Page 37 of Vianne

First I finished the dishes. Then washed the pots and pans I had used, drying them and replacing them carefully back in their places.

Last of all, I washed Marguerite’s copper pan – the pan I had used for the chocolate – and hung it back in its place on the wall.

I won’t be using it again. Or her favourite slotted spoon, or the cast-iron frying pan, or the chopping-board, or the cassole, or the knives, or the mouli .

I scanned the kitchen, silently saying goodbye to the sink, the range, the boxes and tins in the pantry, the spice shelf with its hand-labelled jars, the view from the open window.

There are new scars on the table now, caused by a clumsy carving knife; a pot I put down with no trivet; a cacao stain sunk deep into the wood.

I did that , I tell myself. That’s the mark of my presence.

Louis will be back by five. That still gives me plenty of time.

Leaving the kitchen spotless, I go back to my little room.

I have already stripped the bed and washed and dried the linen, leaving it in the linen chest, along with the baby album.

The wind has changed, blowing warm air from the continent. The child in me wails: Can’t we stay?

The mother answers: I’m sorry. It’s time.

Together they make a single voice; my voice; the voice of the wind that whips me from side to side like a sail, that promises let’s see next time, let’s see what happens next time , as if I were still that child on the bench at the station in Syracuse, sobbing, heartbroken, but already aware that too much baggage weighs you down, and that my mother is watching.

Last of all I write a note to Louis, which I leave on the kitchen counter:

Dear Louis,

Thank you for everything. I’m sorry I couldn’t stay longer.

Vianne. x