Page 18 of The Strawberry Thief
I made a scornful sound –Pfff!– and Madame Montour’s little black hat went spinning off across the square and into the gutter that runs along theAvenue des Francs Bourgeois.
‘BAM!’ I said, so Maman would think it wasn’t my fault. She gave me a look. I gave it her back. I don’t do that very often. Eyes are windows, and sometimes when you look through windows you see things you’re not supposed to see. Like the lady in the glass, the one who looks like a magpie.
‘Do you want some chocolate, Rosette?’
I didn’t want any really, and Maman thinks chocolate’s a cure for everything. But I felt bad for being cross at her, and so I smiled and nodded. Maman looked happy at that, and I felt a bit guilty. But I knew I’d feel a lot worse if I allowed her to think that her chocolate wasn’t working. She’s Vianne Rocher, after all. Without chocolate, what does she have?
10
Saturday, March 18
The service was good, though I say it myself. I kept it as light as I could, with as little reference to the Church as could be expected from a priest. I even managed to throw in a joke – Armande Voizin would have approved – and a ripple of amusement went through the congregation.
I have to confess, it pleased me more than perhaps it should. I am not generally known for my wit, but there is something pleasant about laughter that one has provoked. Joséphine was in the crowd: I saw her smile, and for a moment I almost forgot where I was, just as a man may be blinded by the sudden appearance of the sun.
I know. I ought to avoid her. Don’t think that I am unaware of the temptation she represents. A wholly one-sided temptation, of course – my calling forbids such fantasies. But we can still be friends, I hope. In this, I see progress.
I walked home past the new shop.Les Illuminés, it’s called. It has a vaguely clerical sound, as if it might sell funeral paraphernalia. But there are no flowers, no wreaths inside. Just a big chair, and some mirrors. I told myself I should go in, if only to greet the new owner, and to make them feel more comfortable. Lansquenet has always been a very traditional village. Strangers are not always welcome, especially in unhappy circumstances, and a visit from Monsieur le Curé ensures the approval of the more conservative element. But as I was passing the window, I glanced into the mirrors that lined two sides of the interior, and I saw someone reflected there, sitting in the big chair.
Narcisse?
It must have been a trick of the light. The chair by the window was empty. But in the mirror, there was Narcisse, just as he had been in life. I looked out into the square, to see if anyone else had seen him. But there was no-one close enough to see into the window. Then I looked inside again, and instead of Narcisse in the mirror I saw Joséphine, smiling back. But still there was no-one in the chair – and besides, I’d justseenJoséphine at the memorial service, dressed in her navy-blue funeral dress, though here she was wearing a tartan coat that she hasn’t worn for years.
Of course it was a trick of the light. What else could it have been,mon père? The Catholic Church does not condone belief in ghosts. Nevertheless, it shook me,père. I hurried past the window. Even now I feel a discomfort, like the start of a migraine headache. How did I see Narcisse in there? I cannot read his confession. Nor can I drink my coffee. I will work in the garden instead: breathe the fresh air, pull up some weeds. And later, perhaps, when my head has cleared, I will go toLes Illuminés, and introduce myself to the new owner – who will be a hairdresser, perhaps, or maybe a beautician, offering half-price facials – and laugh away my foolishness and the shadows in my soul.
11
Saturday, March 18
I made the hot chocolate for Rosette, leaving thechocolateriedoor open. Now I am certain of it: there is something odd going on in the shop across the square. It is not simply the pink neon sign, and the name –Les Illuminés. It is not simply the fact that children are drawn to it like bees. Since it reopened, I have not seen a single customer, delivery vehicle or workman anywhere near the place. I do not even know for sure exactly what it is selling. And yet I cannot shake the thought that something strange is happening there.
I dreamed of Zozie de l’Alba last night, for the first time in months: her direct gaze; her casual charm; the sound of her shoes on the cobblestones. I dream of Zozie, and suddenly, here comes the wind again – that playful wind that excites us both and provokes what we refer to asRosette’s little Accidents.
