Monday, 24 December
Christmas Eve 11:25 P.M.
It broke the charm. she stopped. she stared. moved closer to me across the snow and brought her face up close to mine. And now I could smell that dead-crab stink, but I didn’t blink or look away.
“You dare to ask me that? ” she snarled.
And now I could hardly bear to look. She’d changed her face and was fearsome again; a giantess; her mouth a cave of mossy teeth. The silver bracelet on her wrist now looked like a bracelet of skulls, and her skirt of hearts was dripping with blood, a curtain of blood in the fallen snow. She was terrible, but she was afraid, and behind her Maman was watching with a funny kind of smile on her face, as if she understood far more about it than I did, somehow—
She gave me the tiniest of nods.
I said the magic words again. “What was in the black piñata? ”
Zozie made a harsh sound in her throat. “I thought we were friends, Nanou,” she said. And suddenly she was Zozie again, the old Zozie of the lollipop shoes, with her scarlet skirt and her pink-streaked hair and her jangly multicolored beads. And she looked so real and so familiar that it hurt my heart to see her so sad. And her hand on my shoulder was trembling, and her eyes filled with tears as she whispered—
“Please—oh please, Nanou, don’t make me tell—”
My mother was standing six feet away. Behind her in the square were Jean-Loup, Roux, Nico, Madame Luzeron, Alice, and their colors were like fireworks on the Fourteenth of July, all gold and green and silver and red—
I caught a sudden scent of chocolate drifting from the open door, and I thought of the copper pan on the hob, and the way the steam had reached out to me like ghostly pleading fingers, and the voice I’d almost thought I heard, my mother’s, saying, Try me, taste me—
And I thought about all the times she’d offered me hot chocolate, and I’d said no. Not because I don’t like it, but because I was angry that she’d changed; because I blamed her for what happened to us; and because I wanted to get back at her, to make her see I was different—
It isn’t Zozie’s fault, I thought. Zozie’s just the mirror that shows us what we want to see. Our hopes; our hates; our vanities. But when you really look at it, a mirror’s just a piece of glass—
For the third time, I said in my clearest voice: “What was in the black piñata? ”
Monday, 24 December
Christmas Eve 11:30 P.M.
I can see it all so clearly now, like pictures on a tarot card. The darkened shop; skulls on the shelves; the little girl; the great-great-grandmother standing by with a look of appalling greed on her ancient face.
I know that Anouk sees it too. Even Zozie sees it now, and her face keeps changing, going from old to young, from Zozie to the Queen of Hearts, mouth twisting from contempt to indecision and finally to naked fear. And now she’s only nine years old, a little girl in her carnival dress with a silver bracelet round her wrist.
“You want to know what was inside ? You really want to know? ” she says.
Monday, 24 December
Christmas Eve 11:30 P.M.
So you really want to know, anouk?
Shall I tell you what I saw?
What was I expecting, you ask? Sweets, perhaps, or lollipops; chocolate skulls; necklaces of sugar teeth; all the tawdry Day of the Dead merchandise ready to explode out of the black piñata like a shower of dark confetti ?
Or something else, some occult revelation: a glimpse of God; a hint of beyond; some assurance, perhaps, that the dead are still here, guests at our table; unquiet sleepers; custodians of some essential mystery that will one day be imparted to the rest of us?
Isn’t that what we all want? To believe that Christ arose from the dead; that angels guard us; that fish on a Friday is sometimes holy and at other times a mortal sin; that it somehow matters if a sparrow falls, or a tower or two, or even an entire race, annihilated in the name of some specious deity or other, barely distinguishable from a whole series of One True Gods— ha!—Lord, what fools these mortals be, and the joke of it is that we’re all fools, even to the gods themselves, because for all the millions who were slaughtered in their name, for all the prayers and sacrifices and wars and revelations, who really remembers the Old Ones now—Tlaloc and Coatlicue and Quetzalcoatl and even greedy old Mictecacihuatl herself—their temples made into “heritage sites,” their stones toppled, their pyramids overgrown, all lost in time like blood in the sand?
