Page 30 of Vianne

Certain meals stand tall among the legends of a lifetime.

That cassoulet was one of them; served on Margot’s good tableware, with garlic bread and a glass of red wine.

I could see their faces illuminated from within; their colours like a nimbus in the shadows of the drab little room.

Everyone was happy today. The warmth of that good and humble meal was like a benediction.

Of course, it’s only food. I know. But Marinette will sleep better tonight; Rodolphe will find his bad hip soothed; Tonton will feel the sun on his face and go for a longer walk with his dog.

Even Emile will feel a small unexpected afterglow.

And Louis – I have a gift for Louis, which I have been planning since Khamaseen gave me the baby album.

Four hundred francs at the funeral shop – more than I expected, but the result is beautiful.

I mean to give it to him on the day of the anniversary; a reminder that love is not a place, or a time, or even a memory.

Dessert was a mocha cheesecake topped with crème Chantilly, with black coffee and truffles to finish.

The truffles were ones I’d made with Guy, one afternoon at Allée du Pieu, and I saw Louis’ look when I passed them around, but he made no comment.

I noticed that Emile took three, even though he claimed not to like bitter chocolate; and that Monsieur Georges took an extra one, which he hid away for later.

Traditionally, Louis and I eat our lunch at three o’clock, when our regulars have gone, but today it was nearly half past four when we finally sat down to eat.

The weather had brightened, and the sky had veered from grey to washed-out blue, with a net of mackerel clouds that softened the horizon.

I thought Louis still looked tense, as if there was something on his mind, and I wondered how many shots of cognac he’d had with his coffee during the day.

‘Ready for lunch?’ I said at last.

‘Not too much. I’m not hungry.’

I ignored his comment, and set the dish of cassoulet in front of him. Slow-cooked regional dishes like this often improve with re-heating. The scent was rich and flavoursome; the meat perfectly silky; the tender beans infused with the flavours of bay, and clove, and rosemary.

Louis tasted a forkful. I waited for his verdict.

‘ Heh . Not bad.’

I smiled. Not bad is Louis’ highest accolade.

Louis Martin is not a man given to lavish compliments.

But I could see his colours through the rising steam from the old cassole; the lightning greys of that morning giving way to softer, warmer hues; the pastels of childhood; the palette of hope; the rosy, sunrise tint of love.

‘This was my Margot’s signature dish,’ he said, between mouthfuls of cassoulet. He sighed. ‘It tastes like coming home.’

I hid my smile. ‘I’m glad,’ I said. ‘I tried to do it justice.’

He nodded. ‘Did you make it last night? It tastes so rich, I thought perhaps—’

It tastes of something he can’t place. I can see him trying to isolate it in his mind. I can read it in the steam: a memory of another time, of a time when we were someone else; of laughter and champagne corks, popping like a firework display –

You see, God answers prayers, Louis. In his way, He answers them.

No, Louis was not always the Hermit. On that day, he was different, mirthful as a mad March hare, and she was warm and round as a plum, all filled with the joy of that life inside.

My own small inner life responds; Anouk, who has been so quiet of late, now joins the celebration.

My little Anouk. I can see her now, in those little pink crocheted bootees.

Summer children are filled with light . God answers prayers. He answers them.

Louis looked up from his empty plate. His tired eyes were shining. ‘That was good. But different , somehow. Did you change the recipe?’

I shook my head. ‘I followed hers.’

But that’s not altogether true. I added that pinch of bitter spice, that dose of something rich and strange. And a hint of my mother’s art, that thing that makes us different. The thing that finds what people need. The thing that sees what others miss; that serves it with a smile.

‘They finished the cheesecake, I’m afraid. I’ll make something else to finish the meal.’ I took out my smallest copper pan, added milk and cacao. A generous piece of red chilli, for heat. Grated nutmeg for sweetness. And more than a pinch of the chocolate spice; rich and dark and generous.

‘I suppose this means I’ll have to start paying you a proper wage. I mean, with the baby, and everything.’

‘You’ve been more than kind,’ I said.

‘I’ve been a pain, and you know it.’

I laughed. ‘In that case, try my hot chocolate. You’ll like it, if you give it a chance.’

‘ Heh . Well, maybe a little.’