Page 69 of Vianne

I made another ganache cake today, and another fresh batch of hot chocolate.

We parked down by the old harbourside and, as well as offering samples, this time, we also offered larger cups of spiced hot chocolate at ten francs a cup, with a piece of ganache cake on the side, and toppings of whipped cream and sprinkles.

And stories. Always stories. Over the past few weeks, I have learnt that chocolate is steeped in stories.

Stories of the Americas, the ancient civilizations of the Aztec and the Maya; stories of conquistadores and treasure ships loaded with looted gold; stories of the Spanish court, and intrigues in the Vatican; stories of conquest and industry, stories of colonial power.

Did you know that chocolate was banned by two popes? That Casanova attributed his sexual prowess to drinking it? That the Aztecs believed that it was a gift from the gods themselves?

‘We’ll have to print more leaflets,’ Guy remarked, when I mentioned it. ‘Perhaps we can print something on the cups, too: chocolate facts from around the world. What do you think, Mahmed?’

Mahmed shrugged. ‘I think we’ve spent more than enough money on printing.’

‘Then write them on the cups,’ said Guy. ‘Write them on in marker pen. You could do that, couldn’t you? It wouldn’t take long.’

‘Let me do it,’ I volunteered, seeing Mahmed’s expression darken. ‘I can easily do that, and Mahmed has so much else to do.’

Mahmed gave me a sideways look. ‘You don’t have to do that,’ he said.

‘I’d like to,’ I said. ‘I want to help.’

‘Thanks.’ He made it sound like a curse.

For a moment I thought of Emile; the angry flame that seems to burn perpetually inside him.

Mahmed reminds me more and more of him nowadays.

He has always been the darker shadow to Guy’s bright light; but now he is different; sullen; morose; the shadow of a shadow.

Love will do that , my mother says. Too much love will drag you down.

But why has the love between Guy and Mahmed shifted in this sudden way?

What misunderstanding could have caused them to be disunited?

‘I’m sick of the stuff,’ he told me today as I offered him a chilli-chocolate triangle from my new batch. ‘To tell you the truth, I wouldn’t care if I never tasted it again.’

‘You’ll feel differently when the orders start coming in,’ said Guy.

Mahmed made a dismissive noise. ‘Tell me when that happens,’ he said. ‘Right now, all we have is bills.’

Just over two weeks remain now before the shop’s grand opening.

We have built a kind of routine: out with the van three times a week; building stock the rest of the time.

We need as much stock as we can make if we are to ride the Christmas rush; this means processing thousands of beans, including removing the embryos by hand to ensure maximum sweetness.

It takes up to six hundred beans to make one kilo of chocolate.

So far we have stockpiled over eighty kilos – but as Mahmed likes to point out, we need to sell far more than this if we are to break even.

And we will make far more money from elegant boxes of chocolates than from plain slabs of couverture, or sachets of chocolate powder, which is why we must concentrate on building up our stock of Christmas boxes.

Guy still works faster than I do, but likes the freshness of my ideas, and so leaves me free to experiment, and to share my creations with customers on our outings with the van.

I also share my new ideas with the crew at Happy Noodles: Grandmother Li has acquired a taste for my sea salt and green tea truffles, and the two girls enjoy my red rose creams, as well as the chilli triangles.

It has taken a long time to build even this degree of trust; but I am hopeful that this may mean the start of a more cordial relationship.

There have been workmen in the back of the takeaway for weeks.

Now they are gone and the family is getting ready to start trading again as soon as they pass the inspection.

It’s not as easy as it seems. The kitchen has been refurbished and the working area is spotless, but the alley itself is unsightly, dark, half-blocked with litter, and lined with blind and boarded-up facades.

To make this street appealing, we would need to clean it up, make the other shops presentable, fill potholes, plant window-boxes, hang signs.

Months of work between us, assuming we worked together.

I have already suggested this to Stéphane, who seems willing to help, if wary of Mahmed’s reaction.

And Madame Li and her family are equally wary of Mahmed, who Grandmother Li calls Huodou , the Black Dog.

Huodou. Bad luck , she tells me as she watches him go by.

I try to placate her with green tea truffles, but I can see she is not convinced.

