Rosette intrigues me more and more. So small for her age, with that pointed face and widely spaced eyes, she might almost be a kind of cat, scuttling about the floor on her hands and knees (a technique she prefers to walking upright), poking her fingers into holes in the wainscoting, repeatedly opening and closing the kitchen door, or making long and complicated arrangements of small objects on the floor. She must be watched at all times, for although she is usually quite good, she seems to have no sense of danger, and when she becomes upset or frustrated, she may sometimes indulge in violent (though often soundless) tantrums, swaying wildly from side to side, sometimes to the point of striking her head against the floor. “What’s wrong with her? ” I asked Annie.
She looked at me warily, as if calculating whether it was safe to tell. “No one really knows,” she said. “A doctor saw her once, you know, when she was just a little baby. He said it might be something called cri-du-chat, but he wasn’t sure, and we never went back.”
“Cri-du-chat? ” It sounds like a medieval affliction, something brought on by the cry of a cat.
“She made this noise. Just like a cat. I used to call her the Cat Baby.” She laughed and quickly looked away, almost guiltily, as if just talking about it might be somehow dangerous. “She’s all right, really,” said Annie. “She’s just different, that’s all.”
Different. That word again. Like Accident, it seems to hold a special resonance for Annie, something more than its everyday meaning. Certainly, she is accident-prone. But I sense that this means something other than pouring paint water into her Wellingtons, or putting toast slices into the video player, or poking her fingers into the cheese to make holes for invisible mice.
Accidents happen when she’s around. Like the Murano dish that I could swear was broken, though now I’m not sure at all. Or the lights, which sometimes switch on and off, even when there’s no one there. Of course, that might simply be the eccentric wiring of a very old house. I may have imagined the rest of it. Then again, may and might never made a wrong thing right, as my mother used to say, and I’m not in the habit of imagining things.
The past few days have been busy for us. A bustle of cleaning, restructuring, and ordering of stock, with all Yanne’s copper pans and molds and ceramics to bring out of storage—in spite of her careful packing, many of the pans were tarnished and spotted with verdigris, and as I looked after the front of the shop, Yanne spent hours in the kitchen, polishing and cleaning until at last every piece was done. “It’s only for fun,” she keeps saying, as if slightly ashamed of her enjoyment, as of some childish habit she should have outgrown. “It’s not really serious, you know.”
Well, it looks serious enough from where I’m standing. No game could be so meticulously planned.
She buys only the best couverture, from a fair trade supplier down near Marseille, and pays for it all in cash. A dozen blocks of each kind, to begin with, she says; but I already know from her eager response that a dozen blocks will not be enough. She used to make all her own stock, so she tells me, and though I’ll admit I didn’t quite believe it at first, the way she has thrown herself back into the business tells me that she was not exaggerating.
The process is deft and peculiarly therapeutic to watch. First comes the melting and tempering of the raw couverture: the process that enables it to leave its crystalline state and take on the glossy, malleable form necessary to make the chocolate truffles. She does it all on a granite slab, spreading out the melted chocolate like silk and gathering it back toward her using a spatula. Then it goes back into the warm copper, the process to be repeated until she declares it done.
She rarely uses the sugar thermometer. She has been making chocolates for so long, she tells me, that she can simply sense when the correct temperature has been reached. I believe her; certainly over the past three days I have been watching her, she has never produced a less than flawless batch. During that time I have learned to observe with a critical eye: to check for streaks in the finished product; for the unappealing pale bloom that denotes incorrectly tempered chocolate; for the high gloss and sharp snap that are the indicators of good-quality work.
Truffles are the simplest to make, she tells me. Annie could make them when she was four, and now it is Rosette’s turn to try, solemnly rolling out the truffle balls across the cocoa-dusted baking sheet, face smeared, a bright-eyed racoon in melted chocolate. . . .
For the first time, I hear Yanne laughing aloud.
Oh, Yanne. That weakness.