And what do we really care, Anouk, if a hundred years from now the Sacré-Coeur has become a mosque, or a synagogue, or something else altogether? Because by then we’ll all be sand, except for the One who has always been; the one that builds pyramids; raises temples; makes martyrs; composes sublime music; denies logic; praises the meek; receives souls into Paradise; dictates what to wear; smites the infidel; paints the Sistine Chapel; urges young men to die for the cause; blows up bandsmen by remote control; promises much; delivers little; fears no one and never dies, because the fear of Death is so much greater than honor, or goodness, or faith, or love. . . .
So, back to your question. What was it again?
Ah, yes, the black piñata.
You think I found the answer in there ?
Sorry, sweetheart. Think again.
You want to know what I saw, Anouk?
Nothing. That’s what. Big fat zip.
No answers, no certainties; no payback; no truth. Just air; a single belch of foul air rushing out of the black piñata like morning breath from a thou-sand-year sleep.
“The worst of all things is nothing, Anouk. No meaning; no message; no demons; no gods. We die—and there’s nothing. Nothing at all.”
She watches me with those dark eyes.
“You’re wrong,” she says. “There’s something.”
“What? You really think you’ve got something here? Think again. The chocolate shop? Thierry will have you out by Easter. Like all conceited men, he’s vindictive. In four months time, you’ll be back where you started, the three of you, penniless and on the road.
“Think you’ll have Vianne? You won’t, you know. She hasn’t the courage to be herself, let alone be a mother to you. Think you’ll have Roux? Don’t count on it. He’s the biggest liar of all. Ask to see his boat, Anouk. Ask to see his precious boat—”
But I’m losing her, and I know it now. She looks at me with no fear in her eyes. Instead there’s something I can’t quite make out—
Pity? No. She wouldn’t dare.
“It must be very lonely, Zozie.”
“Lonely? ” I snarled.
“Being you.”
I uttered a silent howl of rage. It’s the hunting cry of One Jaguar, of Black Tezcatlipoca in his most terrible Aspect. But the child didn’t flinch. Instead, she smiled and took my hand.
“All those hearts you’ve collected,” she said. “And still you don’t have one of your own. Is that why you wanted me? So you wouldn’t be alone anymore? ”
I stared at her, speechless now with indignation. Does the Pied Piper steal children for love ? Does the Big Bad Wolf seduce Red Riding Hood out of a misguided need for company? I’m the Eater of Hearts, you stupid child; I’m the Fear of Death; I’m the Wicked Witch; I’m the grimmest of all fairy tales, and don’t you dare feel sorry for me—
I pushed her away. She wouldn’t leave. She reached out for my hand again, and suddenly, don’t ask me why, I began to feel afraid—
Call it a warning, if you like. Call it an attack brought on by excitement, champagne, and too much pulque. But suddenly I was cold with sweat; my chest was tight; my breath came in gasps. Pulque is an unpredictable brew; it brings a heightened awareness to some; visions that may be intense but that can also drift into delirium, pushing the drinker to perform rash acts; to reveal perhaps more of themselves than is entirely safe for one such as myself.
And now I understood the truth: that in my eagerness to collect this child I’d somehow slipped; I’d shown my true face, and th
e sudden intimacy of it was unsettling, unspeakable, tearing at me like a hungry dog.
“Let go of me! ”
Anouk just smiled.
And now true panic swept through me, and I pushed at her with all my strength. She slipped and fell backward into the snow, and even then I could feel her reaching for me with that look of pity in her eyes—
There are times when even the best of us has to decide to cut and run. There will be others, I tell myself—new cities, new challenges, new gifts. But no one will be collected today.
Least of all, myself.
I run, almost blindly through the snow, slipping on the cobblestones, reckless in my haste to escape, losing myself on the wind from the Butte that rises like a whisper of black smoke over Paris, on its way to who knows where—
Monday, 24 December
Christmas Eve 11:35 p.m.
I made a pot of chocolate. it’s what i do in times of stress; and the strange little scene outside the shop had shaken more than one of us. It must have been the light, said Nico; that weird light you get with snow; or too much wine, or something we ate—
I let him believe it. The others too as I led Anouk shivering into the warmth of the shop and poured hot chocolate into her mug.
