Chocolat (25 page)

       “Don’t think I’m going to make a speech,” she says with comical brusqueness. “Can’t bear speeches. Just wanted to thank you all — all of you — and to say what a good time I had. Can’t remember a better. Don’t think there’s ever beena better. People always think the fun has to stop when you get old. Well it doesn’t.” Cheers from Roux, Georges and Zezette. Armande nods wisely. “Don’t call on me too early tomorrow, though,” she advises with a little grimace. “I don’t think I’ve drunk so much since I was twenty, and I need my sleep.” She gives me a quick glance, almost of warning. “Need my sleep,” she repeats vaguely, beginning to make her way from the table.

       Caro stood up to steady her, but she waved her away with a peremptory gesture. “Don’t fuss, girl,” she said. “That was always your way. Always fussing.” She gave me one of her bright looks. “Vianne can help me,” she declared. “The rest can wait till the morning.”

       I took her to her room while the guests left slowly, still laughing and talking. Caro was holding on to Georges’s arm; Luc supported her from the other side. Her hair had come entirely undone now, making her look young and softer-featured. As I opened the door of Armande’s room I heard her say: “…virtually promised she’d go to Les Mimosas — what a weight off my mind…” Armande heard it too and gave a sleepy chuckle. “Can’t be easy, having a delinquent mother,” she said. “Put me to bed, Vianne. Before I drop.” I helped her undress. There was a linen nightdress laid out in readiness by the pillow, I folded her clothes while she pulled it over her head.

       “Presents,” said Armande. “Put them there, where I can see them.” A vague gesture in the direction of the dresser. “Hmm. That’s good.”

       I carried out her instructions in a kind of daze. Perhaps I, too, had drunk more than I intended, for I felt quite calm. I knew from the number of insulin ampoules in the fridge that she had stopped taking it a couple of days ago. I wanted to ask her if she was sure, if she really knew what she was doing. Instead I draped Luc’s present — a silk slip of lavish, brazen, indisputable redness — on the chair-back for her to see. She chuckled again, stretched out her hand to touch the fabric.

       “You can go now, Vianne.” Her voice was gentle but firm. “It was lovely.”

       I hesitated. For a second I caught a glimpse of us both in the dressing-table mirror. With her newly cut hair she looked like the old man of my vision, but her hands were a splash of crimson and she was smiling. She had closed her eyes.

       “Leave the light on, Vianne.” It was a final dismissal. “Goodnight.”

       I kissed her gently on the cheek. She smelt of lavender and chocolate. I went into the kitchen to finish the washing-up.

       Roux had stayed behind to help me. The other guests had gone. Anouk was asleep on the sofa, a thumb corked into her mouth. We washed up in silence and I put the new plates and glasses into Armande’s cupboards. Once or twice Roux tried to begin a conversation, but I could not talk to him; only the small percussive sounds of china and glass punctuated our silence.

       “Are you all right?” he said at last. His hand was gentle on my shoulder. His hair was marigolds.

       I said the first thing which came into my head. “I was thinking about my mother.” Strangely enough I realized it was true. “She would have loved this. She loved fireworks.”

       He looked at me. His strange skyline eyes had darkened almost to purple in the dim yellow kitchen lighting. I wished I could tell him about Armande.

       “I didn’t know you were called Michel,” I said at last.

       He shrugged. “Names don’t matter.”

       “You’re losing your accent,” I realized in surprise. “You used to have such a strong Marseille accent, but now…”

       He gave his rare, sweet smile. “Accents don’t matter; either.”

       His hands cupped my face. Soft, for a labourer’s, pale and soft as a woman’s. I wondered if anything he had told me was true. For the time, it didn’t seem to matter. I kissed him. He smelt of paint and soap and chocolate. I tasted chocolate in his mouth and thought of Armande. I’d always thought he cared for Josephine. Even as I kissed him I knew it, but this was the only magic we had between us to combat the night. The simplest magic, the wildfire we bring down the mountainside at Beltane, this year a little early. Small comforts in defiance of the dark. His hands sought my breasts under my jumper.