Meanwhile, I’m practicing some tricks of my own. It’s in my interest for this place to do well, and I have worked hard to enhance its appeal. In view of Yanne’s sensitivity, I have had to be discreet; but the symbols of Cinteotl, the Ear of Maize, and the Cacao Bean of lady Blood Moon, scratched under the lintel of the doorway and embedded into the front step, should ensure that our little business thrives.
I know their favorites, Vianne. I can read it in their colors. And I know that the florist’s girl is afraid; that the woman with the little dog blames herself; and that the fat young man who never shuts up will be dead before he is thirty-five if he does not make an effort to lose some weight.
It’s a gift, you know. I can tell what they need. I can tell what they fear; I can make them dance.
Had my mother done the same, she would never have struggled as she did; but she mistrusted my practical magic as “interventionist” and hinted that such misuse of my skills was at best selfish and, at worst, doomed to bring terrible retribution on both of us.
“Remember the Dolphin Creed,” she said. “Meddle ye not, lest the Way be forgot.” Of course the Dolphin Creed was awash with this kind of senti-ment—but by then my own System was well under construction, and I had long since decided that not only had I forsaken the Dolphin Way, but also that I was born to be a meddler.
The question is, where to begin? Will it be with Yanne or Annie ? Laurent Pinson or Madame Pinot? There are so many lives here, intertwined; each one with its secrets, dreams, ambitions, hidden doubts, dark thoughts, forgotten passions, unspoken desires. So many lives just there for the taking; there for the tasting, for someone like me.
The girl from the florist’s came in this morning. “I saw the window,” she whispered. “It looks so nice—I couldn’t help just looking in.”
“It’s Alice, isn’t it? ” I said.
She nodded, looking round with small-animal wariness at the new displays.
Alice, we know, is painfully shy. Her voice is a wisp; her hair, a shroud. Her kohl-rimmed eyes, which are rather beautiful, peep out from beneath a mass of white-bleached fringe, and her arms and legs poke out awkwardly from a blue dress that might once have belonged to a ten-year-old.
Her shoes are enormous platform boots that look far too heavy for her little stick legs. Her favorite is milk chocolate fudge, though she always buys the plain dark squares because they contain only half the calories. Her colors are gilded with anxiety.
“Something smells good,” she said, sniffing the air.
“Yanne’s making chocolates,” I told her.
“Making them? She can do that? ”
I sat her down in the old armchair I found in a Dumpster down Rue de Clichy. It’s shabby, but quite comfortable; and like the shop, I intend to make something of it within the next few days.
“Try one,” I said. “It’s on the house.”
Her eyes gleamed. “I shouldn’t, you know.”
“I’ll cut it in half. We’ll share it,” I said, perching on the arm of the chair. So easy to scratch the seductive sign of the Cacao Bean with my fingernail; so easy to watch her through the Smoking Mirror as she pecked at her truffle like a baby bird.
I know her well. I’ve seen her before. An anxious child; always aware of not being good enough, of not being entirely like the others. Her parents are good people, but they are ambitious, they are demanding; they make it plain that failure is not an option, that nothing can ever be too good for them and for their little
girl. One day, she misses dinner. It makes her feel good—emptied, somehow, of all the fears that weigh her down. She misses breakfast, dizzy with that new, exhilarating feeling of control. She tests herself and finds herself wanting. Rewards herself for being so good. And here she is now—such a good girl, trying so hard—twenty-three and still looks thirteen, and still not quite good enough, still not quite there—
She finished the truffle. “Mmmm,” she said.
I made sure she saw me eat one too.
“It must be so hard, working here.”
“Hard? ” I said.
“I mean, dangerous.” She flushed a little. “I know that sounds stupid, but that’s how I’d feel. Having to look at chocolates all day—handling chocolates—and always with the smell of chocolate. . . .” She was losing some of her shyness now. “How do you do it? How come you’re not just eating chocolates all day long? ”
I grinned. “What makes you think I don’t? ”
“You’re thin,” said Alice. (In fact I could easily give her fifty pounds.)
