Chocolat (17 page)

       “You can’t stay in there for ever!” I saw a light go on in one of the windows behind him. “You’ll have to come out some time! And then, you bitches! And then!” Automatically I forked his ill-wishing back at him with a quick flick of the fingers.

       Avert. Evil spirit, get thee hence.

       Another one of Mother’s ingrained reflexes. And yet it is surprising how much more secure I feel now. I lay calm and awake for a long time after that, listening to my daughter’s soft breathing and watching the random shifting shapes of moonlight through the leaves. I think I tried scrying again, looking in the moving patterns for a sign, a word of reassurance…At night such things are easier to believe, with the Black Man standing watch outside and the weathervane shrilling cri-criii at the top of the church tower. But I saw nothing, felt nothing, and finally fell asleep once more and dreamed of Reynaud standing at the foot of an old man’s hospital bed with a cross in one hand and a box of matches in the other.

TWENTY-FOUR

    Sunday, March 9

       ARMANDE CAME IN EARLY THIS MORNING for gossip and chocolate. Wearing a new blonde-straw hat decorated with a red ribbon she looked fresher and more vital than she appeared yesterday. The cane which she has taken to carrying is an affectation; tied with a bright red bow it looks like a little flag of defiance. She ordered chocolat viennois and a ‘slice of my black-and-white layer cake and sat down comfortably on a stool. Josephine, who is helping me in the shop for a few days until she decides what to do next, watched with a little apprehension from the kitchen.

       “I heard there was some fuss last night,” said Armande in her brusque way. The kindness in her bright black eyes redeems her forwardness. “That lout Muscat, I heard, out here yelling and carrying on.”

       I explained as blandly as I could. Armande listened appreciatively.

       “I only wonder why she didn’t leave him years ago,” she said when I had finished. “His father was just as bad. Too free with their opinions, both of them. And with their hands.” She nodded cheerily at Josephine, standing in the doorway with a pot of hot milk in one hand. “Always knew you’d see sense one day, girl,” she said. “Don’t you let anyone talk you out of it now.”

       Josephine smiled. “Don’t worry,” she said. “I won’t.”

       We had more customers this morning in La Praline than we have had on any Sunday since Anouk and I moved in. Our regulars — Guillaume, Narcisse, Arnauld and a few others — said little, nodding kindly at Josephine and going on much as normal.

       Guillaume turned up at lunchtime, with Anouk. In the excitement of the past couple of days I had only spoken to him a couple of times, but as he walked in I was struck by the abrupt change in him. Gone was his shrunken, diminished look. Now he walked with a jaunty step, and he was wearing a bright red scarf around his neck which gave him an almost dashing air. From the corner of my eye I saw a darkish blur at his feet. Pantoufle. Anouk ran past Guillaume, her satchel swinging carelessly, ducking under the counter to give me a kiss.

       “Maman!” she bugled in my ear. “Guillaume’s found a dog!”

       I turned to look, my arms still full of Anouk. Guillaume was standing beside the door, his face flushed. At his feet, a small brown-and-white mongrel, no more than a puppy, lolled adoringly.

       “Shh, Anouk. It isn’t my dog.” Guillaume’s expression was a complex of pleasure and embarrassment. “He was by Les Marauds. I think maybe someone wanted to get rid of him.”

       Anouk was feeding sugar lumps to the dog. “Roux found him,” she piped. “Heard him crying down by the river. He told me so.”

       “Oh? You saw Roux?”

       Anouk nodded absently and tickled the dog, who rolled over with a happy snarl. “He’s so cute,” she said. “Are you going to keep him?”

       Guillaume smiled, a little sadly. “I don’t think so, sweetheart. You know, after Charly—”

       “But he’s lost, he hasn’t anywhere else —”

       “I’m sure there are plenty of people willing to give a nice little dog like this a good home.” Guillaume bent down and gently pulled the dog’s ears. “He’s a friendly little chap, full of life.”

