His smile broadened. He took the chocolates in their pretty silver sachet.
Ill see she gets them, he said, cramming the packet into his jeans pocket.
Theyre her favourites, I told him.
You wont go far in this job if you keep giving out freebies, he said, indulgently. Youll be out of business in a month.
Again the hard, greedy look, as if I too were a chocolate he couldnt wait to unwrap.
Well see, I said blandly, and watched him leave the shop and begin the road home, shoulders slouched in a thickset James Dean swagger. He didnt even wait to be out of sight before I saw him take out Josephines chocolates and open the packet. Perhaps he guessed I might be watching. One, two, three, his hand went to his mouth with lazy regularity, and before he had crossed the square the silver wrapping was already balled in a square fist, the chocolates gone. I imagined him cramming them in like a greedy dog who wants to finish his own food before robbing anothers plate. Passing the bakers he popped the silver ball at the bin outside but missed, bouncing it off the rim and onto the stones. Then he continued on his way past the church and down the Avenue des francs Bourgeois without looking back, his engineer boots kicking sparks from the smooth cobbles underfoot.
12
Friday, February 21
The weather turned cold again last night. St Jeromes weathervane turned and swung in anxious indecision all night, scraping shrilly against its rusted moorings as if to warn against intruders. The morning began in fog so dense that even the church tower, twenty paces.from the shopfront, seemed remote and spectral; the bell for Mass tolling thickly through wadded candyfloss as the few comers approached, collars turned against the fog, to collect absolution.
When she had finished her morning milk, I wrapped Anouk into her red coat and, in spite of her protests, pushed a fluffy cap onto her head.
Dont you want any breakfast?
She shook her head emphatically, grabbed an apple from a dish by the counter.
What about my kiss?
This has become a morning ritual.
Wrapping sly arms around my neck, she licks my face wetly, jumps away giggling, blows a kiss from the doorway, runs out into the square. I mime appalled horror, wiping my face. She laughs delightedly, pokes out a small sharp tongue in my direction, bugles, I love you! and is off like a scarlet streamer into the fog, her satchel dragging behind her. I know that in thirty seconds the fluffy hat will be relegated to the inside of the satchel, along with books, papers and other unwanted reminders of the adult world. For a second I see Pantoufle again, jumping in her wake, and banish the unwanted image in haste. A sudden loneliness of loss how can I face an entire day without her? and, with difficulty, I suppress an urge to call her back.
Six customers this morning. One is Guillaume, on his way back from the butchers with a piece of boudin wrapped in paper.
Charly likes boudin, he tells me earnestly. He hasnt been eating very well recently, but Im sure hell love this.
Dont forget you have to eat too, I remind him gently.
Of course. He gives his sweet, apologetic smile. I eat like a horse. Really I do. He gives me a sudden, stricken look. Of course, its Lent, he says. You dont think animals should observe the Lenten fast, do you?
I shake my head at his dismayed expression: His face is small, delicately featured. He is the kind of man who breaks biscuits in two and saves the other half for later.
I think you should both look after yourselves better.
Guillaume scratches Charlys ear. The dog seems listless, barely interested in the contents of the butchers package in the basket beside him.
We manage. His smile comes as automatically as the lie: Really we do. He finishes his cup of chocolat espresso. That was excellent, he says as he always does. My compliments, Madame Rocher.
I have long since stopped asking him to call me Vianne. His sense of propriety forbids it. He leaves the money on the counter, tips his old felt hat and opens the door. Charly scrambles to his feet and follows, lurching slightly to one side. Almost as soon as the door closes behind them, I see Guillaume stoop to pick him up and carry him.
At lunchtime I had another visitor. I recognized her at once in spite of the shapeless mans overcoat she affects; the clever winter-apple face beneath the black straw hat, the long black skirts over heavy workboots.
Madame Voizin! You said youd drop in, didnt you? Let me get you a drink.
Bright eyes flicked appreciatively from one side of the shop to another I sensed her taking everything in. Her gaze came to rest on Anouks menu:
chocolat chaud 10f
chocolat espresso 15f
chococcino 12f
mocha 12f
She nodded approvingly.
Its been years since I had anything like this, she said. Id almost forgotten this sort of place existed. There is an energy in her voice, a forcefulness to her movements, which belies her age. Her mouth has a humorous twist which reminds me of my mother. I used to love chocolate, she declared.
As I poured her, a tall glass of mocha and added a splash of kahlua to the froth she surveyed the bar stools with some suspicion.
You dont expect me to climb all the way up there, do you?
I laughed.
If Id known you were coming I would have brought a ladder. Wait a moment. Stepping into the kitchen I brought out Poitous old orange chair. Try this.
Armande plumped into the chair and took her glass in both hands. She looked eager as a child, her eyes shining, her expression rapt.
Mmmm. It was more than appreciation. It was almost reverence. Mmmmmm.
She had closed her eyes as she tasted the drink. Her pleasure was almost frightening.
This is the real thing, isnt it? She paused for a moment, bright eyes speculatively half-closed. Theres cream and cinnamon, I think and what else? Tia Maria?
Close enough, I said.
Whats forbidden always tastes better anyway, declared Armande, wiping froth from her mouth in satisfaction. But this she sipped again, greedily is better than anything I remember, even from childhood. I bet there are ten thousand calories in here. More.
Why should it be forbidden? I was curious.
Small and round as a partridge, she seems as unlike her figure conscious daughter as can be.
Oh, doctors. Armande was dismissive. You know what theyre like. Theyll say anything. She paused to drink again through her straw. Oh, this is good. Good. Caros been trying to make me go into some kind of a home for years. Doesnt like the idea of me living next door. Doesnt like to be reminded where she comes from. She gave a rich chuckle. Says Im sick. Cant look after myself. Sends that miserable doctor of hers to tell me what I can eat and what I cant. Anyone would think they wanted me to live for ever.
I smiled.
Im sure Caroline cares very much about you, I said.
Armande shot me a look of derision.
Oh, you are? She gave a vulgar cackle of laughter. Dont give me that, girl. You know perfectly well that my daughter doesnt care for anyone but herself. Im not a fool. A pause as she narrowed her bright, challenging gaze at me. Its the boy I feel for, she said.