored him, all her attention fixed on the pattern.
‘Rosette,’ he said in a sharper tone.
Still she ignored him, although a woman at an adjoining table looked round at his tone of voice.
‘It’s all right, Thierry. You know what she’s like. Just leave her alone, and—’
Thierry made a sound of exasperation. ‘My God, what is she, nearly four years old?’ He turned to me, his eyes alight. ‘It isn’t normal, Yanne,’ he said. ‘You’ll have to face up to it. She needs help. I mean, look at her.’ He glared at Rosette, who was eating her peas one by one, using her fingers, and with a look of intense concentration.
He reached out across the table and grabbed Rosette’s hand. She looked up at him, startled. ‘Here. Take the spoon. Hold it, Rosette.’ He forced the spoon into her hand. She dropped it. He picked it up again.
‘Thierry—’
‘No, Yanne, she has to learn.’
Once more he tried to give Rosette the spoon. Rosette clenched her fingers into a small fist of denial.
‘Look, Thierry,’ I was getting annoyed. ‘Let me decide what Rosette—’
‘Ouch!’ He broke off abruptly, pulling away his outstretched hand. ‘She bit me! The brat! She bit me!’ he said.
From the edge of my field of vision, I thought I glimpsed a golden gleam; a beady eye; a curly tail—
Rosette fingered the sign for come here.
‘Rosette, please don’t—’
‘Bam,’ said Rosette.
Oh no. Not now—
I stood up to leave. ‘Anouk, Rosette . . .’ I looked at Thierry. Small bite-marks stood out against his wrist. Panic bloomed in me like a rose. An Accident in the shop was one thing. But in public, with so many people there—
‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘We have to go.’
‘But you haven’t finished,’ said Thierry.
I saw him struggling between anger and outrage and the overwhelming need to keep us there, to prove to himself that it was all right, that the situation could be averted, that things could go back to the original plan.
‘I can’t,’ I said, and picked up Rosette. ‘I’m sorry – I have to get out of here.’
‘Yanne,’ said Thierry, grabbing my arm, and my own rage – that he should dare to interfere with my child, with my life – dissolved as I saw the look in his eyes.
‘I wanted it to be perfect,’ he said.
‘It’s all right,’ I told him. ‘It’s not your fault.’
He paid the bill and walked us home. At four o’clock, it was already dark, and the street-lights shone against the wet cobbles. We walked in near-silence; Anouk holding Rosette’s hand, both very careful to avoid the cracks. Thierry said nothing; his face set, his hands jammed deeply into his pockets.
‘Please, Thierry. Don’t be like this. Rosette missed her nap, and you know how she gets.’ In fact, I wonder if he does know. His son must be in his twenties now, and maybe he has forgotten what it’s like to have a child: the tantrums; the tears; the noise; the fuss. Or maybe Sarah coped with all that, leaving Thierry to play the generous role: the football matches, the walks in the park; the pillow-fights; the games.
‘You’ve forgotten what it’s like,’ I said. ‘It’s hard for me to manage, sometimes. And you make it worse when you get in the way—’
He turned to me then, his face pale and tense. ‘I haven’t forgotten as much as you think. When Alan was born—’ He stopped abruptly, and I could see him struggling for control.
I put my hand on his arm. ‘What’s wrong?’
He shook his head. ‘Later,’ he said in a thick voice. ‘I’ll tell you all about it later.’
We had arrived in Place des Faux-Monnayeurs, and I paused on the threshold of Le Rocher de Montmartre, the newly painted sign creaking a little, and took a deep breath of the chilly air.
‘I’m sorry, Thierry,’ I told him again.
He shrugged, a bear in his cashmere coat, but I thought his face had softened a little.
‘I’ll make it up to you,’ I said. ‘I’ll cook you dinner, and we’ll put Rosette to bed, and then we can talk about all this.’
He sighed. ‘OK.’
I opened the door.
And saw a man standing inside, a man in black standing very still, whose face was more familiar to me than my own and whose smile, rare and brilliant as summer lightning, was already beginning to fade from his lips . . .
‘Vianne,’ he said.
It was Roux.
PART FIVE
Advent
1
Saturday, 1st December
THE MOMENT HE walked into the shop I knew he was going to be my kind of trouble. Some people carry a charge, you know – you can see it in their colours, and his were the pale yellow-blue flare of a gas jet turned very low, which could explode at any time.
