Page 59 of Vianne

A rose with my name. What can it mean? I rubbed the rusty metal tag between my fingers. Maman and I had a lifetime of reading runes and Tarot cards and mystic contrails in the sky. But something like this – a rose with my name – I’ve never seen anything like that before.

‘Of course, she’s named after Vianne d’Albret,’ said a voice above me. ‘Founder of that bastide we know. And yet, it could be a sign, of course. Margot loved her roses.’

Khamaseen has changed again since I saw her last; now she was wearing a fisherman’s smock over a patchwork skirt, and a knitted cap over her hair. She also looked younger than before – no older than fifty – and the hands that had seemed old and frail were square and brown and capable.

She smiled at me. ‘I’m glad you’re here. I miss my little garden. It’s always surprising to see what survives in the worst of conditions. And plants are always such hopeful things. All they need is a little space.’

I looked at her. ‘ Your garden?’

Of course. I should have known who she was as soon as she gave me Margot’s album. The herbalist, the friend of Margot’s, whom Louis seemed to resent so much.

‘This must have been your shop,’ I said, indicating the chocolaterie. It looks a lot better since Stéphane replaced the original door and window frame, although the shop front is still unmarked, and covered over with newspaper.

‘It was,’ said Khamaseen. ‘For ten years. I moved here back in ’64.

My shop sold herbs and spices, Tarot cards, incense and teas.

Sometimes I told fortunes. It was popular back then.

And Allée du Pieu was a colourful place, filled with little businesses.

’ She indicated the row of shops, long boarded over, signs faded grey.

‘That was a barber’s shop,’ she said. ‘That was a tattooist. A hardware store. An Iranian restaurant.’ She pointed at Happy Noodles.

‘What happened to that place? It looks closed.’

I explained about the forced closure of the takeaway.

‘It’s never been easy, settling here,’ said Khamaseen.

‘People are wary of foreigners. There were always so many rumours about me in the old neighbourhood. First of all, that I was a witch.’ She gave a small, mischievous smile.

‘Then, that I poisoned Marguerite with my spells and potions. That I lit the fire myself to cash in on the insurance. That I was the reason no one could make a business work in Allée du Pieu – I’d somehow put a curse on the place.

In fact, there was no insurance. I lost everything in the fire.

And Margot died to save her child, the child she’d always wanted. ’

‘I heard the baby didn’t survive.’

She smiled. ‘Is that what Louis told you? You and I know better, of course. Men are so predictable. Margot was told by the doctors that another miscarriage might kill her. But she persisted. Did everything to make the child stay with her. And then, when she started to bleed again, she simply didn’t tell anyone.

The child was born six weeks early, and Margot bled out in the taxicab.

And Louis – poor, grieving, stubborn Louis – refused to even look at it.

A child that had caused its mother’s death, a child he thought was imperfect. ’

‘Imperfect, how?’

She shook her head. ‘What does perfect mean, Vianne? The child was a child, who deserved to be loved. Children give love where they find it. But to love his son, Louis would have had to give up his anger.’

I thought of Louis, suspended in grief like an insect in amber; knowing that his son was alive. Knowing that the key to his heart had always been there, just out of reach. Some men are afraid to be loved; even more afraid to love. Margot had seen that in him, I thought; had written it as a warning.

‘So what happened to Edmond?’

‘They gave him into the care of the State. It was the only thing to do, without a father to claim him.’

‘So he was adopted? Who by?’

She shrugged. ‘How would I know? They changed his name. Gave him a different future. He’d be about twenty now.

A good age; everything’s possible. We can hope that Margot’s son had loving parents; a happy home.

We can hope he feels safe and loved. But Louis will never know him.

Not unless the boy seeks him out. And really, why would he want to? ’