Page 72 of Vianne

Three more orders have come in since then.

None are as large as the Vert Galant, but every order is welcome.

Guy has bought an answering machine, to ensure that we do not miss calls.

Everything is working just as we’d hoped.

And yet, there’s something troubling him.

Perhaps it’s only the build up to the shop’s grand opening; perhaps he’s started to realize just how much there is at stake.

And he looks tired; I wonder if he is sleeping properly.

Of course, we are all working harder in preparation for the big day; Guy with a nervous energy, Mahmed with quiet, methodical, tireless attention to detail.

As for myself, I do what I can, although Mahmed has banned me from heavy work, in view of my condition.

This morning I got up early to write chocolate facts onto paper cups.

Did you know that Napoleon loved chocolate?

That the Mayans prized it more highly than gold?

That chocolate liquor is not brown, but blood-red?

That a bishop of Chiapas, in Mexico, banned the consumption of chocolate during his services, and was subsequently poisoned by his congregation?

That Pope Clement XIV was also allegedly poisoned with a cup of bitter chocolate?

‘This time, you can drive the van,’ said Guy, as we prepared to leave. ‘I could use Stéphane today, if you can manage without him.’

I shook my head. ‘I’m sorry. I can’t.’

‘You can’t drive ?’

I know it sounds ridiculous, but when would I have learnt to drive?

Maman and I never owned a car. We walked.

We rode on buses; hitched lifts in battered vans that smelt of sweat, and smoke, and engine oil.

We stole rides on freight-trains; crept in and out of stations.

Sometimes we bought passage on a ferry or a fishing boat; once or twice we even flew.

But driving? That costs money. Vehicles – even second-hand – cost more than we could ever afford.

And of course, they leave a trail. They’re easy to identify.

My mother must have known that. And yet—

‘I’d like to learn,’ I said quickly.

‘Okay, we’ll have to teach you,’ said Guy. ‘You’re a fast learner. It shouldn’t take long. Mahmed can do it, can’t you, Mahmed?’

I tried to protest, but Guy was already moving on to his plans for our Grand Opening; the chocolate fountain we will hire, with strawberries to dip into it; the Christmas display in the window; spiced drinks in jewelled goblets.

‘Vianne can make her hot chocolate, and serve it by the counter. And there’ll be dancing in the street, and music, and a neon sign, and maybe some Christmas lights, and a tree with little gifts for everyone—’

The old Mahmed would have commented on this obvious provocation. His shadow simply shrugged and, addressing me, said: ‘We’ll both go out in the van today. We’ll find somewhere quiet. I’ll show you the ropes.’

‘Thank you.’ I was a little surprised.

‘It’s fine. I could do with an outing.’

We took out the van to the place that has become our usual parking spot.

We follow the markets, day by day; the fish, the fruit and vegetable markets, the flower markets, the marché aux puces on Sundays.

I had, along with the chocolate urn, a spiced Morello chocolate cake as well as some of Margot’s madeleines.

We parked up at nine; by twelve-thirty, every piece of cake and cup of chocolate had been sold.

I did the talking; Mahmed dealt with the money and the service.

Did you know that chocolate was once bitterly controversial?

That clerics debated for centuries whether or not it broke the fast?

That the first utensils for preparing it date from four thousand years ago?

That my Nipples of Venus recipe dates back to the eighteenth century?

That we’ll be serving them – and more – on the day of our Grand Opening?

‘You’re good at this,’ observed Mahmed, when we were finally ready to leave.

‘People like stories,’ I said with a smile.

‘Guy’s good at telling stories. He likes to make people happy.

’ He nudged the van out of gear and set off slowly through the end of the market, where stallholders were already packing up their wares.

But instead of heading back into the Panier district, he turned along the seafront, and was soon heading away from the old town and into the industrial zone and the docklands.

‘We’ll start with just the basics,’ he said, stopping the van by a silent quay. ‘Just the pedals, and the gears. She’s a temperamental old girl, and needs a sympathetic approach.’

He was right; the van was old, the gears were stiff, and the clutch was spongy. I stalled it for the sixth time, trying to make the soft clutch bite, and flooded the engine completely.

Mahmed shrugged. ‘You’ll get there,’ he said. ‘I think that’s enough for today. We’ll try some more driving tomorrow.’

Heading back, I watched his face as he steered the van through the traffic. ‘Who taught you to drive?’

‘No one. I taught myself when I was twelve. I was so small I could hardly even see over the steering wheel.’

I tried to imagine Mahmed as a child, and found it surprisingly easy.

