The Lollipop Shoes

by Joanne Harris

  Now that will be a game worth playing.

  Let’s recap the moves so far. Between my other interests, I have been working very hard on the contents of Yanne’s piñata, and I have discovered a number of things.

  One, she is not Yanne Charbonneau.

  Well, we already knew that, of course. But more interestingly, she is not Vianne Rocher – or so the contents of her box would suggest. I knew there was something important I’d missed, and the other day, when she was out, I eventually found what I’d been looking for.

  Actually, I’d seen it before, and overlooked its importance as I focused on Vianne Rocher. But it’s there in the box, tied with a piece of faded red ribbon: a silver charm that might equally have come from a cheap bracelet or a Christmas cracker; shaped like a cat and blackened with time. It’s there in Vianne’s shoe-box, with a packet of sandalwood and some Tarot cards that have seen better days.

  Like myself, Vianne travels light. Nothing she keeps is trivial. Every item in this box has been kept for a reason, and none less so than this silver charm. It’s mentioned in the newspaper clipping, so brittle and brown that I’d not dared to unfold it completely: the account of the disappearance of eighteen-month-old Sylviane Caillou from outside a chemist’s, more than thirty years ago.

  Did she ever try to go back? Instinct tells me she did not. You choose your family, as she says, and that girl, her mother, whose name does not even appear in the clipping – is nothing to her but DNA. To me, however—

  Call me curious. I looked her up on the internet. It took a little time – children vanish every day, and this was an old case, long since closed and without great interest – but I found it at last, and with it the name of Sylviane’s mother, twenty-one when the baby was taken, now forty-nine according to her school reunion website; divorced, no kids, still living in Paris near Père Lachaise and managing a little hotel.

  It’s called Le Stendhal, and you can find it on the corner of Avenue Gambetta and Rue Matisse. No more than a dozen bedrooms in all; a balding tinsel Christmas tree and an extravagantly over-chintzed interior. By the fireplace there is a small round table upon which a china doll in a pink silk dress stands stiffly under a glass cloche. Another doll, this one dressed as a bride, stands watch at the foot of the stairs. A third – blue-eyed, in a red fur-trimmed coat and hat – is perched on the reception desk.

  And there, behind the desk, Madame herself: a big-bodied woman with the drawn face and thinning hair of the habitual dieter and a look of her daughter in the eyes—

  ‘Madame?’

  ‘Can I help you?’

  ‘I’m from Le Rocher de Montmartre. We’re doing a special promotion on hand-made chocolates, and I wonder if I could give you these samples to try—’

  Madame’s face went sour at once. ‘I’m not interested,’ she said.

  ‘There’s no obligation. Just try a few, and—’

  ‘Thank you, no.’

  Of course, I’d been expecting that. Parisians are deeply suspicious folk, and it did sound rather too good to be true. All the same, I took out a box of our specials and opened it on the desk-top. Twelve truffles, rolled in cocoa powder, each nestled in its bassinet of crinkly gold paper, a yellow rose on the corner of the box; the symbol of Lady Blood Moon scratched on to the side of the lid.

  ‘There’s a calling card inside,’ I said. ‘If you like them, you can order direct. If not—’ I shrugged. ‘They’re on the house. Go on. Try one. See what you think.’

  Madame hesitated. I could see her natural suspicion at war with the scent that came from the box: the smoky, espresso-scent of cacao; the hint of clove; of cardamom; of vanilla; the fleeting aroma of Armagnac – a fragrance like lost time; a bitter-sweetness like childhood’s end.

  ‘So, are you giving these out to every hotel in Paris? You’re not going to make much of a profit if you are.’

  I smiled. ‘Speculate to accumulate, that’s what I say.’

  She picked a truffle from its bed.

  Bit into it.

  ‘Hm. Not bad.’

  In fact, I think it’s more than that. Her eyes half-close; her thin mouth moistens.

  ‘You like it?’

  She should; the seductive sign of Lady Blood Moon lights up her face with its rosy glow. I can see Vianne in her more clearly now; but a Vianne grown old and tired somehow; embittered by the pursuit of wealth; a childless Vianne with no outlet for her love but her hotel and her china dolls.

