Nice timing, Roux, I thought bitterly. But then again, that’s what he’s like. And now his voice in my mind is like that of the wind. Don’t fool yourself, Vianne. You can’t settle here. You think you’re safe in your little house. But like the wolf in the fairy tale, I know better.
I went into the kitchen to brew a fresh pot of chocolate. Thierry followed me, clumsy in his big overcoat among Zozie’s little tables and chairs.
“You want to know about Roux? ” I said, grating chocolate into the pan. “Well, I knew him when I lived in the South. For a while I ran a chocolaterie in a village near the Garonne. He lived on a riverboat, moving among towns, doing casual work. Carpentry, roofing, picking fruit. He did a couple of jobs for me. I haven’t seen him for over four years. Satisfied? ”
He looked abashed. “I’m sorry, Yanne. I’m ridiculous. And I certainly didn’t mean to interrogate you. I promise I won’t do it again.”
“I never thought you’d be jealous,” I said, adding a vanilla pod and a pinch of nutmeg to the hot chocolate.
“I’m not,” said Thierry. “And to prove it to you—” He put both hands on my shoulders, forcing me to look at him. “Listen, Yanne. He’s a friend of yours. He obviously needs the cash. And given that I really want the flat finished by Christmas, and you know how hard it is trying to get anyone at this time of year, I’ve offered him the job.”
I stared at him. “You have ? ”
He smiled. “Call it a penance,” he said. “My way of proving to you that the jealous guy you met last night isn’t the real me. And there’s something else.” He reached into his overcoat pocket. “I got you a little something,” he said. “It was going to be an engagement present, but . . .”
Thierry’s little somethings are always lavish. Four dozen roses at a time; jewelry from Bond Street; scarves from Hermès. A little too conventional, maybe—but that’s Thierry. Predictable to the core.
“Well? ”
It was a slim package, barely thicker than a padded envelope. I opened it and found a leather travel wallet containing four first-class plane tickets to New York, dated 28 December.
I stared at them.
“You’ll love it,” he said. “It’s the only place to bring in the New Year. I’ve booked us into a great hotel—the kids’ll love it—there’ll be snow—music—fireworks. . . .” He gave me an exuberant hug. “Oh, Yanne, I can’t wait to show you New York.”
As a matter of fact, I’ve been there before. My mother died there, on a busy street, in front of an Italian deli on Independence Day. It was hot and sunny then. In December it will be cold. People die of the cold in New York in December.
“But I don’t have a passport,” I said slowly. “At least, I did—but—”
“Out-of-date ? I’ll see to that.”
Well, in fact it’s more than out-of-date. It’s in the wrong name—that of Vianne Rocher—and how could I tell him that, I thought, that the woman he loves is someone else ?
But how could I hide it now? Last night’s scene has taught me this: Thierry is not quite as predictable as I had assumed. Deceit is an invasive weed, which if not dealt with early enough, forces its tendrils into everything, gnawing, spreading, stifling until at last there’s nothing left but a tangle oflies—
He was standing very close, his blue eyes bright—with anxiety, perhaps. He smelled of something vaguely comforting, like cut grass or old books or pine sap or bread. He came a little closer, and now his arms were around me, my head on his shoulder (though where was that little hollow, I thought, that seemed to be made for me alone?), and it felt so familiar, so very safe—and yet this time there was a tension too. I could feel it, like live wires about to touch—
His lips found mine. That charge again. Like static between us, half-pleasure, half-not. I found myself thinking of Roux. Damn you. Not now. That lingering kiss. I pulled away.
“Listen, Thierry. I need to explain.”
He looked at me. “Explain what? ”
“The name on my passport—the name I’ll have to give at the registry office—” I took a breath. “It’s not the name I’m using now. I changed it. It’s a long story. I should have told you before, but—”
Thierry interrupted me. “It doesn’t matter. No need to explain. We all have things we’d rather not talk about. What do I care if you changed your name ? It’s who you are that interests me, not whether you’re a Francine or a Marie-Claude or even, God help us, even a Cunégonde.”
