Page 56 of Vianne

A week has passed since my return, and still I feel no closer to achieving what I came back here for.

And yet the thought of finding Edmond is never far from my mind.

The paperweight – my gift to Louis – is on the floor beside my bed, along with the crib and the rocking-horse Stéphane found in an alley on the Butte.

I have no doubt that the bistrot behind which he found them was La Bonne Mère.

Louis made these things, I am sure of it.

And after keeping them all these years, Louis chose to throw them away.

I wish I could believe that this means he is finally moving on.

But from his words to me, it seems more like a rejection.

He does not want to remember the child. Margot’s album told me as much.

Louis still refuses to use his name. He thinks it’s bad luck. He wishes I had given up.

I’ve tried asking questions around the Panier: everyone knows Louis Martin, but no one wants to talk to me.

André at the butcher’s; Marinette at the florist’s; all those people who were almost friends now look at me with suspicion.

There is no sign of Khamaseen in any of her usual haunts.

Once more I am a foreigner; my accent jarring; my manners, subtly different.

I wonder what Emile has said about me in my absence.

I wonder how I can find my way back into this community.

Guy seems optimistic. He likes me; thus I am likeable. The chocolaterie is progressing well. And of course he assumes that his chocolates will be impossible to resist. I am less certain; the people here like what is familiar. Not everyone wants to travel, I say. Not everyone loves stories.

Today, he is wearing an oversized shirt with a design of pink palm trees. A checked bandana around his hair – he has been making dinner. The rich scents of olive oil, red wine, bay, basil and sage fill the air. Guy does most of the cooking here. He laughs when I appear surprised.

‘What, did you think I brought you back to have you cook for us? When we first met, you didn’t even know how to choose fish for bouillabaisse.’

I laughed at that. ‘I’m learning, though. I even used your chocolate spice.’

‘You did? In what?’

‘In everything. In cassoulet, and tapenade , and scattered over café-crème. You were right; it isn’t sweet. But it gives an extra something.’

He smiled. ‘I knew you’d enjoy it. Later, I’ll teach you the recipe.’

I wondered if I should tell him that I already know it.

Spice to calm a restless heart: Cardamom, cinnamon; vanilla, star anise, chilli .

But for now, Guy is planning a leaflet campaign for All Saints on 1 November.

‘We need to target the holiday crowd. The tourists. Tourists love chocolates. Maybe you could hand out some samples to people coming out of church.’

Mahmed has his doubts about this. All this means money, he tells me, and we are already far beyond budget.

‘Guy never thinks about money,’ he says.

‘It’s all very well to experiment, to advertise, but in the end, we need to sell product.

Guy doesn’t think of this as product. He thinks of it as story .

As art . As magic .’ He made an impatient sound. ‘As if magic could pay the bills.’

‘We just need to get to the end of the year,’ says Guy, waving aside his objections. ‘Just till we get up and running. First, we build up a customer base. Then, we start earning properly. I promise you, in six months’ time, we’ll be the Chocolate Kings of Marseille.’

I made up some boxes of mendiants to hand out as samples next Monday.

I gave one to André, one to Stéphane, and one to the Chinese family.

Madame Li and her mother are laying tiles in the kitchen: the girls are collecting rubbish into a couple of heavy bags.

They accept the gift with smiles and nods, although they look bewildered.

Madame Li is wearing overalls over her faded jeans; her hands are chapped and reddened.

It’s hard to tell how old she is; her face is drawn and unhappy.

Her daughters are beautiful, in that casual, unfinished way that only teenage girls can achieve, but I can see her shadow in them, like a foreknowledge of sorrow.

‘I’m learning to make chocolates,’ I said. ‘I hoped you’d help me test them.’

‘Test?’ said Madame Li uncertainly.

I smiled and nodded. ‘You know. Try some. On the house. Tell me if I’ve got it right.’

Madame Li nodded and thanked me again. Her colours were muddled and anxious. She spoke in Chinese to the eldest girl, who was watching from the door. Black hair in a ponytail tied back under a spotted scarf; dark eyes guarded and wary.

‘ That’s what you’re making? Chocolates?’ The girls both speak perfect French, and with a strong Marseille accent.

I nodded. ‘I’m Vianne. I live next door.’

The girl glanced at her sister. ‘That’s the man who made the complaint. Who reported us to the health police.’

‘Mahmed wouldn’t do that,’ I said.

The girl simply shrugged and made no reply. Her mother said something in Cantonese which sounded like a reprimand. ‘As you say,’ said the girl to me, and went back to picking up rubbish.