There’s something oddly vulnerable behind his forbidding manner.

And he is less guarded around me now; perhaps because I am a woman.

I forked a sign in the palm of my hand. Reflected a shard of light on his face, as if from a wristwatch in the sun.

Saw his features soften, as if at a distant memory.

Around us, the van smelt of fresh paint, and diesel fumes, and chocolate.

I’m sick of the smell of it , he’d said.

And yet I don’t believe it. I do believe he’s sick, though; I see it in his colours unfurling like smoke on the water.

‘How did you and Guy meet?’ I said.

‘What did he tell you?’

‘Nothing much. He said he met you in a bar.’

Mahmed gave a short laugh. ‘In fact, I was outside the bar. I was drunk. I’d been in a fight.

I was always getting into fights in those days.

I was trouble.’ That laugh again, coloured with bitterness.

‘He had this smile. This slow smile. Most people smile automatically, before they even know who you are. But Guy—’ He smiled, suddenly wistful.

‘He looks at you for a moment, as if he really sees you, and then he smiles. It makes you feel—’ He paused again.

‘It’s just the way he is, I guess. He never could resist a stray. He’s the king of hopeless causes.’

‘You said that once before.’

‘It’s true. Some people just need to fix things.

You should know; you’re one yourself.’ I looked at him, taken-aback.

First, at his directness; second, at his insight.

‘Don’t tell me I’m wrong,’ he said. ‘I’ve seen you, trying to fix them.

That angry old bastard from the bistrot.

That Chinese family next door. Yesterday it was Stéphane. Today, it’s me.’

‘Mahmed, I—’

‘Don’t waste your time denying it. Guy knows it, and you know it too. It’s an addiction. You’re both the same. Addicted to hopeless cases.’

Is that true? Surely not . And yet it feels as if he has glimpsed a little piece of my soul.

Little pieces of broken glass, reflecting scenes from another life.

My mother’s voice, saying: 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 don’t think that’s true,’ I said.

The shadow was back; I could see it unfurl.

‘You don’t? So tell me. Maybe you know. This game of his – this chocolate shop, this cute little van selling hot chocolate and cake – how long do you think it will really last, once his father – who pays the bills – finds out he’s been lying all this time? ’

‘How long have you known?’

‘Long enough. Stéphane heard you talking.’

I thought again of my talk with Guy; to the sound from the passageway. ‘He told you?’

‘I persuaded him to co-operate. I hid his cat in the cellar.’

Now I remembered Hallowe’en – Stéphane’s fruitless searching for Pomponette; his late-night discussions with Mahmed – and saw how things must have developed.

Poor Stéphane, who tries so hard to be accepted.

Poor Mahmed, who, even now, thinks of himself as a hopeless case.

I thought of that broken window, and the way Mahmed had been afterwards; a shadow of himself, a cloud of anger and betrayal.

‘ You broke the window,’ I said at last. ‘And you put water in the conching machine.’

He shrugged. ‘Are you going to tell him?’

I shook my head. ‘You don’t think he’ll stay.’

‘And you think he will?’ His voice was bleak. ‘I’m a project, like this business. A little fantasy. A game. But in the end, when the money runs out, he won’t have any choice. He’ll go home, and tell himself he tried, that it isn’t his fault it all fell apart.’

I shook my head. ‘That won’t happen,’ I said. ‘We’re already getting orders.’

His smile was like the dark face of the moon.

‘Oh, Vianne. It’s happened before. Guy feels things very passionately – until he suddenly doesn’t.

When I first met him, he was convinced he was going to be a chef.

He lasted three months in his first job, less than a month in the second.

After that, he spent six months moving from one idea to the next, before he finally settled on this; to open a chocolaterie.

It’s a fantasy, that’s all. A little holiday romance. ’

I said: ‘It’s his dream. You know it is. And Mahmed, he loves you. You must know that. Whatever else may need fixing.’

But we had arrived at Allée du Pieu; there was no time to pursue the topic. Mahmed drove the van around the back of the shop, but as he did I saw someone standing by the door, face pressed against the glass to peer into the window.

I felt a sudden luminous certainty. My heart began to pound.

Edmond!

For a moment I even saw him there, standing by the door of the shop; a boy about my own age, shadowed profile turned away.

Then I saw that it was a man, an old man in a black winter coat, with the collar turned up against the cold, and I felt a sudden chill, as if of recognition.

But when I ran back to the front of the shop, the man in black had already gone – that is, if he’d been there at all.