I smiled. “You don’t mind? ”
He shook his head. “I promised I wouldn’t interrogate you. The past is the past. I don’t need to know. Unless you’re about to tell me you used to be a man, or something. . . .”
I laughed at that. “You’re safe enough.”
“I suppose I could check. Just to be sure.” His hands locked in the small of my back. His kiss was harder, more demanding. Thierry never makes demands. His old-fashioned courtesy is one of the things that has always appealed to me, but today he is slightly different—there’s a hint of passion long contained; impatience; a thirst for something more. For a moment I am submerged in it; his hands move to my waist, my breasts. There is something almost childishly greedy in the way he kisses my mouth, my face, as if he’s trying to lay claim to as much of me as possible, and all the time he is whispering—I love you, Yanne, I want you, Yanne. . . .
Half laughing, I came up for air. “Not here. It’s past nine-thirty—”
He gave a comic bear’s growl. “You think I’m going to wait seven weeks? ” And now his arms were bearish too, holding me in a close lock, and he smelled of musk sweat and stale cigars, and all at once and for the first time in our long friendship I could imagine us making love, naked and sweating between the sheets, and I felt a jolt of sudden surprise at the sense of revolt the thought provoked—
I pushed my hands against his chest. “Thierry, please—”
He showed his teeth.
“Zozie’s going to be here in a minute—”
“Then let’s go upstairs before she arrives.”
Already I was gasping for breath. The reek of sweat intensified, mingled with the scent of cold coffee, raw wool, and last night’s beer. No longer such a comforting scent, it calls up images of crowded bars and narrow escapes and drunken strangers in the night. Thierry’s hands are slablike and eager, spattered with age spots, tufted with hair.
I found myself thinking of Roux’s hands. His deft pickpocket’s fingers; machine oil under the fingernails.
“Come on, Yanne.”
He was pulling me across the room. His eyes were bright with anticipation. Suddenly I wanted to protest, but it’s too late. I’ve made my choice.
There can be no going back, I thought. I followed him toward the stairs—
A lightbulb blew with a sound like a firecracker going off.
Pulverized glass showered us.
A sound from upstairs. Rosette was awake. Relief made me tremble.
Thierry swore.
“I have to see to Rosette,” I said.
He made a sound that was not quite laughter. A final kiss—but the moment had passed. From the corner of my eye I could see a golden something gleaming in the shadows—sunlight, perhaps, or some kind of reflection—
“I have to see to Rosette, Thierry.”
“I love you,” he said.
I know you do.
t was ten o’clock and Thierry had just left when Zozie came in, wrapped up in an overcoat, wearing purple platform boots and carrying a large cardboard box in both hands. It looked heavy, and Zozie was a little flushed as she put it down carefully on the floor.
“Sorry I’m late,” she said. “This stuff is heavy.”
“What is it? ” I said.
Zozie grinned. She went to the window display and took out the red shoes that have been sitting there for the past couple of weeks.
“I’ve been thinking we’re due for a bit of a change. How about a new display? I mean, this was never meant to b
e a permanent thing, and to be honest, I miss these shoes.”
I smiled at that. “Of course,” I said.
“So I picked up this stuff from the marché aux puces.” She indicated the cardboard box. “I’ve got an idea I’d like to try out.”
I looked at the box, then at Zozie. Still reeling from Thierry’s visit, Roux’s reappearance, and the complications that I knew it would bring, the unexpected kindness of the simple gesture left me suddenly close to tears.
“You didn’t have to do that, Zozie.”
“Don’t be silly. I like it.” She looked at me closely. “Is anything wrong? ”
“Oh, it’s Thierry.” I tried to smile. “He’s been acting strange these past few days.”
She shrugged. “I’m not surprised,” she said. “You’re doing well. Business is good. At last things are looking up for you.”
