Page 70 of Vianne

Today, someone came from Le Petit Marseillais , the local bi-weekly paper, to report on the new chocolate shop.

Two people; a man and a woman, both bored; both on their way to something else.

Mahmed had been up since dawn mocking up the window display with bright explosions of cellophane and great jewelled mountains of chocolates.

Guy was wearing his favourite shirt, the one with the luminous palm trees.

‘We’ve been preparing for this day for almost two years,’ Guy told the reporter, while I served them cups of hot chocolate, and his colleague took photographs. ‘It’s wonderful, finally, to be able to share everything we’ve done with the public.’

‘And what have you done?’ The young man’s voice is lightly accented, as if from a different region; his face is touched with the light of the north. He looks vaguely resentful at being called to this part of town. ‘It’s not as if Marseille doesn’t have confectioners. Why is this one different?’

‘Well, for a start, we’re making our chocolate from bean to bar.

Every stage is carried out here. That means the highest quality.

Did you know that most chocolate farmers have never tasted their product?

That’s because they’re paid so little, and yet cacao is one of the most lucrative crops in the world. It’s—’

‘Great. Let’s have a photo. Maybe next to your wife?’

‘Oh. No! She’s not my—’

‘Here.’ I found myself being shepherded into position by the counter. ‘Little smile? That’s lovely. And your name?’

‘Vianne.’

‘With two n s?’ He wrote it down.

In the corner, I saw Mahmed give a smile that was all in shadow. Guy gestured for him to come over, but Mahmed simply shrugged: Why bother? There’s still work to do – and vanished into the back room.

‘And what do the neighbours think of this place?’ That was the young reporter again, glancing into the alleyway, which we have cleared of litter, but which still seems dark and disreputable.

‘I heard the previous owner was the victim of an arson attack. And that recently you were the victims of vandalism yourselves. A broken window, wasn’t it? ’

Guy shook his head. ‘Everyone’s great. We’ve had nothing but support.’

‘So, there’s no feud? No curse?’

He laughed. ‘Everyone likes chocolate.’

A flurry of photographs later, and the pair were gone, leaving their two cups of chocolate untouched on the marble counter.

Stéphane, who had disappeared during the interview, came back to clear away the cups and to replace the newspaper over the shop window.

I noticed Grandmother Li outside, watching the procedure.

I took her a cup of hot chocolate, and explained about the journalists.

Grandmother Li drank her chocolate and handed back the china cup. ‘They were here before,’ she said. ‘Asking questions.’

‘Of you? When?’

She shrugged. ‘Were here a week ago. They see the broken window. They ask about previous owner.’

I thought of the broken window, which Guy had replaced immediately. Broken windows attract more stones. Damage calls to damage. For a moment I felt unease, and wished the journalist had not come: but Guy is overjoyed at the publicity it will bring us.

Later, in the afternoon, I dropped by at La Bonne Mère, partly to take in a new supply of leaflets, and partly to check in on Emile, who has been increasingly scornful since my reconciliation with Louis.

I sense that he is jealous; that he likes being Louis’ only friend.

I have made him insecure; I pay him in free chocolates.

There were a number of regulars still drinking coffee after lunch, but most of the lunchtime crowd had gone, and the bar smelt of cigarettes and beer.

Louis was in the back room; I brought out my newest experiment.

Coconut clusters, dipped in dark chocolate and a little sea salt. A woman seated by the bar looked up and smiled. ‘My favourite.’

Khamaseen has changed again. This time she was fifty or so; dressed in jeans and a pullover; greying hair tied back in a ponytail. I handed her a chocolate.

‘Very nice,’ she said, with a smile. ‘I always did like coconut. I think that little shop of yours should be having its grand opening soon.’

‘It’s not my shop,’ I said. ‘But yes.’

‘Of course. It belongs to Guy Lacarrière. But the heart of it – that’s all you. You knew that, of course. You have a knack for guessing people’s favourites.’

‘I do?’

Khamaseen took another of my coconut clusters. ‘These are very good,’ she said. ‘You ought to make a career of this. It’s easier than the other thing, and comes with much less personal risk.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You know what I mean.’ Her eyes had a curious, silvery shine, like coins at the bottom of a well. ‘Granting wishes comes at a cost. Your mother knew that. So did Margot. There’s only so much happiness anyone can have in a life. You can keep it for yourself, or you can give it to others. Not both.’

I realized that Emile, who had been sitting at a table nearby, had shown no reaction to any of this, even though he should have heard every word of the conversation.

‘Don’t worry. He hasn’t heard a thing.’ Khamaseen’s voice was crisp and amused. ‘He won’t, unless I want him to, and believe me, I never do.’

I looked at her again. She was real: I could see the lights behind the bar reflected in her silvery eyes. And she smelt of something familiar; a kind of patchouli-tobacco scent I associate with my mother. She took my hand in both of hers. Her skin was warm as honey, and smooth.

‘Don’t worry. I’m not a ghost,’ she said.

‘I’m just good at passing unnoticed. It’s easy to do that at my age, especially when you’re a woman.

’ She grinned, and I wondered just how old she was, because suddenly she seemed very young, and filled with childish mischief.

‘Want to see something funny?’ she said, and without awaiting my reply, she forked a little sign with her hand.

As if in response, I saw Emile jump as if he’d been woken from deep sleep.

‘You know I don’t like coconut, Vianne,’ he said in a cross, bewildered voice. ‘You should have brought more of those rose creams.’

‘I did. I know they’re your favourites,’ I said, and from the tail of my eye, I saw Khamaseen slip away through the door, back into the streets of the Butte.