I laughed. “Forbidden fruits,” I said. “So much more tempting than the ordinary kind. Here, have another.”
She shook her head.
“Chocolate,” I said. “Theobroma cacao, the food of the gods. Make it with pure ground cocoa beans, chillies, cinnamon, and just enough sugar to take away the bitterness. That’s how the Mayans used to make it, over two thousand years ago. They used it in ceremonies to give themselves courage. They gave it to their sacrificial victims just before they ripped out their hearts. And they used it in orgies that lasted for hours.”
She stared at me with widened eyes.
“So you see—it can be dangerous.” I smiled. “Better not to have too much.”
I was still smiling when she left the shop with a box of twelve truffles in her hand.
M eanwhile, from another life—
Françoise Lavery made the papers. Seems I was wrong about the bank’s camera footage: the police got a fairly good set of pictures of my last visit, and some colleague or other recognized Françoise. Of course, further investigation proved that there was no Françoise and that her story was fake from beginning to end. The results are somewhat predictable. A rather grainy staff photograph of the suspect appeared in the evening paper, followed by several editorials suggesting that she might have had more sinister motives for her imposture than money. It was even possible, gloated Paris-Soir, that she may have been a sexual predator, targeting young boys.
As if, as Annie would say. Still, it makes for a good headline, and I expect to see that photograph several times more before its newsworthiness fades. Not that it troubles me at all. No one would see Zozie de l’Alba in that mousy little piece of work. In fact most of my colleagues would have been hard put to see Françoise herself—glamours don’t transfer well to celluloid, which is why I never tried for a career in the movies, and the photograph looks less like Françoise and more like a girl I used to know, the girl who was always It at St. Michael’s-on-the-Green.
I don’t often think about that girl now. Poor girl, with her bad skin and her freak mother with the feathers in her hair. What chance did she have ?
Well, she had the same chance everyone has; the chance you’re dealt the day you are born, the only chance. And some spend their lives making excuses, and blaming the cards, and wishing they’d had better ones, and some of us just play the hand, and up the stakes, and use every trick, and cheat where we can— And win. And win. Which is all that matters. I like to win. I’m a very good player.
The question is, where to begin? Certainly, Annie could do with a little help—something to boost her confidence, to start her on the right path.
The names and symbols of One Jaguar and Rabbit Moon, written in marker on the bottom of her schoolbag, ought to take care of her social skills; but I think she needs a little more. And so I give her the Hurakan, or Hurricane, the Vengeful One, to make up for all those times of being It.
Not that Annie would think so, of course. There’s a regrettable lack of malice in the child, and all she really wants is for everyone to be friends. I’m sure I can cure her of that, however. Revenge is an addictive drug, which, once tasted, is seldom forgotten. After all, I should know.
Now, I’m not in the business of granting wishes. In my game, it’s every witch for herself. But Annie is a genuine rarity—a plant that, if nurtured, may produce spectacular blossom. In any case, there’s precious little opportunity to be creative in my line of work. Most of my cases are easy to crack; there’s no need for craftsmanship when a cantrip will do just as well.
Besides, for once, I can sympathize. I remember what it was like to be It every day. I remember the joy of settling scores.
This is going to be a pleasure.
Saturday, 17 November
The fat young man who never shuts up is called Nico. he told me so this afternoon, coming in to investigate. Yanne had just finished a batch of coconut truffles, and the whole place smelled of them; that mulled, earthy scent that catches at the throat. I think I said I don’t like chocolate—and yet that scent, so like the incense in my mother’s shop, sweet and rich and troubling, acts upon me like a drug, making me reckless, impulsive—making me want to interfere.
“Hey, lady! Like your shoes. Great shoes. Fabulous shoes.” That’s Fat Nico; a man in his twenties, I’d say at a guess, but weighing a good three hundred pounds, with curly hair to his shoulders and a puffy, screwed-up face like that of a giant baby perpetually on the brink of laughter or tears.