I frowned at her. “What do you mean? ”
“What I mean,” said Zozie patiently, “is that Thierry still wants to be Santa Claus and Prince Charming and Good King Wenceslas all rolled into one. It was fine while you were struggling—he bought you dinner, dressed you up, showered you with presents—but you’re different now. You don’t need saving anymore. Someone took away his Cinderella doll and put a real live girl there instead, and he’s having trouble coping with it.”
“Thierry’s not like that,” I said.
“Isn’t he ? ”
“Well . . .” I grinned. “Maybe a bit.”
She laughed at that, and I laughed with her, though I couldn’t help feeling a little abashed. Zozie is very observant, of course. But shouldn’t I have seen those things myself?
Zozie opened the cardboard box.
“Why not take it easy today? Have a lie-down. Play with Rosette. Don’t worry. If he comes, I’ll call.”
That startled me. “If who comes? ” I said.
“Oh, really, Vianne—”
“Don’t call me that! ”
She grinned. “Well, Roux, of course. Who did you think I meant, the pope? ”
I gave a wan smile. “He won’t come today.”
“What makes you so sure ? ”
So I told her what Thierry had said: about the flat, and how determined he was to see us there by Christmas, and about the plane tickets to New York, and how he’d offered Roux a job at Rue de la Croix—
Zozie looked surprised at that. “He has? ” she said. “Well, if Roux takes it, he must need the money. I can’t see him doing it for love.”
I shook my head. “What a mess,” I said. “Why didn’t he say he was coming here ? I would have handled it differently. At least I would have been prepared—”
Zozie sat down at the kitchen table. “He’s Rosette’s father, isn’t he ? ”
I didn’t say anything but turned to switch on the ovens. I was planning a batch of gingerbread biscuits, the sort you hang on the Christmas tree, gilded and iced and tied with colored ribbon—
“Of course, it’s your business,” Zozie went on. “Does Annie know? ”
I shook my head.
“Does anyone know? Does Roux know? ”
Suddenly my strength had gone, and I sat down quickly in one of the chairs, feeling as if she had cut my strings, leaving me in a sudden tangle, voiceless, helpless, and still.
“I can’t tell him now,” I whispered at last.
“Well, he’s no fool. He’ll work it out.”
Silently I shook my head. It’s the first time that I have had any cause to feel grateful for Rosette’s differences—but at nearly four years old she still looks and behaves like a child of two and a half, and who would believe the impossible ?
“It’s too late for all that,” I said. “Four years ago, maybe—but not now.”
“Why? Did you quarrel? ”
She sounds like Anouk. I found myself trying to explain to her too, that things are not simple, that houses must be made of stone, because when the wind comes howling by, only solid stone will keep us from blowing away—
Why pretend? he says in my mind. What is it that makes you try to fit in? What is it about these people that makes you want to be like them?
“No, we didn’t quarrel,” I said. “We just—went different ways.”
A sudden, startling image in my mind—the Pied Piper with his flute, all the children following—but for the lame one, left behind as the mountain closes in his wake—
“So what about Thierry? ” she said.
Good question, I thought. Does he suspect? He’s no fool, either; and yet there’s a kind of blindness in him, which might be arrogance or trust or a little of both. And yet he’s still suspicious of Roux. I saw it last night— that measuring look—the instinctive aversion of the solid city dweller for the drifter, the gypsy, the traveler. . . .
You choose your family, Vianne, I thought.
“Well, I guess you’ve made your choice.”
“It’s the right one. I know it is.”
But I could tell she didn’t believe me. As if she could see it in the air around me like cotton candy gathering on a spindle. But there are so many kinds oflove; and when the hot, selfish, angry kind has long since burned itself out, thank all the gods for men like Thierry, those safe and unimaginative men who think passion is just a word from books, like magic or adventure.
Zozie was still watching me with that patient half-smile, as if she expected me to say something more. When I didn’t, she simply shrugged and held out a dish of mendiants. She makes them as I do myself: the chocolate thin enough to snap but thick enough to satisfy; a generous sprinkle of fat raisins; a walnut, an almond; a violet; a crystallized rose.
