Page 52 of Vianne

This morning, I went to La Bonne Mère, bearing an offering of mendiants. I found Louis with Emile, in the bar, drinking pastis and smoking. Louis’ colours were muddled; combining anger and relief. But Emile was a gas flame; I could feel it across the room.

‘Oh, look, it’s the prodigal. I thought you’d taken off for good.’

I forked the sign against malchance. ‘I need a word with Louis, Emile.’ He glared at me. ‘Alone, please.’

Emile downed his pastis and slammed down the glass. ‘Don’t let me get in your way,’ he said, pushing past me towards the door. ‘But if you think Louis is going to fall for you a second time, you’re mistaken.’ And then he left like a sullen child, kicking the door on his way out.

I waited until he was gone. The bar was otherwise empty.

It smelt of pastis and cigarette smoke, and from the kitchen – no longer mine – came the smell of Margot’s bouillabaisse.

Louis put down his glass and pretended to wipe the counter top.

But I could see the averted gaze, the stiffness of the shoulders.

I said: ‘I’m sorry, Louis. You’ve been so kind. I shouldn’t have left the way I did.’

‘You think?’ His voice was cold.

‘I ran away. It was stupid.’

He shrugged, still wiping the counter top. ‘Don’t expect to collect your things. I gave them all to the Croix-Rouge.’

I nodded. ‘It’s okay. I’ll get more.’

He made a hard little sound in his throat.

‘I should have known you’d be trouble,’ he said.

‘In fact, I knew. I knew from the start. I had a life before you came. I had a routine. It all made sense.’ He scrubbed at the spotless counter top with a kind of desperate rage.

‘Emile tried to warn me. He said nothing good could come of it. And he was right. I was a fool. Now even food doesn’t taste the same. ’

‘Please.’ I put my hand on his arm. ‘It isn’t what you think, Louis.

You’ve been so kind, so generous. But—’ How could I explain it to him?

How could I tell him that Maman and I had always fled their charity?

And charity is the hydra-headed mother of duty, and gratitude, that clips our wings in kindness as it tucks us into our feather bed.

‘You don’t need to explain. I get it,’ he said. ‘You probably did me a favour. Go back to Lacarrière. I’m sure he’ll be understanding.’

I sighed. His words were so at variance with his colours and his tone that I knew I was not forgiven. This is why we never go back , said my mother’s voice in my mind. This is why we never stay long enough to get attached.

‘It isn’t like that, Louis,’ I said. I put down my box of mendiants. ‘I made these for you yesterday. Call it a peace offering?’

He shrugged. ‘No need for any of that. You worked for me. I paid you. Now you don’t owe me anything. Except—’ He seemed to remember something. Reached for a moment under the bar. Came back with the river stone, etched with the tiny footprint and the name in Margot’s handwriting.

‘Here.’ He put it down on the bar. ‘Take it. I don’t want it.’

‘But – it was a present,’ I said. I’ve never given a present before. I’ve never had anything of value to give.

For the first time, his gaze was direct. ‘I don’t care what it is,’ he said. ‘What were you thinking, anyway? It was the darkest day of my life. Why would I want a souvenir?’

I tried to explain, but suddenly I found myself too close to tears.

My throat was tight; my head ached; I wished I’d stayed at Allée du Pieu.

I tried to say that love is the place where you go to find yourself; that everyone makes a mark on the world; that forgiveness has to start with the self, but all I could think of was Cécile, saying: You really believe that hippie crap , and I suddenly wasn’t sure if I even believed it myself.

Louis went on, in a voice that was both cold and unbearably gentle: ‘My Margot died, and with her, our son. I think about that every day. I don’t need a fucking paperweight to remind me. Now go back to your chocolates, and don’t come round here ever again.’

I picked up the river stone; it felt very smooth in the palm of my hand.

I thought of her words in the baby book: A named thing is a claimed thing .

I turned towards the door, and saw Louis, his face immobile.

But his colours were eloquent; speaking to me in the language of things unspoken, things unfound.

My Margot died and with her, my son . And I knew, for whatever reason, Louis Martin was lying.