Roux looks wary, then he grins, accepts a glass of champagne from Madame Luzeron, and raises it to all of us.
He followed me into the kitchen as the conversation started again. Rosette came with him, still crawling in her monkey suit, and I remember now how fascinated she was the first time he walked into the shop, as if even then she had recognized him.
Roux bent down to touch her hair. The resemblance between them was sweetly poignant, like memories and lost time. There are so many things he hasn’t seen; when Rosette first held up her head; her first smile; her animal drawings; the spoon dance that so angered Thierry. But I already know from the look on his face that he’ll never blame her for being different; that she will never embarrass him; that he will never compare her to anyone else, or ask that she be anything other than herself—
“Why did you never tell me? ” he said.
I hesitated. Which truth should I tell? That I was too afraid, too proud, too stubborn to change, that, like Thierry, I’d been in love with a fantasy that, when it finally came within my grasp, revealed itself to be, not gold, but nothing more than wisps of straw?
“I wanted us to settle down. I wanted us to be ordinary.”
“Ordinary? ”
I told him the rest; told of our flight from town to town, the fake wedding ring, the change of name, the end of magic, Thierry; the pursuit of acceptance at any cost, even my shadow, even my soul.
Roux stayed silent for a while, then he laughed softly in his throat. “All this for a chocolate shop? ”
I shook my head. “Not anymore.”
He always said I tried too hard. Cared too much—and now I can see that I didn’t care enough for the things that really matter to me. A chocolaterie is, after all, just sand and mortar, stone and glass. It has no heart; no life of its own except for what it takes from us. And when we have given that away—
Roux picked up Rosette, who did not squirm as she usually does when approached by a stranger but gave a silent crow of delight and signed something with both her hands.
“What did she say? ”
“She says you look like a monkey,” I said, laughing. “From Rosette, that’s a compliment.”
He grinned at that and put his arms around us both. And for a moment we stood entwined, Rosette clinging to his neck, the soft sound of laughter from the next room, and the scent of chocolate on the air—
And then a silence falls over the room, and the wind chimes ring, and the door blows wide, and through the opening I can see another hooded figure all in red, but bigger, bulkier, and so familiar beneath his false beard that I don’t have to see the cigar in his hand—
And in the silence Thierry comes in, with a lurch in his step that speaks of drink.
He fixes Roux with a malevolent stare and says: “Who is she ? ”
“She ? ” says Roux.
Thierry crosses the room in three strides, clipping the Christmas tree in his path and scattering presents over the floor. He thrusts his white-bearded face toward Roux.
“You know,” he says. “Your accomplice. The one who helped you cash my check. The one the bank’s got on CCTV—and who by all accounts has ripped off more than one sucker in Paris this year—”
“I don’t have an accomplice,” says Roux. “I never cashed your—”
And now I can see something in his face, a dawning of something, but it’s too late.
Thierry grabs him by the arm. They’re so close now, reflections in a distorted mirror, Thierry wild-eyed, Roux very pale—
“The police know all about her,” Thierry says. “But they’ve never been so close before. She changes her name, see ? Works alone. But this time she made a mistake. She hitched up with a loser like you. So who is she ? ” He’s shouting now, his face as red as Santa’s own. He fixes Roux with his drunken glare. “Who the hell is Vianne Rocher? ”
Monday, 24 December
Christmas Eve 10:55 P.M.
Well, isn’t that the million-dollar question?
Thierry is drunk. I can see that at once. He reeks of beer and cigar smoke, which clings to his Santa Claus costume and that absurdly festive cotton-wool beard. Beneath it his colors are murky and threatening, but I can tell he’s in poor shape.
Across from him, Vianne is white as an ice statue, her mouth half-open, her eyes ablaze. She shakes her head in helpless denial. She knows Roux would not give her away; and Anouk is speechless, twice stricken, first by the touching little family scene she has glimpsed behind the kitchen door, second by this ugly intrusion when everything seemed so perfect at last—
“Vianne Rocher? ” Her voice is blank.