“Why, thank you,” I said. Actually they’re among my favorites: high-heeled pumps from the 1950s in faded green velvet, with ribbons and crystal buckles on the toes. . . .
You can often tell a person by their shoes. His were two-tone, black and white; good shoes but downtrodden like slippers at the heel, as if he couldn’t be bothered to put them on properly. Still lives at home, so I would guess—a mummy’s boy if ever I saw one—rebelling quietly through his shoes.
“What’s that smell? ” He’d caught it at last, his big face turning toward the source. In the kitchen behind me, Yanne was singing. A rhythmic sound, as of a wooden spoon against a pot, suggested that Rosette was joining in. “Smells like someone’s doing some cooking. Point me to it, Shoe
Lady! What’s for lunch? ”
“Coconut truffles,” I said with a smile.
In less than a minute he’d bought the lot.
Oh, I don’t flatter myself on this occasion that it was any of my doing. His type is absurdly easy to seduce. A child could have done it; and he paid by Carte Bleue, which made it the work of an instant to collect his number (after all, I must keep in practice), although I do not mean to use it as yet. Such a clear trail might lead to the chocolaterie; and I’m enjoying myself far too much to jeopardize my position at this stage. Later, perhaps. When I know why I’m here.
Nico is not the only one to have noticed a difference in the air. Just this morning I sold an astonishing eight boxes of Yanne’s special truffles— some to regulars, some to strangers lured in from the streets by that earthy, seductive scent.
In the afternoon, it was Thierry le Tresset. Cashmere coat, dark suit, pink silk tie and handmade brogues. Mmmm. I love a handmade shoe; glossy as the flank of a well-groomed horse and whispering money from every perfect stitch. Perhaps I was wrong to overlook Thierry; he may be nothing special from an intellectual point of view, but a man with money is always worth a second glance. He found Yanne in the kitchen, with Rosette, both of them laughing fit to split. Seemed slightly put out that she had to work—he came back from London today just to see her—though he agreed to call back after five. “Well, why on earth didn’t you check your phone? ” I heard him say from the kitchen door. “I’m sorry,” said Yanne (halflaughing, I thought). “I don’t really know about things like that. I suppose I must have forgotten to turn it on. Besides, Thierry—” “God help us,” he said. “I’m marrying a cave woman.” She laughed. “Call me a technop
hobe.”
“How can I call you anything if you won’t answer the phone? ”
He left Yanne with Rosette then, and came round to the front for a word with me. He mistrusts me, I know. I’m not his type. He may even consider me a bad influence. And, like most men, he sees only the obvious: the pink hair; the eccentric shoes; the vaguely bohemian look that I have worked so hard to cultivate.
“You’re helping Yanne. That’s nice,” he said. He smiled—he’s really very charming, you know—but I could sense the wariness in his colors. “What about the P’tit Pinson? ”
“Oh, I still work there in the evenings,” I said. “Laurent doesn’t need me all day—and really, he isn’t the easiest of bosses.”
“And Yanne is? ”
I smiled at him. “Let’s say Yanne doesn’t have such—roving hands.”
He looked startled, as well he might. “I’m sorry. I thought—”
“I know what you thought. I know I don’t quite look the part. But really, I’m just trying to help Yanne. She deserves a break—now don’t you agree ? ”
He nodded.
“Come on, Thierry. I know what you need. A café-crème and a milk chocolate square.”
He grinned. “You know my favorite.”
“Of course,” I said. “I’ve got the knack.”
After that, it was Laurent Pinson—for the first time in three years, so Yanne says—all stiff and churchy and trying too hard in his cheap and shiny brown shoes. He hummed and hawed for a laughable time, occasionally casting a jealous glance at me over the glass countertop, then opted for the cheapest chocolates he could find and asked me to wrap them as a gift. I took my time with scissors and string, smoothing down the pale blue tissue paper with the tips of my fingers, wrapping it all in a double bow of silver ribbon and paper rose. “Someone’s birthday? ” I said.