Chocolat

  I saw Muscat for communion this morning, though he was not present for confession. He looks drawn and angry, uncomfortable in his Sunday clothes. He has taken his wife’s departure badly.

  When I left the chocolaterie he was waiting for me, smoking, leaning against the small arch beside the main entrance.

  “Well, pere?”

  “I have spoken to your wife.”

  “When is she coming home?”

  I shook my head. “I would not like to give you false hope,” I said gently.

  “She’s a stubborn cow,” he said, dropping his cigarette and crunching it with his heel. “Pardon my language, pere, but that’s how it is. When I think of the things I gave up for that crazy bitch — the money she’s cost me?”

  “She too has had much to bear,” I told him meaningfully, thinking of our many sessions in the confessional.

  Muscat shrugged. “Oh, I’m not an angel,” he said. “I know my weaknesses. But tell me, pere”— he spread his hands appealingly — “didn’t I have some reason? Waking up to her stupid face every morning? Catching her time and again with her pockets full of stolen stuff from the market, lipsticks and bottles of perfume and jewellery? Having everyone looking at me in church and laughing? He?” He looked at me winningly. “He, pere? Haven’t I had my own cross to bear?”

  I’d heard much of this before. Her sluttishness, her stupidity, her thieving, her laziness about the house. I am not required to have an opinion on such things. My role is to offer advice and comfort. Still, he disgusts me with his excuses, his conviction that had it not been for her he might have achieved great, brave things.

  “We are not here to allocate blame,” I said with a note of rebuke. “We should be trying to find ways to save your marriage.”

  He was instantly subdued. “I’m sorry, pere. I — I shouldn’t have said those things.” He tried for sincerity, showing teeth like ancient ivory. “Don’t think I’m not fond of her, pere. I mean, I want her back, don’t I?”

  Oh yes. To cook his meals. To iron his clothes. To run his cafe. And to prove to his friends that no-one makes a fool of Paul-Marie Muscat, no-one. I despise this hypocrisy. He must indeed win her back. I agree with that at least. But not for those reasons.

  “If you want her back, Muscat,” I told him with some tartness, “then you have been about it in a remarkably idiotic way so far.”

  He bridled. “I don’t see that necessarily…”

  “Don’t be a fool.”

  Lord, pere, how can you ever have had such patience with these people?

  “Threats, profanities, last night’s shameful drunken display? How do you think that would help your case?”

  Sullenly: “I couldn’t let her get away with what she did, pere. Everyone’s saying my wife walked out on me. And that interfering bitch Rocher…” His mean eyes narrowed behind his wire glasses. “Serve her right if something happened to that fancy shop of hers,” he said flatly. “Get rid of the bitch for good.”

  I looked at him sharply. “Oh?”

  It was too close to what I have thought myself, mon pere. God help me, when I saw that boat burning…It is a primitive delight, unworthy of my calling, a pagan thing which by right I should not feel. I have wrestled with it myself, pere, in the small hours of the mornings. I have subdued it in myself, but like the dandelions it grows back, sending out insidious small rootlets. It was perhaps because of this — because I understood — that my voice was harsher than I intended as I replied. “What kind of thing did you have in mind, Muscat?”

  He muttered something barely audible.

  “A fire, perhaps? A convenient fire?” I could feel the pressure of my rage growing against my ribs. Its taste, which is both metallic and sweetly rotten, filled my mouth. “Like the fire which got rid of the gypsies?”

  He smirked. “Perhaps. Dreadful fire risk, some of these old houses.”

  “Listen to me.” Suddenly I was appalled at the thought that he might have mistaken my silence that night for complicity. “If I thought — even suspected — outside of the confessional that you were involved in such a thing — if anything happens to that shop…” I had him by the shoulder now, my fingers digging into the pulpy flesh.

