Anouk was watching me, wide-eyed.
“It was Ehecatl who gave mankind the ability to love,” I said. “It was he who breathed life into the world. Wind was important to the Aztecs; more so than rain, even more important than the sun. Because wind means change; and without change, the world will die.”
She nodded like the bright pupil she was, and I felt a startling swell of affection for her, something almost tender—dangerously maternal—
Oh, I’m in no danger oflosing my head. But there’s an undeniable pleasure in being with Anouk; in teaching her; in telling her the old tales. I remember my own excitement at that first trip to Mexico City; at the colors; the sun; the masks; the chants; the sense of coming home at last—
“You’ve heard of that phrase—a wind of change?”
Again, she nodded.
“Well, that’s what we are. People like us. People who can raise the wind.”
“But isn’t that wrong? ”
“Not always,” I said. “There are good winds and bad winds. You just have to choose what you want, that’s all. Do what thou wilt. It’s as simple as that. You can be bullied or you can fight back. You can ride the wind like an eagle, Nanou—or you can choose to let it blow you away.”
For a long time she said nothing but sat very quietly, looking at my shoe. Finally she raised her head.
“How do you know all this? ” she said.
I smiled. “Born in a bookshop, raised by a witch.”
“And you’ll teach me how to ride the wind? ”
“Of course I will. If that’s what you want.”
Silence as she watched that shoe. A bead of light flicked from the heel and scattered into prisms that laddered the wall.
“Do you want to try them on? ”
She looked up at that. “D’you think they’d fit? ”
I hid a smile. “Try them and see.”
“Oh, wow. Oh, wow! How cool is that? ”
Teetering like a newborn giraffe on those heels; eyes alight; hands held out in a blind man’s fumble and grinning, oblivious of the sign of lady Blood Moon scratched in pencil against the sole—
“D’you like them? ”
She nodded, smiling, suddenly shy. “I love them,” she said. “They’re lollipop shoes.”
Lollipop shoes. That made me smile. And yet there’s a rightness to that phrase. “So they’re your favorites, are they? ” I said.
She nodded again, her eyes like stars.
“Well, you can have them, if you like.”
“Have them? To keep? ”
“Why not? ” I said.
For a moment she was beyond speech. She lifted her foot in a way that managed to be adolescent-gawky and heartbreakingly beautiful all at the same time, and gave me a smile that almost stopped my heart.
Suddenly her face fell. “Maman would never let me wear these. . . .” “Maman doesn’t need to know.” Anouk was still watching her foot, watching the way the light reflected
from the spangled red heels onto the floor. I think even then she knew my price; but the lure of those shoes was too much to resist. Shoes that could take you anywhere; shoes that could make you fall in love; shoes that could make you someone else—
“And nothing bad will happen? ” she said. “Nanou.” I smiled. “They’re only shoes.”
Thursday, 6 December
Thierry has been working hard this week. so hard that I’ve
barely spoken to him; between our work in the shop and his refurbishments in the house, there seems to have been no time at all. He phoned today to talk to me about parquet flooring (do I prefer light oak or dark?) but has warned me against dropping by. The place is a mess, he tells me. Plaster dust everywhere; half the floor taken up. Besides, he says, he wants it to be perfect before I see it again.
I dare not ask after Roux, of course, though I know from Zozie that he is there. Five days since he arrived here so unexpectedly, and so far he has not returned. That surprises me a little—though perhaps it should not. I tell myself it’s better this way, that seeing him again would only make things even more difficult. But the damage is done. I’ve seen his face. And outside I can hear a tinkle of chimes, as the wind begins to stir again. . . .
“Perhaps I should just drop by,” I said, in a casual tone that fools no one. “It seems so wrong not to see him at all, and. . . .”
Zozie shrugged. “Sure—if you want to get him sacked.”
