‘And wreck the picture,’ said Jean-Loup.
‘Why?’ I said.
‘Because a camera sees more than the naked eye.’
‘Even ghosts?’
‘Those too.’
Well, it’s funny, I thought; but he’s totally right. He’s talking about the Smoking Mirror and how it can show you things that you might not see in the normal way. He doesn’t know the old symbols, of course. But perhaps he’s been taking pictures for so long that he’s learnt Zozie’s trick of focusing – of seeing things as they really are, and not the way people want them to be. That’s why he likes the cemetery; he’s looking for things the eye doesn’t see. Ghost-lights, the truth, or something like that.
‘So what do I look like, according to you?’
He flicked through his gallery of pictures and showed me a shot of myself, taken that Break just as I was running out into the yard.
‘It’s a bit blurry,’ I said – my arms and legs were all over the place – but my face was all right, and I was laughing.
‘It’s you,’ said Jean-Loup. ‘It’s beautiful.’
Well, I couldn’t figure out whether he was being big-headed or whether he’d paid me a compliment, so I just ignored it and looked at the rest.
There was Mathilde, looking sad and fat but really quite pretty underneath; and Claude talking to me without the slightest bit of a stammer; and Monsieur Gestin with a funny, unexpected look, as if he was trying to look stern when actually he was laughing inside; and then some pictures of the chocolaterie that Jean-Loup hadn’t downloaded yet, that he flicked through too fast to see.
‘Wait a minute,’ I said. ‘Isn’t that Maman?’
It was, with Rosette. I thought she looked old, and Rosette had moved, so that you couldn’t really see her face. And now I could see Zozie at her side – not looking like herself at all, with her mouth turned down, and an odd kind of something in the eyes—
‘Come on! We’ll be late!’ he said.
And then we were running for the bus, and off to the cemetery as usual, to feed the cats and to stroll in the lanes under the trees with the brown leaves falling and the ghosts all around.
It was getting dark by the time we got there, with the tombs just shapes against the sky. Not much good for photographs – unless you use flash, which Jean-Loup calls ‘lame’ – but weird and gorgeous all the same with the Christmas lights further up the Butte strung out in a spider’s web of stars.
‘Most people never see all this.’
He was taking pictures of the sky, yellow and grey with the tombs against it like hulks in a derelict boatyard.
‘That’s why I like it now,’ he went on. ‘When it’s nearly dark, and folk have gone home, and you can really see that it’s a cemetery, and not just a park filled with famous people.’
‘They’ll close the gates pretty soon,’ I said.
They do that, you know, to stop vagrants sleeping there. Some still do, though. They climb the wall, or they hide away where the gardien doesn’t see them.
That’s what I thought he was, at first. A vagrant, getting ready to bunk down for the night, just a shadow behind one of the tombs, wearing one of those big overcoats and a woolly hat pulled over his hair. I touched Jean-Loup’s arm. He nodded at me.
‘Get ready to run.’
Not that I was really scared, or anything. I don’t think you’re in any more danger from a homeless person than from someone with a regular house. But no one knew where we were; it was dark; and I knew Jean-Loup’s mother would have a fit if she knew where he went after school most nights.
She thinks he goes to the chess club.
I don’t think she really knows him at all.
So anyway. There we were, ready to run if the man showed any sign of coming at us. And then he turned and I saw his face—
Roux?
But before I could call out his name, he was gone, slipping away between the tombs, quick as a cemetery cat and quiet as a ghost.
4
Thursday, 13th December
MADAME LUZERON CAME in today, bringing some things for the Advent window. Toy furniture from her old dolls’ house, packed carefully in shoe-boxes lined with tissue paper. There’s a four-poster bed with embroidered hangings, and a dining-table and six chairs. There are lamps and rugs and a tiny gilt mirror, and several small china-faced dolls.
‘I can’t let you part with these,’ I said, as she spread the objects out on to the counter. ‘These are antiques.’
‘They’re only toys. Keep them just as long as you like.’