  Muscat looked aggrieved. “But pere you said yourself that…”

  “I said nothing!” I heard my voice ricochet flatly across the square — tat-tat-tat! — and I lowered it in haste. “I certainly never meant for you…” I cleared my throat, which suddenly felt wedged full. “This is not the Middle Ages, Muscat,” I said crisply. “We do not — interpret — God’s laws to suit ourselves. Or the laws of our country,” I added heavily, looking him in the eye. His corneas were as yellow as his teeth. “Do we understand each other?”

  Resentfully: “Yes, mon pere.”

  “Because if anything happens, Muscat, anything, a broken window, a little fire, anything at all…” I overtop him by a head. I am younger, fitter than he. He responds instinctively to the physical threat. I give him a little push which sends him against the stone wall at his back. I can barely contain my rage. That he should dare — that he should dare! — to take my role, pere. That it should be he, this miserable self-deluding sot. That he should place me in this situation; to be obliged officially to protectthe woman who is my enemy. I contain myself with an effort.

  “Keep well away from that shop, Muscat. If there’s anything to be done, I’ll do it. Do you understand?”

  Humbler now, his bluster evaporating: “Yes, pere.”

  “Leave the situation entirely to me.”

  Three weeks until her grand festival. That’s all I have left. Three weeks to find some way of curbing her influence. I have preached against her in church to no effect but my own ridicule. Chocolate, I am told, is not a moral issue. Even the Clairmonts see my obduracy as slightly irregular, she simpering with mock concern that I seem overwrought, he grinning outright. Vianne Rocher herself takes no notice. Far from trying to blend in she flaunts her alien status, calling impertinent greetings to me across the square, encouraging the antics of such as Armande, perpetually dogged by the children whose growing wildness she invites. Even in a crowd she is instantly recognizable. Where others walk up a street, she runs down it. Her hair, her clothes; perpetually wind-torn, wildflower colours, orange and yellow and polka-dotted and floral-patterned. In the wild, a parakeet amongst sparrows would soon be torn apart for its bright plumage. Here she is accepted with affection, even amusement. What might raise eyebrows elsewhere is tolerated because it is only Vianne. Even Clairmont is not impervious to her charm, and his wife’s dislike has nothing to do with moral superiority and everything to do with a kind of envy which does Caro little credit. At least Vianne Rocher is no hypocrite, using God’s words to elevate her social standing. And yet the thought — suggesting as it does a sympathy, even a liking, that a man in my position can ill afford — is another danger. I can have no sympathies. Rage and liking are equally inappropriate. I must be impartial, for the sake of the community and the Church. Those are my first loyalties.

  TWENTY-SIX

  Wednesday, March 12

  WE HAVE NOT SPOKEN TO MUSCAT FOR DAYS. Josephine, who for some time would not leave La Praline, can now be persuaded to walk down the street to the bakery, or across the square to the florist’s, without me to accompany her. As she refuses to return to the Cafe de la Republique I have lent her some of my own clothes. Today she is wearing a blue jumper and a flowered sarong, and she looks fresh and pretty. In only a few days she has changed the look of vapid hostility has gone, as have the defensive mannerisms. She seems taller, sleeker, abandoning her permanently hunched posture and the multiple layers of clothing which gave her such a dumpy look. She keeps the shop for me while I work in the kitchen, and I have already taught her how to temper and blend chocolate types as well as how to make some of the simpler types of praline. She has good, quick hands. Laughingly I remind her of her gunslinger’s deftness on that first day and she flushes.

  “I’
d never take anything from you!” Her indignation is touching, sincere. “Vianne, you don’t think I’d…”

  “Of course not.”

  “You know I…”

  “Of course.”

  She and Armande, who barely knew each other in the old days, have become good friends. The old lady calls every day now, sometimes to talk, sometimes for a cornet of her favourite apricot truffles. Often she comes in with Guillaume, who has become a regular visitor. Today Luc was here too, and the three of them sat together in the corner with a pot of chocolate and some eclairs. I could hear occasional laughter and exclamations from the small group.