“Sacked? ”
“Well, duh,” she said impatiently. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, Yanne, but I think Thierry might be just a little bit squiggle-eyed about Roux already, and if you start just dropping by, there’ll be a scene, and before you know it—”
It made sense, as always, I thought. Trust Zozie to point it out. But I must have looked disappointed, because she grinned and put her arm around my shoulders. “Look, if you like, I’ll check on Roux. I’ll tell him he’s more than welcome to come by here whenever he wants to. Hell, I’ll even bring him sandwiches if you like.”
I laughed at her exuberance. “I don’t think that will be necessary.”
“Just don’t worry. Things’ll work out.”
I’m beginning to think perhaps they will.
Madame Luzeron was in today, on her way to the cemetery with her little fluffy peach-colored dog. She bought, as always, three rum truffles but seems less distant nowadays; more inclined to sit and stay, to taste a cup of mocha and a slice of my three-layer chocolate cake. She stays, but still she rarely talks, although she likes to watch Rosette drawing under the counter, or looking at one of her storybooks. Today she was watching the Advent house, now open to show the tableau inside. Today’s scene is set in the hallway, with guests arriving at the door of the house, and the hostess in her party dress standing there to welcome them. “That’s a most original display,” said Madame Luzeron, moving her powdered face closer to the window. “All the little chocolate mice. And the little dolls—” “Clever, aren’t they? Annie made those.” Madame sipped at her chocolate. “Perhaps she’s right,” she said at last. “There’s nothing so sad as an empty house.” The dolls are all made of wooden pegs, carefully colored and painstakingly dressed. Much time and effort has gone into making them, and I recognize myself in the lady of the house. At least, I recognize Vianne Rocher, her dress made from a scrap of red silk; her long black hair—at Anouk’s request—made from a snip of my own hair, glued on and tied up with a bow. “Where’s your doll? ” I asked Anouk later. “Oh, I haven’t finished making it yet. But I will,” she said, looking so earnest that I smiled. “I’ll make a doll for everyone. And by Christmas Eve, they’ll all be done, and all the doors in the house will be open, and there’ll be a big party for everyone—”
Ah, I thought. The point emerges.
It’s Rosette’s birthday on the twentieth. We’ve never had a party for her. A bad time, and always was, too close to Yule and not far enough away from Les Laveuses. Anouk always mentions it every year, though Rosette doesn’t seem to mind. To Rosette, all days are magical, and a handful of buttons or a piece of scrunched-up silver paper can be every bit as marvelous as the most exquisite of toys.
“Could we have a party too, Maman? ”
“Oh, Anouk. You know we can’t.”
“Why not? ” she said stubbornly.
“Well, you know, it’s a busy time. And besides, if we’re moving to Rue de la Croix—”
“Well, duh,” said Anouk. “That’s exactly my point. We shouldn’t just move without saying good-bye. We should have a party on Christmas Eve. For Rosette’s birthday. For our friends. Because you know that as soon as we move into Thierry’s place, everything’s going to be different, and we’ll have to do everything Thierry’s way, and—”
“That’s not fair, Anouk,” I said.
“But it’s true, isn’t it? ”
“Maybe,” I said.
A party on Christmas Eve, I thought. As if I didn’t have enough to do in the chocolaterie at the very
busiest time of the year. . . .
“Well, I’d help, of course,” said Anouk. “I could write out invitations, and plan the menu, and put up the decorations, and I could make a cake for Rosette. You know she likes chocolate orange best. We could make her a cake in the shape of a monkey. Or it could be a fancy dress party, with everyone dressed like animals. And we could have grenadine—and Coke—and chocolate, of course.”
I had to laugh. “You’ve thought about this a lot, haven’t you? ”
She made a face. “Well, maybe a bit.”
I sighed.
Why not? Perhaps it’s time.
“All right,” I said. “You can have your party.”
Anouk gave a gleeful wriggle. “Cool! D’you think it’ll snow? ”
“Well, it might.”
“And could people come in fancy dress? ”
“If they wanted to, Nanou.”
“And could we invite whoever we liked? ”
“Of course.”
“Even Roux? ”
I should have guessed. “Why not? ” I said. “If he’s still here.”