       For a second I hesitated. There have already been too many men along the road, men like this one, good men about whom I cared but did not love. If I was right, and he and Josephine belonged together, what might this do to them? To me? His mouth was light, his touch simple. From the flowers outside I caught a wafting of lilac, brought in by the warm air from the braziers.

       “Outside,” I told him softly. “In the garden.”

       He glanced at Anouk, still sleeping on the sofa, and nodded. Together we padded outside under the starry purple sky.

       The garden was still warm in the glow of the braziers. The seringas and lilacs of Narcisse’s trellis blanketed us beneath their scent. Ve lay on the grass like children. We made no promises, spoke no words of love though he was gentle, almost passionless, moving instead with a slow sweetness along my body, lapping my skin with fluttering movements of the tongue. Above his head the sky was purple-black like his eyes, and I could see the broad band of the Milky Way like a road around the world. I knew that this could be the only time between us, and felt only a dim melancholy at the thought. Instead a growing sense of presence, of completion filled me, overriding my loneliness, even my sorrow for Armande. There would be time for grieving later. For the moment, simple wonder; at myself lying naked in the grass, at the silent man beside me, at the immensity above and the immensity within. We lay for a long time, Roux and I, until our sweat cooled, and little insects ran across our bodies, and we smelt lavender and thyme from the flowerbed at our feet as, holding hands, we watched the unbearable slow wheeling of the sky.

       Under his breath I could hear Roux singing a little song:

      
V’la l’bon vent, v’la l’joli vent

      
V’la l’bon vent, ma mie m’appelle…

       The wind was inside me now, tugging at me with its relentless imperative: At the very centre, a small still space, miraculously untroubled, and the almost familiar sense of something new. This too is a kind of magic, one that my mother never understood, and yet I am more certain of this — this new, miraculous, living warmth inside me — than of anything I have done before. At last I understand why I drew the Lovers that night. Holding the knowledge close, I closed my eyes and tried to dream of her, as I did in those months before Anouk was born, of a little stranger with bright cheeks and snapping black eyes.

       When I awoke, Roux was gone, and the wind had changed again.

THIRTY-SEVEN

  Saturday, March 29, Easter Eve

       HELP ME, PERE. HAVEN’T I PRAYED ENOUGH? Suffered enough for our sins? My penance has been exemplary. My head swims from lack of food and sleep. Is this not the time of redemption, when all sins are washed away? The silver is back on the altar, the candles lit in anticipation. Flowers, for the first time since the beginning of Lent, adorn the chapel. Even mad St Francis is crowned with lilies, and their scent is like clean flesh. We have waited so long, you and I, since your first stroke. Even then you would not speak to me, though you spoke to others. Then, last year, the second stroke. They tell me you are unreachable, but I know this to be pretence, a waiting game. You will awake in your own time.

       They found Armande Voizin this morning. Stiff and still smiling in her bed, pere; another one who has evaded us. I gave her the last rites though she would not have thanked me even if she had heard. Perhaps I am the only one who still derives comfort from such things.

       She meant to die last night, arranged everything to the minutest detail, food, drink, company. Her family around her, deceived by her promises of reform. Her damnable arrogance! She will pay, promises Caro, twenty Masses, thirty Masses. Pray for her. Pray for us. I find I am still trembling with rage. I cannot answer her with moderation. The funeral is on Tuesday. I imagine her now, lying in state in the hospital mortuary, peonies at her head and with that smile still fixed on her white lips, and the thought fills me, not with pity or even satisfaction, but with a terrible, impotent fury.

       Of course, we know who is behind this: The Rocher woman. Oh, Caro told me about that. She is the influence, pere, the parasite which has invaded our garden. I should have listened to my instincts. Uprooted her the moment I set eyes on her. She who has balked me at every turn, laughing at me behind her shielded window, sending out corrupting suckers in every direction. I was a fool, pere. Armande Voizin was killed because of my folly. Evil lives with us. Evil wears a winning smile and bright colours. When I was a child I used to listen in terror to the story of the gingerbread house, of the witch who tempted little children in and ate them. I look at her shop, all wrapped in shining papers like a present waiting to be unwrapped, and I wonder how many people, how many souls, she has already tempted beyond redemption. Armande Voizin. Josephine Muscat. Paul-Marie Muscat. Julien Narcisse. Luc Clairmont. She has to be routed. Her brat too. In any way we can manage. Too late for niceties, pere. My soul is already compromised. I wish I were sixteen again. I try to recall the savagery of. sixteen, the inventiveness of the boy I once was. The boy who flung the bottle, and who put the matter behind him.. But those days are over. I must be clever. I must not discredit my office. And yet if I fail…

