“You’re not wearing your ring,” he said.
Instinctively I looked down at my hands. “It’s the chocolate,” I said. “It gets on everything.”
“You and your chocolate,” said Thierry.
It was not one of our most successful outings. Perhaps it was the sullen weather, or the crowds, or Anouk’s lack of appetite, or Rosette’s continuing refusal to use a spoon. Thierry’s mouth tightened as he watched Rosette hand-arranging her peas into a spiral pattern on her plate. “Manners, Rosette,” he said at last. Rosette ignored him, all her attention fixed on the pattern. “Rosette,” he said in a sharper tone. Still she ignored him, although a woman at an adjoining table looked round at his tone of voice.
“It’s all right, Thierry. You know what she’s like. Just leave her alone, and—”
Thierry made a sound of exasperation. “My God, what is she, nearly four years old? ” He turned to me, his eyes alight. “It isn’t normal, Yanne,” he said. “You’ll have to face up to it. She needs help. I mean, look at her.” He glared at Rosette, who was eating her peas one by one, using her fingers, and with a look of intense concentration.
He reached out across the table and grabbed Rosette’s hand. She looked up at him, startled. “Here. Take the spoon. Hold it, Rosette.” He forced the spoon into her hand. She dropped it. He picked it up again.
“Thierry—”
“No, Yanne, she has to learn.”
Once more he tried to give Rosette the spoon. Rosette clenched her fingers into a small fist of denial.
“Look, Thierry.” I was getting annoyed. “Let me decide what Rosette—”
“Ouch! ” He broke off abruptly, pulling away his outstretched hand. “She bit me! The brat! She bit me!” he said.
From the edge of my field of vision, I thought I glimpsed a golden gleam; a beady eye; a curly tail—
Rosette fingered the sign for come here.
“Rosette, please don’t—”
“Bam,” said Rosette.
Oh no. Not now—
I stood up to leave. “Anouk, Rosette . . .” I looked at Thierry. Small bite marks stood out against his wrist. Panic bloomed in me like a rose. An Accident in the shop was one thing. But in public, with so many people there—
“I’m sorry,” I said. “We have to go.”
“But you haven’t finished,” said Thierry.
I saw him struggling between anger and outrage and the overwhelming need to keep us there, to prove to himself that it was all right, that the situation could be averted, that things could go back to the original plan.
“I can’t,” I said and picked up Rosette. “I’m sorry—I have to get out of here.”
“Yanne,” said Thierry, grabbing my arm, and my own rage—that he should dare to interfere with my child, with my life—dissolved as I saw the look in his eyes.
“I wanted it to be perfect,” he said.
“It’s all right,” I told him. “It’s not your fault.”
He paid the bill and walked us home. At four o’clock, it was already dark, and the streetlights shone against the wet cobbles. We walked in near silence, Anouk holding Rosette’s hand, both very careful to avoid the cracks. Thierry said nothing; his face set, his hands jammed deeply into his pockets.
“Please, Thierry. Don’t be like this. Rosette missed her nap, and you know how she gets.” In fact, I wonder if he does know. His son must be in his twenties now, and maybe he has forgotten what it’s like to have a child: the tantrums; the tears; the noise; the fuss. Or maybe Sarah coped with all that, leaving Thierry to play the generous role: the football matches; the walks in the park; the pillow fights; the games.
“You’ve forgotten what it’s like,” I said. “It’s hard for me to manage sometimes. And you make it worse when you get in the way—”
He turned to me then, his face pale and tense. “I haven’t forgotten as much as you think. When Alan was born—” He stopped abruptly, and I could see him struggling for control.
I put my hand on his arm. “What’s wrong? ”
He shook his head. “Later,” he said in a thick voice. “I’ll tell you all about it later.”
We had arrived in Place des Faux-Monnayeurs, and I paused on the threshold of le Rocher de Montmartre, the newly painted sign creaking a little, and took a deep breath of the chilly air.
“I’m sorry, Thierry,” I told him again.
He shrugged, a bear in his cashmere coat, but I thought his face had softened a little.
“I’ll make it up to you,” I said. “I’ll cook you dinner, and we’ll put Rosette to bed, and then we can talk about all this.”
He sighed. “OK.”
I opened the door.
And saw a man standing inside, a man in black standing very still, whose face was more familiar to me than my own and whose smile, rare and brilliant as summer lightning, was already beginning to fade from his lips. . . .
“Vianne,” he said.
It was Roux.
✶
✶
PART FIVE
✶
Advent
✶
Saturday, 1 December
The moment he walked into the shop i knew he was going to be my kind of trouble. Some people carry a charge, you know—you can see it in their colors, and his were the pale yellow-blue flare of a gas jet turned very low that could explode at any time.
Not that you’d know it to look at him. Nothing special, so you’d think. Paris swallows up a million just like him every year. Men in jeans and engineer boots; men who seem ill at ease in the city; men who take their wages in cash. I’ve been there often enough myself to recognize the type; and if he was there to buy chocolate, I thought, then I was the Virgin oflourdes.
