Page 32 of Vianne

I didn’t want any breakfast. Nor did I want to stay at La Bonne Mère, to hear Louis’ plans for the future.

Of course I’m happy for Louis. I wanted to see him break through his grief, and find a future of his own.

But I can’t be a part of it. Nor can my child replace Edmond.

I realize now how reckless I’ve been in letting Louis get close to me.

I should have seen the signs earlier, known how his protectiveness would soon extend to my baby.

But I was too absorbed in my own discoveries – Margot’s story, her recipes, my adventures in chocolate – to see the dark clouds gathering.

Now I had a new problem; and I could see no solution that wouldn’t cause someone to be hurt.

And this is why we never stay long , whispers my mother’s voice from the Butte, where the Good Mother looks down on Marseille from under a mantle of raincloud. This is why we don’t get attached; why we move with the seasons. Summer is long past, ’Viane. Time to do what we always do.

I suddenly wanted to talk to Guy. To sit in the chocolaterie and smell the roasting cacao, and hear the sounds of the conching machine, and listen to his stories.

Guy has always understood my need for independence.

He has never pursued me, and shows only a passing interest in my pregnancy.

Not that I needed his help now, but there was something about the chocolate shop that always seemed to calm my mind.

And so I made for Allée du Pieu, where I found Mahmed clearing out the mess of litter from a flooded drain.

His hair had come loose, his face was splashed with mud, and he looked bad tempered and tired.

‘This place. The work . It never ends,’ he said, shovelling a stack of soaking papers, straw and rags into an open refuse sack.

‘Just when you think it’s nearly done, you find something else.

A broken drain. A leaking roof. A horsehair wall , for pity’s sake.

’ He broke off to kick at a piece of sodden chipboard, which flew apart at the contact, and scattered across the alleyway. ‘Ouch. Ouch! ’

‘You’re busy,’ I said. ‘Is Guy around?’

He shook his head. ‘He’s in Toulouse. With his family.’

‘Oh,’ I said. I was oddly surprised at my disappointment. ‘Do you know when he’ll be back?’

He shrugged. ‘I don’t know. It could be a week.’

‘I see.’ Once more I felt that sting of disappointment. In a week, I will be gone. I won’t have the chance to say goodbye. And yet, we never say goodbye. We only turn with the seasons.

Mahmed must have noticed my look. ‘Are you feeling okay?’ he said. ‘Let me make you some coffee.’

He saw my hesitation. ‘Come inside. I promise, you’ll be doing me a favour.’

I followed him into the chocolate shop. The place is taking shape now, with a counter, a wall full of shelves, and a Plexiglas divider that separates the display area from the workshop, where the conching machine, the moulds, the belt and other necessary tools of the trade will one day be visible to the public.

The walls have been painted a delicate ochre colour, with sweeping patterns in red and brown, which are meant to depict cacao pods.

There is a coffee machine by the door, which already looks like it’s had plenty of use.

Mahmed poured himself an espresso and looked at me inquiringly.

‘Not for me,’ I told him. ‘Right now, even the smell of coffee makes me nauseous.’

Mahmed looked abashed. ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘My sister used to be just the same. Hang on a minute—’ He went into the back room and emerged a few minutes later carrying a teapot and two little cups. ‘It’s cardamom chai,’ he told me. ‘My mother used to make it.’

‘What, no chocolate?’ I said. I meant it as a joke, and yet it came out sounding mournful.

He grinned, a wide and open grin that made him look like a schoolboy in spite of his greying hair. ‘It sometimes feels that way, doesn’t it? I have to say, Guy likes the stuff a lot better than I do, but – what can I say? It’s his passion.’

He poured two cups of the cardamom chai. It was hot and creamy and good. ‘You say his family’s in Toulouse?’

He nodded. ‘He doesn’t see them much. His father’s a senior partner in a law firm in the city. I think Guy was expected to take over the family business. That makes it hard for him to go back. I think he’s a disappointment.’

I was astonished. ‘Guy? Law ? ’

I tried to imagine Guy studying law. But all I could summon was the memory of the day I’d first met him; unkempt in his Hawaiian shirt and battered straw hat, his eyes gleaming with amusement and the lure of distant places.

I looked at Mahmed, almost ready to believe he was joking, but his expression was almost sad beneath the rueful little smile.

‘You have no idea how lucky you are, not having a family. Not having those expectations. Not being—’ He saw my expression. ‘Dammit. I’m so sorry, Vianne. I know you lost your mother.’

‘It’s okay,’ I reassured him. ‘I know you didn’t mean it that way. But what about your family? Do you ever see them?’

‘ My parents tell people I’m dead.’ He gave that little smile again. ‘It’s easier than telling them I fled the marriage they wanted for me. Easier than telling them—’ He stopped abruptly. ‘Easier.’

I took another sip of my tea. A filament of scented steam unfurled like petals into the air.

What’s your story?

Look and see. It’s not as if you’re staying now.

I took a breath of the scented steam. It smelt of roses and bitter cloves.

Looking through the vapour, I saw the hand of Tarot cards which has haunted me since I arrived.

The Hermit. The Fool. The Chariot. Change.

The Six of Swords. The Four of Cups. And the Lovers, still the Lovers, entwined; one dark, one light, a half-familiar face half-turned; embracing on the green, green ground—

How could I have missed it? The easy way they interact. The marriage of their colours. The way he lights up when Guy is around. Behind the shy aloofness, the silent loyalty of love.

‘How long have you been together?’ I said.

He flinched. ‘Is it really that obvious?’

‘No, you hid it very well.’ I smiled and put down my tea cup. ‘I’m glad you found each other,’ I said. ‘Isn’t that all that matters?’

He looked relieved, as if he’d expected something to break between us. He took a sip of his tea, then said: ‘I’d rather you didn’t tell anyone. It’s hard enough to be who I am without having everyone knowing it. Our customers. Guy’s family—’

‘He’s happy with you. Why would they not want that?’

That smile again. ‘You don’t understand. A son – an only son – is supposed to represent the family. To carry on traditions. To father children. To hold the line. Girls can do whatever they like. But men – they do what’s expected of them.’

‘Only daughters follow the wind.’

He looked surprised. ‘What’s that?’

I shrugged. ‘Something my mother used to say.’ Outside, the weather had turned again, and the sky was a luminous, rain-washed blue. ‘I should get back to La Bonne Mère. Louis will be wondering where I am.’ I hugged him. ‘Give my love to Guy. Good luck with the chocolaterie.’