“Be careful, Nanou,” I said. “It’s hot.”
It has been four years since she drank my hot chocolate. But this time she drank it without complaint. Wrapped in a blanket, she was already half asleep; and she could not tell us what she had seen during those few minutes outside in the snow, nor could she explain Zozie’s disappearance, nor the strange feeling I’d had at the end of hearing their voices from far away—
Outside, Nico had found something.
“Hey, folks. She lost a shoe.” He shook the melting snow from his boots and put the shoe on the table between us. “Whoa. Chocolate. Excellent! ” He poured himself a generous cup.
Meanwhile Anouk had picked up the shoe. A single shoe in luscious red velvet, stack-heeled and peep-toed and stitched all through with glamours and charms fit for an adventuress on the run—
Try me, it says.
Try me. Test me.
For a second, Anouk frowns. Then she drops the shoe to the floor.
“Don’t you know it’s bad luck to put shoes on a table? ” I hide a smile behind my hand. “Nearly midnight,” I tell her. “Are you ready to open your presents? ” To my surprise, Roux shakes his head. “I nearly forgot. It’s getting late.
If we hurry, we’ll just have time.” “Time for what? ” “Surprise,” says Roux. “Better than presents? ” says Anouk. Roux grins. “You’ll have to see.”
Monday, 24 December
Christmas Eve Midnight
The Port de L’arsenal is a ten-minute walk from place de la Bastille. We took the last Métro from Pigalle, arriving just minutes before twelve. The clouds had mostly cleared by then, and I could see slices of starry sky, bracketed with orange and gold. A faint scent of smoke distressed the air, and in the eerie luminescence of the fallen snow, the pale spires of Notre-Dame were just visible in the middle distance.
“What are we doing here? ” I said.
Roux grinned and put a finger to his lips. He was carrying Rosette, who looked quite alert, watching everything with the wide-eyed interest of a child up long past her bedtime and enjoying every minute of it. Anouk too looked wide awake, although there was a tension in her face that led me to think that whatever had happened in Place des Faux-Monnayeurs was not quite over. Most of our guests had stayed in Montmartre, but Michèle was with us, looking almost afraid to follow the group, as if someone might think she had no right. Every now and again she would touch my arm, as if by accident, or stroke Rosette’s hair, and look at her hands, as if she expected to see something there—a mark, a stain—to prove to herself that it was all real.
“Would you like to hold Rosette ? ”
Silent, Michèle shook her head. I hadn’t really heard her speak since I’d told her who I was. Thirty years of grief and longing have given her face the look of something too often folded and creased; a smile seems unfamiliar, and she tries it on now as she might some garment that she’s almost certain will not suit.
“They try to prepare you for loss,” she said. “It never occurs to them to prepare you for the opposite.”
I nodded. “I know. We’ll manage,” I said.
She smiled—a better smile than before, which brought a fugitive gleam to her eyes. “I think I will,” she said, taking my arm. “I’ve a feeling it runs in the family.”
It was then that the first of the city’s fireworks went off, a chrysanthemum spray across the river. Another followed from farther away, then another, and another, arching gracefully across the Seine in arabesques of green and gold.
“Midnight. Merry Christmas,” said Roux.
The fireworks were almost soundless, muted by distance as well as by snow. They went on for almost ten minutes more, spiderweb trails and rocket bouquets and shooting stars, and ringlets of fire in blue and silver and scarlet and rose, all calling and beckoning to one another all the way from Notre-Dame to Place de la Concorde.
Michèle watched them, her face calm and illuminated with something more than just fireworks. Rosette signed madly, crowing with joy, and Anouk watched with solemn delight.
“That was the best present ever,” she said.
“There’s more,” said Roux. “Just follow me.”
We walked down Boulevard de la Bastille toward the Port de l’Arsenal, where boats of all sizes are moored in safety away from the swell and turbulence of the Seine.
“She said you didn’t have a boat.” It was the first time Anouk had mentioned Zozie since the events at Le Rocher de Montmartre.
