Now there comes a rush of air; a smash of applause; a swooping of invisible wings. I feel very close to something important. And now I can see it—the hull of a boat. A long, low boat, slow as they come. And a line of script, carelessly scrawled—
Who? I ask. Who, damn it?
No answer from the luminous screen. Only the sound of water, the hisshhh and hum of engines under the waterline, resolving slowly back into the dim whine of the laptop, the scroll of the screen saver, the incipient headache.
Double, double, toil and trouble—
As I said, as a method, it’s often unsound.
And yet, I have learned something, I think. Someone’s coming. Someone’s getting closer. Someone from the past. Someone who means trouble.
One more strike should do it, Vianne. One more weakness to identify. Then the piñata will release its contents, and its treasures and secrets, Vianne Rocher’s life—not to mention that very talented child—will finally belong to me.
Wednesday, 28 November
The first life i stole belonged to my mother. you always remember your first, you know, however inelegant the theft. Not that I thought of it as theft at the time; but I needed to escape, and my mother’s passport was lying unused, and her savings were wasting away in the bank— I was barely seventeen. I could look older—and frequently did—or younger, if I needed to. People rarely see what they think they see. They see only what we want them to see—beauty, age, youth, wit, even forgettability, when the need arises—and I’d practiced the art almost to perfection.
I took the hovercraft to France. They hardly glanced at my stolen passport. I’d planned it that way. A dab of makeup, a change of hairstyle, and a coat belonging to my mother completed the illusion. The rest was all in the mind, as they say.
Of course in those days, security was lax. I crossed over with nothing of my own but a coffin and a pair of shoes—the first two charms on my bracelet—and found myself on the other side, speaking hardly any French, with no money but the six thousand pounds I’d managed to remove from my mother’s account.
I approached it as a challenge. I found myself a job in a small textiles factory on the outskirts of Paris. I shared a room with a coworker: Martine Matthieu, from Ghana, aged twenty-four and awaiting her six-months’ work permit. I told her I was twenty-two; that I was Portuguese. She believed me—or I thought she did. She was friendly; I was alone. I trusted her. I dropped my guard. That was the one mistake I made. Martine was curious; went through my things and discovered my mother’s documents, hidden in my bottom drawer. I don’t know why I’d kept them at all. Carelessness, perhaps; or laziness, or some misplaced sense of nostalgia. I certainly hadn’t meant to use that identity again. It was too closely linked to St. Michael’s-on-the-Green—and it was my bad luck that Martine remembered it from some newspaper she’d read, and linked the photograph with me.
I was young, you understand. The very threat of the police was enough to send me into a panic. Martine knew it—and exploited the fact, to the tune of half my salary per week. It was extortion, pure and simple. I endured it—what else could I have done ?
Well, I could have run away, I suppose. But even then I was stubborn. And most of all, I wanted revenge. So I paid Martine her weekly dues; was docile and cowed; bore her tempers; made her bed; cooked her dinner; and generally bided my time. Then when her papers came through at last, I called in sick to work and, in her absence, cleared the flat of everything that might be of use to me (including money, passport, and ID), before reporting her, the sweatshop (and my other coworkers) to the Immigration Services.
Martine gave me my third charm. A silver pendant in the shape of a solar disc, which I easily adapted to my bracelet. By then I had the beginnings of a collection, and for every life I’ve collected since, I’ve added a new ornament. It’s a small vanity that I allow myself—a reminder of how far I’ve come.
I burned my mother’s passport, of course. Quite apart from the unpleasant memories it brought back, it was far too incriminating for me to do otherwise. But that was my first recorded success, and if it taught me one thing, it’s this. There’s no room for nostalgia when lives are at stake.
Since then, their ghosts have pursued me in vain. Spirits can only move in straight lines (or so the Chinese believe), and the Butte de Montmartre is an ideal refuge, with its steps and stairways and little winding streets, through which no phantom could find its way.
At least, that’s what I’m hoping. Once again last night’s evening paper showed a picture of Françoise Lavery. The picture was enhanced, perhaps; in any case it looks less grainy, although it still bears little resemblance to Zozie de l’Alba.
