Page 54 of Vianne

‘In Moncrabeau,’ Guy told me, ‘there is a Liars’ Festival.

An old tradition, dating back to the eighteenth century.

It’s famous all over the region, and every year on the first of August, people come to Moncrabeau to watch the liars’ contest. I always went with Pépé: there was a market, and music, and dancing, and a parade of the Liars’ Academy in their ceremonial robes, with banners and pennants and pageboys in their red and white livery; and all the mayors and clerics of the different towns and villages along the Garonne would arrive in state, wearing their full regalia.

And in the evening, the liars would tell their most extravagant stories; and the winner would sit on the Liars’ Throne and be crowned as King of Lies.

‘The throne itself was a stone seat, built into the wall of one of the narrow streets of the bastide , and I used to dream of sitting there, and being awarded the traditional scroll and bag of salt awarded to the winner, and the official certificate, stamped by the Mayor, that gave the winner the freedom to lie – to anyone – for the rest of his life.

“What would you do with your prize?” said Pépé. “Who do you want to lie to?”

Guy paused in his story. ‘I think this story needs a little more than chocolate, don’t you think?’ He opened a cupboard and brought out a bottle of Armagnac. Setting out two shot glasses, he poured out a measure for each of us, then, seeing my expression, grinned.

‘Sorry. Force of habit.’ He drank his shot, then picked up mine. ‘I just don’t like drinking alone. Now, where was I?’

‘Lying.’

He nodded. ‘Right. But that was a game. Just part of the Liars’ Festival.

And in September I always went back home to Toulouse, and my father.

’ He took a mouthful of Armagnac. ‘My father. He was so certain. So very sure of who I was. Never a doubt in his mind that some day, I would take his place in the firm. And so for years I believed him. Pretended to take an interest in law. Hid my collection of recipe books. I even dated girls, for a while. I’d always known my sister would be a brilliant lawyer.

And then Anna died, in a car crash, three weeks after her twenty-second birthday, and suddenly there was only me to carry on the tradition.

’ For a moment he paused, and I saw his eyes all filled with reflections.

I saw his sister; his father; his fear of letting down the family.

‘The thing about lying,’ Guy went on, ‘is how often it comes in disguise. We lie to protect other people. To make them happy. To earn their love. Well, Vianne, I’ve been lying ever since I can remember.

It’s my greatest talent, I think; even more than making chocolate. ’

Guy had gone to study law at the Faculty of Aix-Marseille.

‘My father would have preferred the Sorbonne. But I loved Marseille. The city, the sea – everything but the course itself, which was dry, and depressing, and filled with the kind of young person my father would have loved me to be.’ He grinned.

‘So I dropped out without telling him, and took a cookery course instead. But I didn’t want to be a chef. I wanted to be a chocolatier.’

‘And you met Mahmed.’

He nodded. ‘He was working as a delivery driver at the docks. We met in a bar. We clicked. That’s all.’

‘But you didn’t tell your father.’

‘No.’ He gave me his wry and wistful smile.

‘My father would never have understood. Would never have forgiven me. I was all he had left – my mother had died when Anna was five, and I barely remembered her. The business was all he cared about, that, and carrying on the name. He’d even selected a girl for me – Sophie, his partner’s daughter.

And so at first I just let them believe that I was studying law in Marseille.

It was so easy. I played the part. My living allowance was generous – although he’d have stopped that straightaway if he’d ever suspected the truth.

But every time I went back to Toulouse I promised myself I’d tell him the truth.

And every time, I told myself that this time wasn’t the right time. Do you understand?’

I think I do. My mother and your father are not so very far apart. I could imagine Guy’s father now; a physically imposing man, like his son, but without Guy’s humour. A monolith of his childhood; remote as a god on a mountaintop. Receiving offerings of lies, disguised as filial duty.

‘But what about graduation?’ I said. ‘How did you manage after that?’

‘I did what every student does. I rented some robes. Had some pictures taken. My father still has one of them, framed, on the wall of his study. I was still trying to find the right time. The right words. But they never came.’ He paused, and I saw him struggling.

‘And then, he fell ill. It was cancer. How could I tell him the truth then?’

Unlike my mother, Guy’s father had been as aggressive in his fight with cancer as he was in pursuing his cases.

There were therapies, hospitals, treatments.

‘I’d always known the old man was tough,’ Guy said.

‘I’d thought him immortal. But when he fell ill, I started to think that the right time would never come. Not for him, and not for me.’

Guy had told his father that he was planning to stay in Marseille in order to gain some experience before returning to Toulouse.

He told him that he was working pro bono alongside a barrister who specialized in immigration law.

Marseille has many immigrants, both legal and illegal, and although his father complained about Guy’s tendency to pick up waifs and strays, Guy could tell that he was proud.

‘Thinks he’s a working-class hero,’ he said. ‘I used to be just like that, once. Let him get it out of his system. There’s time.’

‘That was eighteen months ago,’ went on Guy.

‘Since then, he’s back in remission. He’s passed his cases on to Sophie.

And still—’ He sighed. ‘I meant to tell him this time. I really did. I was going to. But I want him to see my business thrive. I want him to know it’s a success.

Give me six months, and I’ll show him what we’ve achieved together.

Prove to him that I’m serious. That I lied to him for a reason. ’

‘Sophie.’ I knew the name rang a bell. ‘That woman in Café Pamplemousse?’

He nodded.

I thought about her patent shoes; my feeling that she was making an effort for someone. ‘She likes you,’ I said.

‘What can I say? I’m likeable.’

There was a pause, during which I thought about what Mahmed had said to me about Guy being a disappointment. ‘What does Mahmed know?’ I said.

‘Mahmed doesn’t know about this. He thinks my father knows about us, and the chocolaterie.

’ Guy pulled a face. ‘Listen, Vianne. I know it’s a mess.

I never meant it to go on for so long. I’ll tell my father as soon as the chocolaterie breaks even.

And it hurts to lie to Mahmed. He’s the most honest person I know.

But I still need that allowance, and he’s always been so sensitive about my family’s money. ’

He paused, and seemed to listen for a sound in the passageway. ‘Did you hear something?’

I shook my head. ‘Probably just the wind in the eaves.’

He seemed to relax. ‘Just nervous, I guess. I don’t know why I’m telling you this, but somehow, you inspire confidence. It isn’t always easy, being optimistic all the time.’

I thought about that. I suppose I’d always taken his certainty for granted. Now I saw his self-doubt, and felt a sudden kick of sympathy. ‘You’ll do it,’ I said. ‘I know you will. I’ll help if I can.’

He smiled. ‘Thank you. I’m glad of your help. You were so good for Louis Martin. I thought maybe you’d do the same here. You’re so good with people, Vianne. You know how to bring them in.’

I wonder about that, though. He seems to have such faith in me.

But ever since I returned from Toulouse, people have been different.

This is a close-knit neighbourhood; it’s hard to avoid seeing people.

Those who were once almost my friends now suddenly seem not to notice me, and the shopkeepers, the market-traders, the fishermen at the harbourside – all reflect a secret contempt, a kind of veiled hostility.

The sound of whispering as I pass. The sudden silence as I approach.

What can I do to win their trust? To charm them from their suspicion?

I smiled. ‘Of course. I’ll do my best.’

Outside, the wind’s soft laughter.