Page 23 of Vianne

September in Marseille is warm; with only the hint of a change in the air to mark the turning seasons.

The scorching heat of August is gone, but the softness of the wind remains, and the colours of the sea and sky have acquired a new depth and sweetness.

Life in the bistrot has sweetened, too. The walk to the market; the cooking; the weekly visits to Allée du Pieu.

The daily pot of hot chocolate, today with a dash of coconut milk and a scatter of toasted sesame seeds.

Plus a new ingredient from the time of the Chocolate Kings; Chillies and raw cacao; cinnamon, vanilla, saffron, nutmeg, allspice.

Handed down by Ixcacao, goddess of love and compassion.

Yes, I have taken to adding Guy’s chocolate spice to some of my simpler recipes.

A sprinkling on the top of a tart, to bring out the flavours of the fruit.

A spoonful in my hot chocolate, to make the vapours eloquent.

I use it to add extra warmth to a dish of vanilla rice; sweetness to a tapenade ; depth to a soup or casserole.

I like to think Margot would approve; recipes are living things, passed on to living people.

The change is very subtle; and yet I see it in our customers; in the way they speak to me now, in the shift in their colours.

People call me by name now, instead of just saying mademoiselle , and comment on the menu, and compliment my progress.

Louis, too, has softened somehow, although he still scorns my hot chocolate: but I can see the change in him, and I know that the magic is working.

The only exception is Emile, whose sour face and sharp comments remain apparently unaffected by my domestic magic.

The xocolatl spice must be missing something, or maybe it’s simply Emile who is missing some essential ingredient.

But today, Emile was running late: Louis had gone to call at the bank, and for the first time, I was alone to deal with lunch, and the customers.

Until today, I hadn’t realized how proprietary Emile is where La Bonne Mère is concerned.

Perhaps it’s his lifelong friendship with Louis, or the fact that he practically lives here, but in the absence of both of them, the atmosphere was different; as if a window had opened, letting in the fresh air.

‘What’s on the menu today, Vianne?’ That’s Monsieur Georges, with his old friend Tonton, who always brings his elderly dog into the bistrot at lunchtime.

I already know what he’ll order. Two plats du jour , a bottle of red, and a piece of cold sausage for Galipette, whose trembling muzzle is already raised hopefully towards me.

I’d made some grilled sardines today, served on a bed of spiced taboulé . An easy recipe to make, which leaves me plenty of time to talk.

‘You’re a better cook than Louis,’ said Tonton, through a mouthful of fish. ‘Those grilled sardines—’ He kissed his teeth, and Galipette looked up expectantly. ‘What did you add to them? White wine? Rosemary?’

I smiled. ‘They’re fresh this morning. How about a little dessert? I have tarte au citron , and fresh navettes—’

Tonton made a sound in his throat, indicating approval. ‘Yes, and some of your chocolate. I’m starting to get used to it.’

These old men never say thank you. A nod is their only acknowledgement. But I have begun to interpret their guttural sounds, their gestures. And in Louis’ absence they talk to me more freely than when he is around.

I brought the chocolate, served with a pinch of xocolatl, as always. ‘Did Louis never make chocolate? Not even when Margot was alive?’

Tonton glanced towards the bar, as if to reassure himself that neither Louis nor Emile was there. Then he shook his head. ‘Not that I recall, no.’

‘But you do remember her?’ I said.

He nodded. ‘Of course. Everyone does.’

I drew a little sign in the air. A pretty, inviting confidences. ‘What was she like?’

He shrugged. ‘Margot?’ He looked around once more, as if to check that no one was listening.

But apart from Monsieur Georges, who was sitting opposite him at the table, no one was paying attention.

‘Everyone was sweet on Margot,’ he told me, as I brought the dessert. ‘She was the heart of La Bonne Mère.’

Monsieur Georges nodded. ‘That she was. She had a shine.’

I poured two cups of chocolate from the silver pot on the bar. The vapour lingered in the air like the tail of a mythical bird. ‘She must have been young when she died,’ I said. ‘What happened?’

‘Didn’t he tell you?’

I shook my head.

‘She was pregnant,’ said Tonton at last. ‘There were complications. Louis was never the same after that. A tragedy for everyone.’