Enquiries, however, have since revealed that the “real” Françoise died some time last year, in circumstances that now seem suspicious. Clinically depressed after her boyfriend left her, she died of an overdose that was judged accidental, but which may of course have been otherwise. Her flatmate, a girl by the name of Mercedes Desmoines, vanished soon after Françoise’s death, but she’d been gone for quite a long time before anyone suspected foul play.
Well, you know. There’s no helping some people. And really, I’d thought better of her. Those mousy types can often show unexpected inner strength—though not in her case. Poor Françoise.
Still, I don’t miss her. I like being Zozie. Everyone likes Zozie, of course—she is so much herself, you see—she doesn’t care what anyone thinks. So different from Miss Lavery that you could sit next to her on the Métro and never even see a hint of resemblance.
Still, just to be sure, I’ve dyed my hair. Black hair suits me, anyway. It makes me look French—or perhaps Italian—gives my skin a pearly quality and emphasizes the color of my eyes. It’s a good look for who I am now— and it doesn’t hurt that men like it too.
Passing the artists huddled beneath their umbrellas on the rainy Place du Tertre, I waved at Jean-Louis, who greeted me in his usual style.
“Hey, it’s you! ”
“You never give up, do you? ” I said.
He grinned. “Would you? You’re gorgeous today. How about a quick profile? It’d look nice on the wall of your chocolate shop.”
I laughed. “Well, for one, it isn’t my shop. And for another—I might just consider sitting for you—but only if you try my hot chocolate.”
Well, that was that, as Anouk might say. Another victory for the chocolaterie. Jean-Louis and Paupaul both came in, bought chocolate, and stayed for an hour, during which time Jean-Louis had not only finished my portrait, but also two more—one of a young woman who came in to buy truffles and quickly succumbed to his blandishments, the second a portrait of Alice, commissioned on impulse by Nico, dropping in for his usual.
“Any room for an artist in residence ? ” said Jean-Louis as he stood up to leave. “This place is amazing. It’s changed so much.” I smiled. “I’m glad you like it, Jean-Louis. I hope everyone feels the same.”
Well, of course, I haven’t forgotten that Thierry comes back from his trip on Saturday. I’m afraid he’ll find things very different—poor, romantic Thierry, with his money and his quaint ideas about women.
It’s the orphan quality in Vianne that first attracted him, you know; the brave young widow fighting alone. Fighting, but not successfully; spirited, but ultimately vulnerable, Cinderella waiting for her prince to come.
That’s what he loves about her, of course. He fantasizes about rescuing her—from what, exactly? Does he know? Not that he would ever say so, or admit it, even to himself. It’s there in his colors: a supreme self-confidence—a good-natured but unshakable belief in the combined power of his money and his charm—that Vianne mistakes for humility.
I wonder what he’ll make of it, now that her chocolaterie is a success?
I hope he won’t be disappointed.
Saturday, 1 December
Text message from thierry last night.
I’ve seen 100 fireplaces, but not 1 of them has
warmed my heart.
/>
could it b that I’m missing u?
see you tomorrow,
love, t xx
It’s raining today; a fine ghostly rain turning to mist on the skirts of the Butte, but Le Rocher de Montmartre looks almost fairylike, gleaming out from the still, wet streets. Sales today surpassed all expectations, topping a dozen customers in a single morning, most of them occasionals, but with a few of our regulars as well.
It’s happened so fast—barely a fortnight—and already the change is astonishing. Perhaps it’s just the shop’s new look; or the scent of melting chocolate; or the window display that catches the eye.
In any case, our clientele has multiplied, bringing in locals and tourists alike, and what began as an exercise to keep myself in practice is starting to become a serious occupation as Zozie and I try to meet the growing demand for my range of handmade chocolates.
We made close to forty boxes today. Fifteen of truffles (still selling well), but also a batch of coconut squares, some sour cherry gobstoppers, some bitter-coated orange peel, some violet creams, and a hundred or so lunes de miel, those little discs of chocolate made to look like the waxing moon, with her profile etched in white against the dark face.