       Insistently: “What are you going to call him?”

       Guillaume shook his head. “I don’t think I’ll be keeping him for long enough for that, ma mie.”

       Anouk gave me one of her comical looks, and I shook my head at her in silent warning.

       “I thought perhaps you could put a card in the shop window,” said Guillaume, sitting down at the counter. “To see if anyone claims him, you know.”

       I poured him a cup of mocha and set it down in front of him, with a couple of florentines on the side.

       “Of course.” I smiled.

       When I looked back a moment later, the dog was sitting on Guillaume’s knee, eating the florentines. Anouk looked at me and winked.

       Narcisse had brought me a basket of endives from his nursery, and seeing Josephine, handed her a little bunch of scarlet anemones which he took from his coat pocket, muttering that they would cheer the place up a bit.

       Josephine blushed, but looked pleased and tried to thank him. Narcisse shuffled off, embarrassed, gruffly disclaiming.

       After the kind came the curious. Word had spread during the sermon that Josephine Muscat had moved into La Praline, and there was a steady flow of visitors throughout the morning. Joline Drou and Caro Clairmont arrived in their spring twinsets and silk headscarves with an invitation to a fund-raising tea on Palm Sunday.

       Armande gave a delighted cackle on seeing them. “My my, it’s the Sunday morning fashion parade!” she exclaimed.

       Caro looked annoyed. “You really shouldn’t be here, maman,” she said reproachfully. “You know what the doctor said, don’t you?”

       “I do indeed!” replied Armande. “What’s wrong, aren’t I dying fast enough for you? Is that why you have to send that death’s-head on a stick to spoil my morning?”

       Caro’s powdered cheeks reddened. “Really, maman, you shouldn’t say things like —”

       “I’ll mind my mouth if you mind your business!” snapped Armande smartly, and Caro almost chipped the tiles with her high heels in her haste to leave.

       Then, Denise Arnauld came to see if we needed any extra bread.

       “Just in case,” she said, eyes gleaming with curiosity. “Seeing as now you have a guest, and everything.” I assured her that if we needed bread, we knew where to come.

       Then Charlotte Edouard, Lydie Perrin, Georges Dumoulin: one wanting an early birthday present; another details of the chocolate festival — such an original idea, madame; another had dropped a purse outside St Jerome’s and wondered whether I might have seen it. I kept Josephine behind the counter with one of my clean yellow aprons to protect her clothes from chocolate spillages, and she managed surprisingly well. She has taken pains with her appearance today. The red jumper and black skirt are neat and businesslike, the dark hair carefully secured with ribbon. Her smile is professional, her head high, and. though her eyes occasionally drift towards the open door in anxious expectation there is little in her bearing to suggest a woman in fear for herself or for her reputation.

       “Brazen, that’s what she is,” hissed Joline Drou to Caro Clairmont as they passed the door in haste. “Quite brazen. When I think of what that poor man had to bear with…”

       Josephine’s back was turned, but I saw her stiffen. A lull in conversation made Joline’s words very audible, and though Guillaume faked a coughing fit in order to cover them, I knew she had heard.

       There was a small, embarrassed silence.

       Then Armande spoke. “Well, girl, you know, you’ve made it when those two disapprove,” she said briskly. “Welcome to the wrong side of the tracks!”

       Josephine gave her a sharp glance of suspicion, then, as if reassured that the joke was not against her, she laughed. The sound was open, carefree; surprised, she brought her hand to her mouth as if to check that the laughter belonged to her. That made her laugh all the more, and the others laughed with her. We were still laughing when the doorbell chimed and Francis Reynaud came quietly into the shop.

       “Monsieur le Cure.” I saw her face change even before I saw him, becoming hostile and stupid, her hands returning to their accustomed position at the pit of her stomach.

       Reynaud nodded gravely. “Madame Muscat.” He placed special emphasis on the first word. “I was sorry not to see you in church this morning.”

