Well, if she does, she is hiding them well; learning fast, and with an ease that has surprised us both. She comes in at eight every day just as Anouk leaves for school, and spends the hour before opening time watching as I demonstrate the various chocolate-making techniques.
She knows how to temper couverture; how to gauge the different blends; how to measure the temperatures and to keep them constant; how to achieve the best kind of gloss; how to pipe decorations onto a molded figure or make chocolate curls with a potato peeler.
She has a knack, as my mother would have said. But her real skill is with our customers. I’d noticed it before, of course: her knack for dealing with different people; her memory for names; the infectious nature of her smile; and the way she manages to make everyone feel special—however crowded the shop may be.
I’ve tried to thank her, but she just laughs, as if working here were a kind of game, something she does for fun, not money. I’ve offered to pay her properly, but so far she has always refused, although now the closure of le P’tit Pinson means that once more she’s out of a job.
I mentioned it again today. “You deserve a proper wage, Zozie,” I said. “You’re doing far more now than just helping out occasionally.”
She shrugged. “Right now you can’t afford to pay anyone a full wage.” “But seriously . . .” “Seriously.” She arched an eyebrow. “You, Madame Charbonneau,
should stop worrying about other people and look after Number One for a change.” I laughed at that. “Zozie, you’re an angel.” “Yeah, right.” She grinned. “Now shall we get back to those chocolates? ”
Wednesday, 21 November
It’s funny, the difference a sign can make. of course, mine was more of a beacon, of sorts, shining out into the Paris streets.
Try me. Taste me. Test me.
It works; today we saw strangers and regulars alike, and no one left without something—a gift box, beribboned, or some little treat. A sugar mouse; a brandied plum; a handful of mendiants or a kilo of our bitterest truffles, packed loosely in their cocoa powder like chocolate bombs ready to explode.
Of course it’s still too early to claim success. The locals, especially, will take longer to seduce. But already I sense a turn in the tide. By Christmas, we will own them all.
And to think I first assumed there was nothing for me here. This place is a gift. It draws them in. And think of what we could collect—not just the money, but the stories, the people, the lives—
We? Well, of course. I’m prepared to share. Three of us—four, if we count Rosette—each of us with our own special skills. We could be extraordinary. She’s done it before, in Lansquenet. She covered her trail, but not well enough. That name—Vianne Rocher—and the small details I have gleaned from Annie were enough to plot her trajectory. The rest was easy: a few long-distance telephone calls, some back editions of a local newspaper, dated four years ago; one of them showing a grainy, yellowed photograph of Vianne, smiling brashly from the doorway of a chocolate shop, while a tousled someone—Annie, of course—looks out from beneath her outstretched arm.
La Céleste Praline. Intriguing name. Vianne Rocher enjoyed her share of whimsy, though you wouldn’t think it to see her now. In those days she was unafraid; wore red shoes and jangling bracelets and long, wild hair like a comic-book gypsy. Not entirely a beauty, perhaps—her mouth is too large, her eyes not entirely wide enough—but any witch worth her spell-book could tell that she was alight with glamours. Glamours to change the course oflives; glamours to charm, to heal, to hide.
So—what happened?
Witches don’t just quit, Vianne. Skills like ours beg to be used.
I watch her as she works in the back, making her truffles, her chocolate liqueurs. Her colors have brightened since we first met, and now that I know where to look, I see the magic in everything she does. And yet she seems unaware of this, as if she could blind herself to what she is by simply ignoring it long enough, the way she ignores her children’s totems. Vianne is no fool—so why does she behave like one ? And what will it take to open her eyes?
She spent this morning in the back room; a scent of baking drifted through. In front—a pot of chocolate. In less than a week, the place has altered almost beyond recognition. Our table and chairs, handprinted by the children, give the place a holiday look. There is something of the school yard in those primary colors, and however neatly they are aligned, there’s always a vague impression of disorder. There are pictures on the walls now: framed, embroidered sari squares in hot pink and lemon yellow. There are two old armchairs rescued from a Dumpster; the springs are shot, and the legs are bowed. But I have made them comfortable, using nothing but a couple of meters of plush fabric, in a fuchsia leopard print, and some gold material from a charity shop.