       What would Muscat do? Oh, he is brutal, contemptible in his way. And yet he saw the danger long before I did. What would he do? I must take Muscat as my model, Muscat the pig, brutal, but cunning as a pig.

       What would he do? The chocolate festival is tomorrow. On this depends her success or failure. Too late to turn the tide of public opinion against her. I must be seen to be blameless. Behind the secret window, thousands of chocolates wait to be sold. Eggs, animals, Easter nests wrapped in ribbon, gift boxes, baby rabbits in bright ruffles of Cellophane…Tomorrow a hundred children will awaken to the sound of Easter bells, and their first thought will not be He is risen! but Chocolates! Easter chocolates!

       But what if there were no chocolates?

       The thought is paralysing. For a second hot joy suffuses me. The clever pig within me grins and prances. I could break into her house, it tells me. The back door is old and half-rotten. I could lever it open. Sneak into the shop with a cudgel. Chocolate is brittle, easily damaged. Five minutes among her gift-boxes would do it. She sleeps on the top floor. She might not hear. Besides, I would be quick. I could wear a mask too, so that if she saw…Everyone would suspect Muscat, a revenge attack. The man is not here to deny it, and besides?

       Pere, did you move? I was certain for a moment that your hand twitched, the first two fingers crooked as if in benediction. Again, that spasm, like a gunfighter dreaming past battles. A sign.

       Praise the Lord. A sign.

THIRTY-EIGHT

  Sunday, March 30, Easter Sunday, 4.00 a.m

       I BARELY SLEPT LAST NIGHT. HER WINDOW WAS LIT until two, and even then I dared not move in case she was lying awake in the darkness. In the armchair I dozed for a couple of hours, setting the alarm in case I overslept. I need not have worried. My sleep, such as it was, was shot through with pinpricks of dream so fleeting that I barely remembered them even as they stung me awake. I think I saw Armande — a young Armande, though obviously I never knew her then — running through the fields at the back of Les Marauds. in a red dress, black hair flying. Or maybe it was Vianne, and I had somehow confused them. Then I dreamed of the fire at Les Marauds, of the slattern and her man, of the harsh red banks of the Tannes and of you, pere, and my mother in the chancery…All that summer’s bitter vintage seeped through my dreams, and 1, like a pig snouting for truffles, turning over more and more of the rotten delicacies and gorging, gorging.

       At four I rise from the chair. I have slept in my clothes, discarding my soutane and collar. The Church has nothing to do with this business. I make coffee, very strong, but with no sugar, though technically my penance is over. I say technically. In my heart I know that Easter has not yet come. He is not yet risen. If I succeed today, then He will rise.

       I find that I am trembling. I eat dry bread to give myself courage. The coffee is hot and bitter. When I have accomplished my task I promise myself a good meal; eggs, ham, sugar rolls from Poitou ‘s. My mouth fills at the thought. I put on the radio to a station which plays classical music. ‘Sheep may Safely Graze’. My mouth twists in a hard, dry grin of contempt. This is no time for pastorals. This is the hour of the pig, the cunning pig. Off with the music.

       The time is five to five. Looking out of the window I can see the very first crack of light on the horizon. I have plenty of time. The curate will be here at six to ring the Easter carillon; I have more than enough time for my secret business. I put on the balaclava which I have laid aside for my purpose; in the mirror I look different, alarming. A saboteur. That makes me smile again. My mouth under the mask looks tough and cynical. I almost hope she sees me.

       10 a.m.

