Page 25 of The Strawberry Thief
I’d planned to introduce myself. To approach the woman with caution, as I might any other neighbour, with a gift of violet creams, to go with that purple awning. But seeing Rosette and Zozie inside, I threw my caution to the wind and ran in, the chocolates forgotten.
I heard a bell ring as I entered. A tiny little silvery bell, the kind that the Fool wears on his cap during the Easter procession. A rush of March wind blew in with me, and I found myself looking into the face of a woman of sixty years or so, with long ashy hair and arms that were tattoo-sleeved in charcoal and grey. She was nothing like Zozie – and yet there wassomethingof Zozie in her: the careless smile; the keen bright eyes. I looked down quickly at her shoes – Zozie de l’Albalovedher shoes – and saw only a pair of clunky-looking things in a dark gunmetal-grey.
I said: ‘Rosette. Go back to the house.’
Rosette took on a mutinous look. The purple door rattled in its frame. In the mirrors, I saw Bam, grinning and pulling faces.
‘Rosette, go back to the house.Now!’
She scowled, but obeyed, dragging her feet. Behind her, Bam pulled a dreadful face and tumbled madly in her wake.
The woman with the tattoos smiled. ‘You must be Rosette’s mother.’
‘Vianne.’
I fought the crazy urge to ask:And what are you calling yourself this time?But the woman had moved to the door. Bending down rather awkwardly, she picked up the packet of violet creams. ‘You dropped something.’
‘How careless of me. Actually, I brought them for you.’
The woman looked at the packet, tied with a violet ribbon and a little paper flower. ‘Violet creams? My favourites.’
You’re lying, I thought. That charm, that comes from her like the scent of flowers picked at midnight, was darkly, sweetly provocative.
She tried a chocolate. ‘Delicious,’ she said. ‘You must be from across the square. I’ve seen your shop. It’s beautiful.’
‘I’d been meaning to call,’ I said. ‘Though till now, I didn’t realize you were a tattooist.’
She smiled. ‘Whatever gave me away? Do sit down. Have some coffee. I can’t promise it will be anything like as good as your violet creams, but it’s all I have for the moment.’
I sat on one of the purple chairs positioned around the coffee machine, but made no move to pour a drink. The woman sat herself opposite. As she did, I noticed her shoes – not shoes at all, butfeet: jointed at the instep and attached to a smooth steel ankle-pin …
An ancient Chinese proverb goes:Evil has no feet. That’s why temple doors have such high thresholds: to protect them from wandering demons. This newcomer too, has no feet – the irony does not escape me. I think of K’awiil, the footless Mayan god; walking on stilts of lightning, riding his serpent tail on the wind. My mother loved those legends: I found them too alien, too troubling, to be really enjoyable. And yet the wind – theHurakan– has been my constant for so many years; more personal than Gaia, or Hestia, or Jesus.
She caught me looking. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said.Now why did I apologize?
She smiled again. ‘I don’t mind,’ she said. ‘I’m a transtibial amputee. I’ve walked with prosthetics all my life. These are my everyday feet, but I do have a more naturalistic pair, and some pretty shoes for when I feel like dressing up.’
She held out her hand. ‘I’m Morgane Dubois.’
We shook. Her hands were unexpectedly warm. I felt like an impostor: a lady of the parish, welcoming the newcomer into the village.How ridiculous, I thought.I don’t even belong here myself.
Morgane said: ‘Have you been here long?’
I had to think about that. Time behaves differently when you stay in the same place for any length of time: the seasons turn, the grass grows, the scars on the furniture darken with time. It becomes so easy to think:this is where I belong now; so easy to believe in the power of roots, and shoots, and memories.
I said, ‘Five years.’ It made me feel strange, even to speak the words aloud. People like me do not think in years: only in days, weeks, maybe months. Years are for other people. Years are for those who do not hear the wind.
‘Lucky you,’ said Morgane. ‘The longest I’ve ever stayed anywhere is nine months. After a while you just get the urge to be somewhere else, if you know what I mean.’
I had to smile. ‘I think I do.’
‘Besides, in the end, the work dries up. I have to follow the carnival.’
‘The carnival?’
‘The freakshow. The fair. The places where those who don’t belong come to find out who they are.’ She gave me a quizzical look over her cup of coffee. ‘A tattoo reveals as much as it hides. For you, I’d recommend something small. An animal, maybe a bird – something with a heartbeat.’
‘You mean – a tattoo? I’m not the type.’