I have not really spoken of Roux to Anouk. I have not mentioned that he is working for Thierry only a couple of blocks away. Lying by omission doesn’t quite count; and yet I’m sure that if she knew—
Last night I read the cards again. I don’t know why, but I took them out, still fragrant with my mother’s scent. I do this so seldom—I barely believe—
And yet, here I am, shuffling the cards with the expertise of many years. Laying them out in the Tree of life pattern my mother favored; seeing the images flicker by.
Outside the shop, the wind chimes are still, but I can hear it even so: a resonance like that of a tuning fork that makes my head ache and the hairs on my arms stand on end.
Turn over the cards, one by one.
Their faces are more than familiar.
Death; the Lovers; the Hanged Man; Change.
The Fool; the Magus; the Tower.
I shuffle the cards and try again.
The Lovers. The Hanged Man. Change. Death.
Again, the same cards, in a different order, as if what pursues me has subtly altered.
The Magus; the Tower; the Fool.
The Fool has red hair and is playing a flute. He reminds me somehow of the Pied Piper in his feathered hat and patchwork coat—gazing up into the sky, heedless of the dangerous ground. Has he opened the chasm at his feet himself, a trap for whoever might follow him? Or will he go recklessly over the edge ?
Ihardly slept at all after that. The wind and my dreams conspired to wake me, and on top of that Rosette was restless, less cooperative than at any time in the past six months, and I spent three hours trying to get her to sleep. Nothing worked: not hot chocolate in her special cup; not any of her favorite toys; not her monkey night-light or her special blanket (an oatmeal-colored disaster upon which she dotes); not even my mother’s lullaby. I thought she seemed excited rather than upset, only wailing and hiccuping when I was about to leave, but otherwise perfectly happy for both of us to be wide awake. Baby, signed Rosette. “It’s nighttime, Rosette. Go to sleep.” Go see baby, she signed again. “We can’t now. Tomorrow, maybe.” Outside, the wind rattled the window frames. Inside, a row of small objects—a domino, a pencil, a piece of chalk, two plastic animal figurines— skittered down from the mantelpiece onto the floor. “Please, Rosette. Not now. Go to sleep, and tomorrow, we’ll see.”
At two-thirty I finally managed to get her to sleep, closing the door between us and lying down on my sagging bed. Not quite a double bed, though too large for a single one, it was already old when we moved in, and the random percussion of its broken springs has been the cause of many a sleepless night. Tonight it was an orchestra, and at just after five I gave up on sleep and went downstairs to make coffee. Outside, it was raining; a fat, heavy rain that sluiced down the alleyway and spouted exuberantly from the guttering. I picked up a blanket that had been lying on the stairs and took it, with my coffee, into the front of the shop. Then I sat down in one of Zozie’s armchairs (so much more comfortable than the ones upstairs), and, with only the soft yellow light from the kitchen filtering out through the half-closed door, I curled up and waited for morning to come.
I must have dozed off—a sound awoke me. It was Anouk, barefoot in her red-and-blue-checked pajamas, a blurry shimmer at her heels that could only be Pantoufle. I have noticed over the past few years that although by day Pantoufle can disappear for weeks, and sometimes months on end, he is a stronger and more persistent presence at night. As I suppose he has to be; all children are afraid of the dark. Anouk came over, slid under the blanket, and curled up against me with her hair in my face and her cold feet tucked up behind my knees, as she used to when she was much younger, in the days when things were simple.
“I couldn’t sleep. The ceiling drips.”
Ah, yes. I’d forgotten. There’s a leak in the roof, which no one so far has quite managed to fix. That’s the problem with these old buildings. However much work is done on them, there’s always something new to address: a rotten window frame; a broken gutter; woodworm in the joist; a cracked slate. And though Thierry has always been generous, I don’t like to ask him too often for help. It’s nonsense, I know; but I don’t like to ask.
“I was thinking about our party,” she said. “Does Thierry really have to come? You know he’ll ruin everything.”