       Josephine muttered something graceless and inaudible. Reynaud took a step towards the counter and she half-turned as if to bolt into the kitchen, then thought better of it and turned to face him.

       “That’s right, girl,” said Armande approvingly. “Don’t let him give you any of his jabber.” She faced Reynaud and gestured sternly with a piece of cake. “You let that girl alone, Francis. If anything, you should be giving her your blessing.”

       Reynaud ignored her. “Listen to me, ma fille,” he said earnestly. “We need to talk.” His eyes went with some distaste to the red good-luck sachet hanging by the door. “Not in here.”

       Josephine shook her head. “I’m sorry. There’s work to do. And I don’t want to listen to anything you have to say.”

       Reynaud’s mouth set stubbornly. “You have never needed the Church as much as you need it now.” A cold, rapid glance in my direction…“You have weakened. You have allowed others to lead you astray. The sanctity of the marriage vow —”

       Armande interrupted him again with a crow of derision.

       “The sanctity of the marriage vow? Where did you dig that one up? I would have thought that you of all people?”

       “Please, Madame Voizin.” At last a trace of expression in his flat voice. His eyes are wintry. “I would be most appreciative if you would…”

       “Speak as you were raised to,” snapped Armande. “That mother of yours never taught you to talk with a potato in your mouth, did she?” She gave a chuckle. “Pretending we’re better than the rest of us, are we? Forgot all about us at that fancy school?”

       Reynaud stiffened. I could feel the tension coming from him. He has definitely lost weight in the past few weeks, his skin stretched like a tambourine’s across the dark hollows of his temples, the articulation of his jaw clearly visible beneath the meagre flesh. A lank diagonal of hair across his forehead gives him a slyly artless look; the rest is crisp-creased efficiency.

       “Josephine.” His voice was gentle, compelling, excluding the rest of us as effectively as if they had been alone. “I know you want me to help you. I’ve talked to Paul-Marie. He says you’ve been under a lot of strain. He says…”

       Josephine shook her head. “Mon pere.” The blank expression had left her face and she was serene. “I know you mean well. But I’m not going to change my mind.”

       “But the sacrament of marriage…” he looked agitated now, leaning forward against the counter with his face twisted in distress. His hands clutched at the padded surface as if for support. Another surreptitious glance at the bright sachet at the door. “I know you have been confused. Others have influenced you.” Meaningfully: “If only we could speak in private…”

       “No.” Her voice was firm. “I’m staying here with Vianne.”

       “For how long?” His voice registered dismay whilst trying for incredulity. “Madame Rocher may be your friend, Josephine, but she’s a businesswoman, she has a shop to run, a child to care for. How long will she tolerate a stranger in the house?” This shot was more successful. I saw Josephine hesitate, the look of uncertainty back in her eyes. I’d seen it too often in my mother’s face to mistake it; that look of disbelief, of fear.

       We don’t need anyone but each other. A fierce, remembered whisper in the hot dark of some anonymous hotel room. What the hell would we want anyone else for? Brave words, and if there were tears the darkness hid them. But I felt her shaking, almost imperceptibly, as she held me beneath the covers, like a woman in the throes of a hidden fever. Perhaps that was why she fled them, those kind men, kind women who wanted to befriend, to love, to understand her. We were contagious, fevered with mistrust, the pride we carried with us the last refuge of the unwanted.

       “I’m offering Josephine a job here with me.” I made my voice sweet and brittle. “I’m going to need a lot of extra help if I’m to have time to prepare the chocolate festival for Easter.”

       His look, finally unveiled, was stark with hatred.

       “I’ll train her in the basics of chocolate-making,” I continued. “She can cover for me in the shop while I work in the back.” Josephine was looking at me with an expression of hazy astonishment. I winked at her.

       “She’ll be doing me a favour, and I’m sure the money will come in useful for her too,” I said smoothly. “And as for staying”— I spoke to her directly, fixing her eyes with mine — “Josephine you’re welcome to stay for as long as you like. It’s a pleasure to have you here.”