And so I put them in the house, where another door has opened today. It’s a sweet little scene, depicting a small red-headed girl (one of Anouk’s peg-dolls) standing admiring an enormous pile of matchboxes, each painstakingly wrapped in coloured paper and tied with the very tiniest of bows.
Of course, it’s Rosette’s birthday soon. The party that Anouk has planned so very meticulously is in part a celebration of this and partly, I sense, an attempt to recreate some (possibly imaginary) time when Yule meant more than just tinsel and presents, and real life was closer to the intimate, imaginary scenes around the little Advent house than the tawdrier truth of our Paris streets.
Children are such sentimentalists. I’ve tried to curb her expectations; to explain to her that a party is just a party, and that, however lovingly planned, a party cannot bring back the past, or change the present, or guarantee even the smallest shower of snow.
But my comments have had no effect on Anouk, apart from the fact that she now discusses all party matters with Zozie, rather than with me. In fact I’ve noticed that since Zozie moved in, Anouk spends most of her free time with her, up in her rooms, trying on her shoes (I’ve heard the sound of high heels on wood), sharing private jokes and talking – interminably – of what, I wonder?
It’s touching, in a way, I think. But there’s a part of me – an envious, ungrateful part – that still feels slightly left out in this. Of course it’s wonderful that Zozie is here; she has been such a good friend; has looked after the children; has helped us reinvent the shop and begin to make a living at last—
But don’t think I’m blind to what’s going on. If I look, I can see behind the scenes – the subtle gilding of the place; the cluster of bells in the window; the charm that I mistook for a Christmas ornament dangling above the threshold; the signs, the symbols, the figures in the Advent house, the everyday magic I had thought long since abandoned springing to life in every corner—
What harm can there be? I ask myself. It’s hardly really magic at all, just a few little charms, a good-luck sign or two; the kind of thing to which my mother would not have given a second thought . . .
But I can’t help feeling uneasy now. Nothing comes entirely free. Like the boy in the tale who sold his shadow for a promise, if I close my eyes to the terms of the sale; if I buy on credit from the world, soon I’ll have to pay the price—
And what is it, Zozie?
What’s your price?
I felt increasingly troubled throughout the rest of the afternoon. Something in the air, perhaps; something in the winter light. I found myself wishing for someone – though who it was I could not say. My mother, perhaps; Armande, Framboise. Someone simple. Someone to trust.
Thierry phoned twice, but I screened his calls. He could not begin to understand. I tried to concentrate on work, but for some reason everything went wrong. I heated the chocolate too much or too little; let milk boil; put pepper instead of cinnamon into a batch of hazelnut rolls. By mid-afternoon my head was aching, and at last I left Zozie in charge and went out for a breath of air.
I walked at random, with nowhere in mind. Certainly not Rue de la Croix; although that was where I found myself less than twenty minutes later. The sky was brittle and china-blue, but the sun was too low to cast any warmth. I was glad of my coat – mud-brown, like my boots – and pulled it tighter around my body as I entered the shadows of the lower Butte.
It was a
coincidence, that’s all. I hadn’t thought of Roux all day. But there he was, outside the flat, in workboots and overalls, a black knitted cap to cover his hair. He had his back to me, but I knew him at once – it’s something about the way he moves, deftly, but without great haste, the lean, tough muscles in his back and arms flexing as he throws boxes and crates of builders’ rubbish into the skip that stands on the kerb.
I stepped instinctively behind a parked van. The suddenness of seeing Roux; surprise at finding myself there when Zozie had warned me to stay away; these things conspired to make me cautious, and I watched him now from behind the van, invisible in my drab coat, heart punching like a pinball machine. Should I speak to him? I thought. Did I want to speak to him? What was he doing here, anyway? A man who hates the city; hates noise; despises wealth and prefers the open sky to a roof—
Just then Thierry came out of the house. I sensed tension between them straight away. Thierry looked annoyed; his face was red; he spoke to Roux in a sharp voice and gestured for him to go inside.
Roux pretended not to hear.
