Page 68 of Vianne

This morning, Stéphane and I went out in the newly refurbished van, with my chocolate ganache cake in its box and a stack of three hundred fliers.

We parked by the market near Rue du Panier, where there were several other vans, selling coffee, and doughnuts, and pizza, and cheese, and spicy merguez cooked on a hot plate and wrapped in galette to eat by the road.

People are always wary at first, when faced with goods given out for free.

I left the van, and stood in the street with a tray of tiny paper cups.

Hot chocolate! Food of the gods!

People passed with barely a glance, carrying their shopping, eyes averted in that way we know well, Maman and I – that way that says; I don’t know you.

I don’t want to know you . It was raining; a soft, thin rain that did nothing to encourage trade.

My feet were getting wet; my hair was dripping under my headscarf.

Hot chocolate! Food of the gods!

No one takes my fliers. One man tries a sip from a cup; I try to hand him a flier, but he pushes past impatiently.

People are not always friendly here; the unusual is not welcome.

A seeming gift may be a trick, designed to lure the unwary towards making an expensive purchase.

A child holds out an inquisitive hand; its mother gathers it back into her skirts with a sharp word of warning.

What is wrong with these people?

An old woman looks at me, smiling. ‘Hard work, isn’t it? People are so wrapped up in themselves that they sometimes forget to be happy.’

She took a cup of chocolate from the tray, and tasted it.

Closed her eyes. Savoured the moment. I thought she looked somewhat familiar, and tried to remember where I’d seen her – in La Bonne Mère, perhaps, or in the queue at the bakery?

– and then she turned, and the sunlight broke for a moment through the rain-soft clouds, and shone summer-silver in her eyes, and then I saw that once again, I’d failed to recognize Khamaseen.

She was wearing a yellow scarf on her head and holding a basket of vegetables, but there was no mistaking the clever brown hands, or the humour in her eyes.

‘Wonderful.’ She finished the cup, and put it back onto the tray. ‘It tastes like happiness.’

I saw a man standing behind her glance in her direction. ‘Excuse me, but – are those free samples?’

I smiled. ‘Help yourself.’

Shyly at first, he stepped forward. ‘Oh, this is amazing. Here—’ To the man beside him, whom I took to be his partner, he turned and said, ‘Hey, try some. It’s really good.’

Khamaseen gave them a sideways smile. ‘Isn’t it? I could drink it all day.’ A ladder of light shone up her face.

‘Can I try some?’ A young woman with a baby in a sling approached and took a leaflet. ‘Is this your shop? Xocolatl?’

‘Not mine, but a friend’s. We’re opening soon.’

‘Selling hot chocolate?’

‘And other things.’

‘This is delicious. Oh, wow. Is that cake ?’

People with shopping baskets; people with babies in strollers; people walking their dogs; tourists buying souvenirs.

I recognized some of my regulars from La Bonne Mère: Monsieur Georges; Marinette; Rodolphe.

A man with a battered rucksack and a face that had seen many nights outdoors shyly took a paper cup.

‘I can’t afford fancy chocolates.’

‘That’s fine. Here, have a piece of cake.’

Behind me, I could see Stéphane filling more cups. ‘We make all this ourselves, you know. We make it right from the cacao beans. Did you know chocolate is older than Christianity?’

Marinette gave me a look. ‘So this is what you’re doing now?’ Did you make the cake yourself?’

I nodded. ‘Try some.’

‘I shouldn’t.’ I noticed she took a piece anyway.

‘I thought only coffee came from beans.’ That was from a girl aged about nine; curly hair over berry-bright eyes.

‘Chocolate comes from beans too. Want to see some?’ I indicated a bowl of roasted beans on the counter. ‘This is what they look like at first. Smell them. They smell of chocolate.’

Before long, all my ganache cake was gone, and there was a small crowd around the van, drinking hot chocolate from the urn, listening to me repeat some of the things Guy had taught me.

Did you know that cacao beans like these were once used as currency?

Did you know that the Aztec emperor Montezuma drank fifty cups of chocolate a day?

Did you know that the scent of chocolate helps lift your mood and relieve stress?

And so with every customer, we send out the gift of happiness. Small pleasures, small indulgences; a taste of something sweet and strange. Magic comes in so many forms. Sometimes it’s a word, a smile; a candle in the darkness. And sometimes it takes a simpler form; perhaps a cup of chocolate.

Of course, I know there are risks to all of this.

I am not used to being so visible. But if Khamaseen can hide in plain sight, changing to suit the circumstance, then so can I.

The chocolate van; the business; the shop – all provides a kind of camouflage.

And I feel safe in Allée du Pieu. We have walls.

A place of our own. The promise of a future.

We could stay here , I tell myself, daring for the first time to believe.

I could stay here and be Vianne. I could be a part of this.

Inside me, my little Anouk agrees. I feel her inside me, exploring her world.

And I am changing; I have changed. My belly is visibly rounder.

My muscles have grown softer, more elastic.

My sense of smell is keener; my sense of taste heightened even further.

I dream in colour. I dream in scent. I dream of you at six years old, with eyes like the edge of a summer storm.

I dream of you by a river, barefoot, paddling in the shallows.

I dream of you in a bright-red coat, blowing a plastic trumpet.

I dream of you in a little group of children, laughing and running.

And I dream of Edmond Martin, sitting in a kitchen somewhere, waiting for me to find him.

Where is he now? Is he here in Marseille?

Does he know I am calling him? Does he hear my voice in his dreams? And if so, will he answer?