  ‘It’s certainly something,’ said Madame.

  ‘The card’s inside. Come visit us.’

  Eyes closed, Madame nodded dreamily.

  ‘Merry Christmas,’ I said.

  Madame did not answer.

  And beneath the cloche, the blue-eyed doll in the fur coat and hat smiled serenely out at me, like a child frozen in a bubble of ice.

  8

  Saturday, 15th December

  I COULD HARDLY wait to see Roux today. To see if things were different; to see if I’d managed to change the wind. I’d expected a sign. Snow or something, or northern lights, or a weird weather change, but when I got up this morning it was the same yellow sky and the same wet road, and although I kept an eye on Maman, she didn’t look any different, but worked in the kitchen like she always does, with her hair tied back sensibly and an apron over her black dress.

  Still, you have to give these things time to work. Things don’t change so quickly, and I guess it wasn’t reasonable for me to expect everything to happen – for Roux to come back, and Maman to wake up to the truth about Thierry, and for it to snow – all at once in a single night. And so I stayed cool; went out with Jean-Loup; all the time waiting for three o’clock.

  Three o’clock, by Dalida’s tomb. You can’t miss it – it’s a lifesized sculpture, though I’m not quite sure who Dalida was – some kind of actress, probably. I got there a few minutes late, and Roux was waiting for me. At ten past three it was already quite dark, and as I ran up the steps towards the tomb, I could just see him sitting on a gravestone nearby, looking a bit like a sculpture himself, very still in his long grey coat.

  ‘I thought you weren’t coming.’

  ‘I’m sorry I’m late.’ I gave him a hug. ‘I had to get rid of Jean-Loup, you see.’

  He grinned at that. ‘You make it sound so sinister. Who’s he?’

  I explained, feeling a bit embarrassed to say. ‘A friend from school. He loves this place. He likes to take photographs here. Thinks he’s going to see a ghost some day.’

  ‘Well, he’s in the right place,’ said Roux. He looked at me. ‘So. What’s going on?’

  Oh, boy. Well, I didn’t even know where to start. So many things have happened over the past few weeks, and—

  ‘Actually, we had a fight.’

  Stupid, I know, but my eyes were watering. Nothing to do with Roux, of course, and I hadn’t meant to mention it, but now that I had—

  ‘What about?’ he said.

  ‘Something stupid. Nothing,’ I said.

  Roux gave me the kind of smile you sometimes see on the faces of church statues. Not that he looks anything like an angel, of course. But – kind of patient, if you know what I mean – a kind of I-can-wait-all-day-here-if-I-have-to smile.

  ‘Well, he won’t come round to the chocolaterie,’ I said, feeling cross and a bit weepy, and especially cross that I’d told Roux. ‘Says he doesn’t feel comfortable.’

  Actually, that’s not all he said. But the rest of it was so stupid, and so wrong that I couldn’t bear to say it again. I mean, I really like Jean-Loup. But Zozie’s my best friend – apart from Roux and Maman, of course – and it bothers me that he’s so unfair.

  ‘He doesn’t like Zozie?’ said Roux.

  I shrugged. ‘He doesn’t know her really,’ I said. ‘It’s because of that time she snapped at him. She’s not at all uptight usually. She just hates having her picture taken.’

  But it wasn’t just that. He showed me today: two dozen pictures he’d printed off from h
is computer and taken that day in the chocolaterie; pictures of the Advent house; of Maman and me; of Rosette; and lastly, four pictures of Zozie, all of them taken at funny angles, as if he were trying to catch her in secret—

  ‘That’s not fair. She told you to stop.’

  Jean-Loup looked stubborn. ‘Look at them, though.’

  I looked at them. They were terrible. All of them blurred and looking nothing like her at all – just a pale oval for a face and a mouth that twisted like barbed wire – and in all of them, the same printing flaw: a darkish smudge around her head, with a yellow circle surrounding it—

  ‘You must have messed the prints up,’ I said.

  He shook his head. ‘That’s just how they came out.’

  ‘Well, it must have been the light, or something.’

  ‘Maybe,’ he said. ‘Or something else.’

  I looked at him. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You know,’ he said. ‘Ghost-lights.’