“That’s right,” says Thierry. “Otherwise known as Françoise Lavery, Mercedes Desmoines, Emma Windsor, to name but a few—”
Behind her, I see Anouk recoil. One of those names has struck a chord. Does it matter? I think not. In fact, I think the game is mine—
He fixes her with that measuring stare. “He calls you Vianne.” Of course, he means Roux.
Silently, she shakes her head.
“You mean you’ve never heard that name? ”
Once more she shakes her head, and oh!—
The look on her face as she sees the trap; sees how neatly she has been maneuvered to this very point; understands how her only hope is to deny herself for the third time—
Behind them, no one is watching Madame. Quiet during the festive meal, speaking mostly to Anouk, she now watches Thierry with an expression of stark and uncomplicated horror. Oh, I have prepared Madame, of course. With gentle hints, subtle charm, and good old-fashioned chemistry I have brought her to this moment of revelation, and now all it takes is a single name and the piñata cracks open like a chestnut on the fire. . . .
Vianne Rocher.
Well, that’s my cue. Smiling, I stand, and I have time for a last quick celebratory sip of champagne before all eyes are upon me—hopeful, fearful, furious, worshipful—as now at last I claim the prize—
I smile. “Vianne Rocher? That would be me.”
Monday, 24 December
Christmas Eve 11:00 P.M.
She must have found my papers, of course, hidden in my mother’s box. After that, it’s easy enough to open an account in my name; to send off for a new passport, a driving license, everything she requires to become Vianne Rocher. She even looks just like me now; easy again, using Roux as bait, to use my stolen identity in a way that will at some time incriminate us—
Oh, I can see the trap now. Too late, as always in stories like this, I understand what she wants at last. To force my hand, to trick me into revealing myself, to blow me away like a leaf on the wind, with a new set of Furies on my tail—
But what’s a name? I ask myself. Can’t I choose another one? Can’t I change it, as I have done so many times before, call Zozie’s bluff, and force her to leave ?
Thierry is staring at her in astonishment. “You ? ” he says.
She shrugs. “Surprised? ”
The others are watching her, stupefied.
“You stole the money? You cashed the checks? ”
Behind her, Anouk is very pale.
Nico says: “It can’t be true.”
Madame Luzeron shakes her head.
“But Zozie’s our friend,” says little Alice, blushing furiously at making even such a short speech. “We owe her so much—”
Jean-Louis interrupts. “I know a fake when I see one,” he says. “And Zozie isn’t a fake. I swear.”
But now Jean-Loup speaks up. “It’s true. Her picture was in the newspaper. She’s really good at changing her face, but I knew it was her. My photographs—”
Zozie gives him a barbed smile. “Of course it’s true. It’s all true. I’ve had more names than I can count. I’ve lived from hand to mouth all my life. I’ve never had a proper home, or a family, or a business, or any of the things Yanne has here—”
And she shoots me a smile like a falling star, and I can’t speak, can’t move, captivated like the rest of
them. The fascination is so intense that I could almost believe I’ve been drugged; my head feels like a hive of bees; colors shift around the room, making it spin like a carousel—
Roux puts out his arm to steady me. He alone seems not to share in the general feeling of consternation. I’m vaguely aware of Madame Rimbault— Jean-Loup’s mother—staring at me. Her face is pinched with disapproval beneath the dyed hair. She very clearly wants to leave—and yet she too is mesmerized, caught up in Zozie’s narrative.
Zozie smiles and carries on. “You might say I’m an adventurer. All my life I’ve lived on my wits—gambling, stealing, begging, fraud. I’ve never known anything else. No friends, no place I liked enough to stay . . .”
She pauses, and I can feel the glamour in the air, all incense and sparkling dust, and I know that she can talk them round, can twist them round her little finger.
“But here,” she says, “I found a home. I found people who like me, people who like me for who I am. I thought I could reinvent myself here—but old habits die hard. I’m sorry, Thierry. I’ll pay you back.”
And as their voices begin to rise, confused and distressed and wavering, the quiet Madame now faces Thierry; Madame, whose name I don’t even know, but whose face is pale now with something she can barely articulate, her eyes like agates in that hard face.
