Page 29 of Vianne

I got up at six this morning to be sure of the bakery order.

Breakfast is between eight and nine. Fruit, a pile of fluffy croissants, and a pile of hard-boiled eggs, served with tartines and coffee.

I served our regulars breakfast between frying the garlic and onions, then I blanched the Lauragais beans, made stock from the chicken carcass left over from yesterday’s lunch, put in some fresh parsley, bay leaves and thyme, then added the beans to the chicken stock to cook while I made hot chocolate.

There were a lot of people today. Not quite as many as during the season, but still more than our usual half-dozen.

I noticed Emile (of course), Monsieur Georges, Hélène from the flower shop, her friend Marinette, then Amadou, Rodolphe, Tonton and three young men in Arab dress, whom I did not recognize.

I sense that Emile disapproves of this. Emile does not like foreigners.

I served the three men, who were shy and polite, speaking just to each other, and returned to my cassoulet, to find that the beans had almost boiled dry.

I must not lose concentration, I think. I must not allow distractions to affect the success of this recipe.

I managed to salvage the beans just in time, then moved to the bar for a moment to try to relieve the atmosphere.

Emile was talking loudly to Louis, and with an unusual relish.

‘Time was, when the whole of the Panier was French. Now it’s all Chinese takeaways, Turkish bakeries, Arab souks. In ten years’ time, you’ll be lucky to find a single proper French bistrot anywhere in the Vieux Quartier.’

Louis’ eyes flicked to the group of men sitting in the corner. ‘I’ll still be here,’ he said. ‘Where do you think I’m going to be?’

‘In ten years’ time? Who knows?’ said Emile. ‘By the time you’re seventy, you’ll be in a retirement home – that is, if you’re lucky – and La Bonne Mère will be an Indian restaurant, or a chichi pizzeria—’

Louis’ colours flared, and Emile gave a little smirk between gasps from his cigarette.

‘You want to start something now?’ said Louis. ‘You want to start something today?’

‘I’m not starting anything,’ said Emile.

‘I’m not the one who opens his doors to every stray the wind blows in.

’ He grinned again, and I noticed that both men were drinking shots of cognac, although it was barely nine o’clock.

The air between them was clouded with cigarette smoke and hostility.

And yet there was some humour there; the kind of aggressive humour that for some men counts as affection.

I hurried back into the kitchen, and emerged carrying the chocolate pot. Scented steam rose from the spout, spiced with vanilla and cardamom. I sketched a sign on the side of the pot – it was Gebo , a gift , the rune of comfort and reconciliation.

‘Who wants chocolate? On the house?’

‘I’ll have a cup,’ said Emile at once.

‘I’ll have a cup,’ mimicked Louis. ‘ Heh . The amount of free food you get from this place, you’d think by now you might have learnt to show a little gratitude.’

Emile laughed, then Louis did too, and some of the tension between them dispersed.

The bistrot was starting to clear at last, although between serving breakfast, adding the vegetables to my stock, searing the meat in a cast-iron pan and keeping an eye on my customers, I was already feeling tired.

The combination of bar-room smoke, and the scents of garlic and goose fat, onions, coffee and chocolate were almost unendurable, and the heat from the giant skillet in which I had placed the pieces of duck made it feel like midday.

Emile was smoking another Gitane , and the smoke filtered into the back of the room and all the way into the kitchen.

A wave of sudden nausea assailed me like a breaking wave, strong and unexpected.

I put down the skillet and clung to the big pine countertop to steady myself.

Tsk-tsk, begone . My mother’s spell, to banish bad thoughts, bad feelings. This was no time for morning sickness. Nor could I afford a repetition of the bouillabaisse incident. I drank a glass of water, and felt a little better.

I heard Louis’ voice from the bar. ‘Vianne! More coffee, please!’

‘No chocolate?’

‘I said coffee. Do I look like a child to you?’

‘Coffee it is.’

‘And a cognac.’