Annie loves them, and so do I. But for our size, we might almost be a little café from one of the trendier quarters of Paris—and the timing couldn’t be better for us.
Two days ago, Le P’tit Pinson was closed down (not quite unexpectedly) following an unfortunate food-poisoning incident and a visit from the health inspector. I’ve heard say that Laurent has at least a month’s worth of cleaning and refurbishment before he’s allowed to reopen the café, which means that his Christmas clientele is likely to suffer.
So he ate the chocolates after all. Poor Laurent. The Hurakan works in mysterious ways. And some people bring these things down on themselves, as lightning rods draw the lightning.
Still, all the more for us, I say. We don’t have a license for alcohol, but hot chocolate, cakes, biscuits, macaroons—and, of course, the siren call of bitter truffle, mocha liqueurs, dipped strawberries, walnut cluster, apricot cup—
Till now, our shopkeepers have stayed away, slightly wary of the changes here. They are so used to thinking of the chocolaterie as a tourist trap, a place where locals fear to tread, that it will take all my powers of persuasion to entice them to our door.
But it helps that Laurent has been seen inside. Laurent, who detests any kind of change, who lives in a Paris of his own imagination where only native Parisians are allowed. Like all alcoholics, he has a sweet tooth—besides, where will he go, now that his café has closed down? Where will he find an audience for his endless catalog of complaints?
He came in yesterday at lunchtime, sulky but palpably curious. It’s the first time he’s been here since we refurbished, and he took in the improvements with a sour look. As luck would have it, we had customers: Richard and Mathurin, who had dropped in on their way to their usual game of pétanque in the park. They looked slightly embarrassed to see Laurent—as well they might, being long-standing regulars of le P’tit Pinson.
Laurent shot them a look of disdain. “Someone’s doing well,” he said. “What’s this supposed to be—a bloody café, or something? ”
I smiled. “Do you like it? ”
Laurent made his favorite noise. “Mweh! Everyone thinks they’re a bloody café. Everyone thinks they can do what I do.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” I said. “It’s not easy to create an authentic atmosphere nowadays.”
Laurent snorted. “Don’t start me on that. There’s the Café des Artistes down the road—the owner’s a Turk, wouldn’t you guess—and the Italian coffee place next to it, and that English tea shop, and any number of Costas and Starbucks—bloody Yanks think they invented coffee—” He glared at me, as if I too might harbor American ancestry. “I mean, what about loyalty? ” he bugled. “What about good, old-fashioned, French patriotism?”
Mathurin is quite deaf and genuinely may not have heard him, but I was pretty sure Richard was pretending.
“That was nice, Yanne. Better go.”
They left the money on the table and fled without looking back as Laurent’s face grew slightly redder, and his eyes bulged alarmingly.
“Those two old faggots,” he began. “The number of times they’ve dropped in for a beer and a game of cards—and now, the minute things go wrong. . . .”
&
nbsp; I gave him my most sympathetic smile. “I know, Laurent. But chocolate-houses are quite traditional, you know. In fact, I believe that historically they actually precede coffeehouses, which makes them totally authentic and Parisian.” I guided him, still blustering, to the table the others had just vacated. “Why don’t you sit down and try a cup? On the house, of course, Laurent.”
Well, that was only the start of it. For the price of a drink and a chocolate praline, Laurent Pinson is on our side. It’s not that we need his custom, of course—he’s a parasite, filling his pockets with lump sugar from the bowl and sitting for hours over a single demitasse—but he’s the weak link in this little community, and where Laurent goes, the others will follow.
Madame Pinot popped round this morning—she didn’t actually buy anything, but she did have a good look round, and left with a chocolate on the house. Jean-Louis and Paupaul did the same; and I happen to know that the girl who bought truffles from me this morning works in the boulangerie on the Rue des Trois Frères and will spread the word to her customers.