  Just before closing-time Roux walked in, looking cautious and diffident. It was the first time I had seen him close to since the fire, and I was struck by the changes in him. He looks thinner, his hair pasted back from a blank, sullen face. There is a dirty bandage on one hand. One side of his face still shows a hectic splash of marks which resembles bad sunburn.

  He looked taken-aback when he saw Josephine

  “I’m sorry. I thought Vianne was…” He turned abruptly as if to go.

  “No. Please. She’s in the back.” Her manner has become more relaxed since she begun working in the shop, but she sounded awkward, intimidated, perhaps, by his appearance.

  Roux hesitated. “You’re from the cafe,” he said at last. “You’re —”

  “Josephine Bonnet,” she interrupted. “I’m living here now.”

  “Oh.”

  I came out of the kitchen and saw him watching her with a speculative look in his light eyes. But he did not pursue the matter any further, and Josephine withdrew gratefully into the kitchen.

  “It’s good to see you again, Roux,” I told him directly. “I wanted to ask you a favour.”

  “Oh?”

  He can make a single syllable sound very meaningful. This was polite incredulity, suspicion. He looked like a nervous cat about to strike.

  “I need some work doing on the house, and I wonder if you might…” It is difficult to phrase this correctly. I know he will not accept what he considers to be charity.

  “This wouldn’t be anything to do with our friend Armande, would it?” His tone was light but hard. He turned to where Armande and the others were sitting. “Doing good by stealth again, were we?” he called caustically.

  Turning back to me again, his face was careful and expressionless. “I didn’t come here to ask for a job. I wanted to ask you if you saw anyone hanging round my boat that night.”

  I shook my head. “I’m sorry, Roux. I didn’t see anyone.”

  “OK.”

  He turned again as if to leave. “Thanks.”

  “Look, wait.” I called out after him. “Can’t you at least stay for a drink?”

  “Some other time.” His tone was brusque to the point of rudeness. I could feel his anger reaching out for something to strike at.

  “We’re still your friends,” I said as he reached the door. “Armande and Luc and I. Don’t be so defensive. We’re trying to help you.”

  Roux turned abruptly. His face was bleak. His eyes were crescents. “Get this, all of you.” He spoke in a low, hateful voice, the accent so thick that his words were barely distinguishable. “I don’t need any help. I should never have got involved with you in the first place. I only hung around this long because I thought I might find out who fired my boat.”

  Then he was gone, stumbling bearishly through the doorway in a bright angry carillon of chimes.

  When he had gone we all looked at each other.

  “Redhaired men,” said Armande with feeling. “Stubborn as mules.”

  Josephine looked shaken. “What a horrible man,” she said at last. “You didn’t set fire to his boat. What right has he to take it out on you?”

  I shrugged. “He feels helpless and angry, and he doesn’t know who to blame,” I told her gently. “It’s a natural reaction. And he thinks we’re offering help because we feel sorry for him.”

  “I just hate scenes,” said Josephine, and I knew she was thinking of her husband. “I’m glad he’s gone. Do you think he’ll leave Lansquenet now?”

  I shook my head. “I don’t think so,” I said. “After all, where would he go?”

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Thursday, March 13

  I WENT DOWN TO LES MARAUDS YESTERDAY AFTERNOON to talk to Roux, with no more success than last time. The derelict house has been padlocked from the inside and the shutters closed. I can imagine him holed up in the dark with his rage like a wary animal. I called his name, and knew he heard me, but he did not answer. I considered leaving a message for him on the door, but decided against it. If he wants to come, it must be on his own terms. Anouk came with me, carrying a paper boat I had made for her out of the cover of a magazine. As I was standing outside Roux’s door she went down the banking to launch it, keeping it from drifting too far with the aid of a long flexible branch. When Roux would not make an appearance I returned to La Praline, where Josephine had already begun the week’s batch of couverture, and left Anouk to her own devices.

  “Watch out for crocodiles,” I told her seriously.

