‘Loved her?’ said Roux.
Everybody turned to look.
He was leaning against the kitchen door, hands in his pockets, eyes bright. He had unzipped his Santa suit and beneath it he was all in black, and the colours reminded me so much of the Pied Piper on the Tarot card that suddenly I could hardly breathe. And now he was speaking, in that fierce, harsh voice; Roux, who hates crowds, avoids scenes where he can, and never, ever makes a speech—
‘Love her?’ he said. ‘You don’t even know her. Her favourite chocolates are mendiants; her favourite colour is bright red. Her favourite scent is mimosa. She can swim like a fish. She hates black shoes. She loves the sea. She’s got a scar on her left hip from when she fell out of a Polish goods train. She doesn’t like having curly hair, even though it’s gorgeous. She likes the Beatles, but not the Stones. She used to steal menus from restaurants because she could never afford to eat there herself. She’s the best mother I’ve ever met—’ He paused. ‘And she doesn’t need your charity. As for Rosette . . .’ He picked her up and held her so that her face was almost touching his own. ‘She’s my little girl. And she’s perfect.’
For a moment Thierry looked puzzled. Then realization began to set in. His face darkened; his eyes went from Roux to Rosette, from Rosette to Roux. The truth is undeniable; Rosette’s face may be less angular, her hair a lighter shade of red, but she has his eyes, and his satirical mouth, and at that moment there could be no mistake—
Thierry turned on his polished heel, a crisp manoeuvre slightly marred by the fact that he struck the table with his hip, sending a champagne glass to smash to the floor, scattering across the tiles in an explosion of fake diamonds. But when Madame Luzeron picked it up—
‘Hey, that’s lucky,’ said Nico. ‘I could have sworn I heard it go—’
Madame gave me a curious look.
‘Just lucky, I guess.’
Just like the blue glass dish again, the Murano dish I dropped that day, but now I’m not afraid any more. I just looked at Rosette in her father’s arms, and what I felt was not dismay, or fear, or anxiety, but an overwhelming sense of pride—
‘Well, you’d better enjoy it while you can.’ Thierry was standing by the door, massive in his red suit. ‘Because as of now, I’m giving you notice. A quarter’s notice, as per our deal, after which I’m closing you down.’ He eyed me with malign good cheer. ‘What, did you think you were going to stay, after everything that’s happened here? I own this place, in case you’d forgotten, and I’ve got plans that don’t include you. Have fun with your little chocolate shop. You’ll all be gone by Easter.’
Well, that’s not the first time someone’s said that. As the door slammed behind him I felt, not fear, but another astonishing lurch of pride. The worst had happened, and we had survived. The changing wind had won again, but this time I felt no sense of defeat. Instead I felt delirious; ready to face down the Furies themselves—
And then I had a terrible thought. I stood up abruptly, scanned the room. Conversation was starting again, slowly at first, but gaining momentum. Madame Luzeron poured champagne. Nico began to talk to Michèle. Paupaul was flirting with Madame Pinot. From what I could hear, the general consensus was that Thierry was drunk, that all of his threats were empty talk, that by next week it would all be forgotten, because the chocolaterie was a part of Montmartre, and could no more disappear than Le P’tit Pinson—
But someone was missing. Zozie was gone.
Nor was there any sign of Anouk.
14
Monday, 24th December
Christmas Eve. 11.15 p.m.
IT’S BEEN SO long since I last saw Pantoufle. I’d almost forgotten what it was like to have him nearby, watching me with his berry-black eyes, or sitting all warm on my knee, or on my pillow late at night in case I get scared of the Black Man. But Zozie’s already at the door, and we have to catch that Changing Wind—
I call Pantoufle in my shadow-voice. I can’t just leave without Pantoufle. But he doesn’t come, just sits by the stove with his whiskers twitching and that look he gets, and it’s funny, but I can’t remember ever being able to see him so clearly, every hair, every whisker etched in light. And there’s a scent of something, too, coming from that little pan—
It’s only chocolate, I tell myself.