I have also taken an assortment of my work to La Bonne Mère, where Emile and the regulars have tested three kinds of truffles, my cherry mendiants, as well as the rose and violet creams and, of course, the Santons de Margot .

Building bridges always takes time, but I think that with this and the chocolate van, we are finally starting to make a dent in this close community.

Louis has even accepted to let me leave a small pile of promotional fliers by the bistrot door – ‘Not to hand out or anything, but people can take one if they like –’ and someone from the local paper has asked to come round next week and take photographs for an article.

It’s starting to happen, I tell myself. My little working on All Hallows’ Eve is starting to bring what I asked for.

Nothing too ambitious; just a little something to help us along.

Of course, even this has its dangers. We need to stay one step ahead.

Take what you need, but always move on as soon as there’s blood in the water.

Except that this time is different, Maman.

This time, we need to be visible. The Tower, with its neon sign, serves as a beacon to call them.

Prospective customers; tourists, the press; all we are doing serves to make Xocolatl more attractive.

I do what I can through the vapours; a gilding of light on the sooty stone; a promise of something in the air.

And, of course, someone else needs to find us.

By law, there’s no way to find an adopted child unless he chooses to be found.

But that beacon shines for everyone. Since Hallowe’en, I have called Edmond every night, like a mother calling her child in after dark.

The table at my bedside has become a little altar, of the kind my mother used to build in hotel rooms around the world.

There I have my mother’s cards, and the river stone inscribed with his name.

The rest I have taken straight from Margot – as my mother always said, it isn’t the ritual that matters, only what it means to you, and it seems right to use her words, and this, her final recipe.

We call our children. Sometimes, they come.

This is not my child, but I owe it to Margot to try. The moon is in the right house. My mother called it Oak Moon. Margot may have another name for it, but I know from her book that she burns sandalwood incense to welcome it in, just the way my mother did.

Burn a white candle with sandalwood; holy water; cup of wine. 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 to make the child feel welcome.

I have no holy water, but I do have wine, and salt, and bread. And I know the lullaby that calls the wind, and other things too; the old, old song that sounds just as it did when I was a child:

V’là l’bon vent, v’là l’joli vent—

I light a pinch of sandalwood. The smoke is surprisingly acrid and dense. It smells of charred fields, burnt bridges; the scent of a herbalist’s shop aflame. But in the smoke I see a boy – a teenager, almost a young man – and his face is almost familiar, and I already know his name.

Edmond.

That’s not the name he goes under now, and yet he responds immediately.

Names are things of power. I feel his gaze turn towards me, searching for me through the smoke.

He must be asleep. Images of his life slip by like cards.

He likes to cook. His parents are proud.

He makes intricately decorated cakes; iced biscuits; sky-high soufflés.

He hides his restlessness beneath a sleek dark suit of obedience.

He has no idea where he belongs, but he knows it’s somewhere else.

I send him the smell of Margot’s kitchen; her herb garden, her bouillabaisse; the golden gleam of the Virgin as she watches from her eyrie, and the answering gleam of the ocean; the sound of the bar on a busy day.

I send him the sign of La Bonne Mère; the bistrot where he should have been raised; the handmade cradle and rocking-horse; the guest room clean and ready.

And I send him my mother’s lullaby; the coaxing call of the turning wind; the welcome cry of distant shores; the creaking of a weathervane.

When it is finished, I cut the cards. The Tower, the Lovers, the Chariot, the Hermit, the Six of Swords – even Death – all are gone.

For the first time in months I have a clean spread; the Two of Wands, the High Priestess, the Seven of Cups, the Ace of Swords, the Fool; the Star.

I need to consider what this means. A change of course; a release from constraint; an intervention of the stars.

But it still feels like a roll of the dice; a challenge to the universe.

I fall asleep, still wondering, and dream of picking up hagstones on a beach; the sound of waves and sea birds, and Anouk playing there on the tide line, and my mother sitting on the sand.

Except that it isn’t my mother, it’s Khamaseen, in a scarlet dress, with her long dark hair loose down her back, and jingling bracelets on her arms.

A change of air works wonders , she says. It’s putting good into the world . And then she turns to me and smiles, and I see that the child by the shore is Edmond, and that my little Anouk has disappeared, like the story of the mermaid who vanished into sea foam.