Page 61 of Vianne

The third method of tempering chocolate is sous-vide , in a waterproof silicone bag.

The trick here is to get the temperature of the chocolate just right; and it works, it’s easy; but I still prefer the marble slab, the feeling of connection with the medium.

It engages all the senses; the cold of the slab; the warmth of melted chocolate; the rhythm back and forth; the scent; the sound of scraper and marble.

Guy says I should go with my instincts – they’re good.

And he likes to see me experiment with different fillings and fondants; and has even shown me how to make my own chocolate moulds from silicone plastique.

These things are surprisingly easy, once the magic has been demystified.

I have already made moulds from several small objects around the house, as well as from something I borrowed from La Bonne Mère when I left: something for which I have high hopes when All Saints’ Day comes along.

Mahmed thinks I spend too much time messing around with details. He thinks we should stick to familiar things: chocolate bars, and Easter eggs, and maybe a small selection of truffles, which are easy to make, and require little skill, and which will not confuse our customers.

‘This isn’t art,’ he tells me, seeing me working on a chocolate cameo; a woman’s face, picked out in white chocolate against a dark medallion. People are going to be afraid to eat them if they look too fancy.’

I disagree. Food is an art. I learnt that at La Bonne Mère.

Food engages sight and sound and texture, not just scent and taste.

And food is the most elementary expression of human connection; love without complications.

Travelling with my mother has taught me the value of perspective.

A simple dish can become ridiculously elevated by an elegant turn of phrase.

Bread with a square of chocolate inside becomes a patissier’s chocolatine ; two dozen snails from a woodpile become escargots en persillade .

Maman used to laugh at my little collection of menus.

Vermicelle à l’eau , she would say, when she made instant noodles.

Served with a sprinkle of sel de mer, and maybe some poivre noir and a packet of ketchup à l’américaine you stole from a hot dog stand in New York.

Or maybe sandwich à la manière Rochas, with moutarde à l’anglaise and beurre du café du coin?

Or pizza à la Genovese, scavenged from a table outside a swanky roadside café?

I still hear her voice best from her cards.

And at this time of year, when Hallowe’en comes around, I find myself reaching for the pack, even though I know what she’d say if she knew what I was planning.

I was reading the cards in my bedroom when Stéphane came looking for Pomponette.

‘What’s this?’ he said, seeing the cards spread out over the coverlet. ‘Checking out our future?’

‘Not the future, exactly,’ I said. ‘More of – a meditation.’

We already know the future, Viannou , so my mother used to say.

The cards tell us what we already know. And yet I don’t know anything.

Will Xocolatl be a success? Will I see the Vianne rose bloom?

Will Edmond Lo?c Bien-Aimé ever know who his parents were?

Although my talk with Khamaseen confirmed what I already believed, I still have no idea how to find the child Louis gave up for adoption.

And all the cards are meaningless blanks, reflecting nothing.

I looked up to see Stéphane watching me with interest. ‘My wife was into that,’ he said.

‘All yoga and meditation. On Tuesdays she used to go the gym. It took me a while to realize that Jim was the name of her lover.’ He picked up Pomponette, who had been sleeping at the foot of the bed, and pressed his face into her fur.

‘Even my cat sleeps with someone else. Come on. I have something to show you.’

This dry, almost existential humour is very much Stéphane’s default position.

Over four years of homelessness have failed to dent his optimism.

Like my mother, he seems to live from day to day, taking from it what he can, scavenging rubbish from roadsides and skips to give it a new purpose.

Along with the crib and the rocking-horse he found for me behind the bistrot, he has also brought me some faded brocade cushions, a woven multicoloured rug, a bookcase and some paperback books he found in a box by the side of the road.

Thanks to him, I have never had quite so many possessions.

He has also mended the skylight, and finished repainting the woodwork.

His own room is already filled with things that he has rescued and mended; and tonight he finally showed me the sign he has been making for the front of the shop: a piece of mahogany, polished and oiled, incised with a fretwork geometric design that looks vaguely South American.