It’s such a delight to choose a box, to linger over the shape—will it be heart shaped, round, or square? To select the chocolates with care; to see them nestled between the folds of crunchy mulberry-colored paper; to smell the mingled perfumes of cream, caramel, vanilla, and dark rum; to choose a ribbon; to pick out a wrapping; to add flowers or paper hearts; to hear the silky whisssh of rice paper against the lid—
I’ve missed it so much since Rosette was born. The heat of the copper on the stove. The scent of melting couverture. The ceramic molds, their shapes as familiar and well loved as a family’s Christmas ornaments, passed down over generations. This star; this square; this circle. Each object has significance; each action, so many times repeated, contains a world of memories.
I have no photographs. No albums, no keepsakes, except for the few things in my mother’s box: the cards, some papers, the little cat charm. My memories are kept elsewhere. I can remember every scar, every scratch on a wooden spoon or a copper pan. This flat-sided spoon is my favorite; Roux carved it from a single piece of wood, and it fits my hand perfectly. This red spatula—it’s only plastic, but I’ve had it since I was a child—was a gift from a greengrocer in Prague; this small enamel pan with the chipped rim is the one I always used for Anouk’s hot chocolate, in the days when we could no more have forgotten that twice-daily ritual than curé Reynaud could have missed communion.
The slab that I use for tempering is cross-hatched with tiny blemishes. I can read them better than the lines on my own hand, although I refrain from doing so. I’d rather not see the future there. The present is already more than enough.
“Is there a chocolatière in the house ? ”
Thierry’s voice is unmistakable; big, bluff, and friendly. I heard him from the kitchen (I was making liqueurs, the most awkward of my chocolates to make). A jangle of bells; a stamping of feet—a silence as he looked around.
I came out of the kitchen, wiping melted chocolate on my apron.
“Thierry!” I said and gave him a hug, hands splayed out to spare his suit.
He grinned. “My God. You’ve really made some changes to this place.”
“Do you like it? ”
“It’s—different.” I may have imagined the trace of dismay in his voice as he took in the bright walls, the stenciled shapes, the fingerpainted furniture, the old stuffed armchairs, the chocolate pot and cups on the three-legged table, and the window display with Zozie’s red shoes among the mountains of candied treasure. “It looks—” He broke off, and I caught the arc of his gaze, that little flick toward my hand. His mouth tightened a little, I thought, as it does when he doesn’t like something. But his voice was warm as he said, “It looks terrific. You’ve worked wonders in this place.”
“Chocolate ? ” said Zozie, pouring a cup.
“I—no—well, OK then, just the one.”
She handed him an espresso cup, with one of my truffles on the side. “It’s one of our specials,” she told him, smiling.
He looked round once more at the piled boxes, glass dishes, fondants, ribbons, rosettes, cracknels, violet creams, mocha blanc, dark rum truffle, chilli squares, lemon parfait, and coffee cake on the countertop with an expression of slightly blank amazement.
“You made all these ? ” he said at last.
“Don’t look so surprised,” I said.
“Well, for Christmas, I guess . . .” He frowned a little as he looked at the price tag on a box of chilli chocolate squares. “People really do buy them, then? ”
“All the time,” I said with a smile.
“Must have cost you a fortune,” he said. “All this painting and decorating.”
“We did it ourselves. All of us.”
“Well, that’s great. You’ve worked so hard.” He tried his chocolate, and once more I saw his mouth tighten.
“You know, you don’t have to drink it if you don’t like it,” I said, trying not to sound impatient. “I can make you a coffee if you’d prefer.”
“No, this is great.” He sipped it again. He’s a terrible liar. His transparency should please me, I know; but instead it gives me a twitch of unease.
He is so vulnerable beneath his self-assurance, so unaware of the ways of the wind. “I’m just surprised, that’s all,” he said. “Everything seems to have changed practically overnight.”
“Not everything,” I said, smiling.
I noticed Thierry didn’t smile back.
“How was London? What did you do? ”
“I went to see Sarah. Told her about the wedding. Missed you like crazy.”
I smiled at that. “And Alan? Your son? ”
That made him smile. He always does when I mention his son, although he rarely speaks of him. I’ve often wondered how well they get on—that smile is a little too broad, perhaps—but if Alan is anything like his father, then it’s quite possible that their personalities are too similar to make them friends.
