Page 51 of Vianne
My room above the chocolate shop is small compared to La Bonne Mère.
There is nothing here but a cracked sink and a mattress on top of three packing-crates.
There is no view but the alleyway; not even a glimpse of the ocean.
But give me a week and I can make it into something better.
A little paint; some posters; maybe a second-hand rug on the floor.
The building is old and sprawling, with more little storerooms than Guy can use.
A central living area; a kitchen; a double bedroom he shares with Mahmed.
Stéphane and his cat have claimed a converted storeroom in the back.
It smells of fermenting cacao beans, and there is no bed, just a sofa; but nevertheless he is overjoyed.
It is the first time he has had four walls around him since his divorce, and although this is not a permanent home, he has already begun to refurbish the place, with paint he found in the basement and some items salvaged from a skip.
‘It’s amazing, what you can find if you know where to look,’ he says, showing me the bookcase and chair that he has recovered and brought home.
‘They’re battle-scarred, but so am I. That’s no reason to throw them away.
’ He promises to look out for more: maybe a table; another chair; maybe even a cradle.
I think of the crib Louis promised me. The toys, the baby clothes, the things put away in his wardrobe.
That was another life, I think. That was another future.
Mahmed does not approve of Stéphane. Stéphane sees this, and tries to please. But Mahmed is not easy to placate. My moving in to work is one thing, it seems, but Stéphane – a homeless man, with no connection to the shop, or the art of chocolate-making – is something else altogether.
‘Waifs and strays,’ he mutters, when he thinks Guy is not listening. ‘Dogs and cats belong on the street.’
His mood was further darkened today by the noise from the takeaway next door. ‘It stinks of cooking oil back there. It’s going to affect business.’
‘It’s only a takeaway,’ says Guy.
‘It’s an eyesore.’ Mahmed glared at Stéphane. ‘I don’t want you bringing that food in here. The smell gets into the chocolate.’
Stéphane looked abashed. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said.
‘I won’t do it again.’ He bought some fried noodles home last night, which he shared in his room with Pomponette.
Since then, he has been looking for ways to make himself useful in the shop.
While Mahmed works in the back rooms, he has been decorating the front.
And with Guy’s approval, he has found the perfect piece of wood from which to make a sign for the door.
‘I used to be pretty handy at this,’ he tells me. ‘I had a workshop. Made things in my spare time.’
He has not shown us the sign yet. He wants it to be a surprise.
But over the past couple of nights I have heard him at work in his room; the sound of the fret saw; the restless, whispering sound of sandpaper during the night.
Sometimes, if the sound is especially persistent, Pomponette will come into my room and crawl into bed beside me. It feels good not to be alone.
I know I need to talk to Louis. I know it won’t be easy.
I need to make him understand why I had to leave, and why I am staying at Allée du Pieu, the place he so despises.
But I keep putting off the task. It’s childish, I know.
But I’m afraid of what he might say. I am not used to facing up to my responsibilities.
Besides, no one knows I am here. Allée du Pieu is an island, far from the dangerous currents of gossip that stir all around Le Panier.
As long as I stay here, I am safe from sight and speculation.
I keep thinking of Emile, and his words to me on the day I left.
And there’s so much work to do here that I can almost forget why I came, and those blue bootees in the overhead light all seem part of a dream of Toulouse, a dream I can barely remember.
Besides, there’s so much here to learn, so much to discover.
Chocolate is endlessly variable. Tender or brittle; bitter or sweet, fondant or creamy or crunchy or plain, there’s something here for everyone.
I have a talent for this, Guy says as I sort the roasted beans.
He can always tell these things. I have an affinity.
Today, I learnt the first of three ways of tempering couverture chocolate.
This one requires a marble slab and a lot of energy, but nevertheless it is simple enough, and the result was acceptable.
Using a series of button moulds, I made those simplest of chocolate shapes, and when they were cool, I showed them to Guy, who checked them for taste and consistency.
‘Not bad, for a first try,’ he said. ‘Now let’s try a recipe.’
It is the simplest of recipes, after pralines and chocolate ganache.
He calls them mendiants , those chocolate discs studded with raisins, and almonds and candied lemon peel.
He tells me they’re named after the mendicant orders of monks, who used to sell them door-to-door during the Middle Ages.
It’s a word I have heard before, though never in this context; instead, I remember it flung like stones in our wake as we passed through some long-ago village.
It’s a surprise to find this word – this slur – thus sweetened by circumstance, harmlessly translated into the language of chocolate.
First, melt the chocolate in a bain-marie.
Strange, how the Virgin seems to bless even this most secular of baptisms. Then, on greaseproof paper, place tablespoons of the chocolate to make round discs, the size of the Host. On this still-cooling chocolate, add the traditional dried fruits and nuts that symbolize the Orders.
Fat raisins; yellow sultanas; cherries; toasted almonds; pistachios and hazelnuts, like jewels on a medallion.
Now leave them to cool, at least for as long as it takes for Stéphane to steal one.
‘Stop that! I just made them!’
He grins at me. ‘Delicious. Let’s call it payment in kind.’
‘For what?’
‘It’s a surprise,’ he says. ‘I left it in your bedroom.’
It is a crib, hand-carved from wood, and a child’s small rocking-horse. Both are seemingly unused; the workmanship careful, but amateur. ‘Where did you get these?’ I said at last.
‘Found them round the back of a bistrot somewhere up on the Butte. Left out with the rubbish.’
‘Which bistrot?’
He shrugged. ‘Does it matter?’