I was standing on a chair, hanging a picture. My portrait, in fact; the one that Jean-Louis drew of me. I heard him come in. A tinkle of bells; the sound of his boots on the parquet floor.
Then he said Vianne—and there was something in the tone of his voice that made me turn around. I looked at him. A man in jeans and a black T-shirt; red hair, tied back. As I said, nothing special.
But there was something about him, nevertheless, something that seemed familiar. And his smile was bright as the Champs-Elysées on Christmas Eve, making him extraordinary—but only for a moment, that dazzling smile dropping into a look of confusion as he realized his mistake.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I thought you were—” He stopped abruptly. “Are you the manager? ” His voice was quiet, accented with the rolling rs and sharp vowels of the Midi.
“No, I just work here,” I told him, smiling. “The manager’s Madame Charbonneau. Do you know her? ”
For a moment he seemed uncertain.
“Yanne Charbonneau,” I prompted.
“Yeah. I know her.”
“Well, she’s out right now. But I’m sure she’ll be back soon.”
“All right. I’ll wait.” He sat down at a table, glancing around as he did so at the shop, the pictures, the chocolates—with pleasure, I thought, and some unease, as if unsure of his reception.
“And you are . . . ? ” I said.
“Oh. Just a friend.”
I smiled at him. “I meant your name.”
“Oh.” Now I was sure he looked ill at ease. Hands in his pockets to hide his discomfort, as if my presence had disrupted some plan too intricate for him to change.
“Roux,” he said.
I thought of the postcard, signed R. Name or nickname ? Probably the latter. Heading north. I’ll drop by if I can.
And now I knew where I’d recognized him. I’d seen him last at Vianne Rocher’s side, in a newspaper photo from Lansquenet-sous-Tannes.
“Roux? ” I said. “From Lansquenet? ”
He nodded.
“Annie talks about you all the time.”
At that his colors lit up like a Christmas tree, and I began to understand what Vianne might see in a man like Roux. Thierry never lights up—unless it’s on
e of his cigars—but then, Thierry has money, which makes up for most things.
“Relax, why don’t you, and I’ll make you some hot chocolate.”
Now he grinned. “My favorite.”
I made it strong, with brown sugar and rum. He drank it, then turned restless again, moving from one room to the other, looking around him at the pans, the jars, the dishes and spoons that make up Yanne’s chocolate-making paraphernalia.
“You look just like her,” he said at last.
“Really? ”
As a matter of fact I look nothing like her; but then, I’ve noticed that most men rarely see exactly what’s in front of them. A dash of perfume; long, loose hair; a scarlet skirt; and my high-heeled shoes—glamours so simple a child could see through them, but a man will be fooled every time.
“So—how long has it been since you last saw Yanne? ”
He shrugged. “Too long.”
“I know how it is. Here. Have a chocolate.”
I put one by the side of his cup; a truffle, rolled in cocoa powder prepared to my own special recipe, and marked with the cactus sign of Xochipilli, the ecstatic god, always good for unleashing the tongue.
He didn’t eat the chocolate but instead rolled it aimlessly around his saucer. It was a gesture I recognized somehow but couldn’t quite identify. I waited for him to start talking—people generally do talk to me—but he seemed content to remain silent, fiddling with his uneaten truffle and watching the darkening street.
“Are you staying in Paris? ” I said.
He shrugged. “Depends.”
I looked at him enquiringly, but he didn’t seem to take the hint. “Depends on what? ” I said at last. He shrugged again. “I get tired of places.” I poured him another demitasse. His reserve—a reserve that seemed
closer to sullenness than anything else—was starting to annoy me. He’d been in the chocolaterie for nearly half an hour. Unless I’d lost the knack, I thought, I ought to have known everything there was to know about him by now. And yet, there he was—trouble incarnate, and seemingly impervious to all my advances.
I began to feel increasingly impatient. There was something associated with this man, something that I needed to know. I could feel it, so close that it raised the hairs on the back of my neck, and yet—
Think, damn it.
A river. A bangle. A silver cat charm. No, I thought. That wasn’t quite right. A river. A boat. Anouk, Rosette—
“You haven’t eaten your chocolate,” I said. “You should try it, you know. It’s one of our specials.”
“Oh. Sorry.” He picked it up. The cactus sign of Xochipilli gleamed invitingly between his fingers. He lifted the truffle to his mouth; paused a moment, frowning, perhaps at the acrid scent of the chocolate, the dark, woodsy perfume of seduction—
Try me. Test me. Taste—
And then, just then as he was almost mine, there came a sound of voices at the door.
He dropped the chocolate and stood up.
The wind chimes rang. The door opened.
“Vianne,” said Roux.
And now it was she who just stood and stared, the color slipping from her face, her hands held out, as if to avert some terrible collision.
Behind her, Thierry stood bewildered, sensing perhaps that something was wrong but too self-absorbed to see the obvious. At her side, Rosette and Anouk, hand in hand, Rosette staring with fascination, Anouk’s face suddenly alight—
And Roux—
Taking everything in—the man, the child, the look of dismay, the ring on her finger—and now I could see his colors again, fading, dwindling, going back to that gas-jet blue of something turned down to its lowest flame.