       Armande cackled. “So you see, mon pere,” she said gleefully. “You needn’t waste any more of your time. Everything seems to be going just fine without you.” She sipped chocolate with an air of concentrated naughtiness. “A drink of this might do you good,” she suggested. “You’re looking peaky, Francis. Been hitting the communion wine again, have you?”

       He gave her a smile like a clenched fist. “Very droll, Madame. It’s good that you haven’t lost your sense of humour.”

       Then he turned smartly on his heels, and with a nod and a curt ‘Messieurs-Dames’ to the customers he was gone, like the polite Nazi in a bad war film.

TWENTY-FIVE

   Monday, March 10

       THEIR LAUGHTER FOLLOWED ME OUT OF THE SHOP and into the street like a volley of birds. The scent of chocolate, like that of my anger, made me light-headed, almost euphoric with rage. We were right, pere. This vindicates us completely. By striking at the three areas closest to us; the community, the Church’s festivals and now one of its holiest sacraments, she reveals herself at last. Her influence is pernicious and fast-growing, seeding already into a dozen, two dozen fertile minds. I saw the season’s first dandelion in the churchyard this morning, wedged in the space behind a gravestone. It has already grown far deeper than I can reach, thick as a finger, searching out the darkness beneath the stone. In a week’s time the whole plant will have grown again, stronger than before.

       I saw Muscat for communion this morning, though he was not present for confession. He looks drawn and angry, uncomfortable in his Sunday clothes. He has taken his wife’s departure badly.

       When I left the chocolaterie he was waiting for me, smoking, leaning against the small arch beside the main entrance.

       “Well, pere?”

       “I have spoken to your wife.”

       “When is she coming home?”

       I shook my head. “I would not like to give you false hope,” I said gently.

       “She’s a stubborn cow,” he said, dropping his cigarette and crunching it with his heel. “Pardon my language, pere, but that’s how it is. When I think of the things I gave up for that crazy bitch — the money she’s cost me?”

       “She too has had much to bear,” I told him meaningfully, thinking of our many sessions in the confessional.

       Muscat shrugged. “Oh, I’m not an angel,” he said. “I know my weaknesses. But tell me, pere”— he spread his hands appealingly — “didn’t I have some reason? Waking up to her stupid face every morning? Catching her time and again with her pockets full of stolen stuff from the market, lipsticks and bottles of perfume and jewellery? Having everyone looking at me in church and laughing? He?” He looked at me winningly. “He, pere? Haven’t I had my own cross to bear?”

       I’d heard much of this before. Her sluttishness, her stupidity, her thieving, her laziness about the house. I am not required to have an opinion on such things. My role is to offer advice and comfort. Still, he disgusts me with his excuses, his conviction that had it not been for her he might have achieved great, brave things.

       “We are not here to allocate blame,” I said with a note of rebuke. “We should be trying to find ways to save your marriage.”

       He was instantly subdued. “I’m sorry, pere. I — I shouldn’t have said those things.” He tried for sincerity, showing teeth like ancient ivory. “Don’t think I’m not fond of her, pere. I mean, I want her back, don’t I?”

       Oh yes. To cook his meals. To iron his clothes. To run his cafe. And to prove to his friends that no-one makes a fool of Paul-Marie Muscat, no-one. I despise this hypocrisy. He must indeed win her back. I agree with that at least. But not for those reasons.

       “If you want her back, Muscat,” I told him with some tartness, “then you have been about it in a remarkably idiotic way so far.”

       He bridled. “I don’t see that necessarily…”

       “Don’t be a fool.”

       Lord, pere, how can you ever have had such patience with these people?

       “Threats, profanities, last night’s shameful drunken display? How do you think that would help your case?”