It’s not just the taste, she will try to explain. The rich dark truffle, flavored with rum; the hint of chilli in the blend; the yielding smoothness of the center and the bitterness of the cocoa-powder finish . . . none of these explain the strange allure of Yanne Charbonneau’s chocolate truffles.
Perhaps it’s the way they make you feel: stronger, perhaps; more powerful; more alert to the sounds and scents of the world; more aware of the colors and textures of things; more aware of yourself; of what’s under the skin; of the mouth, of the throat, of the sensitive tongue.
“Just one,” I say.
They try. They buy.
They buy so many that Vianne was busy all day today, leaving me to run the shop and serve hot chocolate to those who came in. We can seat six, with a little goodwill—and it is a strangely attractive place; quiet and restful, yet cheery as well, where folk can come to forget their troubles, and sit and drink their chocolate, and talk.
Talk? And how! The exception is Vianne. Still, there’s time. Start small, I say. Or rather, big, in Fat Nico’s case.
“Hey, Shoe Lady! What’s for lunch? ”
“What do you want it to be ? ” I said. “Rose creams, chilli squares, coconut macarooooons.” I drew out the word suggestively, knowing his passion for coconut.
“Whoa! I shouldn’t.”
It’s an act, of course. He likes to put up a token resistance; grins sheepishly, knowing that I am not fooled.
“Try one,” I say.
“I’ll just have half.”
Broken sweets, of course, don’t count. Nor does a small cup of chocolate, with four more macaroons on the side, or the coffee cake that Vianne brings in, or the frosting he cleans from the mixing bowl.
“My ma always used to make extra,” he said. “So I’d have more to lick from the bowl at the end. Some days she’d make so much frosting that even I couldn’t eat it all—” He stopped abruptly.
“Your ma? ”
“She died.” His baby face drooped.
“You miss her,” I said.
He nodded. “I guess.”
“When did she die? ”
“Three years ago. She fell down the stairs. I guess she was a little overweight.”
“That’s hard,” I say, trying not to smile. A little overweight to him must mean something in the region of three hundred pounds. His face takes on a blank expression—his colors shift into the spectrum of dull greens and silvery grays that I associate with the negative emotions.
He blames himself, of course. I know. The stair carpet was loose, perhaps; he was late from work; he stopped by the boulangerie for a fatal ten minutes too long or sat down on a bench to watch the girls go by—
“You’re not the only one,” I said. “Everyone feels the same, you know. I blamed myself when my mother died. . . .”
I took his hand. Beneath the flab his bones felt small, like a child’s.
“It happened when I was sixteen. I’ve never stopped thinking it was somehow my fault.” I gave him my most earnest look, forking my hand behind my back to stop myself from laughing. Of course I believed it—and with good reason.
But Nico’s face lit up at once. “That true? ” he said.
I nodded.
I heard him sigh like a hot-air balloon.
I turned away to hide a smile and busied myself with the chocolates that were cooling on the counter at my side. They smelt innocent, like vanilla and childhood. Nico’s type rarely makes friends. Always the fat boy, living alone with his fatter ma; lining up his substitutes against the arm of the sofa while she watches him eat with anxious approval.
You’re not fat, Nico. Just big-boned. There you are, Nico. Such a good boy. “Perhaps I shouldn’t,” he said at last. “My doctor says I oughta cut down.”
I raised an eyebrow. “What does he know? ”
He shrugged. The ripples went all the way down his arms.
“You feel OK, don’t you? ” I said.
That sheepish smile. “I guess I do. The thing is . . .”
“What? ”
“Well—girls.” He flushed. “I mean, what do they see? This great big fat guy. I thought if I lost a little weight—toned up a bit—then maybe, you know . . .”
“You’re not so fat, Nico. You don’t need to change. You’ll find someone. Just wait and see.”
Once more he sighed.
“So. What’s it to be? ”
“I’ll have a box of the macaroons.”
I was tying the bow when Alice came in. I’m not sure why he needs a bow—we both know that box will be open long before he gets it home— but for some reason he likes it that way, tied with a length of yellow ribbon, incongruous between his big hands.
