Chocolat

  “She might,” I replied mildly. “Of course I couldn’t be seen to have any part of it. It might look — uncharitable.”

  I could tell from her expression that she understood perfectly.

  “Of course, mon pere.” Her voice is eager and spiteful. For a second I feel utter contempt for her, panting and fawning like a bitch in heat, but it is with such contemptible tools, pere, that our work is often done.

  After all, pere, you should know.

  THIRTY-TWO

  Friday, March 21

  THE LOFT IS ALMOST FINISHED, the plaster still wet in patches but the new window, round and brass-bound like a ship’s porthole, complete. Tomorrow Roux will lay the floorboards, and when they are finally polished and varnished, we will move Anouk’s bed into her new room. There is no door. A trapdoor is the only entrance, with a dozen steps leading upwards. Already Anouk is very excited. She spends much of her time with her head through the trapdoor, watching and giving precise instructions on what needs to be done. The rest she spends with me in the kitchen, watching the preparations for Easter. Jeannot is often with her. They sit together by the kitchen door, both talking at once. I have to bribe them to go away. Roux seems more like his old self since Armande’s illness, whistling as he puts the final touches to Anouk’s walls. He has done an excellent job, though he regrets the loss of his tools. The ones he is using, hired from Clairmont’s yard, are inferior, he says. As soon as he can, he will buy more.

  “There’s a place in Agen selling old river-boats,” he told me today over chocolate and eclairs. “I could get an old hulk and fix it up over the winter. I could make it nice and comfortable.”

  “How much money would you need?”

  He shrugged. “Maybe five thousand francs to begin with, maybe four. It depends.”

  “Armande would lend it to you.”

  “No.” He is immovable on this issue. “She’s done enough already.” He traced a circle around the rim of his cup with his forefinger. “Besides, Narcisse has offered me a job,” he told me. “At the nursery, then helping with the vendanges in the grape season, then there’s the potatoes, beans, cucumbers, aubergines…Enough work to keep me busy till November.”

  “That’s good.” A sudden wave of warmth for his enthusiasm, for the return of his good spirits. He looks better too, more relaxed and without that dreadful look of hostility and suspicion which shuttered his face like a haunted house. He has spent the last few nights at Armande’s house, at her request.

  “In case I have another one of my turns,” she says seriously, with a comic look at me behind his back. Deception or not, I am glad of his presence there.

  Not so Caro Clairmont: she came into La Praline on Wednesday morning with Joline Drou, ostensibly to discuss Anouk. Roux was sitting at the counter, drinking mocha. Josephine who still seems afraid of Roux, was in the kitchen, packaging chocolates. Anouk was still finishing her breakfast, her yellow bowl of chocolat au fait and half a croissant on the counter in front of her. The two women gave sugary smiles to Anouk, and looked at Roux with wary disdain. Roux gave them one of his insolent stares.

  “I hope I’m not coming at an inconvenient moment?” Joline has a smooth, practised voice, all concern and sympathy. Beneath it, however, nothing but indifference.

  “Not at all. We were just having breakfast. Can I offer you a drink?”

  “No’ no. I never have breakfast.”

  A coy glance at Anouk, which she, head in her breakfast-bowl, failed to notice.

  “I wonder if I might talk to you,” said Joline sweetly. “In private.”

  “Well, you could,” I told her. “But I’m sure you don’t need to. Can’t you say whatever it is here? I’m sure Roux won’t mind.” Roux grinned, and Joline looked sour. “Well, it’s a little delicate,” she said.

  “Then are you sure I’m the person you should be talking to? I would have thought Cure Reynaud far more appropriate?”

  “No, I definitely wish to speak to you,” said Joline, between compressed lips.

  “Oh.” Politely: “What about?”

  “It concerns your daughter.” She gave me a brittle smile. “As you know, I am in charge of her class at school.”

  “I do know.” I poured another mocha for Roux. “What’s wrong? Is she backward? Is she having problems?”

  I know perfectly well that Anouk has no problems. She has read voraciously since she was four and a half. She speaks English almost as well as French, a legacy from our New York days.