‘What are you, deaf or daft?’ said Thierry. ‘We’re on a bloody schedule, in case you forgot. And check the levels before you start. Those boards are oak, not half-inch pinewood.’
‘Is that the way you talk to Vianne?’
Roux’s accent comes and goes with his moods. Today it was almost exotic, a burr of lazy gutturals. Thierry, with his Parisian twang, can barely understand a word.
‘What?’
Roux made his voice insolently slow. ‘I said, do you talk to Vianne like that?’
I saw Thierry’s face darken a little. ‘Yanne is the person I’m doing this for.’
‘Now I can see what she sees in you.’
Thierry gave an unpleasant laugh. ‘I’ll ask her about it tonight, shall I? As it happens, I’m seeing her then. I’m thinking of asking her out for a meal. Somewhere that doesn’t serve pizza by the slice.’
And at that he set off up the street, leaving Roux to make an obscene gesture at his retreating back. Quickly I ducked round the side of the van, feeling foolish, but not wanting either of them to know I was there. Thierry passed by within six feet, features compressed between anger, dislike and a kind of spiteful satisfaction. It made him look older, a stranger somehow; and for a moment I felt like a child caught looking through a forbidden door. Then he was gone, and Roux was alone.
I watched him for a few minutes more. Unobserved, people tend to show unexpected aspects of themselves – I’d seen that already in Thierry as he strode past me up the street. But Roux sat down on the side of the kerb and stayed there, not moving, eyes on the ground, looking more tired than anything else, although it’s hard to tell with Roux.
I ought to go back to the shop, I thought. Anouk would be home in less than an hour, Rosette would need her afternoon snack, and if Thierry was coming round—
Instead I stepped out from behind the van.
‘Roux.’
He jumped to his feet, briefly unguarded, lit up with that radiant smile of his. Then wariness took over again. ‘Thierry’s not here, if that’s what you want.’
‘I know,’ I said.
The smile returned.
‘Roux—’ I began. But he held out his arms, and I found myself there as I had before, with my head against his shoulder, and the warm soft scent of him – something quite separate from the smell of cut wood, or polish, or sweat – like an eiderdown over us both.
‘Come inside. You’re shivering.’
I followed him in, and went upstairs. The flat was unrecognizable. Draped in white sheets, still as snow, the furniture piled into corners, the floor a drift of fragrant dust. Freed of Thierry’s clutter I could see how large the flat really was; the high ceilings with their plaster mouldings; the wide doorways; the intricate balconies on the street side.
Roux saw me noticing. ‘Rather pleasant, as cages go. Mr Big spares no expense.’
I looked at him. ‘You don’t like Thierry.’
‘And you do?’
I ignored the gibe. ‘He isn’t always so abrupt. He’s usually very nice, you know. He must be under stress, or maybe you were winding him up—’
‘Or maybe he’s nice to important people, and says what he likes to those who don’t matter.’
I gave a sigh. ‘I hoped you’d get on.’
‘Why do you think I haven’t walked out? Or hit the bastard in the face?’
I looked away and did not answer. The charge between us intensified. I was very conscious of him standing close to me, of the streaks of paint on his overalls. He was wearing a T-shirt underneath, and on a cord around his neck hung a small piece of green river-glass.
‘So what are you doing here?’ he said. ‘Hanging around with the hired help?’
Oh, Roux, I thought. What can I say? That it’s because of that secret place just above your collarbone where my forehead fits so perfectly? That it’s because I know, not just your favourites, but every twist and turn of you? That you have a tattoo of a rat on your left shoulder that I’ve always pretended not to like? That your hair is the colour of fresh paprika and marigolds and that Rosette’s quick little drawings of animals remind me so much of the things you make from wood and stone that often it hurts me to look at her and to think of her never knowing you—
Kissing him would just make it worse. And so I kissed him, little soft kisses all over his face, pulling off his cap and my overcoat, finding his mouth with such scalding relief—
For the first few minutes I was blind; beyond thought. Only my mouth existed just then; only my hands on his skin were real. The rest of me was imaginary; coming to life at the touch of him, little by little, like melting snow. And in a daze we kissed again, standing in that empty room with the scent of oil and sawdust in the air and the white sheets spread like the sails of a ship—
Somewhere at the back of my mind I was aware that this had not been the plan; that this would complicate everything beyond measure. But I couldn’t stop. I’d waited so long. And now—
I froze. Now what? I thought. Now we were back together? What then? Would that help Anouk and Rosette? Would that banish the Kindly Ones? Would our love put even a single meal on the table, or still the wind for even a day?