       The door is unlocked. I can hardly believe my luck. It shows her confidence, her insolent belief that no-one can withstand her. I discard the thick screwdriver with which I would have jimmied the door, and take up the heavy piece of wood — part of a lintel, pere, that fell during the war — in both hands. The door opens into silence. Another of her red sachets swings above the doorway; I pull it down and drop it contemptuously onto the floor. For a time I am disoriented. The place has changed since it was a bakery, and in any case I am less familiar with the back part of the shop. Only a very faint reflection of light gleams from the tiled surfaces, and I am glad I thought to bring a torch. I switch it on now, and for a moment I am almost blinded by the whiteness of the enamelled surfaces, the tops, the sinks, the old ovens all shining with a moony glow in the torch’s narrow beam. There are no chocolates to be seen. Of course. This is only the preparation area. I am not sure why I am surprised that the place is so clean; I imagined her a slattern, leaving pans unwashed and plates stacked in the sink and long black hairs in the cake mixture. Instead she is scrupulously tidy; rows of pans arranged on the shelves in order of size, copper with copper, enamel with enamel, porcelain bowls to hand and utensils — spoons, skillets — hanging from the whitewashed walls. On the scarred old table several stone bread pans are standing. In the centre, a vase with shaggy yellow dahlias cast a shock of. shadows before them. For some reason the flowers enrage me. What right has she to flowers, when Armande Voizin lies dead? The pig inside me tips the flowers onto the table, grinning. I let him have his way. I need his ferocity for the task in hand.

       20 a.m

       The chocolates must be in the shop itself. Quietly I make my way through the kitchen and open the thick pine door into the front section of the building. To my left, stairs lead up into the living area. To my right, the counter, the shelves, the displays, the boxes…The smell of chocolate, though expected, is startling. The darkness seems to have intensified it so that for an instant the smell is the darkness, folding around me like a rich brown powder, stifling thought. The beam of my torch picks out clusters of brightness, metallic paper, ribbons, sparkling puffs of Cellophane. The cave of treasures is all around me. A thrill runs through my body. To be here, in the witch’s house, unseen, an intruder. To touch her things in secret as she sleeps. I feel a compulsion to see the display window, to tear down the screen of paper and to be the first — absurd, as I intend to wreck the whole thing. But the compulsion will not be denied. I pad softly in my rubber soles, the heavy block of wood held loosely in my hand. I have plenty of time. Time enough to indulge my curiosity, if I want to. Besides, this moment is too precious to be squandered. I want to savour it.

       30 a.m

       Very gently I pull aside the film of paper which covers the window. It comes away with a small ripping sound, and I lay it aside, straining to hear any signs of activity from the floor above. There are none. My torchlight illuminates the display, and for a moment I almost forget why I am here. It is an amazement of riches, glare fruits and marzipan flowers and mountains of loose chocolates of all shapes and colours, and rabbits, ducks, hens, chicks, lambs gazing out at me with merry-grave chocolate eyes like the terracotta armies of ancient China, and above it all a statue of a woman, graceful brown arms holding a sheaf of chocolate wheat, hair rippling. The detail is beautifully rendered, the hair added in a darker grade of chocolate, the eyes brushed on in white. The smell of chocolate is overwhelming, the rich fleshy scent of it which drags down the throat in an exquisite trail of sweetness. The wheatsheaf-woman smiles very slightly, as if contemplating mysteries.

       Try me. Test me. Taste me.

       Its song is louder than ever, here in the very nest of temptation. I could reach out a hand in any direction and pick up one of these forbidden fruits, taste its secret flesh. The thought pierces me in a thousand places.

       Try me. Test me. Taste me.

       No-one would be any the wiser.

       Try me. Test me. Taste?

       Why not?

       40 a.m.

