Page 50 of Vianne

It was already dark as we reached Marseille, and I felt a pinch of déjà vu .

My life so far has always been a series of rear windows; of places never revisited, of friends made in transit, left behind.

It seems so wrong to be coming back to a place I have already left; and yet it feels like coming home.

As if the events of the past two days had been nothing but smoke and shadows.

Remember why you left , says Maman; and yet, I feel no anxiety.

Only a sense of gratitude and warmth for this community.

The people in the windows, faces pressed against the glass.

The people on the streets, the regulars in the cafés.

Remember why you came back , I thought. This is how you learn to be Vianne .

We found Mahmed still hard at work in one of the back rooms of the shop.

There are several of these, once-storerooms, now adapted to contain the stages of transformation: the winnowing, grinding and conching that turns cacao beans into chocolate.

The scent that seemed part of the woodwork lay heavily on everything; a canopy of vanilla spice over a base of petrichor.

It takes so many of those beans to make even a dozen bars, but Guy maintains that this is the way artisanal chocolate should work: not mass-market produce at supermarket prices, but specialist, high-value goods, made to be enjoyed by those who understand its complexity.

Mahmed is rather more practical. ‘We made just fifty bars last month, working every single day. We’d have to charge a hundred francs a bar just to break even.’

‘But we’re not selling bars,’ said Guy. ‘We’re selling dreams. Indulgences. Magic , Mahmed. Fairytales.’

‘Next time I go to the bakery, I’ll see how much bread that buys.’

Guy laughed. ‘You need to believe, Mahmed.’

‘I do. I just don’t believe in – what the hell is that ?’

That was Pomponette, who, on being released from her basket, had followed us into the room, and jumped up onto the conching machine to sniff tentatively at the drum. Mahmed flapped his hands at the cat, who stared at him contemptuously before jumping back onto the floor.

‘Vianne brought a couple of friends with her,’ said Guy. ‘I said they could stay for a while.’

‘Waifs and strays,’ muttered Mahmed.

Guy grinned. ‘You were a stray yourself.’

Mahmed said something in Arabic. Guy laughed, and Mahmed laughed with him. And it felt so good to be back with friends that I almost forgot my initial unease at his casual transformation and allowed myself to be seduced by friendship, warmth, and chocolate.