“Sorry,” he said. “I was just passing through. You know. My boat . . .”
He isn’t accustomed to lying, I thought. His pretense at lightness sounded forced, and his fists were clenched deep in his pockets.
Yanne just stared, her face a blank. No movement, no smile; just a mask, behind which I could glimpse the turbulence of her colors.
Anouk saved it. “Roux! ” she yelled.
That broke the tension. Yanne stepped forward, the smile on her face now part fear, part fake, part something else that I didn’t quite recognize.
“Thierry, this is an old friend.” She was flushing now, quite prettily, and the pitch of her voice might well have been excitement at meeting an old acquaintance (though her colors told me otherwise), and her eyes were bright and anxious. “Roux, from Marseille—Thierry, my—hm—”
The unspoken word hung between them like a bomb.
“Pleased to meet you—Roux.”
Another liar. Thierry’s dislike of this man—this interloper—is immediate, irrational, and wholly instinctive. His overcompensation takes the form of a terrible heartiness not unlike that which he adopts toward Laurent Pinson. His voice booms like Santa Claus; his handshake cracks bone; in a moment he will be calling the stranger mon pote.
“So you’re a friend of Yanne’s, eh? Not in the same business, though? ”
Roux shakes his head.
“No, of course not.” Thierry grins, taking in the other man’s youth and balancing it against everything he himself has to offer. The moment of jealousy subsides; I can see it in his colors, the blue-gray thread of envy taking on the burnished coppery hue of self-satisfaction.
“You’ll have a drink, won’t you, mon pote?”
There. You see. I told you so.
“How about a couple of beers? There’s a café just down the road.”
Roux shakes his head. “Just chocolate, thanks.”
Thierry shrugs his cheery contempt. Pours chocolate—a gracious host—never taking his eyes from the interloper’s face.
“So exactly what business are you in? ”
“No business,” says Roux.
“You do work, don’t you? ”
“I work,” says Roux.
“In what? ” says Thierry, grinning a little.
Roux shrugs. “Just work.”
Thierry’s amusement now knows no bounds. “And you’re living on a boat, you say? ”
Roux just nods. He smiles at Anouk—the only one here who seems genuinely happy to see him—while Rosette watches him in continued fascination.
And now I can see what I missed before. Rosette’s small features are still unformed, but she has her father’s coloring—his red hair, his green-gray eyes—as well as his troublesome temperament.
Nobody else seemed to notice, of course. Least of all the man himself. At a guess, I’d say that Rosette’s physical and mental lack of development has led him to think that she is much younger than she really is.
“Staying long in Paris? ” says Thierry. “Because some might say we’ve got enough boat people here already.” He laughs again, a little too loudly.
Roux just looks at him, empty-faced.
“Still, if you’re looking for a job round here, I could use some help doing up my flat. Rue de la Croix, down there . . .” He nods to indicate the direction. “Nice big flat, but it needs gutting—plastering—flooring—decorating—and I’m hoping to finish it all in the next three weeks, so that Yanne and the kids don’t need to spend another Christmas in this place.”
He puts a protective arm around Yanne, who shrugs it off in quiet dismay.
“You’ll have gathered we’re getting married, of course.”
“Congratulations,” says Roux.
“You married yourself? ”
He shakes his head. Nothing in his face betrays the slightest emotion. A flicker in the eyes, perhaps, though his colors flame with unrestrained violence.
“Well, if you decide to try it,” Thierry said, “ just come and see me. I’ll find you a house. You can get something surprisingly decent for half a million or so—”
“Listen,” says Roux. “I have to go.”
Anouk protests. “But you just got here! ” She shoots an angry look at Thierry, who does not notice in the least. His dislike of Roux
is visceral, rather than reasonable. No thought of the truth has crossed his mind, and yet he suspects the stranger of something—not because of anything he has said or done, but simply because he looks the type.
What type ? Well, you know the look. It has nothing to do with his cheap clothes or his too-long hair, or his lack of social skills. There’s just something about him; a left-handed look, like that of a man from the wrong side of the tracks. A man who might do anything: clone a credit card or set up a bank account using nothing but a stolen driver’s license or acquire a birth certificate (maybe even a passport) on behalf of some person long deceased, or steal away a woman’s child and vanish like the Pied Piper, leaving nothing but questions in his wake.
Like I said.
My kind of trouble.
Saturday, 1 December
Oh, boy. well, hello, stranger. standing there in the chocolate shop, just like he’d been away for an afternoon and not for four whole years of time; four years of birthdays and Christmases with hardly a word, never a visit and now—
“Roux! ”
I wanted to be angry with him. I really did; but my voice wouldn’t let me, somehow.
I shouted out his name, louder than I’d intended.
“Nanou,” he said. “You’re all grown-up.”
There was a kind of sadness in the way he said it, as if he was sorry that I’d changed. But he was just the same old Roux—hair longer, boots cleaner, different clothes, but just the same, slouching with his hands in his pockets, the way he does when he doesn’t want to be somewhere, but smiling at me to show that it wasn’t my fault, and that if Thierry hadn’t been there, he would have picked me up and swung me around, just like the old days in Lansquenet.