Page 31 of Vianne

I dreamed of my mother during the night.

We were standing outside a whitewashed church, the kind you can see in any village in the south-west. A strong wind was blowing, and the sky was filled with pieces of shredded paper.

Above us, in the tower, a carillon of furious bells jangled and rang chaotically.

My mother was wearing a kind of robe, like the Empress in the Tarot pack.

Her hair was wild and witchlike. A brazier stood before her.

And then I saw that her hair was white, and knew that this wasn’t my mother at all, but Khamaseen, from Rue du Panier; the Empress’s robe like a patchwork quilt swirling and flapping around her.

She shouted over the clang of the bells: ‘ All change! All change! ’ And I realized that the paper that charged the air with particles was ash; the ash from my mother’s Tarot cards burning in the brazier; a brazier that was also somehow Marguerite’s old earthen cassole, the one with the thumbprint on the rim—

And in my dream I understood that I had done a terrible thing: that all these bells were ringing for me , and that somehow by calling for changes for Louis, I had triggered an avalanche, and then I awoke to the sound of bells from Notre-Dame above me, and realized that it had just been a dream, and that it was Sunday.

I pulled on my jeans. They were getting tight.

I left the top button unfastened, but I will soon need a larger size.

In the wake of the troubling dream, little Anouk was lying low, but below me, the guest room we never use was filled with the sounds of activity, and the morning air through the open window suddenly smelt of autumn.

The weather had shifted overnight; the sea was green instead of blue, and a cast of purple cloud was gathering on the horizon.

A seasonal shift, that’s all , I thought – but then I remembered my dream, and my mother’s voice, shouting over the voice of the wind:

All change! All change!

I threw on a baggy shirt to hide the fact that my jeans were unbuttoned, and tied up my hair in an old silk scarf scavenged from a charity shop.

Going downstairs, I found that Louis had opened the second guest room, and was busily sweeping the floor.

Sunlight shone through the windows, and the air was filled with motes.

Three unopened cans of paint and a set of new brushes stood by the door, next to a cardboard box containing the rugs and the faded curtains.

He looked round at me and grinned. ‘At last, you’re up! I was afraid you were going to sleep till noon.’

I was puzzled. ‘What are you doing?’

‘I thought it was time I did up this room. Air it out, nice lick of paint, clean curtains, maybe a rug—’

I nodded. ‘That sounds like a good idea. But – aren’t you going to Saint-Pierre today?’

He shook his head. ‘I’ll go Wednesday.’

‘Of course. Whenever you like, Louis.’

That was the anniversary. Wednesday, 13 October.

The twentieth anniversary of Margot’s death.

And yet, although André had said Louis was depressed at this time of year, he didn’t seem depressed to me.

Quite the contrary; he seemed to be infused with a kind of chaotic energy.

His eyes were bright: he seemed to charge the air like electricity.

And he had made breakfast for both of us: just coffee, fruit and croissants, but it was the first time he’d done such a thing since I moved in two months ago.

‘I heated up what was left of that chocolate of yours,’ he said. ‘I think I could get used to it.’

‘I’m glad you like it,’ I said with a smile, although I was feeling uneasy.

The change – whatever change I had worked – was both joyous and disturbing.

Louis looked like a man waking up after the best night’s sleep he’d had in twenty years of insomnia.

And there was a shift in his colours, I saw; something sweet and hopeful and bright, which contrasted with that ominous dream, and filled me with foreboding.

But it was only a little thing!

There are no little things, chérie.

No, there are no little things. I see that now, too late.

Too late. That’s why she always moved us on before we got too strongly attached.

That’s why she made me leave my toy on the bench by the railway.

Don’t put down roots, she always said. Roots drag us under.

They take us down. They build their fortresses over us.

Roots are what stop us from flying free, and people are the worst of them, always stretching out in the dark, desperate to make a connection.

And now, too late, I can feel those roots reaching out so hungrily, and I see what the change in his colours means, and I know why he is repainting the room.

‘It won’t take long to paint the walls. The gloss work may take longer, but the weather’s still good, and we’ll air the place out so there’s no smell.

After that, you can decide what you’d like to put in there.

I already have some things you can use. A little crib.

Some baby clothes. Toys. They’re in the old wardrobe in my room.

I never got round to clearing them out, and before long you’re going to need them. ’

I’d never heard Louis say so much at once. Habitually monosyllabic, this morning, he couldn’t stop talking; the words spilled out of him like wine. ‘Louis, that’s very kind,’ I said. ‘But—’

‘I know, I know. It’s six months away.’ He grinned.

‘To me, that’s tomorrow. You’re young. But trust me, six months is no time at all when it comes to making arrangements.

’ He looked at me. ‘And you’ll need that, Vianne.

Because right now, you have nothing. No permanent home, no bank account, no social security number.

No health insurance, no family, no wedding ring, no boyfriend. ’

‘I’ll manage,’ I said. ‘I always have.’

‘You don’t know what you’re saying,’ said Louis.

‘How old are you? Twenty? Twenty-one? You don’t have any family.

The moment you have your first check-up, you’re going to have to explain to the doctors and Social Services how you’re going to care for a child.

Otherwise, they’ll take him away. Surely you must see that. ’

He thinks it’s a boy , I told myself , thinking of the pink bootees. Just as Margot was certain that her child would be a boy .

I shook my head. ‘They can’t do that.’

‘They can, and they will. But I can help. I can help support both of you. I can deal with the paperwork, the doctors, the insurance. I could serve as a kind of adopted grandfather to the child.’

I stared at him. ‘Wait, what?’ I said.

‘Just to be safe, Vianne,’ Louis went on.

‘I wouldn’t ask anything else of you. For God’s sake, you could be my daughter.

But when the baby’s born, it means the two of you won’t be alone.

I’ve put money aside. Business is good. And you can keep on working here, part-time, and the baby can have this room.

It’s just under yours, so you’ll be able to hear him.

And—’ For a moment he looked abashed. ‘It’d be nice to see him grow.

To know I did something good, for a change. ’

Oh, Louis . I’m so sorry, Louis. It is a kind thought, of course.

But it is not his only thought. I can feel it all around, distressing the air like the sound of bells.

Roots are hungry things, I thought. Like children, all they want is to feed.

Through the motes that shine in the air I can see sudden glimpses of the future in his mind: myself, with the child, in a rocking-chair.

The bedroom, all painted in yellow and blue.

And a pair of blue bootees, hanging from a painted sign on the back of a bedroom door – a sign that simply reads: Edmond .

This is what I have called into being. This is the change I have summoned.

I have brought hope – but at what cost? Love, but what of my freedom?

A named thing is a claimed thing . And how soon will it be before Louis asks me if I’ve chosen a name?

Before he claims my child as his own? Before the face of my little Anouk is eclipsed by that of a stranger?

‘I know it’s a lot to take in at first,’ said Louis, seeing my expression. ‘That’s fine. Take all the time you need. Meanwhile, I’ve asked a friend of mine – a doctor – to come and look you over. He’s a good man, and very discreet. He’ll make sure you and the baby are healthy.’

‘You’re very kind,’ I said. ‘But I—’

‘Don’t say anything yet,’ he said. ‘Just think about it for a while. Go have some breakfast. The croissants are fresh. But leave me a cup of that chocolate.’