Page 2 of Vianne

I don’t know your name , I tell the child that is only a space in my future.

And yet I already know that, in time, you will leave me.

Travelling light. I try to banish the unhappy thought with a flick of the fingers.

Tsk-tsk, begone! But the sadness endures.

It always will. It’s the price we must pay.

It’s a strangely adult thought for the girl I used to be; that girl who collected recipes and stolen menus from restaurants, and dreamed of meals she would never eat in places she would never stay.

That girl who would creep back when my mother had fled without paying the bill in some cheap café, leaving the cash for the waitress to find in case she took the blame for our theft.

I wonder how much of my mother remains now buried in my subconscious; how much of her has managed to cross over into this pregnancy.

I wonder how much of my mother’s debt to the world I will be expected to pay, so I can earn my happiness.

I promise, you’ll keep your Molfetta , I tell the child inside me. You’ll keep her forever. We won’t travel light. We’ll weigh so heavy that the wind will blow right over us, into the hills.

But my mother’s voice is strong . There is no gift without a loss.

The world demands its balance. Be careful what you dream of, ’Viane.

Be careful what you promise. Take what you can from the world, and move on before it knows what you’ve taken.

Remember that, and you’ll be safe. The Man in Black won’t find you.

The sun is hot. It burns my eyes. But looking up to the top of the Butte, I can see that the gleam of gold at the top of the tower is a statue of the Virgin Mary, holding the infant Christ in her arms. I don’t know too much about churches.

For many reasons, I don’t attend. But this building – this basilica – has something attractive about it.

Maybe it’s the long cool slice of shadow that abuts it.

Maybe it’s the history ground into every cobblestone.

Or maybe it’s that mother, poised so high above the town, holding her child very tightly, in case the wind blows him from her arms.

Bonne Mère . Here in Marseille, it’s a prayer, an oath, a profanity, an invocation. The Good Mother is here for all of us; in every part of our daily lives. She gives this orphan city hope; a memory of motherhood.

What makes a good mother, Maman? I don’t know.

No one sheltered me from the wind. Instead, you taught me to ride the storm, skimming the waters like a stone.

Lose momentum, and you drown. Survival means never stop moving.

I know what she would tell me now: that I should not try to keep this child.

A child is a stone around your heart. A child is a debt that must be repaid.

Best give it back to the world, she says, before it changes who you are.

Give it back to the universe before it drags you under.

Too late, Maman. This child is mine. I cannot, will not give her away.

It may be hard, I understand. It may mean difficult choices.

But this is my decision, Maman; my first independent decision from you.

It feels a little dangerous: almost like a rejection of you, and of everything we were.

But who was I really? And who am I now? These are all things that will take time to learn.

But one thing I already know, Maman. I am no longer a satellite moving in your orbit.

I am a mother. Bonne Mère . I hope I’ll be a good one.

I reached the top of the hill at last. The door to the basilica stood open.

Inside it was cool and smelt of incense and candle smoke.

The ceiling was heavily gilded, and the arches were built in contrasting stones in dark-red and white, absurdly festive, like candy canes.

The result was a bewildering harlequinade of colour and light, with sunlight reflecting the ceiling and with darker patches of shadow in the alcoves at each side.

A scatter of votive candles lights the entrance to the sanctum.

I sit on a wooden bench by the door. Churches are cool in summer, and provide some shelter in winter.

For a moment it feels good to sit there in the shadows, with no sound but the occasional soft shuffle of feet against the stones.

I rest my aching head in my hands. It feels good to think of nothing.

But gradually, I become aware that there’s something beside me on the bench.

It’s some kind of fluffy toy, its fur worn to a peachy nap.

In the semi-darkness, I cannot quite make out the colour, but there’s a ribbon around its neck, and it seems somehow familiar, and when I lift it to my face, it smells of darkened rooms, and sweat, and hitch-hiking on dusty lanes, and fried food by the roadside, and the scent of library books.

I know it’s not, and yet I am sure that this is Molfetta, my childhood toy, veteran of so many roads, so many passing-places.

A sign . My mother saw omens everywhere.

But why would Molfetta come back to me now?

For a moment I feel the urge to slip her into my pocket.

To have her as a touchstone. To whisper to her in the dark.

And yet, perhaps there is a child looking for her somewhere.

A child whose need is greater, and who needs to find a friend.

And so I leave the toy behind on the bench for someone else.

Someone who is lonely. And, with a flick of my fingers, I light an invisible votary at the feet of the Virgin of La Garde, and tell her, in the silent tongue that speaks more potently than words: Hold onto your child, Bonne Mère. Make sure not to let him fall .

And then I stand up, and leave the cool and dark of the basilica, and walk back out into the Marseille heat, where the dog days are just beginning.