  Anouk grinned at me from under her yellow beret. With her toy trumpet in one hand and the guiding-stick in the other, she proceeded to sound a loud and tuneless alarm, jumping from one foot to the other in mounting excitement.

  “Crocodiles! Crocodile attack!” she crowed. “Man the cannons!”

  “Steady,” I warned. “Don’t fall in.”

  Anouk blew me an extravagant kiss and returned to the game. When I turned back at the top of the hill she was bombarding the crocodiles with pieces of turf, and I could still hear the thin blare of the trumpet — paar-paa-raar!- interspersed with sound effects — prussh! proom! — as battle continued.

  Surprising that it should still surprise, the fierce onrush of tenderness. If I squint hard enough against the low sunlight I can almost see the crocodiles, the long brown snapping shapes in the water, the flash of the cannon. As she moves between the houses, the red and yellow of her coat and beret shooting out sudden flares from the shadows, I can almost make out the half-visible menagerie which surrounds her. As I watch she turns and waves at me, screeches I love you! and returns to the serious business of play.

  We were closed in the afternoon, and Josephine and I worked hard to make enough pralines and truffles to last for the rest of the week. I have already begun to make the Easter chocolates, and Josephine has become skilled at decorating the animal shapes and packing them into boxes tied with multicoloured ribbon. The cellar is an ideal place to store them: cool, though not so cold that the chocolate takes on the whitish bloom which refrigeration encourages; dark and dry, so we can store all of our special stock there, packed into cartons, and still have room for our household supplies. The floor is made of old flagstones, polished brown as oak, cool and smooth underfoot. A single lightbulb overhead. The door to the cellar is bare pine, with a hole cut into the base for a long-departed cat. Even Anouk likes the cellar, which smells of stone and ancient wine, and she has drawn coloured chalk figures on the flags and the whitewashed walls; animals and castles and birds and stars. In the shop Armande and Luc stayed to talk for a while, then they left together: They meet more often now, though not always at La Praline; Luc tells me that he went to her house twice last week, and did an hour’s work in the garden each time.

  “She needs some w-work doing in the flowerbeds, now the h-house is fixed,” he told me earnestly. “She can’t manage the digging the way she used to, but she says she wants some f-flowers this year instead of just weeds.”

  Yesterday he brought a tray of plants from Narcisse’s nursery and planted them in the newly dug soil at the foot of Armande’s wall.

  “I’ve got l-lavenders and primroses and tulips and daffodils,” he explained. “She likes the bright, scented ones best. She doesn’t see all that well, so I got lilac and wallflowers and broom, and things she’ll notice.” He smiled shyly. “I want them settled before h
er b-birthday,” he explained.

  I asked him when Armande’s birthday was.

  “March the twenty-eighth,” he explained. “She’ll be eighty-one. I’ve already thought of a p-present.”

  “Oh?”

  He nodded. “I thought I’d buy her a s-silk slip.” His tone was faintly defensive. “She likes underwear.”

  Suppressing a smile, I told him that sounded like a fine idea.

  “I’ll have to go to Agen,” he said seriously. “And I’ll have to hide it from my m-mother, or she’ll have a bird.” He gave a sudden grin. “Perhaps we could throw a party for her. You know, to welcome her into the next d-decade.”

  “We could ask her what she thinks,” I suggested.

  At four Anouk came home tired and cheerful and muddy to the armpits, and Josephine made lemon tea while I ran the bathwater. Stripping off her dirty clothes I tipped Anouk into hot honey-scented water, then afterwards we all sat down to pains au chocolat and brioche with raspberry jam and plump sweet apricots from Narcisse’s greenhouse. Josephine seemed preoccupied, turning her apricot softly over and over in one palm.

  “I keep thinking about that man,” she said at last. “You know, the one who was in this morning.”

  “Roux.”

  She nodded. “His boat catching fire…” she said tentatively. “You don’t think it could have been an accident; do you?”

  “He doesn’t think so. He said he smelt petrol.”

  “What do you think he would do if he found out”— with an effort — “who did it?”