Page 63 of Vianne

All Saints; and the bells from Bonne Mère ring out in celebration.

A chill wind blows from the north-east, bringing the promise of snow from the steppes, and people who seldom go to Mass come out in their winter finery.

There are a lot of tourists here. Nylon backpacks and cameras among the fur collars and cashmere scarves.

The autumn sun is cold today; the Virgin and her infant shine above the city in scintillating gold.

‘This one isn’t for sale,’ I repeat, handing out my samples. ‘But when we open, you’ll have the chance to buy figures like these, and lots more Christmas things besides. Look out for us on the fourth of December. We’ll be having our grand opening then, with free gifts and surprises!’

We gave out two hundred fliers today, and all my little samples.

‘If even a tenth of those people drop by, then we’ll be in business,’ said Guy, as we sat down to dinner – a generous biryani prepared by Mahmed, silky with saffron and turmeric, with crunchy chickpeas, fresh lemon juice and lentils with cumin and cardamom.

Mahmed’s food is always as vivid and as flavoursome as he is cautious and distant.

Today he was especially so in the face of Guy’s optimism.

‘You’ll be lucky if any of them come. Most of those people were tourists. They’ll be long gone by the time we open. Handing out free samples is one thing, but getting folk to put their hands in their pockets will take a lot more than that.’

‘He’s right, though, Mahmed,’ said Stéphane. ‘Tourists come and go, and the shops that serve them come and go as well. What you need is a proper foothold in the community. Something to bring folk together. A library, or a favourite bistrot, or a local bakery—’

Once more I thought of the lentil van, with its pink and orange flowers. Last night I saw it in the smoke; and ever since I left Toulouse, it has never left my mind. Bringing good into the world is not as easy as it sounds. Sometimes the world does not listen. Sometimes, you have to shout louder.

‘Maybe – we could have a van,’ I said slowly.

‘We do have a van,’ said Mahmed.

‘I mean, like the lentil van in Toulouse.’ I looked at Guy, who was smiling. ‘We could take it out one day a week. We could serve hot chocolate.’

Mahmed looked suspicious. ‘Why?’

I told him about the lentil van, and Abani and Bal.

‘So – this chocolate would be free?’

I nodded.

Mahmed’s lips tightened a little. ‘Look. I get that you want to create goodwill. But there’s a difference between giving out samples to people who might buy from us later and doling out hot chocolate to homeless people who never will.’

‘Maybe that’s the point,’ said Guy.

Mahmed’s impatience seemed to grow. His colours flared from sullen green to an angry burnt-orange.

‘I don’t think you’re listening,’ he said.

‘All these things you’re giving away cost money that we can’t afford.

Cacao beans from ethical farms at ten times the price of the regular kind.

Advertising brochures. Mixing machines. Not to mention this place – I know it’s a shithole, but still, it’s not cheap – plus power and utilities.

And none of that even starts to cover time, and labour, and living costs. ’

‘Not everything is about money,’ said Guy.

‘Tell that to the people we owe it to.’

‘Have a little faith,’ said Guy. ‘Magic doesn’t follow rules.’

Mahmed gave a sigh. ‘No. You’re the one who doesn’t do that.

You’ve never been short of money. You always think you can pick and choose.

But some of us don’t have the luxury. Some of us have to be practical , and balance the books, and buy groceries.

Some of us don’t have the luxury of grand schemes, or magic, or bringing home every stray that happens to catch your attention—’

‘What does that mean?’ said Stéphane.

‘It means that we’re spending far more than we earn.

We already were, when you first arrived.

Now we have two extra mouths to feed, a cat, and a baby on the way.

Stop it —’ This last remark was to Guy, who seemed about to protest. ‘Just stop dreaming, and face the truth. You can’t keep giving stuff away. We’re not a charity.’

I said: ‘You’re right. We’re a business.’ I smiled at Mahmed’s look of surprise. ‘And that’s why, as a business, we need to make an impact in the community. Earn ourselves some goodwill. Agreed?’

Guy was smiling. ‘I think I do. We can manage without the van for one day a week. Let’s see how it goes.’ Then, to Mahmed, whose face had turned stony and expressionless, he said; ‘Come on, man. What harm can it do? It’s only a bit of hot chocolate.’

Mahmed shrugged and turned away. Guy put a hand on his arm, but Mahmed pulled away angrily. ‘You have no idea how much I do – for you, for this shop, for the business. You’re used to it. Like so many things. You wouldn’t survive a week without me.’

‘I know,’ said Guy, still smiling. ‘Who else would keep me honest?’

Mahmed did not smile in return, but pushed his chair back and stood up, his long hair hanging over his eyes.

‘Where are you going?’

‘Out for some air. Everything stinks of chocolate here.’