Page 59 of The Strawberry Thief
I put down my glass, very slowly. My head was spinning like the stars. I felt like a moth impaled on a collector’s needle. I said in a shaky voice: ‘I thought you didn’t discuss your clients.’
‘I wasn’t discussinghim,’ she said. ‘One more drink, Francis, for the road?’
I nodded. My mind was in pieces. Wasthiswhy I had seen him today? Was this why he hated me? Could Roux be the child of Pierrot and Choupette, come back to avenge them? And now the memory of the fire returns to me like a hurricane. The scent of smoke across the Tannes; the fat dank reek of river mud; the desperate cries of the child on the bank. No wonder he hates me. Even if he doesnotknow, instinct must have alerted him. But what can I do? The past is dead. I am a different person. Every cell in my body has changed – except for the knowledge I carry within, the cancer that still keeps growing.
We all see what we need to see. Some see freedom; others, constraint. Some see their loved ones; others, their death.
Isthiswhat she sees in me? Is this what Roux sees in me? And if so, how can I possibly hope to escape the Eye of God?
I moved to the chair at the back of the room. I heard the chime of ice cubes. In the mirrors, a thousand deep, a dozen different versions of me converged slowly into one. I rolled up my sleeve and laid my head back onto the leather headrest.
‘Are you sure you want this?’ she said.
I nodded. ‘Will it hurt?’
She smiled. ‘It may hurt a little,’ she said. ‘But then, Francis, doesn’t everything?’
11
Friday, March 31
First, the circle in the sand, ringed with coloured candles. Red for desire; blue for calm; green for growth; pink for love. And black, for midnight workings, for secrets unspoken, tales untold.
I saw him leave after midnight. Walking very slowly, his livid colours distressing the air. Somehow, she has broken Reynaud. In spite of his courage, in spite of his rage, in spite of the power I gave him. All I have left to fight her now is the magic of the last resort, the magic I swore I would never deploy, the magic that calls theHurakan.
My mother always told me that there was magic in stories. Stories tell us who we are, and who we were, and hope to be. Stories give a shape to our lives, an underlying narrative. And sometimes, stories allow us to tell those things that cannot be spoken – secrets even to ourselves – outside the conventions of fairytale.
I know a story about a child whose voice could summon the Hurakan. Her mother loved her very much, but the girl was very wild, and the mother was afraid that one day the wind would hear her call, and take her away. And so, she cast a magic spell, with sand and smoke and starlight. She bound it with the cry of a cat that crossed her path in the falling snow, and cast it over the sleeping child, so that when she awoke, her voice was gone, leaving only the cry of the cat in its place.
Robbed of her voice, the daughter could not be like other children. She could not call the wind, nor could she ever grow like other girls. And at this the mother was glad, because it meant her daughter would stay by her side always and forever. But she never told anyone how the child had lost her voice. She listened to the cry of the cat, and knew that the wind had passed them by.
Of course it wasn’tquitelike that. My mother’s paraphernalia – the sand, the cards, the candles – were only there for colour and show; theatrical props, designed to make a tale into a ritual. Therealmagic was something else; something less conspicuous. Something driven by despair. Something driven by desire.
A cat crossed your path in the snow, and mewed. The Hurakan was blowing.
Understand that I was afraid. I’ve been afraid since Anouk was born. To be a mother is to know love and loss in equal parts. And Anouk was already growing so fast; reaching out towards the world with such a voracious appetite. I’d always known I would lose her one day: the question was neverwhetherI would, but rather towhomI would lose her. To Zozie, of the lollipop shoes? Or to Jean-Loup Rimbault?
But Rosette – Rosette might be different. I hoped that I could keep her. And so I cast the circle in sand, and summoned theHurakanto my will—
Across the square, a single pane reflects the light in my window. Morgane, too, is awake tonight. Maybe she senses activity. Maybe she too has a circle in sand, and candles to light against me.
The sand is from a beach, far away, where Mother and I once spent the night. Spread it onto the floorboards into a mystic spiral. Ehecatl, the god of wind, was represented by a spiral: the Aztecs used a conch shell, sliced to reveal the spiral inside, as part of his secret rituals.
Vl’à l’bon vent, v’là l’joli vent—
Of course I mean no harm to her. All I want is for her to leave. Red for desire; blue for calm; green for growth; pink for love. Tomorrow – or rather,today, I suppose – Anouk will come, without Jean-Loup. This makes me happy – not that I dislike Jean-Loup, but I prefer to see Anouk without him. Anouk is different when he is around. She laughs; she smiles in a different way. His presence alters the way she moves, makes her oddly self-conscious. And there is always concern there; concern because Jean-Loup was ill for such a great part of his childhood; concern because to Jean-Loup Rimbault, even a cold may be dangerous, and the smallest infection could bring about another stay in hospital.
Why is she coming without him now? She said she had news. Have they broken up? The thought of it fills me with absurd hope, like wine into a broken glass. Outside, the voice of the wind becomes the growl of a sleeping tiger.
Vl’à l’bon vent, v’là l’joli vent—
Vl’à l’bon vent, ma mie m’appelle—
Red for desire; blue for calm.A cat crossed your path in the snow, and mewed.In the window across the square, I see a glimpse of shadow. Is Morgane looking out at me? Perhaps she is. There’s no way to tell. I can hear the sound of the leaves in the almond tree in the square. The wind is rising. The night is ablaze. Is she aware of my presence now?
Find me. Feel me. Follow me.
I don’t think so. A tremor runs through the dark electric air. A scent of bitter chocolate mixed with ozone accompanies it. I can feel the clouds gathering now; stitched through with incipient lightning. Whatever she has, what glamours, what tricks,thiswill overwhelm them. This is a magic thatalwaysworks – although it must be paid for.