“Hi, Alice,” I said. “Just take a seat. I’ll be with you in a minute.”
In fact, it was five. Alice needs time. She stares at Nico fearfully. He’s a giant beside her—a hungry giant—but Nico has become unexpectedly mute. He bridles—all three hundred pounds of him—and a flush creeps over his broad face.
“Nico, meet Alice.”
She whispers hello.
It’s the easiest thing in the world to do. With the fingernail, to scratch a sign along the satin of the chocolate box. It might be anything—an accident—but then again it might be the beginning of something: a turn in the road; a path into another life—
Once more she whispers something. Looks down at her boots—and sees the box of macaroons. “I love ’em,” says Nico. “Try one with me? ” Alice begins to shake her head. But he looks nice, she tells herself.
There’s something about him, in spite of his bulk; something reassuringly childish, almost vulnerable. And there’s something about his eyes, she thinks; something about him that makes her feel that maybe—just maybe—he understands.
“Just one,” he says.
And the symbol scratched on the lid of the box begins to gleam with a pale light—it’s Rabbit Moon, for love and fertility—and instead of her usual plain chocolate square, Alice shyly accepts a cup of frothy mocha, with a macaroon to accompany it, and they leave at the same time (if not quite together), she with her small box, he with his large one, into the November rain.
And as I watch, Nico opens a red umbrella of giant proportions bearing the legend MERDE, IL PLEUT! and holds it over little Alice. The sound of her laughter is distant and bright, like something remembered rather than heard. And I watch them down the cobbled road, she skipping in the puddles with her giant boots, he solemnly holding that absurd umbrella over them both, like a cartoon bear and an ugly duckling in some fractured fairy tale, on their way to a great adventure.
Thursday, 22 November
Three missed calls from thierry’s phone, and a photograph of the Natural History Museum with a text message reading: cave woman! turn on ur fone! It made me laugh but not quite easily; I don’t share Thierry’s passion for all things technical, and after trying unsuccessfully to text him back, I hid
the phone in the kitchen drawer.
Later, he rang. It seems he’s not going to be able to get back this weekend, although he promises he will next week. In a way, I’m a little relieved. It gives me time to get things in order; to prepare my stock; to become accustomed to this new shop of mine, its habits and its customers.
Nico and Alice were back today. Alice bought a small box of chocolate fudge squares—a very small box, but she ate them herself—and Nico, a kilo of macaroons.
“Can’t get enough of these bad boys,” he said. “Just keep ’em coming, Yanne—OK? ”
I couldn’t help smiling at his exuberance. They sat at a table in the front of the shop. She had mocha, and he had hot chocolate with cream and marshmallows while Zozie and I remained discreetly aloof in the back kitchen—unless a customer came in—and Rosette pulled out her drawing pad and began to draw pictures of monkeys, long-tailed and grinning, in every color in the box.
“Hey, that’s good,” said Nico as Rosette handed him a picture of a fat purple monkey eating a coconut. “I guess you must like monkeys, eh? ”
He did a monkey face for Rosette, who gave a crow of laughter and signed—Again! She’s laughing more often. I’ve noticed that. At Nico, at me, at Anouk, at Zozie—perhaps, next time Thierry calls, she will start to connect with him a little more.
Alice laughed too. Rosette likes her best, perhaps because she is so small, almost a child herself in her short print dress and pale blue coat. Perhaps because she so rarely speaks, even with Nico, who talks enough for the both of them.
“That monkey looks like Nico,” she said. With adults her voice is wispy and reluctant. With Rosette, she has a different tone. Her voice is rich and comical, and Rosette responds with a brilliant smile.
So Rosette drew monkeys for all of us. Zozie’s is wearing bright red mittens on all four hands. Alice’s monkey is electric blue, with a tiny body and a ridiculously long and curly tail. Mine is embarrassed, hiding its furry face in its hands. She has a knack, no doubt about it: her drawings are crude but oddly alive; and she manages to convey facial expressions with only a couple of strokes of the pen.