I teased out the tale from the rising steam, more eloquent than their comments.

And of course, I already knew from Margot herself; from the little notes scrawled in her recipe book; the lingering signs of her presence, more meaningful than words.

‘She so badly wanted a child. Went on trying long after the doctors told her she never would. That was Margot – she never gave up. Even when Louis wanted her to.’ It was a miracle, they’d said.

To be pregnant at forty-one; to finally carry a child to term after so many miscarriages.

She’d spent six months hardly daring to move; had given up all but the lightest work.

Her doctor was cautious, but positive; and Louis, having long since given up on the idea of children, was helping Emile repaint the guest room of La Bonne Mère, and furnishing it in readiness.

‘Some people believe in miracles,’ said Tonton, sipping his chocolate. ‘Margot did. She believed in them all. She prayed to Mary and all the saints. She always kept their feast days. But she had a whole drawer full of charms that she bought from that woman on Allée du Pieu—’

‘Allée du Pieu?’

‘The place is long gone. It used to sell incense, and Tarot cards, and copper bracelets for rheumatism, and blue beads to ward off the evil eye, and silver charms for whatever the heart thinks it needs to be happy. With Margot, it was a baby. The woman said she could help her. Louis didn’t like it, but she kept going there anyway. ’

Some kind of backstreet herbalist. That would explain the folded sheet of spells at the back of her cookery book.

The lists of arcane ingredients: white sandalwood, dragon’s blood, root of John the Conqueror.

The little incantations, the rhymes. And it explains his mistrust of Allée du Pieu, of Guy’s glib talk of magic.

Magic is desire made real by will and perseverance.

And Margot wanted a child so much – enough to follow any path, pursue any hope of achieving her dream.

But everything has to be paid for. The world demands its balance.

And everything that is taken must one day be returned.

Monsieur Georges went on: ‘Perhaps it’s because she believed in all that that she didn’t spot the signs.

It was only a headache, she said. Don’t make a fuss over nothing.

But she was strange in those final weeks.

Distant, strange, and secretive. Then came the other symptoms, the pains, the swollen hands and feet.

At last, Louis called an ambulance. But it was too late. She died overnight.’

‘And – the baby?’ I almost said Edmond .

He shook his head. ‘It didn’t survive.’

Poor Margot , I thought. Poor Louis . I have grown very close to them both while I have been learning these recipes.

I know the flavours that made her smile; the memories she cherished.

I know her temper: the broken plate, which was an anniversary gift, chipped when she slammed it down in the sink during an argument with Louis.

I know her longing; and now, her loss, that terrible grief that stays alive even after death.

‘Probably for the best,’ said Tonton, finishing his chocolate. ‘I heard there was something wrong with the child. Some kind of genetic something.’

Georges agreed. ‘A mercy, yes. Imagine having to care for a—’ He bit off the end of the phrase. ‘ Heh. Well, I must be on my way. I’m playing pétanque this afternoon.’ Tonton nodded. ‘Yes, me too. Lunch was good. See you tomorrow, mademoiselle .’

For a moment I was puzzled at their sudden change in manner. Then I saw that Emile had come in, and was standing by the open door, his cap drawn down over his eyes, his colours as blue as a gas flame. I had no idea what he might have heard, but seeing me, he grinned like a shark.

‘What’s for lunch? I’m late,’ he said. ‘I hope you kept some by for me.’

I watched as Tonton and Monsieur Georges hastily picked up their things to leave: Emile settled comfortably at his usual table. He lit a cigarette, and blew foul-smelling smoke into the air. ‘Where’s Louis?’

‘He went to the bank.’

‘And left you in charge?’

I nodded.

‘ Heh. Did you get him to go to that chocolate shop?’

‘We called by a couple of weeks ago.’

He grinned again. ‘I bet he loved that. Meeting your friends, and everything.’

I poured him a glass of chilled white wine. ‘Perhaps you could ask him yourself, Emile. Or if you’re especially curious, I’m sure Guy could show you around sometime.’

He made a harsh little sound in his throat. ‘I’m not a fucking tourist. And I can’t afford chichi chocolates.’ I smiled. ‘You should try. You never know. You might even get a taste for them.’