Of course, they are not accidental. They are cyclical, like the wind, and, like the wind, they determine direction. A death in the village; a new shop; a new playmate for Rosette. These things are all signs of change, as sure as the lightning-struck Tower in my mother’s Tarot pack. The world around me has become an ominous forest of portents and signs.Death. The Fool. The Tower. Change.And in between them all, the wind; the wind that makes us laugh and dance; the wind that Rosette rides like a bird; the wind that brings the hurricane.
Working with chocolate always helps me find the calm centre of my life. It has been with me for so long; nothing here can surprise me. This afternoon I am making pralines, and the little pan of chocolate is almost ready on the burner.
I like to make these pralines by hand. I use a ceramic container over a shallow copper pan: an unwieldy, old-fashioned method, perhaps, but the beans demand special treatment. They have travelled far, and deserve the whole of my attention. Today I am using couverture made from theCriollobean: its taste is subtle, deceptive; more complex than the stronger flavours of theForastero; less unpredictable than the hybridTrinitario. Most of my customers will not know that I am using this rarest of cacao beans; but I prefer it, even though it may be more expensive. The tree is susceptible to disease: the yield is disappointingly low; but the species dates back to the time of the Aztecs, the Olmecs, the Maya. The hybridTrinitariohas all but wiped it out, and yet there are still some suppliers who deal in the ancient currency.
Nowadays I can usually tell where a bean was grown, as well as its species. These come from South America, from a small, organic farm. But for all my skill, I have never seen a flower from theTheobroma cacaotree, which only blooms for a single day, like something in a fairytale. I have seen photographs, of course. In them, the cacao blossom looks something like a passionflower: five-petalled and waxy, but small, like a tomato plant, and without that green and urgent scent. Cacao blossoms are scentless; keeping their spirit inside a pod roughly the shape of a human heart. Today I can feel that heart beating: a quickening inside the copper pan that will soon release a secret.
Half a degree more of heat, and the chocolate will be ready. A filter of steam rises palely from the glossy surface. Half a degree, and the chocolate will be at its most tender and pliant.
Rosette has finished her chocolate, and wandered off into the square. I feel the sudden need to look at Anouk’s text message again. There is always so much to unpack from these small glimpses into her life.Thought we’d come over for Easter.We. That of course means Jean-Loup, as well. Not that I dislike Jean-Loup at all: but she is different when he is around; attentive to the point of anxiety. Of course she is: Jean-Loup was seriously ill during most of his childhood, and even now, is more than usually susceptible to infections and complications. Not that this seems to trouble him; but Anouk sometimes worries.
It’s selfish, I know, but sometimes I wonder what would have happened if she had never met Jean-Loup. At the time I welcomed it – Anouk hadonefriend, at least – but when we moved back to Lansquenet I thought she might outgrow him. Jeannot Drou was also her friend – and he would have stayed in Lansquenet, or maybe somewhere close, like Agen, and I would have seen them every day, instead of watching from afar—
Thought we’d come over for Easter.It hurts that she does not saycome home. Maybe she has come to see Paris as her home now. How ironic that would be, if Anouk, who for so many years dreamed of a place just like Lansquenet, a quiet place to settle down, were to become like leaves upon the wind, just as I was at her age. I finally answer.
Yes, of course! It will be wonderful to see you both!
Love, V. xxxx
I always add an extra kiss. But now that row of crosses looks like something in a graveyard, and the chocolate smells like cigarette smoke, and the wind feels as if it is blowing through the open hole in my heart.
This is what happens when I do not pay attention to the task in hand: the couverture has begun to seize, which means that I have allowed the heat to rise above 120 degrees. In a few seconds it will be like dirt; dull and thick and grainy.
Even now it can still be saved, but I must act quickly, before the chocolate loses its elasticity. I take it from the boiler and add a handful of pieces of couverture; stirring steadily until the pieces have melted evenly. The hot dry reek of cigarettes has become the scent of burning leaves; the sweet and simple bonfire scent of autumn nights by the fireside.