  Oh, boy. Ghost-lights. I guess Jean-Loup’s been wanting to see his weird phenomena for such a long time that he’s totally flipped out this time. I mean, Zozie, of all people. How wrong can you be?

  Roux was watching me with that carved-angel look. ‘Tell me about Zozie,’ he said. ‘You sound like you’re pretty good friends.’

  So I told him about the funeral, and the lollipop shoes, and Hallowe’en, and the way Zozie had suddenly blown into our lives like something from a fairytale, and made everything fabulous—

  ‘Your mother looks tired.’

  I thought – you can talk. He looked exhausted; his face even paler than usual, and his hair in desperate need of a wash. I wondered if he was getting enough to eat, and whether I ought to have brought some food.

  ‘Well, it’s a busy time for us. With Christmas, and everything—’

  Hang on a minute, I thought to myself.

  ‘Have you been spying on us?’ I said.

  Roux shrugged. ‘I’ve been around.’

  ‘Doing what?’

  He shrugged again. ‘Call me curious.’

  ‘Is that why you stayed? Because you were curious?’

  ‘That, and because I thought your mother was in some kind of trouble.’

  I jumped at that. ‘But she is,’ I said. ‘We all are.’ And I told him again about Thierry, and his plans, and how nothing was the same any more, and how I missed the old days when everything was simple.

  Roux smiled. ‘It was never simple.’

  ‘At least we knew who we were,’ I said.

  Roux just shrugged and said nothing. I put my hand in my pocket. There was his peg-doll, the one from last night. Three red hairs, and a whispered secret, and the spiral sign of Ehecatl, the Changing Wind, drawn in felt pen over the heart.

  I closed my hand around it, hard, as if that could make him stay.

  Roux shivered and pulled his coat tighter around him.

  ‘So – you’re not really leaving, are you?’ I said.

  ‘I was going to. Perhaps I should. But there’s still something bothering me. Anouk, have you ever had the feeling there’s something going on, that somebody’s using you, manipulating you somehow, and that if only you knew how and why . . .’

  He looked at me and I was relieved to see no anger in his colours, just reflective blues. He went on in a quiet voice, and I thought that it was the most I’d ever heard him say all at once, Roux being a man of not many words.

  ‘I was angry yesterday. So angry that Vianne could have hidden such a thing from me that I couldn’t see straight – couldn’t listen – couldn’t think. Since then I’ve been doing some thinking,’ he said. ‘I’ve been wondering how the Vianne Rocher I knew could have turned into someone so different. At first I thought it was just Thierry – but I know his type. And I know Vianne. I know she’s tough. And I know that there’s no way she’s going to let someone like Le Tresset take over her life, not after everything she’s been through . . .’ He shook his head. ‘No, if she’s in trouble, it’s not from him.’

  ‘Then who?’ I said.

  He looked at me. ‘There’s something about your friend Zozie. Something I can’t put my finger on. But I can’t help feeling it when she’s around. There’s something too perfect. Something not right. Something almost – dangerous.’

  ‘What d’you mean?’

  Roux just shrugged.

  Now I was starting to feel annoyed. First Jean-Loup, and now Roux. I tried to explain.

  ‘She’s helped us, Roux – she works in the shop, looks after Rosette, she teaches me things.’

  ‘What kind of things?’

  Well, if he didn’t like Zozie, I was hardly going to tell him that. I put my hand in my pocket again, where the peg-doll felt like a little bone wrapped up in wool. ‘You don’t know her, that’s all. You should give her a chance.’

  Roux looked stubborn. When he makes up his mind, it’s hard to change it. It’s so unfair – my two best friends—

  ‘You’d like her. Really. I know you would. She looks after us—’

  ‘If I believed that, I’d be gone by now. As it is—’

  ‘You’ll stay?’

  I forgot about being mad at Roux and threw my arms around his neck. ‘You’ll come to our party on Christmas Eve?’

  ‘Well . . .’ He sighed.

  ‘Fabulous! That way you can really get to know Zozie. And you can meet Rosette properly – oh Roux, I’m so glad you’re staying.’

  ‘Yeah. Me too.’