I noticed he wasn’t eating his truffle.
He looked slightly abashed when I pointed it out. “You know me, Yanne. Sweets aren’t my thing.” And he gave me that big, brash smile again—the one he gives when he speaks of his son. It’s really quite funny when you think about it—Thierry’s sweet tooth is quite pronounced, but he feels slightly ashamed of it, as if admitting to a taste for milk chocolate places his manliness in doubt. But my truffles are too dark, too rich, and their bitterness is strange to him—
I handed him a milk chocolate square.
“Go on,” I said. “I can read your mind.”
But just at that moment Anouk came in from the rainy street, all tousled and smelling of wet leaves, with a paper twist of hot chestnuts in one hand. For the past few days, there has been a vendor selling them in front of the Sacré-Coeur, and Anouk has taken to buying a packet every time she passes by. Today, she was in high spirits, looking like a stray Christmas bauble in her red coat and green trousers, with her curly hair all spangled with rain.
“Hey there, jeune fille! ” said Thierry. “Where have you been? You’re soaking wet!”
Anouk gave him one of her grown-up looks. “I’ve been to the cemetery with Jean-Loup. And I’m not soaking. This is an anorak. It keeps out the rain.”
Thierry laughed. “The necropolis. You know what necropolis means, Annie? ”
“Of course I do. City of the dead.” Anouk’s vocabulary—always good— has improved with proximity to Jean-Loup Rimbault.
Thierry made a comic face. “Isn’t that rather a gloomy spot to hang out with your friends? ”
“Jean-Loup was taking photographs of the cemetery cats.”
“Really? ” he said. “Well, if you can bear to drag yourself away, then I’ve booked a table for lunch at La Maison Rose—”
“Lunch? But the shop—”
br /> “I’ll hold the fort,” said Zozie. “You enjoy your afternoon.”
“Annie ? Are you ready? ” said Thierry.
I saw Anouk give him a look. Not quite of contempt—though perhaps of resentment. That doesn’t surprise me very much—Thierry, though well meaning, has a rather old-fashioned attitude toward children, and Anouk must sense that some of her habits—running about with Jean-Loup in the rain, spending hours in the old cemetery (where tramps and undesirables congregate), or playing noisy games with Rosette—do not meet entirely with his approval.
“Perhaps you should wear a dress,” he said.
The look of resentment intensified. “I like my clothes.”
To tell the truth, so do I. In a city where elegant conformity is the primary rule, Anouk dares to be imaginative. Perhaps this is Zozie’s influence; but the clashing colors she prefers and her recent habit of customizing her clothes—with a ribbon, a badge, a piece of braid—give everything of hers an exuberance I haven’t seen since Lansquenet.
Perhaps this is what she’s trying to recapture—a time when things were simpler. In Lansquenet, Anouk ran wild; played down by the river all day long; talked incessantly to Pantoufle; led pirate games and crocodile games and was always in disgrace at school.
But that was a very different world. Barring the river gypsies—disreputable, perhaps, even sometimes dishonest, but certainly not dangerous— there were no strangers in Lansquenet. No one bothered to lock their door; even the dogs were familiar.
“I don’t like wearing a dress,” she said.
Beside me I could sense Thierry’s unvoiced disapproval. In Thierry’s world, girls wear dresses—in fact, over the past six months he has bought several for both Anouk and Rosette, in the hope that I will take the hint.
Thierry was watching me, tight-mouthed. “You know, I’m not really hungry,” I said. “Why don’t we just go for a walk and grab something to eat from a café on the way? There’s the Parc de la Turlure, or there’s—”
“But I booked,” said Thierry.
I couldn’t help laughing at his expression. Everything in Thierry’s world has to be done according to plan. There are rules for everything; schedules to be met; guidelines to be followed. A lunch table, booked, cannot be unbooked, and even though we both know that he is happiest in a place like Le P’tit Pinson, today he has chosen La Maison Rose, for which Anouk must wear a dress. That’s the way he is, of course—rock solid, predictable, in control—but sometimes I wish he wasn’t quite as inflexible, that he could find room for a little spontaneity—