But it smells different, somehow. Like the chocolate I used to drink as a child, all creamy and hot with chocolate curls and cinnamon and a sugar spoon to stir it with.
‘Well?’ she says. ‘Are you coming or not?’
Once again, I call Pantoufle. But once again he doesn’t hear. And of course I want to go, to see those places she told me about, to ride the wind, to be fabulous – but there’s Pantoufle sitting by the copper pan, and somehow I just can’t turn away.
I know he’s just an imaginary friend, and here’s Zozie, so real and alive, but there’s something I have to remember somehow, a story Maman used to tell about a boy who gave his shadow away—
‘Come on, Anouk.’ Her voice is sharp. The wind feels cold in the kitchen now, and there’s snow on the step and on her shoes. Inside the shop there’s a sudden noise, I can smell the chocolate and hear Maman calling me—
But now Zozie’s taking my hand, and she’s dragging me through the open back door. I can feel the snow sliding under my shoes, and the cold of the night creeps under my cloak—
Pantoufle! I call for the last time.
And finally he comes to me, shadowy across the snow. And for a second I see her face, not through the Smoking Mirror, but through the shadow of Pantoufle – and it’s a stranger’s face, not Zozie’s at all, but twisted and bent like a handful of scrap metal, and old, old, like the oldest great-great-grandmother in the world, and instead of the red dress like Maman’s, she’s wearing a skirt of human hearts, and her shoes are all blood in the drifting snow—
I scream and try to pull away.
She claws at me with the sign of One Jaguar, and I can hear her telling me that we’re going to be fine, not to be afraid, that she’s chosen me, that she wants me, needs me, that none of the others would understand—
And I know I can’t stop her. I have to go. I’ve gone too far, my magic’s nothing next to hers – but the scent of chocolate is still so strong, like the scent of a forest after the rain, and suddenly I can see something else, a hazy picture in my mind. I can see a little girl, only a few years younger than me. She’s in some kind of shop, and in front of her there’s a kind of black box, like the coffin-charm on Zozie’s bracelet—
‘Anouk!’
I can tell that’s Maman’s voice. But I can’t see her now. She’s too far away. And Zozie’s dragging me into the dark, and my feet are following in the snow. And the little girl’s going to open the box, and there’s something terrible inside, and if only I knew, I could stop her, perhaps—
We’re opposite the chocolate shop. We’re standing at the corner of Place des Faux-Monnayeurs, looking down the cobbled street. There’s a street-lamp there, and it lights up the snow, and our shadows stretch all the way down to the steps. I can see Maman from the corner of my eye, looking out into the square. She looks a hundred miles away, and yet it can’t be very far. And there’s Roux, and Rosette, and Jean-Loup, and Nico, and their faces are very distant somehow, like something seen through a telescope—
The door opens. Maman steps out.
I can hear Nico’s voice from far away, saying, What the hell’s that?
Behind them, the murmur of voices lost in a terminal blur of static.
The wind is rising. The Hurakan – and there’s no way Maman can fight that wind, although I can see she’s planning to try. She looks very calm. She’s almost smiling. And I wonder how I or anyone else could have thought she looked anything like Zozie—
Zozie gives her cannibal smile. ‘At last, a flash of spirit?’ she says. ‘Too late, Vianne. I’ve won the game.’
‘You haven’t won anything,’ says Maman. ‘Your kind never wins. You may think you
do, but the victory’s always an empty one.’
Zozie snarls. ‘How would you know? The child followed me of her own accord.’
Maman ignores her. ‘Anouk. Come here.’
But I’m pinned to the spot in that frozen light. I want to go – but there’s something else, a whispering voice, like an icy fish-hook in my heart, that’s pulling me the other way.
It’s too late. You’ve made your choice. The Hurakan won’t go away—
‘Please, Zozie. I want to go home—’
Home? What home? Killers don’t have a home, Nanou. Killers ride the Hurakan—
‘But I’m not a killer—’
Really? You’re not?
She laughs like chalk on a blackboard.