Roux grinned. “Look for yourself.” And he pointed over the Pont Morland.
Anouk stood on tiptoe, eyes wide. “Which one’s yours? ” she said eagerly.
“Can’t you guess? ” said Roux.
There are more impressive riverboats moored along the Arsenal. The port takes crafts up to twenty-five meters, and this one is no more than half that size. It is old, I can see that from here, built more for comfort than speed, and its shape is old-fashioned, less sleek than its neighbors, with a hull made out of solid wood rather than modern fiberglass. And yet Roux’s boat stands out at once. Even from some distance away, there is something about the shape of it, the brightly painted hull, the plant pots clustered at the stern, the glass roof through which to see the stars— “That’s yours? ” says Anouk. “You like it? There’s more. Wait here,” says Roux, and we see him racing down the steps toward the boat moored down by the bridge. For a moment he disappears. Then there’s a flicker of flame from a match. A light comes on. A candle is lit. The flame moves, and the boat comes to life as candles burn on the deck, on the roof, on sills and ledges from stem to stern. Dozens—maybe hundreds—of them, glowing in jam jars, on saucers, shining out from tin cans and flowerpots until Roux’s boat is lit up like a birthday cake, and we can see what we missed before: the awning, the window, the sign on the roof. . . . He waves to us extravagantly, signaling for us to approach. Anouk does not run but holds my hand, and I can feel her trembling. I’m barely surprised to see Pantoufle in the shadows at our feet, and isn’t there something else as well, some long-tailed and loping thing that matches him naughtily, step for step? “Do you like it? ” says Roux. For a moment, the candles themselves are enough; a small miracle reflected in a thousand little points of light across the quiet waterway. Rosette’s eyes are filled with them, and Anouk, watching with my hand in hers, lets out a long and languorous breath. Michèle says: “It’s beautiful.” And so it is. But more than that— “It’s a chocolaterie, isn’t it? ”
And, of course, I can see it is. From the sign (still blank) above the door to the little display window lined with night-lights, I can see what it’s meant to be. I cannot begin to guess how long it took him to create this little miracle—how much time and work and love such a project must demand— r />
He’s watching me with his hands in his pockets. There’s a trace of anxiety in his eyes.
“I bought it as a wreck,” he says. “Dried it out and fixed it up. Been working on it ever since. Paid for it over nearly four years. But I always thought that maybe one day—”
My mouth on his stops him midphrase. He smells of paint and gunpowder smoke. And all around us the candles are lit, and Paris is luminous under the snow, and the last unofficial fireworks are dying away beyond Place de la Bastille, and—
“Meh. You two. Get a room,” says Anouk.
Neither of us has breath to reply.
It’s quiet now under Pont Morland as we lie, watching the candles burn out. Michèle is asleep in one bunk, and Rosette and Anouk are sharing another, with Anouk’s red cloak flung over them both, and Pantoufle and Bam standing guard in case of evil dreams. Above us, in our own room, the glass roof shows us a sky sprawling and apocalyptic with stars. In the distance, the sound of traffic from Place de la Bastille might almost be the sound of surf on a lonely beach. I know it’s only cheap magic. Jeanne Rocher would not have approved. But it’s our magic, mine and his, and he tastes of chocolate and champagne, and finally, we slip out of our clothes and lie entwined beneath a blanket of stars. Across the water, music plays, a tune I almost recognize.
V’là l’bon vent, v’là l’ joli vent
There isn’t so much as a breath of wind.
Epilogue
Tuesday, 25 December
Christmas Day
Another day, another gift. another city opens its arms. well, Paris was getting stale, you know, and I love New York at this time of year. A pity about Anouk, I guess. Chalk it down to experience.
As for her mother—well, she had her chance. There may be a little short-term unpleasantness. Thierry, especially, will try to make his fraud charge stick, though I wouldn’t rate his chance of success. Identity theft is so common these days—as I imagine he’ll soon find out, when he looks at his savings account. As for Françoise Lavery—there are too many people who can swear Vianne Rocher was in Montmartre at the time.