I poured it, feeling uneasy. Louis’ moods have not so far extended to cognac at breakfast. But twenty years is a long time to grieve. A long time to feel guilty.

Why is he your problem again? Guy’s voice, like my mother’s, is hard to ignore.

But Guy, like my mother, does not understand this need to make people happy.

It’s the only craving I have had so far during this pregnancy; this need to see light in their faces, to bring joy back into their hearts.

And I have the knack, I know: I can ring the changes.

Back in the kitchen, I found the cassole , the big clay pot that Margot always used when making this dish.

Her recipe makes it very clear that no other cooking pot must be used.

It’s a very old cassole, probably handed down to her by her mother or grandmother, and the blackened clay still bears the thumbprint of the maker on the rim.

Line the base with the pork rinds, then add the beans, the duck, the pork shoulder in three layers.

Add just enough of the chicken bouillon to cover.

Bake for three hours. Keep checking the cassole regularly.

The surface of the cassoulet will darken and bake to a kind of crust; when this happens, push it down into the mixture, adding stock when necessary.

Tradition dictates that you should do this seven times during the cooking.

You see, there is a ritual in everything.

Even this humblest of alchemy; the transformation of base ingredients into something that takes you home.

Seven times, to make sure that the tale ends happily ever after.

Monsters defeated, lost children found, night terrors banished by daylight.

Cooking is predictable; it follows the rules; it keeps to the path.

It never has to pack its things and flee under cover of darkness.

It has a reason for everything. Everything has its own place.

Cooking makes sense . It is safe and secure. It never does harm to anyone.

I place my thumb over the print on the rim of the old cassole. Imagine being that person , I think. Imagine leaving a permanent mark. Imagine having a place of your own – a kitchen, with your own pots and pans. And when the Man in Black comes round, imagine serving him chocolate.

In the bar, the breakfast crowd had mostly dispersed.

A few would remain – Emile, perhaps – but most would return in time for lunch.

I started washing the breakfast things, while keeping a close eye on the cassole.

Push the top down seven times. One: a pink rabbit left on a bench on a railway platform in Syracuse.

Two: the sound of the wind in the eaves, and my mother talking in her sleep.

Three: the face of the Man in Black, who chased us all across the world.

Four: the friends we left behind, blown away like dandelion seeds.

Five: the scent of unaired sheets, of grubby carpets in cheap hotels.

Six: a firework display over the Hudson river. And seven—

Seven needs something more. Something like the thumbprint on the handle of the pot; something to mark this dish as my own.

The jar of xocolatl is hidden among the spices; it smells of the court of the Chocolate Kings; the forests of South America.

It has a pleasing bitterness; a taste as dark as memory. It calls to me from across the years:

Try me. Taste me. Test me.

I have used it before, of course, in desserts and hot chocolate.

But it works best in a savoury dish. I can already taste how it would deepen the range of flavours.

Garlic, bay and rosemary, crowned with xocolatl.

A pinch or two is all it needs; and already the flavours are shuffling; shuffling like a pack of cards, dealing a different future.

I lift the lid for the seventh time, releasing a veil of steam from the dish. It smells of home, and of history. A fingerprint on a favourite pot. A memory of laughter. The footprint of a newborn child in her baby album. The scent of his head as she holds him there, sweet as blood and chocolate.

I turn off the heat to let the dish rest. Already it looks wonderful.

I push down the baked crust a seventh time.

By lunchtime, it will be perfect. Here is my gift to you, Margot.

Here is my gift to you, Louis. Magic – real magic – is not a tool that lends itself to going unseen.

Magic makes us visible; that’s why we have to keep moving.

But I will be moving on very soon: I can afford some fireworks.

Unlike Margot, I do not need incense, or incantations.

I can already take what I need through the steam from the old cassole, transforming these base ingredients into something approaching a miracle.

Grief into love. Straw into gold. Mourning into acceptance. Some things can be changed – or called into being. Things – and also people.

Seventh time completes the charm.

I think I’m getting good at this.