Page 36 of Vianne

Louis went out before lunch, which was less busy than usual.

I’d made red mullet with ratatouille , rich with olive oil, onion and herbs, and a pineapple tatin to follow.

Emile was there, and Monsieur Georges, and Amadou and Marinette, but the rest of the usual patrons were absent, and there were no tourists to take their place.

My things were already packed upstairs. My mother’s cards, my papers, the notebook of recipes, the pink bootees, a sweater, a change of clothing, Guy’s jar of xocolatl and the money I have managed to save – all packed neatly into the bag I brought with me from New York.

The rest of the clothes – those charity-shop blouses and chiffon skirts and summer frocks, all hoarded in the almost-belief that I could wear them next summer – can stay, or be sold, or be given away.

I try not to imagine Louis finding them, remembering; keeping them in the wardrobe the way he kept Margot’s dresses.

I ought to take them with me back to the charity shop, but there are too many to carry now, and time is getting short.

As soon as lunch is over, I thought, I’ll shut up the bistrot, and go.

Go . That urgency, that reluctance, duelling fiercely inside me.

Leaving will never be any easier than it is today.

Harder, perhaps, but not easier. Louis’ present – my gift to him – I will leave in the kitchen.

That’s where I first met Margot; it’s where her presence lingers.

The gift is a palm-sized river stone; polished, tactile; river-grey, upon which her baby’s footprint appears in miraculous detail, as if he had briefly stepped on the rock with wet feet while crossing the river.

Above it, in Margot’s handwriting, his name is acid-etched on the stone: Edmond Lo?c Bien-Aimé Martin .

Margot would have liked it, I think. I hope Louis understands what it means. It means that we all leave our mark, even the ones who leave early. It means that we are connected with each other and with the past; that love does not vanish when we do, but stays; to watch us and to help us grow.

I looked back into the bar and saw Emile, eating lunch alone. He had lingered until the others had gone, and I had cleared the dishes. Then he finished his coffee and brought the cup into the kitchen, where I was starting the washing-up in Louis’ big old farmhouse sink, almost as deep as a bathtub.

For a moment he stood watching me, his colours a troubling jumble of greys and greens and resentful purple.

I thought he looked unwell today, his face more lined than usual; and yet there was a smile on his face, the smile he usually reserves for when he’s about to say something unpleasant.

I kept on washing the dishes, but from the corner of my eye I could see him watching me, looking around the kitchen, occasionally touching something – a wooden spoon, a copper pot – with the air of a man testing out a new reality.

‘ Vianne Rochas ,’ he said at last, speaking as if from a script. ‘ Vianne Rochas – if that’s your name.’

I turned to him. ‘Can I help you?’

He shrugged. He looked both angry and sick, and yet he was still smiling. ‘I’ve been doing some asking around,’ he said, ‘since you arrived here.’

‘Really?’ My heart gave a little bump. ‘About what?’

The smile became a grin. ‘Don’t give me that.

I know what you are. I knew it the minute you walked through that door.

Don’t flatter yourself you’re the only one who’s ever tried to play that game.

It’s happened before. Did he tell you? That woman from the magic shop, making out she could speak with the dead.

He must have given her thousands of francs before he finally realized.

And now you. Don’t think I don’t know. Don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing. ’

It was the most he’d ever said to me directly.

And I could tell he’d been practising I could feel it in the air, the effort it had taken him, the energy it was costing.

He’d dressed for the occasion, too – charcoal suit, leather shoes – Emile, who normally dressed as if he was going fishing.

And I could feel the rage in him, and the rage I’d seen on that very first day, a rage that burned like a pilot light, scorching the air with its colours.

‘What do you think I’m doing?’ I said.

‘Don’t give me that,’ he almost spat. ‘You and your hot chocolate. You treat him like a child, and God help him, he likes it!’

‘I don’t,’ I said. My voice was calm. ‘Louis is my friend. I owe him a lot. And what’s wrong with hot chocolate? People drink it all the time. You drink it.’

‘Louis never did.’

He gave another sick grin, and I remembered what I’d seen in him on that first day at breakfast: something to do with a woman, a child.

Louis is not the only one who keeps this anniversary.

And in his charcoal suit, Emile looked just like the Man in Black, relentless in his hatred, his pursuit of everything good.

I wanted to say: I cooked for you. Surely that must mean something.

But all my attention was taken up with the effort of keeping calm.

I forked my fingers behind my back. Tsk-tsk, begone .

But he was still there, watching me, vicious as an autumn wasp.

Wasps are so angry in autumn , my mother always used to say, because they know they’re going to die.

They feel the coming of the cold. They turn on the warm-blooded.

Emile gave me a sick grin. ‘What now? Will you go crying to Louis? Tell him his friend of thirty-five years thinks he’s being an idiot?’

I shook my head. ‘Why would I do that?’

Emile shrugged. ‘It’s how you win.’

‘It isn’t a war, Emile,’ I said.

‘It is from where I’m standing.’

I shrugged and turned back to the washing-up. I wanted to tell him how wrong he was – but why should I try? I was leaving. Behind me, Emile made a scornful sound. I heard him turn to go. Then a pause.

‘What’s this?’ he said. He’d seen Louis’ gift.

‘I had it made as a present for Louis.’

He picked it up and studied it for what seemed a very long time. Then I heard him strike a match, and smelt the reek of a Gitane .

‘You had this made?’ he said. ‘For Louis?’

I nodded, not quite daring to turn.

Gently, he put down the river stone, and I heard his receding footsteps.

‘Goodbye, Emile,’ I told him. But I don’t think he heard me.