  “No, no,” Joline assures me. “She’s a very bright little girl.” A quick glance flutters in Anouk’s direction, but my daughter seems too much absorbed in finishing her croissant. Slyly, because she thinks I am not watching, she sneaks a chocolate mouse from the display and pushes it into the middle of the pastry to approximate a pain au chocolat.

  “Her behaviour, then?” I ask with exaggerated concern. “Is she disruptive? Disobedient? Impolite?”

  “No, no. Of coursenot. Nothing like that.”

  “What then?”

  Caro looks at me with a vinegary expression. “Curb Reynaud has visited the school several times this week,” she informs me. “To talk to the children about Easter, and the meaning of the Church’s festival, and so on.”

  I nodded encouragingly. Joline gave me another of her compassionate smiles.

  “Well, Anouk seems to be”— a coy glance in Anouk’s direction — “well, not exactly disruptive, but she’s been asking him some very strange questions.” Her smile narrowed between twin brackets of disapproval.

  “Very strange questions,” she repeated.

  “Oh well,” I said lightly. “She’s always been curious. I’m sure you wouldn’t like to discourage the spirit of enquiry in any of your pupils. And besides,” I added mischievously, “don’t tell me there’s any subject that Monsieur Reynaud isn’t equipped to answer questions on.”

  Joline simpered, protesting. “It upsets the other children, Madame,” she said tightly.

  “Oh?”

  “It seems Anouk has been telling them that Easter isn’t really a Christian festival at all, and that Our Lord is”— she paused, embarrassed — “that Our Lord’s resurrection is a kind of throwbackto some corn god or other. Some fertility deity from pagan times.” She gave a forced laugh, but her voice was chilly.

  “Yes.” I touched Anouk’s curls briefly. “She’s a well-read little thing, aren’t you, Nanou?”

  “I was only asking about Eostre,” said Anouk stoutly. “Cure Reynaud says nobody celebrates it any more, and I told him we did.”

  I hid my smile behind my hand. “I don’t suppose he understands, sweetheart,” I told her. “Perhaps you shouldn’t ask so many questions, if it upsets him.”

  “It upsets the children, Madame,” said Joline.

  “No, it doesn’t,” retorted Anouk. “Jeannot says we should have a bonfire when it comes, and have red and white candles, and everything. Jeannot says?”

  Caroline interrupted her. “Jeannot seems to have said a great deal,” she observed.

  “He must take after his mother,” I said. Joline looked affronted. “You don’t seem to be taking this very seriously,” she said, the smile slipping a little.

  I shrugged. “I don’t see a problem,” I told her mildly. “My daughter participates in class discussion. Isn’t that what you’re telling me?”

  “Some subjects shouldn’t be open to discussion,” snapped Caro, and for a moment, beneath that pastel-sweetness I saw her mother in her, imperious and overbearing. I liked her better for showing a little spirit. “Some things should be accepted on faith, and if the child had any proper moral grounding?” She bit off the sentence in confusion. “Far be it from me to tell you how to raise your child,” she finished in a flat voice.

  “Good,” I said with a smile. “I should have hated to quarrel with you.” Both women looked at me with the same expression of baffled dislike.

  “Are you sure you won’t have a drink of chocolate??
??

  Caro’s eyes slid longingly over the display, the pralines, truffles, amandines and nougats, the Eclairs, florentines, liqueur cherries, frosted almonds.

  “I’m surprised the child’s teeth aren’t rotten,” she said tautly.

  Anouk grinned, displaying the offending teeth. Their whiteness seemed to add to Caro’s displeasure. “We’re wasting our time here,” she remarked coolly to Joline.

  I said nothing, and Roux sniggered. In the kitchen I could hear Josephine’s little radio playing. For a few seconds there was no sound but the tinny squeak of the speaker against the tiles.

  “Come on,” said Caro to her friend. Joline looked uncertain, hesitant.

  “I said come on!” With a gesture of irritation she swept out of the shop with Joline in her wake. “Don’t think I don’t know what you’re playing at,” she spat in lieu of goodbye, then they were both gone, their high heels clacking against the stones as they crossed the square to St Jerome’s.