“Try one,” she said. “What do you think? ”
The gunpowder scent of chocolate arose from the little dish of mendiants, smelling of summer and lost time. He had tasted of chocolate when I first kissed him; and the scent of damp grass had come from the ground where we had lain side by side; and his touch had been unexpectedly soft, and his hair like summer marigolds in the dying light—
Zozie was still holding out the dish of mendiants. It’s made of blue Murano glass, with a little gold flower on the side. It’s only a bauble, and yet I’m fond of it. Roux gave it to me in Lansquenet, and I have carried it with me ever since, in my luggage, in my pockets, like a touchstone.
I looked up and saw Zozie looking at me. Her eyes were a distant, fairy-tale blue, like something you might see in dreams.
“You won’t tell anyone ? ” I said.
“Of course not.” She picked up a chocolate between delicate fingers and held it out for me to take. Rich, dark chocolate, rum-soaked raisins, vanilla, rose, and cinnamon . . .
“Try one, Vianne,” she said with a smile. “I happen to know they’re your favorites.”
Monday, 3 December
A good day’s work, if i say so myself. so much of my work here is a juggling act; a series of balls and blades and flaming torches to be kept in the air for as long as it takes—
It took some time to be sure of Roux. He’s sharp enough to cut, that one, and needs careful handling, and it was all I could do to make him stay. But I managed to hold him on Saturday night, and with the help of a few encouraging words, I’ve managed to keep him in check so far.
It wasn’t easy, I have to say. His first impulse was to head straight back to where he’d come from, never to be seen again. I didn’t need to look at his colors to know; I could see it in his face as he marched down the Butte with his hair in his eyes and his hands stuck fiercely into his pockets. Thierry was following him too, and I was forced to clear the way with a little cantrip to make him slip, and in the seconds that he was delayed, caught up with Roux and took his arm.
“Roux,” I told him. “You can’t just leave. There are things you don’t know about all of this.”
He shook off my arm without slowing down. “What makes you think I want to know? ”
“Because you’re in love with her,” I said.
Roux just shrugged and kep
t on walking.
“And because she’s having second thoughts, but she doesn’t know how to tell Thierry.”
Now he was listening. He slackened his pace. I seized the opportunity and made the claw sign of One Jaguar right at his back—a cantrip that should have stopped him dead but which Roux just shook off instinctively.
“Hey, stop it,” I said, more in frustration than anything else.
He shot me a look of feral curiosity.
“You need to give her time.”
“What for? ”
“To make up her mind about what she really wants.”
He had stopped walking altogether now and was watching with new intensity. I felt a twitch of annoyance at that—he was so obviously blind to anyone who wasn’t Vianne—but there’d be time for that later, I told myself. For the moment, I just needed him here. After that, I could make him pay at leisure.
Meanwhile, however, Thierry had picked himself up and was heading toward us down the street. “We don’t have time for this now,” I said. “Meet me Monday, after work.”
“Work? ” he said. He began to laugh. “You think I’m going to work for him?”
“You’d better,” I said. “If you want my help.”
After that, I had just enough time to rejoin Thierry as he approached. Barely a few dozen yards away, and hulking in his cashmere coat, he glared at me, and at Roux behind me, with the black-button-eyed ferocity of a big plush bear gone suddenly rogue.
“You’ve blown it now,” I told him softly. “What possessed you to behave like that? Yanne’s very upset—”
He bridled at that. “What did I do? It was—”
“Never mind what did I do. I can help you, but you have to be nice.” Savagely I made the sign of lady Blood Moon with my fingertips. That seemed to calm him; he looked dismayed. I shot him again, this time with the masterful sign of One Jaguar, and saw his colors subside a little.
He’s so much easier than Roux, I thought. So much more cooperative. In a few words, I told him the plan. “It’s simple,” I said. “There’s no way you can lose. It makes you look magnanimous. You’ll have the help you need in the flat. You’ll see more of Yanne. And what’s more”—I lowered my voice again—“you can keep an eye on him.”