I scream: ‘Let me go!’
She laughs again. Her eyes are like cinders, her mouth is a wire, and I wonder how I could ever have thought she was fabulous. She smells of dead crab and gasoline. Her hands are like bunches of bones; her hair is like rotting seaweed. And her voice is the night; her voice is the wind, and now I can hear how hungry she is, how much she wants to swallow me whole—
Then Maman speaks. She sounds very calm. But her colours are like the Northern Lights, brighter than the Champs-Elysées, and she flicks out her fingers at Zozie in a little gesture I know very well—
Tsk-tsk, begone!
Zozie gives a pitying smile. The string of hearts around her waist flips and flirts like a cheerleader’s skirt.
Tsk-tsk, begone! She forks it again, and this time I see a tiny spark skip across the square towards Zozie like a cinder from a bonfire.
Once more, Zozie smiles. ‘Is that the best you can do?’ she says. ‘Domestic magic and cantrips even a child could learn? What a waste of your skills, Vianne, when you could have been riding the wind with us. Still, some people are too old to change. And some people are just afraid to be free—’
And she takes a step towards Maman, and suddenly she’s changed again. It’s a glamour, of course, but she’s beautiful, and even I can’t help but stare. The necklace of hearts has gone now; and she’s wearing hardly anything but a linked skirt of something that looks like jade, and a lot of golden jewellery. And her skin is the colour of mocha cream, and her mouth is like a cut pomegranate, and she smiles at Maman and says—
‘Why don’t you come with us, Vianne? It’s not too late. The three of us – we could be unstoppable. Stronger than the Kindly Ones. Stronger than the Hurakan. We’d be fabulous, Vianne. Irresistible. We’d sell seductions and sweet dreams, not just here, but everywhere. We’d go global with your chocolates. Branches in every part of the world. Everyone would love you, Vianne, you’d change the lives of millions—’
Maman falters. Tsk-tsk, begone! But her heart isn’t in it any more; the little spark dies before it’s halfway across the square. She takes a step towards Zozie – she’s only a dozen feet away, and her colours are gone, and she looks like she’s in some kind of dream—
And I want to tell her it’s all a cheat, that Zozie’s magic is like a cheap Easter egg, all shiny foil on the outside, but open it up and there’s nothing there – and then I remember what Pantoufle showed me; the little girl, and the shop, and the black box, and the great-great-grandmother sitting there grinning like a wolf in disguise—
And suddenly I find my voice, and I shout out as loudly as I can, without quite knowing what the words mean, but knowing they’re words of power, somehow, words to conjure with, words to stop the winter wind—
And I shout, ‘Zozie!’
She looks at me.
And I say, ‘What was in the black piñata?’
15
Monday, 24th December
Christmas Eve. 11.25 p.m.
IT BROKE THE charm. She stopped. She stared. Moved closer to me across the snow, and brought her face up close to mine. And now I could smell that dead-crab stink, but I didn’t blink or look away.
‘You dare to ask me that?’ she snarled.
And now I could hardly bear to look. She’d changed her face and was fearsome again; a giantess; her mouth a cave of mossy teeth. The silver bracelet on her wrist now looked like a bracelet of skulls, and her skirt of hearts was dripping with blood, a curtain of blood in the fallen snow. She was terrible, but she was afraid, and behind her Maman was watching with a funny kind of smile on her face, as if she understood far more about it than I did, somehow—
She gave me the tiniest of nods.
I said the magic words again. ‘What was in the black piñata?’