  But he didn’t sound glad. In fact he sounded worried as hell. Still, the plan worked, which is what counts. Rosette and I managed to change the wind—

  ‘So, how are you doing for cash?’ I said. ‘I’ve got . . .’ I looked in my pocket. ‘Sixteen euros and some change, if it helps. I was going to buy Rosette a birthday present, but . . .’

  ‘No,’ he said, a bit sharply, I thought. He’s never been good at taking money, so perhaps it was the wrong thing to say. ‘I’m fine, Anouk.’

  Well, he didn’t look fine. I could see that now. And if he wasn’t getting paid—

  I made the sign of the Ear of Maize and pressed my palm against his hand. It’s a good-luck sign that Zozie taught me; for wealth and riches and food and stuff. I don’t know how it works, but it does; Zozie used it in the chocolaterie, to make more customers buy Maman’s truffles, and though obviously that won’t help Roux, I’m hoping it’ll work some other way, like getting him another job, or a Lotto win, or finding some money in the street. And I made it glow in my mind’s eye, so that it shone against his skin like sparkly dust. That ought to do it, Roux, I thought. That way it won’t be charity.

  ‘Will you come round before Christmas Eve?’

  He shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I’ve got – a few things to sort out before then.’

  ‘But you’ll come to the party? Promise?’ I said.

  ‘I promise,’ said Roux.

  ‘Cross your heart and hope to die?’

  ‘Cross my heart. And hope to die.’

  9

  Sunday, 16th December

  ROUX DIDN’T COME to work today. In fact, he hasn’t been there all weekend. It turns out that he left early on Friday, checked out of the hostel in which he was staying, and hasn’t been seen by anyone since.

  I suppose I should have expected as much. After all, I asked him to leave. So why do I feel so strangely bereft? And why do I keep looking out for him?

  Thierry is incandescent with rage. In Thierry’s world, to walk off a job is both shameful and dishonest, and it was clear that he would accept no possible excuse. There’s something about a cheque, too; a cheque Roux cashed, or didn’t cash—

  I didn’t see much of Thierry this weekend. Some trouble with the flat, he’d said, when he dropped in briefly on Saturday night. He’d mentioned Roux’s absence only in passing – and I hadn’t dared ask for too many particulars.

  Today, he told me the whole thing, calling in at the end of the day. Zozie was just closing up; Rosette was pla
ying with a jigsaw – she makes no attempt to link the pieces, but instead seems to enjoy making complicated spiral patterns with them on the floor – and I was just starting a last batch of cherry truffles when he came into the shop, clearly furious, red in the face and ready to explode.

  ‘I knew there was something about him,’ he said. ‘Those people. They’re all the bloody same. Shiftless, thieving – travellers.’ He gave the word the filthiest inflexion, making it sound like an exotic oath. ‘I know he’s supposed to be a friend of yours. But even you can’t be blind to this. To walk off a job without a word – to mess up my schedule. I’ll sue him for that. Or perhaps I’ll just beat the crap out of the ginger bastard—’

  ‘Thierry, please.’ I poured him a coffee. ‘Try to calm down.’

  But where the subject of Roux is concerned, it seems that this is impossible. Of course, they’re very different people. Solid, unimaginative Thierry, who has never lived outside Paris in his life; whose disapproval of single mothers, ‘alternative lifestyles’ and foreign food has always rather amused me – till now.

  ‘What is he to you anyway? How come he’s such a friend of yours?’

  I turned away. ‘We’ve been through this.’

  Thierry glared. ‘Were you lovers?’ he said. ‘Is that it? Were you sleeping with the bastard?’

  ‘Thierry, please—’

  ‘Tell me the truth! Did you fuck him?’ he yelled.

  Now my hands were trembling. Anger, all the more violent for being suppressed, came rushing to the surface.

  ‘And what if I did?’ I snapped at him.

  Such simple words. Such dangerous words.

  He stared at me, suddenly grey-faced, and I realized that the accusation, for all its violence, had just been another of Thierry’s big gestures; dramatic, predictable but ultimately meaningless. He’d needed an outlet for his jealousy, his need for control, his unspoken dismay at the speed at which our trade has improved—