       I will take the first thing which falls beneath my fingers. I must not lose myself in this distraction. A single chocolate — not theft, precisely, but salvage; alone of all its brethren it will survive the wreck. My hand lingers in spite of itself; a hovering dragonfly above a cluster of dainties. A Plexiglas tray with a lid protects them; the name of each piece is lettered on the lid in fine, cursive script. The names are entrancing. Bitter orange cracknel. Apricot marzipan roll. Cerisette russe. White rum truffle. Manon blanc. Nipples of Venus. I feel myself flushing beneath the mask. How could anyone order something with a name like that? And yet they look wonderful, plumply white in the light of my torch, tipped with darker chocolate. I take one from the top of the tray. I hold it beneath my nose; it smells of cream and vanilla. No-one will know. I realize that I have not eaten chocolate since I was a boy, more years ago than I can remember, and even then it was a cheap grade of chocolat a croquer, 15 per cent cocoa solids — twenty for the dark — with a sticky aftertaste of fat and sugar. Once or twice I bought Suchard from the supermarket, but, at five times the price of the other, it was a luxury I could seldom afford. This is different altogether; the brief resistance of the chocolate shell as it meets the lips, the soft truffle inside…There are layersof flavour like the bouquet of a fine wine, a slight bitterness, a richness like ground coffee; warmth brings the flavour to life and it fills my nostrils, a taste succubus which has me moaning.

       45 a.m.

       I try another after that, telling myself it will not matter. Again I linger over the names. Creme decassis.Three nut cluster. I select a dark nugget from a tray marked Eastern journey. Crystallized ginger in a hard sugar shell, releasing a mouthful of liqueur like a concentration of spices, a breath of aromatic air where sandalwood and cinnamon and lime vie for attention with cedar and allspice. I take another, from a tray marked Peche au miel millefleurs. A slice of peach steeped in honey and eau-de-vie, a crystallized peach sliver on the chocolate lid. I look at my watch. There is still time.

       I know I should begin my righteous work in earnest. The display in the shop, though bewildering, is not enough to account for the hundreds of orders she has received. There must be another place where she keeps her gift boxes, her stores, the bulk of her business. The things here are just for show. I grab an amandineand stuff it into my mouth to aid thought. Then a caramel fondant. Then a manon blanc, fluffy with fresh cream and almond. So little time, when so many morsels remain to be tasted. I could do my work in five minutes, maybe less. As long as I know where to look. I’ll take one more chocolate, for luck, before I go searching. just one more.

       55 a.m.

       It is like one of my dreams. I roll in chocolates. I imagine myself in a field of chocolates, on a beach of chocolates, basking-rooting-gorging. I have no time to read the labels; I cram chocolates into my mouth at random. The pig loses his cleverness in the face of so much delight, becomes a pig again, and though something at the top of my mind screams at me to stop I cannot help myself. Once begun it cannot end. This has nothing to do with hunger; I force them down, mouth bulging, hands full. For a terrible instant I imagine Armande returning to haunt me, to curse me perhaps with her own peculiar affliction; the curse of death by gluttony. I can hear myself making sounds as I eat, moaning, keening sounds of ecstasy and despair, as if the pig within has finally found a voice.

       00 a.m.

       He is risen! The sound of the bells jangles me out of my enchantment. I find myself sitting on the floor, spilled chocolates around me as if I have indeed, as I imagined, rolled in them. The cudgel lies forgotten, at my side. I have removed the restrictive mask. The window, cleared of its wrapping, gapes blankly with the fast pale rays of morning.

       He is risen! Drunkenly I stagger to my feet. In five minutes the early worshippers will begin to arrive for Mass. Already I must have been missed. I grab at my cudgel with fingers slimed with melted chocolate. Suddenly I know where she keeps her stock. The old cellar, cool and dry, where flour sacks were once kept. I can get there. I know I can.

       He is risen! I turn, holding my cudgel, desperate for time, time…

       She is waiting for me, watching from behind the bead curtain. I have no way of knowing how long she has watched me. A tiny smile curves her lips. Very gently she takes the cudgel from my hand. Between her fingers she is holding something which looks like a charred piece of coloured paper. A card, maybe.
* * * *

       And that was how they saw me, pere, crouching in the ruins of her window, face smeared with chocolate, eyes haggard. From nowhere people seemed to come running to her aid. Duplessis with his dog-lead in one hand, standing guard at the door. The Rocher woman at the back door with my cudgel crooked in her elbow. Poitou from across the road; up early for his baking, calling the curious in to see. The Clairmonts, like landed carp, staring. Narcisse shaking his fist. And the laughter. God! The laughter. And all the time the bells are ringing He is risen across St Jerome’s square.

       He is risen.