Zozie made a harsh sound in her throat. ‘I thought we were friends, Nanou,’ she said. And suddenly she was Zozie again, the old Zozie of the lollipop shoes, with her scarlet skirt and her pink-streaked hair and her jangly multicoloured beads. And she looked so real and so familiar that it hurt my heart to see her so sad. And her hand on my shoulder was trembling, and her eyes filled with tears as she whispered—
‘Please – oh please, Nanou, don’t make me tell—’
My mother was standing six feet away. Behind her in the square were Jean-Loup, Roux, Nico, Madame Luzeron, Alice, and their colours were like fireworks on the Fourteenth of July, all gold and green and silver and red—
I caught a sudden scent of chocolate drifting from the open door, and I thought of the copper pan on the hob, and the way the steam had reached out to me like ghostly pleading fingers, and the voice I’d almost thought I heard, my mother’s, saying, Try me, taste me—
And I thought about all the times she’d offered me hot chocolate, and I’d said no. Not because I don’t like it, but because I was angry that she’d changed; because I blamed her for what happened to us; and because I wanted to get back at her, to make her see I was different—
It isn’t Zozie’s fault, I thought. Zozie’s just the mirror that shows us what we want to see. Our hopes; our hates; our vanities. But when you really look at it, a mirror’s just a piece of glass—
For the third time, I said in my clearest voice: ‘What was in the black piñata?’
16
Monday, 24th December
Christmas Eve. 11.30 p.m.
I CAN SEE it all so clearly now, like pictures on a tarot card. The darkened shop; skulls on the shelves; the little girl; the great-great-grandmother standing by with a look of appalling greed on her ancient face.
I know that Anouk sees it too. Even Zozie sees it now, and her face keeps changing, going from old to young, from Zozie to the Queen of Hearts, mouth twisting from contempt to indecision and finally to naked fear. And now she’s only nine years old, a little girl in her carnival dress with a silver bracelet round her wrist.
‘You want to know what was inside? You really want to know?’ she says.
17
Monday, 24th December
Christmas Eve. 11.30 p.m.
SO YOU REALLY want to know, Anouk?
Shall I tell you what I saw?
What was I expecting, you ask? Sweets, perhaps, or lollipops; chocolate skulls; necklaces of sugar teeth; all the tawdry Day of the Dead merchandise ready to explode out of the black piñata like a shower of dark confetti?
Or something else, some occult revelation: a glimpse of God; a hint of beyond; some assurance, perhaps, that the dead are still here, guests at our table; unquiet sleepers; custodians of some essential mystery that will one day be imparted to the rest of us?
Isn’t that what we all want? To believe that Christ arose from the dead; that angels guard us; that fish on a Friday is sometimes holy and at other times a mortal sin; that it somehow matters if a sparrow falls, or a tower or two, or even an entire race, annihilated in the name of some specious deity or other, barely distinguishable from a whole series of One True Gods – ha! – Lord, what fools these mortals be, and the joke of it is that we’re all fools, even to the gods themselves, because for all the millions who were slaughtered in their name, for all the prayers and sacrifices and wars and revelations, who really remembers the Old Ones now – Tlaloc and Coatlicue and Quetzalcoatl a
nd even greedy old Mictecacihuatl herself – their temples made into ‘heritage sites’, their stones toppled, their pyramids overgrown, all lost in time like blood in the sand?
And what do we really care, Anouk, if a hundred years from now the Sacré-Coeur has become a mosque, or a synagogue, or something else altogether? Because by then we’ll all be sand, except for the One who has always been; the one that builds pyramids; raises temples; makes martyrs; composes sublime music; denies logic; praises the meek; receives souls into Paradise; dictates what to wear; smites the infidel; paints the Sistine Chapel; urges young men to die for the cause; blows up bandsmen by remote control; promises much; delivers little; fears no one and never dies, because the fear of Death is so much greater than honour, or goodness, or faith, or love . . .
So, back to your question. What was it again?
Ah, yes, the black piñata.
You think I found the answer in there?
Sorry, sweetheart. Think again.
You want to know what I saw, Anouk?
Nothing. That’s what. Big fat zip.
No answers, no certainties; no payback; no truth. Just air; a single belch of foul air rushing out of the black piñata like morning-breath from a thousand-year sleep.
‘The worst of all things is nothing, Anouk. No meaning; no message; no demons; no gods. We die – and there’s nothing. Nothing at all.’
She watches me with those dark eyes.
‘You’re wrong,’ she says. ‘There’s something.’
The Lollipop Shoes Page 41