  The next day we found the first of the leaflets. Scrunched up into a ball and tossed into the street, Josephine picked it up as she was sweeping the pavement and brought it into the shop. A single page of typescript, photocopied onto pink paper then folded into two. It was unsigned, but something about the style suggested its possible author.

  The title: ‘Easter and the Return to Faith’. I scanned the sheet quickly. Much of the text was predictable. Rejoicing and self-purification, sin and the joys of absolution and prayer. But halfway down the page; in bolder text than the rest, was a sub-heading which caught my eye.

  The New Revivalists: Corrupting the Spirit of Easter. There will always be a small minority of people who attempt to use our Holy traditions for personal gain. The greetings card industry. The supermarket chains. Even more sinister are those people who claim to revive ancient traditions, involving our children in pagan practices in the guise of amusement. Too many of us see these. as harmless, and view them with tolerance. Why else should our community have allowed a so-called Chocolate Festival to take place outside our church on the very morning of Easter Sunday? This makes a mockery of everything Easter stands for. We urge you to boycott this so-called Festival and all similar events, for the sake of your innocent children.

  CHURCH, not CHOCOLATE, is the TRUE MESSAGE of EASTER!

  “Church, not chocolate.” I laughed. “Actually, that’s a pretty good slogan. Don’t you think?”

  Josephine was looking anxious. “I don’t understand you,” she said. “You don’t seem worried at all.”

  “Why should I worry?” I shrugged. “It’s only a leaflet. And I’m certain I know who produced it.”

  She nodded. “Caro.” Her tone was emphatic. “Caro and Joline. It’s exactly their style. All that stuff about their innocent children.” She gave a snort of derision. “But people listen to them, Vianne. It might make people think twice about coming. Joline’s our schoolteacher. And Caro’s a member of the Residents’ Committee.”

  “Oh?” I didn’t know there even was a Residents’ Committee. Self-important bigots with a taste for gossip. “So what can they do? Arrest everybody?”

  Josephine shook her head. “Paul’s on that committee, too,” she said in a low voice.

  “So?”

  “So you know what he can do,” said Josephine desperately. I have noticed that in times of stress she reverts to her old mannerisms, digging her thumbs into her breastbone. “He’s crazy, you know he is: He’s just?”

  She broke off miserably, fists clenched. Again I had the impression that she wanted to tell me something, that she knew something. I touched her hand, reaching gently for her thoughts, but saw nothing more than before: smoke, grey and greasy, against a purple sky.

  Smoke! My hand tightened around hers. Smoke! Now that I knew what I was seeing I could make out details: his face a pale blur in the dark, his slicing, triumphant grin. She looked at me in silence, her eyes dark with knowledge.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” I said at last.

  “You can’t prove it,” said Josephine. “I didn’t tell you anything.”

  “You didn’t need to. Is that why you’re afraid of Roux? Because of what Paul did?”

  She put up her chin stubbornly. “I’m not afraid of him.”

  “But you won’t talk to him. You won’t even stay in the same room with him. You can’t look him in the eye.”

  Josephine folded her arms with the look of a woman who has nothing more to say.

  Josephine I turned her face towards mine, forced her to look at me. “Josephine?”

  “All right.” Her voice was harsh and sullen. “I knew, all right? I knew what Paul was going to do. I told him I’d tell if he tried anything, I’d warn them. That was when he hit me.” She gave me a venomous look, her mouth halfbroken with unshed tears. “So I’m a coward,” she said in a loud, shapeless voice. “Now you know what I am; I’m not brave like you, I’m a liar and a coward. I let him do it, someone could have been killed, Roux could have been killed or Zezette or her baby and it would all have been my fault!” She took a long grating breath.

  “Don’t tell him,” she said. “I couldn’t stand it.”

  “I won’t tell Roux,” I told her gently. “You’re going to do that.”

  She shook her head wildly. “I’m not. I’m not. I couldn’t.”

  “It’s all right, Josephine” I coaxed. “It wasn’t your fault. And no-one was killed, were they?”

  Stubbornly: “I couldn’t. I can’t.”

  “Roux isn’t like Paul,” I said. “He’s more like you than you imagine.”

  “I wouldn’t know what to say.” Her hands twisted. “I wish he’d just leave,” she said fiercely. “I wish he could just take his money and go somewhere else.”