       Sullenly: “I couldn’t let her get away with what she did, pere. Everyone’s saying my wife walked out on me. And that interfering bitch Rocher…” His mean eyes narrowed behind his wire glasses. “Serve her right if something happened to that fancy shop of hers,” he said flatly. “Get rid of the bitch for good.”

       I looked at him sharply. “Oh?”

       It was too close to what I have thought myself, mon pere. God help me, when I saw that boat burning…It is a primitive delight, unworthy of my calling, a pagan thing which by right I should not feel. I have wrestled with it myself, pere, in the small hours of the mornings. I have subdued it in myself, but like the dandelions it grows back, sending out insidious small rootlets. It was perhaps because of this — because I understood — that my voice was harsher than I intended as I replied. “What kind of thing did you have in mind, Muscat?”

       He muttered something barely audible.

       “A fire, perhaps? A convenient fire?” I could feel the pressure of my rage growing against my ribs. Its taste, which is both metallic and sweetly rotten, filled my mouth. “Like the fire which got rid of the gypsies?”

       He smirked. “Perhaps. Dreadful fire risk, some of these old houses.”

       “Listen to me.” Suddenly I was appalled at the thought that he might have mistaken my silence that night for complicity. “If I thought — even suspected — outside of the confessional that you were involved in such a thing — if anything happens to that shop…” I had him by the shoulder now, my fingers digging into the pulpy flesh.

       Muscat looked aggrieved. “But pere you said yourself that…”

       “I said nothing!” I heard my voice ricochet flatly across the square — tat-tat-tat! — and I lowered it in haste. “I certainly never meant for you…” I cleared my throat, which suddenly felt wedged full. “This is not the Middle Ages, Muscat,” I said crisply. “We do not — interpret — God’s laws to suit ourselves. Or the laws of our country,” I added heavily, looking him in the eye. His corneas were as yellow as his teeth. “Do we understand each other?”

       Resentfully: “Yes, mon pere.”

       “Because if anything happens, Muscat, anything, a broken window, a little fire, anything at all…” I overtop him by a head. I am younger, fitter than he. He responds instinctively to the physical threat. I give him a little push which sends him against the stone wall at his back. I can barely contain my rage. That he should dare — that he should dare! — to take my role, pere. That it should be he, this miserable self-deluding sot. That he should place me in this situation; to be obliged officially to protectthe woman who is my enemy. I contain myself with an effort.

       “Keep well away from that shop, Muscat. If there’s anything to be done, I’ll do it. Do you understand?”

       Humbler now, his bluster evaporating: “Yes, pere.”

       “Leave the situation entirely to me.”

       Three weeks until her grand festival. That’s all I have left. Three weeks to find some way of curbing her influence. I have preached against her in church to no effect but my own ridicule. Chocolate, I am told, is not a moral issue. Even the Clairmonts see my obduracy as slightly irregular, she simpering with mock concern that I seem overwrought, he grinning outright. Vianne Rocher herself takes no notice. Far from trying to blend in she flaunts her alien status, calling impertinent greetings to me across the square, encouraging the antics of such as Armande, perpetually dogged by the children whose growing wildness she invites. Even in a crowd she is instantly recognizable. Where others walk up a street, she runs down it. Her hair, her clothes; perpetually wind-torn, wildflower colours, orange and yellow and polka-dotted and floral-patterned. In the wild, a parakeet amongst sparrows would soon be torn apart for its bright plumage. Here she is accepted with affection, even amusement. What might raise eyebrows elsewhere is tolerated because it is only Vianne. Even Clairmont is not impervious to her charm, and his wife’s dislike has nothing to do with moral superiority and everything to do with a kind of envy which does Caro little credit. At least Vianne Rocher is no hypocrite, using God’s words to elevate her social standing. And yet the thought — suggesting as it does a sympathy, even a liking, that a man in my position can ill afford — is another danger. I can have no sympathies. Rage and liking are equally inappropriate. I must be impartial, for the sake of the community and the Church. Those are my first loyalties.