The name of the shop has been chiselled expertly into the wood and highlighted with gold paint: Xocolatl .

It is a beautiful piece of work, and I know how many hours of polishing, planing and finishing it has taken him.

‘What do you think?’

I touched the wood. ‘I think you’re an artist, Stéphane.’

He shook his head. ‘There’s no money in art. But maybe this will show Guy and Mahmed that I’m not just a pretty face.’

‘What did you do before all this?’

‘This and that. Mostly that, to be fair.’ He saw my expression and went on: ‘I used to work in marketing. My company made office supplies. I spent the last eighteen years of my life trying to make paper clips sound exciting.’ He gave a rueful smile, which revealed another glimpse of those shocking teeth.

‘That feels like a very long time ago. At the same time, it feels like yesterday.’

I know that feeling. I know what it’s like.

The man has reinvented himself. Is Stéphane his real name?

What drove him to alcoholism, and later still, onto the streets?

I know better than to look, although I could if I chose to.

But he is entitled to privacy. He deserves this chance to become someone else; to build anew.

And he is good at building things – the shop has never looked better.

Even Mahmed, in his way, has come to acknowledge his usefulness.

I took out the last little box of rose creams and handed it to Stéphane. ‘Here. I made these. What you think?’

He sniffed the box. ‘Smells like perfume.’

How very odd, I tell myself. Their magic only works for Emile.

Stéphane will try all my chocolates, but these are not his favourites.

Stéphane prefers the mendiants, the beggar’s sweets, in dark chocolate.

Simple enough for a child to make; little circles of happiness.

It occurs to me that my chocolates are not so different to Tarot cards: each one brings out a different mood, a different kind of story.

In my mother’s hands, the cards were a dangerous magic.

Maybe this is a safer one: a means of reaching out to those in need of a little comfort.

Small comforts . Yes, I like that. It reminds me of the lentil van, of Bal and his mother Abani, putting good into the world.

If I ever have a shop of my own, maybe that’s what I’ll call it , I think.

The thought startles me from my reverie.

That I should even consider such a thing – a chocolaterie of my own – is outrageous.

Impossible. My savings add up to no more than a few months in a cheap hostel.

I have no materials, no stock, no building to rent.

I have no allowance from an indulgent father.

And yet Guy promised to teach me a trade. Said I had skills. Encouraged me.

I’ve seen what you did at La Bonne Mère . You could do the same with a chocolate shop. With my shop. With any shop.

And maybe I could. I’m putting down roots.

I even have my own garden. I have a headful of recipes; a room of my own; a future.

I have a flair for chocolate, he says; a knack for thinking up new ideas.

And of course, I have other skills. Skills my mother taught me.

Skills she meant for life on the road, but which can be adapted.

I have no reason to hide any more. I have spent too long being afraid; watching with envy, when I could just reach out and take whatever I want. Whatever I need.

It isn’t wrong. I know that now. I want to put joy into the world.

I want to help my friends, to build a future for my daughter.

This is the time to put aside those things that try to hold us down.

Time to say goodbye to the dead, and to celebrate the living.

Everything is ready now: candles from the market, lined up in wine-bottle holders; incense from my own supply, ready to sweeten the troubled air.

Salt and sand, for the circle. My mother’s cards in their sandalwood box.

And a dozen little red sachets, made from scavenged scarlet silk, one for every month in the year, and filled with a combination of herbs: lavender for peace of mind; marigold, for friendship; strawberry leaf for good fortune; hawthorn for protection; mandrake for power; cedar for strength; and in each, a scrap of paper with a secret invocation to the dead: a prayer for future prosperity; a light against the darkness.

I always loved this time of year best. It was our birthdays; our Christmas.

It was our leap into the dark. And now, Maman, I must do it alone; for my friends and my daughter.

Willow, for a broken heart. Mustard seed, for endurance.

Broken bread at the threshold of the home and the bedroom.

Scatter salt around the house to ward off evil spirits. Sing a gentle lullaby—

V’là l’bon vent, v’là l’joli vent—

Now I know what I have to do.