Better you’d stayed asleep, Vianne, said my mother’s voice inside my head. And better, if you care for him—
‘This isn’t what I came for, Roux.’ With an effort, I pushed him away. He did not try to hold me back, but watched me instead as I pulled on my coat and straightened my hair with shaking hands.
‘Why are you here?’ I said fiercely. ‘Why did you stay in Paris at all, with everything that’s happening?’
‘You didn’t tell me to leave,’ he said. ‘Besides, I wanted to know about Thierry. I wanted to make sure you were OK.’
‘I don’t need your help,’ I said. ‘I’m fine. You saw that in the chocolate shop.’
Roux smiled. ‘Then why are you here?’
Over the years I have learnt to lie. I’ve lied to Anouk; lied to Thierry; and now I have to lie to Roux. If not for him, then for myself – because I knew that if any more of that sleeping part of me were to awaken, then Thierry’s embraces would not only be unwelcome, but wholly intolerable, and that all my plans of the past four years would blow away like leaves on the wind.
I looked at him. ‘I’m asking you now. I want you to leave. This whole thing isn’t fair on you. You’re waiting for something that can’t possibly happen, and I don’t want you to get hurt any more.’
‘I don’t need help,’ he mocked. ‘I’m fine.’
‘Please, Roux.’
‘You said you loved him. This proves you don’t.’
‘It isn’t that easy . . .’
‘Why not?’ said Roux. ‘Because of the shop? You’d marry him for a chocolate shop?’
‘You make it sound so ridiculous. But where were you four years ago? And what makes you think you can come back now, expecting to find that nothin
g’s changed?’
‘You haven’t changed so much, Vianne.’ He put out a hand to touch my face. The static between us was gone now, to be replaced by a dull, sweet ache. ‘And if you think I’m leaving now—’
‘I have to think of my children, Roux. This isn’t just about me.’ I took his hand and squeezed it hard. ‘If today proves anything, then it’s this. I can’t be alone with you any more. I don’t trust myself. I don’t feel safe.’
‘Is safety so very important, then?’
‘If you had children, you’d know it was.’
Well, that was the greatest lie of all. But I had to say it. He has to leave. For my own peace of mind, if not for his; for the sake of Anouk and Rosette. They were both upstairs when I got in, Anouk already tearing up to Zozie’s room in a clatter of excitement about something that had happened at school. For once, I was glad to be left alone, and I went to my own room for half an hour, to read my mother’s cards again and to calm my agitated nerves.
The Magus; the Tower; the Hanged Man; the Fool.
Death. The Lovers. Change.
Change. The card shows a wheel, turning remorselessly round and round. Popes and paupers, commoners and kings hold on desperately to its spokes, and through the primitive design, I can make out their expressions, the open mouths, the complacent smiles turning to wails of terror as the wheel runs its course—
I look at the Lovers. Adam and Eve; standing naked, hand-in-hand. Eve’s hair is black. Adam’s is red. There is no great mystery to this. The cards are printed in three colours only: yellow, red and black, which, with the background of white, make up the colours of the four winds—
Why have I drawn these cards again?
What message do they hold for me?
At six, Thierry phoned to ask me out. I told him I had a migraine, and by then it was almost true; my head throbbed like a sick tooth, and the thought of eating made it worse. I promised I’d see him tomorrow instead, and tried to put Roux out of my mind. But whenever I tried to get to sleep, I felt the touch of his lips on my face, and when Rosette awoke and began to cry, I heard his accents in her voice, and saw shadows of him in her green-grey eyes . . .
The Lollipop Shoes Page 28