I gave a sigh. “Oh, please. Not now.” Anouk’s violent enthusiasms usually amuse me, but not at six in the morning.
“Go on, Maman,” she said. “Couldn’t we just not invite him this time ? ”
“We’ll be fine,” I said. “You’ll see.” I was quite aware that it wasn’t an answer, and Anouk shifted restlessly, pulling the blanket over her head. She smelled of vanilla and lavender and the faint, sheepy scent of her tangled hair, grown coarser over the past four years, like uncarded wild wool.
Rosette’s hair is still baby fine, like milkweed and marigolds, rubbed thin at the back where her head rests against the pillow at night. Four years old in less than two weeks, and she still has the look of a much younger child: arms and legs like little pipes, eyes too large for her small face. My Cat Baby, I used to call her, back in the days when it was still a joke.
My Cat Baby. My changeling.
Under the blanket, Anouk moved again, tucking her face into my shoulder and her hands into my armpit.
“You’re cold,” I said.
She shook her head.
“How about a cup of hot chocolate ? ”
She shook her head, more violently. I found myself marveling at the way these little things can tear at the heart—the forgotten kiss, the discarded toy, the unwanted story, the look of annoyance where once there would have been a smile. . . .
Children are knives, my mother once said. They don’t mean to, but they cut. And yet we cling to them, don’t we, we clasp them until the blood flows. My summer child, grown stranger as the year turns, and it struck me how long it had been since she had let me hold her this way, and I wished it could be longer, but the clock on the wall said six-fifteen—
“Get into my bed, Nanou. It’s warmer there, and the ceiling won’t drip.”
“What about Thierry? ” she said.
“We’ll talk about it later, Nanou.”
“Rosette doesn’t want him,” said Anouk.
“How on earth can you know that? ”
Anouk shrugged. “I just know.”
I sighed and kissed the top of her head. Again, that sheepy-vanilla scent—and with it, something stronger and more adult, which I finally identified as frankincense. Zozie burns it in her rooms. I know Anouk spends a lot of time there, talking and trying on her clothes. It’s good for her to have someone like Zozie; an adult—not me—in whom to confide.
“You ought to give Thierry a chance. I know he’s not perfect, but he really likes you—” “You don’t really want him either,” she said. “You don’t even miss him when he’s
not there. You’re not in love.”
“Now don’t start that,” I said, exasperated. “There are lots of different ways ofloving. I love you; and I love Rosette; and just because what I feel for Thierry isn’t the same, it doesn’t mean that I—”
But Anouk wasn’t listening. She struggled out from under the blanket, shaking herself free of my arms. I know what this is about, I thought. She liked Thierry well enough before Roux came back, and when he’s gone— “I know what’s best. I’m doing this for you, Nanou.” Anouk shrugged, looking very like Roux. “Trust me. We’re going to be fine.” “Whatever,” she said and went upstairs.
Friday, 7 December
Oh dear. it’s so sad when communications break down between a mother and her daughter. Especially a pair as close as these two. Today Vianne was tired; I could see it in her face. I don’t think she slept very much last night. Too tired, in any case, to notice the growing resentment in her daughter’s eyes, or the way she turns to me for approval.
Still, Vianne’s loss can be my gain; and now I am on the scene, so to speak, I can make my influence felt in a hundred inconspicuous new ways. Let’s start with the skills that Vianne has so cleverly subverted: those wonderful weapons of will and desire—
So far I have still not found out what Anouk fears from using them. Something happened, certainly; something for which she feels responsible. But weapons are meant to be used, Nanou. For good or for ill. It’s your choice.
For the moment she still lacks confidence, but I have assured her that no possible harm can come of a little working or two. She may even use them on behalf of others—it rankles, of course, but we can cure her of selflessness later on—and by then, it won’t be a novelty, and we can work on essential things.
So what is it you want, Anouk?
What is it that you really want?
Well, of course, those things that every good child wants. To do well at school; to be popular; to gain petty revenge on her enemies. Those things are easily dealt with, and we can move on to working with people.