“How much does she owe you, Monsieur? ” she says. “I’ll pay it myself, with interest.”
He stares at her, incredulous. “Why? ” he says.
Madame straightens up to her full height. It isn’t much; beside Thierry she looks like a quail facing down a bear.
“I’m sure you have a right to complain,” she says in her nasal Parisian voice. “But I have good reason to believe that Vianne Rocher, whoever she is, is far more my concern than yours.”
“How so? ” says Thierry.
“I’m her mother,” she says.
Monday, 24 December
Christmas Eve 11:05 P.M.
And now the silence that has bound her in its icy cocoon splits open in a broken cry. Vianne, no longer pale but flushed with pulque and confusion, steps out to face Madame in the little semicircle that has gathered around her.
A bunch of mistletoe hangs above their heads, and I feel a wild, mad, relentless urge to run up to her and kiss her right there on the mouth. She’s so easy to manipulate—like all of them—and now I can almost taste the prize, can feel it in the rhythm of my blood, can hear it like surf on a distant beach, and it tastes so sweet, like chocolate—
The sign of One Jaguar has many properties. True invisibility is, of course, impossible outside of fairy tales, but the eye and the brain can be fooled in ways that cameras and film cannot, and it is easy enough, while their attention is focused on Madame, to creep away—not quite unnoticed —to collect the case I have so neatly packed.
Anouk followed, as I knew she would. “Why did you say that? ” she demanded. “Why did you say you were Vianne Rocher? ”
I shrugged. “What do I have to lose? I change my name like my coat, Anouk. I never stay in one place for long. That’s the difference between us. I could never live like that. I could never be respectable. I don’t care what they think of me—but your mother has so much to lose. There’s Roux, and Rosette, and the shop, of course—”
“But what about that woman? ” she said.
So I filled her in on the sorry tale: the child in the car seat; the little cat charm. Turns out Vianne never mentioned it. Can’t say I’m really surprised.
“But if she knew who her mother was,” said Anouk, “then couldn’t she have found her again? ”
“Perhaps she was afraid,” I said. “Or perhaps she felt closer to her adopted mother. You choose your family, Nanou. Isn’t that what she always says? And perhaps . . .” I faked a pause.
“And what? ”
I smiled. “People like us are different. We have to stick together, Nanou. We have to choose our family. After all,” I told her slyly, “if she can lie to you about this, then can you be sure you weren’t stolen too? ”
I left her to think about that for a while. In the other room, Madame was still talking, her voice rising and falling in the rhythms of the natural storyteller. She and her daughter have that in common; but it’s not the time to hang around. I have my case; my coat; my papers. As always, I travel light. From my pocket I bring out Anouk’s present: a small package wrapped in red.
“I don’t want you to go, Zozie.”
“Nanou, I really have no choice.”
The present gleams among the folds of red tissue paper. It’s a bracelet; a slim band made of silver, lustrous and new. By contrast, the single charm that hangs on it is dark with age—a tiny blackened silver cat.
She knows what it means. A sob escapes her.
“Zozie, no—”
“I’m sorry, Anouk.”
Quickly I cross the deserted kitchen. Plates and glasses neatly stacked along with the remains of the feast. On the stove, a pot of hot chocolate simmers; its steam is the only sign of life.
Try me. Taste me, it implores.
It’s a small enough glamour, an everyday charm, and Anouk has withstood it for the last four years, but all the same it pays to be safe, so I turn off the heat under the pot as I make my way toward the back door.
With one hand I carry my case. With the other I cast the sign of Mictecacihuatl like a handful of cobwebs in the air. Death, and a gift. The essential seduction. More potent by far than chocolate.
And now I turn to smile at her. Outside, and the darkness will swallow me whole. The night wind flirts with my red dress. My scarlet shoes are like blood on the snow.
“Nanou,” I say. “We’ve all got a choice. Yanne or Vianne. Annie or Anouk. Changing Wind or the Hurakan. It’s not always easy, being like us. If you want easy, you’d better stay here. But if you want to ride that wind—”
For a moment she seems to hesitate, but I already know I’ve won.
