Page 15 of The Strawberry Thief
I shook my head.Why bother? This works.
Yannick shrugged. ‘Fair enough. I guess if it works, it works, huh?’
I smiled. You see? He understands. He doesn’t think I’m weird at all.
After Yannick left, it was late. There were shadows across the square as I reached thechocolaterie. Maman was in the back room, still making up Easter baskets. I could hear her singing softly to herself; that song she sometimes used to sing to me when I was very small:
V’là l’bon vent, v’là l’joli vent
V’là l’bon vent, ma mie m’appelle—
I looked outside again. The shop that once was Narcisse’s shop, with the newspaper on the windows, now has a sign above the door. The sign reads:Les Illuminés. And now I noticed something else: the paper was gone from the window.
And the door was open.
6
Friday, March 17
I didn’t mean to go inside. I knew I wasn’t supposed to. Just as I hadn’t meant to look between the newspaper sheets and into the empty space behind. But there was something about that door that made me want to go through it. Maybe it was the colour, like plums. Purple is Anouk’s favourite. Or because of the lady I’d seen in the glass the morning of the early snow. Or maybe I dreamed that. I dream a lot. Maman says dreams are a sign that the wind is changing. Perhaps it is. Perhaps this time the wind will bring something that makes her happy.
The door was half open, like an eye. I pushed it open all the way. And then I looked around the shop. It had been a florist’s, with baskets and pots set out all over the wooden floor, and a long counter with cellophane sheets, and coloured ribbons, and greetings-cards, and shelves of those ceramics that you only see at funerals. Now it was different. With Narcisse, it had been full of flowers: big messy buckets of roses and great shaggy-headed chrysanthemums and sunflowers like lions’ manes and fussy little freesias. With Narcisse, it had always smelt of leaves, and soil, and greenery, and flowers. And on the floor there had always been clippings, and petals, and pieces of straw, and the pieces of dry earth that fell from Narcisse’s gardening-boots.
But it wasn’t a florist’s any more. Now it was clean as a hospital. The floor had been polished, and there was a long purple rug in the middle of it. There were purple chairs, too, and a shiny espresso machine. At the back there was a bead curtain, where the office used to be, and in the front was a big leather chair, and lots of bright lights and mirrors. And there, in the mirror, there she was, sitting in one of the purple chairs, and wearing pointy high-heeled boots the colour of candied cherries—
It was the lady I’d seen in the window. Long hair, dark clothes, arms all covered in thick black lace; a skirt that looked like feathers. But there was no-one in the room. Only in the mirror. I looked around for the lady, but I couldn’t see her anywhere.
I made a little jackdaw sound. Words seemed wrong in that mirror-place. In the mirror, the lady smiled, and the beads on the bead-curtain danced and shook—
I signed:Who’s there?
She smiled again.
Who are you? What do you want?
The bead-curtain shook. It looked like it was laughing. And now I could hear the voice of the wind, sounding very close to me now, whispering and crooning:
What do I want? What wealwayswant. What our kind have always craved. I want YOU, little Rosette. Most of all, what I want is you.
I stared. The curtain danced and shook. In the mirror, the lady smiled. Outside, the room was empty. Then the mirror-lady signed:The real question is, little Rosette. What doyouwant?
I turned and ran.
7
Friday, March 17
Rosette came back after five o’clock, but did not come into the kitchen. Instead she went straight upstairs, and I heard her playing with her button-box, a ritual she associates with order, comfort and relief.
Something has upset her. I can always tell; she may not speak very much, but the house reflects her emotions. From the corner of my eye, I can see Bam lurking on the stairs, a fugitive gleam in the shadows.
‘Don’t you want your chocolate?’ She usually has a cup of hot chocolate at four o’clock, with acroissantor a piece of bread. Today she does not answer me, but from the kitchen I can hear the sound of buttons being moved around and around on the wooden floor. Whatever upset her, she does not want me to know. I try not to worry. I worry far too much, I know – about Rosette, about Anouk. When did that happen? I ask myself. I used to be fearless. When did I stop?
Outside the air is very still. The spring snow has melted. A vapour-trail from a plane, very high, scratches the eggshell blue of the sky. And there are crows on the roof of the church, outlined against the failing light; perched silent and still on the weathervane; strutting over the cobblestones. I feel a sudden need to know what Anouk is doing, right now. Is she with Jean-Loup, perhaps, walking along the banks of the Seine? Is she shopping? Watching TV? Is she at work? Is she happy? I check my mobile phone again. Her message from yesterday is still there.
Thought we’d come over for Easter. Maybe stay for a few days. Would that be OK? Not sure what time I can get off work. I’ll tell you when I know. Love, A. xxx
I feel I should be happier that Anouk is coming to stay, but there is something in her tone that makes me feel uneasy. Is it a little too casual? A little too vague? It’s hard to tell. And she does not give a specific date, even though she knows that I need time to make arrangements. To air out her room, to invite her friends, to make all her childhood favourites. Is she trying to say something more? Is she even coming at all?