  “No you don’t,” I told her. “Besides, he isn’t going to.” I told her what he had said to me about his job with Narcisse, and about the boat in Agen. “He deserves at least to know who’s responsible,” I insisted. “That way he’ll understand that only Muscat is to blame for what happened, and that no-one else hates him here. You should understand that, Josephine. You know what it’s like to feel the way he feels.” Josephine sighed.

  “Not today,” she said. “I’ll tell him, but some other time. OK?”

  “It won’t ever be any easier than it is today,” I warned. “Do you want me to come with you?”

  She stared at me. “Well, he’ll be due a break soon,” I explained. “You could take him a cup of chocolate.”

  A pause. Her face was blank and pale. Her gunslinger’s hands were trembling at her sides. I took a rocher noir from a pile at my side and popped it into her half-open mouth before she had time to speak.

  “Give you courage,” I explained, turning to pour the chocolate into a large cup. “Go on then. Chew.” I heard her make a tiny sound, half-laughter. I gave her the cup. “Ready?”

  “I suppose.” Voice thick with chocolate. “I’ll try.”

  I left them alone. I reread the leaflet Josephine had found in the street. Church, not Chocolate. It’s really quite funny. The Black Man finds a sense of humour at last.

  It was warm outside in spite of the wind. Les Marauds glittered in the sunlight. I walked slowly down towards the Tannes, relishing the heat of the sun on my back. Spring has come with little prelude, like turning a rocky comer into a valley, and gardens and borders have blossomed suddenly, lush with daffodils, irises, tulips. Even the derelict houses of Les Marauds are touched with colour, but here the ordered gardens have run to rampant eccentricity: a flowering elder growing from the balcony of a house overlooking the water; a roof carpeted, with dandelions; violets poking out of a crumbling facade. Once-cultivated plants have reverted to their wild state, small leggy geraniums thrusting between hemlock-umbels, self-seeded poppies scattered at random and bastardized from their original red to orange to palest mauve. A few days’ sunshine is enough to coax them from sleep; after the rain they stretch and raise their heads towards the light. Pull out a handful o
f these supposed weeds and there are sages and irises, pinks and lavenders under the docks and ragwort. I wandered by the river for long enough for Josephine and Roux to make up their differences, then I made my way gently home through the back streets, up the Ruelle des Freres de la Revolution and Rue des Poetes with its close, dark, almost windowless walls, broken only by the washing-lines slung casually from balcony to balcony or by a single window box trailing green festoons of convolvulus.

  I found them in the shop together, a half-empty pot of chocolate on the counter between them. Josephine looked pink eyed but relieved, almost happy. Roux was laughing at some comment of hers, a strange, unfamiliar sound, exotic because it is so rarely heard. For a second I felt something almost like envy, thinking: They belong together.

  I spoke to Roux about it later, when she had gone out to collect some shopping. He is careful to give nothing away when he speaks of her, but there is always a bright look in his eyes like a smile, waiting to happen. It seems he suspected Muscat already.

  “She did well to get away from the bastard,” he says with casual venom. “The things he did?” For a moment he looks embarrassed, turns, moves a cup on the counter for no reason, moves it back. “A man like that doesn’t deserve a wife,” he mutters.

  “What will you do?” I ask him.

  He shrugs. “Nothing to do,” he tells me prosaically. “He’ll deny it. The police aren’t interested. Besides, I’d rather they didn’t get involved.”

  He does not elaborate. I take it that there are things in his past which may not bear scrutiny.

  Since then, however, Josephine and he have spoken many times. She brings him chocolate and biscuits when he breaks from work, and I often hear them laughing. She has lost her scared abstracted look. I notice that she has begun to dress with greater care. This morning she even announced that she wanted to go back to the cafe to collect some things.

  “I’ll go with you,” I suggested.

  Josephine shook her head. “I’ll be all right on my own.”

  She looked happy, almost elated with her decision. “Besides, if I don’t face Paul?” She broke off, looking vaguely embarrassed. “I just thought I’d go, that’s all,” she said. Her face was flushed, stubborn. “I’ve got books, clothes…I want to collect them before Paul decides to throw them away.”