I won the moment I took on your name, and with it, the call of the Changing Wind. You see, Vianne, I never meant to stay. I never wanted your chocolaterie. I never wanted any part of the sad little life you’ve made for yourself.
But Anouk, with her gifts, is invaluable. So young and yet so talented, and most of all, so easy to manipulate. We could be in New York by tomorrow, Nanou, or London, or Moscow, or Venice, or even good old Mexico City. There are plenty of conquests waiting out there for Vianne Rocher and her daughter Anouk, and won’t we both be fabulous; won’t we go through them all like the December wind?
Anouk is watching me, mesmerized. It all makes so much sense to her now that she wonders why she never saw it before. A fair exchange; a life for a life.
And am I not your mother now? Better than life and twice as much fun? Why would you need Yanne Charbonneau? Why would you need anyone?
“But what about Rosette ? ” she protests.
“Rosette has a family now.”
A moment while she thinks about that. Yes, Rosette will have a family. Rosette does not need to choose. Rosette has Yanne. Rosette has Roux—
Another sob escapes her. “Please—”
“Come on, Nanou. It’s what you want. Magic, adventure, life on the edge—”
She takes a step, then hesitates. “You promise you’ll never lie to me ? ”
“Never have. Never will.”
Another pause, and the lingering scent of Vianne’s hot chocolate pulls at me, saying try me, taste me in its smoky plaintive dying voice.
Is that the best you can do, Vianne ?
But Anouk still seems to hesitate.
She’s looking at my bracelet; at the silver charms that are hanging there: coffin, shoes, ear of maize, hummingbird, snake, skull, monkey, mouse—
She frowns, as if she’s trying to remember something that’s just on the tip of her tongue. And her eyes brim with tears as she looks up at the copper pan cooling on the stove.
Try me. Taste me. A last sad fading perfume, like a ghost of child
hood on the air.
Try me. Taste me. A skinned knee; a small damp palm with chocolate dust imprinted into life line and heart line.
Taste me. Test me. A memory of both of them lying in bed, a picture book on the blanket between them, Anouk laughing wildly at something Vianne said . . .
Once more I cast the sign of Mictecacihuatl, old Lady Death, the Gobbler of Hearts, like black fireworks into her path. It’s getting late; Madame’s tale will be done, and very soon they will miss us both.
Anouk looks dazed, watching the stove with a look of one half in a dream. Through the Smoking Mirror I can now see the cause: a small gray shape sitting by the pan, a blur that might be whiskers, a tail—
“Well? ” I ask. “Are you coming or not? ”
Monday, 24 December
Christmas Eve 11:05 P.M.
“I lived down the hall from Jeanne Rocher.” her voice had the typical clipped vowels of the native Parisienne, like stiletto heels rapping out the words. “She was a little older than me, and she earned her money doing Tarot readings and helping people to quit smoking. I went to her once, a couple of weeks before my daughter was taken. She told me I’d been thinking of having her adopted. I called her a liar. All the same, it was true.”
She carried on, her expression bleak. “It was a bedsit flat in Neuilly-Plaisance. Half an hour from the center of Paris. I had an old 2CV, two waitressing jobs at local cafés, and the occasional handout from Sylviane’s father, who by then I’d realized would never leave his wife. I was twenty-one and my life was over. Child care ate what little I earned; I didn’t know what else to do. It wasn’t that I didn’t love her. . . .”
The image of that little cat charm flashes brief ly through my mind. There’s something touching about it, somehow, the silver charm with its lucky red ribbon. Did Zozie steal that too? Perhaps she did. Perhaps that’s how she fooled Madame Caillou, her harsh face softened now with the memory of her loss.
“It was two weeks later that she disappeared. I left her for two minutes, that’s all—Jeanne Rocher must have been watching me, biding her time. When I thought to look for her she’d packed up and left, and there was no proof. But I always wondered—” She turned to me, her face alight. “And then I met your friend Zozie, with her little girl, and I knew, I knew—”