Page 47 of Vianne
My first thought was: He found us! He’s here!
– and yet I sensed no immediate threat, no danger from his presence.
Roxane and Poupoule were both alert, peering from under the flap of their tent like birds attempting camouflage.
The fire was out, though the rain had stopped, and the sky overhead was marble-pale.
I guessed it to be about six o’ clock. There was a smell of cigarettes, and soot, and ash, and mildewed stone, and bread, and coffee, and garbage.
Pomponette was drinking from the end of a dripping drainpipe, and Stéphane was smoking a cigarette.
I thought he looked tired, and wondered if he had slept, or whether he had spent the night watching over the rest of us.
The Man in Black lifted a hand, as if in greeting.
I sat up feeling cold and stiff. During my time at La Bonne Mère I have got used to my comfortable bed; my blankets; my nightdress; my pillows.
A single night sleeping rough had left me feeling sick and exhausted.
I wondered how many nights my friends had spent out in the open; not camping, not in transit, but in all weathers, and every day.
I reached into my pocket for the card that Bal had given me.
I smiled at Roxane, who was now busily packing up the tent and bedroll into her rucksack.
‘Thank you for last night,’ I said. ‘I thought you and Poupoule might want this.’
She looked at the yellow card in my hand. ‘He gave you a card for the shelter ?’ she said. ‘Do you know how rare that is? Why the hell didn’t you go there?’
‘I told you. I’m just passing through. Take it,’ I said when she seemed to hesitate. ‘I promise you, I’ll be fine.’
I hoped that was true. The Man in Black was still watching us from the mouth of the alleyway.
Behind him stood the woman Cécile; I recognized her colours.
I pulled my jacket closer, squared my shoulders, smoothed my hair.
Then I stood up and walked towards the figure of the Man in Black.
His face was still in shadow, but I thought he looked familiar.
The dark suit and black shoes were new. His hair, habitually unkempt, had been cut short and slicked back.
But his eyes were the same; very bright, very blue, and filled with lights and reflections.
‘Guy!’
He laughed. ‘You look surprised. Good God, did you spend the night back here?’
‘I didn’t have the choice,’ I said. ‘Someone took my money.’
Behind him, Cécile seemed to flinch.
‘Never mind that now,’ said Guy. ‘We’ve found you.
That’s what matters.’ He laughed again at my expression.
‘What? Did you really think we’d let you go without even saying goodbye?
Mahmed phoned two nights ago. Said Louis from La Bonne Mère had been over, demanding to see you.
Said you’d packed your things and left. It wasn’t hard to find out where. People seem to remember you.’
I looked at Cécile. ‘What people?’
He grinned. ‘I’ll admit it. I had help. Cécile found your papers.’ He gave me an energetic hug. ‘You dope. Why did you run away? I’ve been looking for you all over the place.’
‘Why?’
He gave a comical sigh. ‘Don’t you know? Vianne, you have friends. People who care about you.’
I thought: That’s what I’m afraid of. And Guy looks different in a suit. Almost as if he’s in disguise. I said, addressing Cécile: ‘I found my bag in one of your bins.’
A flash of alarm in her colours. Her face reflects uncertainty. ‘Someone must have dumped it there. I—’
Guy gave her a quelling look. ‘For now, let’s get Vianne some breakfast.’ He turned to Stéphane and the others. ‘You, too. Let’s get croissants and coffee.’
We followed him into the little café. Roxane and Poupoule came warily; Stéphane with the same cheeriness that characterized all his actions.
Cécile moved as if she were under arrest: bringing the coffee and croissants without making eye contact.
I wondered what she was thinking. She knows him, I thought.
She isn’t surprised at the way he looks.
I thought of the Hermit; his furtive smile; his not-entirely-trustworthy gaze.
‘You look so different,’ I said.
‘Basic camouflage,’ said Guy. ‘Forget it. Drink your café-crème.’
I wondered why he’d said camouflage . Who was he trying to deceive? I’d always thought him so open, so straightforward in his dealings. But none of this was my concern. The road to Vianne led away from him. And there was something wrong here; I could feel it in the air.
‘I’m sorry for all this trouble,’ I said. ‘I should have said I was moving on.’
‘Moving on?’ he said. ‘But why? Did something happen in Marseille?’
I thought of Emile, on that last day. I’ve been asking some questions . How can I explain to him? Moving on is what we do. We never cast a shadow. Except that I’ve already broken that rule. And somehow it feels different. As if I’m leaving something behind. Something I should have remembered.
Vianne . ‘I’m going to Vianne,’ I said.
‘But why? What’s there?’
I shook my head.
‘Is this because of Louis?’
I shrugged.
‘Mahmed told me you came round a few days ago. He said you looked worried. He asked around.’ He lowered his voice.
‘Seriously, Vianne. If it wasn’t working out at the bistrot, you could have found somewhere else in Marseille.
I mean, you had a life there. Friends. You had us , if you needed someone. ’
I shook my head. ‘You don’t understand.’
Of course he doesn’t. Guy makes friends wherever he goes.
He is effortlessly sociable. He never seems to consider the effect of himself on other people.
My mother used to say that we should pass through the world like a stone through water; frictionless, leaving no trace.
Guy passes through his world unaware of the burrs that attach themselves to him, the undergrowth he tramples.
I envy him that. His carelessness. But that’s why he’ll never understand.
People like us are different. People like us have to take care.
And yet, isn’t that what I wanted? To leave my mark, and be marked in my turn?
Why am I then so fearful of the ripples I leave behind?
‘Come back with me to Allée du Pieu. Stay in the guest bedroom. You could help us out in the shop. You already know the basics.’
I said: ‘Are you offering me a job?’
He laughed. ‘Why not? You’re capable. Intelligent.
Good with people. Given time, you could learn how to run a business.
What?’ He saw my expression. ‘You don’t think you could?
I’ve seen what you did at La Bonne Mère.
You brought the old place back to life. You could do the same with a chocolate shop.
With my shop. With any shop. Come back with me to Marseille.
Learn how to be a chocolatier . The van’s just outside, we could be home by tonight. ’
Home . I thought of La Bonne Mère, and of Emile’s words to me; and Marguerite, and Louis, and Edmond, and Khamaseen, who had told me: If you’re going in search of yourself, be sure not to leave yourself behind. How much of myself have I left? And how much more do I have to lose?
My little Anouk has been silent since I went to the hospital.
I have not felt her, dreaming; warm; or fluttering with impatience.
A little boy, the doctor says. My child will be a little boy.
But Anouk is real. I claimed her. I dreamed of her, by the river, in Vianne.
I thought that, by moving on, I would secure that future.
Instead, I fear I am losing her, just as I lost the pink bootees.
‘Come on, Vianne,’ Guy told me. ‘You were doing so well in Marseille. I was going to teach you how to temper chocolate. How to make rose creams, and pralines, and almond cracknell, and Turkish Delight—’
I felt a sudden, tiny, little movement under my ribs. A flutter, like that of a moth’s wing. My little Anouk is listening. How strong-willed she is already, I thought: how quick to express her preferences.
‘Come on, Vianne. Till the baby’s born. There’s space for you above the shop. I’ll pay you a decent salary. I’ll teach you everything I know about chocolate, and running a business. Then, if you like, you can move on – or not, whichever choice you make. Does that sound good?’
That flutter again. She hears him, I thought. She hears him like the call of the wind. Maybe my little stranger knows better than I do what we need. And maybe being a mother means more than simply being afraid.
I nodded. ‘It sounds good.’
‘Then it’s decided,’ Guy said with a grin. ‘I’ll get the van. We’re going home.’