Not that you’d know it to look at him. Nothing special, so you’d think. Paris swallows up a million just like him every year. Men in jeans and engineer boots; men who seem ill at ease in the city; men who take their wages in cash. I’ve been there often enough myself to recognize the type; and if he was there to buy chocolate, I thought, then I was the Virgin of Lourdes.
I was standing on a chair, hanging a picture. My portrait, in fact; the one that Jean-Louis drew of me. I heard him come in. A tinkle of bells; the sound of his boots on the parquet floor.
Then he said Vianne – and there was something in the tone of his voice that made me turn around. I looked at him. A man in jeans and a black T-shirt; red hair, tied back. As I said, nothing special.
But there was something about him, nevertheless, something that seemed familiar. And his smile was bright as the Champs-Elysées on Christmas Eve, making him extraordinary – but only for a moment, that dazzling smile dropping into a look of confusion as he realized his mistake.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I thought you were—’ He stopped abruptly. ‘Are you the manager?’ His voice was quiet, accented with the rolling rs and sharp vowels of the Midi.
‘No, I just work here,’ I told him, smiling. ‘The manager’s Madame Charbonneau. Do you know her?’
For a moment he seemed uncertain.
‘Yanne Charbonneau,’ I prompted.
‘Yeah. I know her.’
‘Well, she’s out right now. But I’m sure she’ll be back soon.’
‘All right. I’ll wait.’ He sat down at a table, glancing around as he did so at the shop, the pictures, the chocolates – with pleasure, I thought, and some unease, as if unsure of his reception.
‘And you are . . .?’ I said.
‘Oh. Just a friend.’
I smiled at him. ‘I meant your name.’
‘Oh.’ Now I was sure he looked ill at ease. Hands in his pockets to hide his discomfort, as if my presence had disrupted some plan too intricate for him to change.
‘Roux,’ he said.
I thought of the postcard, signed R. Name or nickname? Probably the latter. Heading north. I’ll drop by if I can.
And now I knew where I’d recognized him. I’d seen him last at Vianne Rocher’s side, in a newspaper photo from Lansquenet-sous-Tannes.
‘Roux?’ I said. ‘From Lansquenet?’
He nodded.
‘Annie talks about you all the time.’
At that his colours lit up like a Christmas tree, and I began to understand what Vianne might see in a man like Roux. Thierry never lights up – unless it
’s one of his cigars – but then, Thierry has money, which makes up for most things.
‘Relax, why don’t you, and I’ll make you some hot chocolate.’
Now he grinned. ‘My favourite.’
I made it strong, with brown sugar and rum. He drank it, then turned restless again, moving from one room to the other, looking around him at the pans, the jars, the dishes and spoons that make up Yanne’s chocolate-making paraphernalia.
‘You look just like her,’ he said at last.
‘Really?’
As a matter of fact I look nothing like her; but then, I’ve noticed that most men rarely see exactly what’s in front of them. A dash of perfume, long, loose hair, a scarlet skirt and my high-heeled shoes; glamours so simple a child could see through them, but a man will be fooled every time.
‘So – how long has it been since you last saw Yanne?’
He shrugged. ‘Too long.’
‘I know how it is. Here. Have a chocolate.’
I put one by the side of his cup; a truffle, rolled in cocoa powder prepared to my own special recipe, and marked with the cactus sign of Xochipilli, the ecstatic god, always good for unleashing the tongue.
He didn’t eat the chocolate, but instead rolled it aimlessly around his saucer. It was a gesture I recognized somehow, but couldn’t quite identify. I waited for him to start talking – people generally do talk to me – but he seemed content to remain silent, fiddling with his uneaten truffle and watching the darkening street.
‘Are you staying in Paris?’ I said.
He shrugged. ‘Depends.’
I looked at him enquiringly, but he didn’t seem to take the hint. ‘Depends on what?’ I said at last.
He shrugged again. ‘I get tired of places.’
I poured him another demitasse. His reserve – a reserve that seemed closer to sullenness than anything else – was starting to annoy me. He’d been in the chocolaterie for nearly half an hour. Unless I’d lost the knack, I thought, I ought to have known everything there was to know about him by now. And yet, there he was – trouble incarnate, and seemingly impervious to all my advances.
The Lollipop Shoes Page 18
