Page 74 of Vianne

Three days to go, and everyone knows about Saturday’s grand opening.

Word has gone round the Old Quarter, partly because of the article, and partly because of the chocolate van, and the fliers we have distributed.

People have started wandering by to glance at the papered window, the wooden Xocolatl sign, the neat little planters of fir trees that line the side of the alleyway.

If we seem to notice them, they pretend that they are lost, or looking for another street, or simply going for a walk.

But the air is charged with their desire – to know, to taste, to see, to tell – and their colours light up the alleyway like a string of Christmas lights.

Guy remains oddly subdued for a man whose dream is ready to come to fruition.

Mahmed keeps his distance, working outside, or sorting boxes in the cellar.

I followed him there, and found him picking up empty tins from the floor; tuna, sardines and paté Hénaff .

Whatever his motives, Pomponette fed well during her time there.

‘Guy seems under the weather,’ I said. ‘Any idea what’s wrong?’

He shrugged. ‘Probably just nerves,’ he said. ‘There’s a lot riding on Saturday. We’ve done everything we can. Now, we learn if it was enough.’

There has been no further sign of the man in the black coat.

Khamaseen, too, has been absent, nor is there any sign of Edmond.

And yet, the beacon has been lit. Others have already seen it.

I hope Edmond will want to come, but I cannot force him to do so.

And as Khamaseen says, why should he seek out a man who didn’t want him?

Last night, in the hissing silence that comes in the wake of a thunderstorm, I got out of bed and looked out of my window into the alleyway.

A small fine rain was falling, filling the air with a street-lamp haze.

The cobbles gleamed with the neon red of the new sign over the takeaway: a stylized pagoda or tower, topped with Chinese lettering.

At last, after weeks of refurbishment, Happy Noodles is back in business.

As I watched, I saw a man in black emerge from the shadows.

I couldn’t see him clearly; foreshortened by the perspective, I couldn’t even make out his height, but I thought there was something furtive about the way in which he moved, following the line of the wall.

I expected to see him come closer, but as I watched I saw that he was making for the noodle shop.

It is an eccentric building, L-shaped, with the living space at the back, and a flat roof over the shop front, over which the neon sign stands.

Positioned about six feet from the ground, it dominates the front of the shop; I could just see it in profile, though here, in the alley, its scarlet glow was scattered over the cobbles.

I watched as the man moved purposefully towards the back of the neon sign; saw him reach up towards the cables that supplied it.

I saw that he was carrying something – maybe a bolt-cutter of some kind.

Did he mean to disable the sign? I couldn’t see his face, although his figure was clearly visible now, outlined in red from the neon sign.

The man readjusted the bolt-cutters, reaching for a cable.

And now I recognized who he was; the hair, torched red by the neon glow; the shapeless dark jacket and knitted cap; the familiar set of the shoulders.

It was Stéphane.

I opened the window and called his name.

My voice seemed very loud in the night. Stéphane froze at the sound of my voice; then ducked back into the shadows.

I heard the sounds of his boots on the road; the clang of something hitting the ground.

Then he vanished, and I heard the sound of the back door opening, then softly closing again.

I stood, barefoot on the cold tiled floor, uncertain. Should I confront him? Go back to bed? Pretend I mistook him for someone else? My feet were getting cold; my head was filled with contradictions. Stéphane? Why would gentle, sweet, Stéphane want to damage Happy Noodles?

Mahmed, of course . The answer came as clearly as if he’d spoken aloud.

I remembered how hard Stéphane had tried to get Mahmed to like him; how often Mahmed had complained about the cooking smells from the noodle bar.

Had Stéphane also reported them to the health inspector?

I picked up Pomponette, who had been sleeping on the end of my bed, and carried her into Stéphane’s room.

He was sitting on the bed, fully dressed, with the light on.

He seemed unsurprised to see me, but stroked Pomponette as I put her down, and handed me a blanket.

‘Here. You’ll catch your death, Vianne.’

I sat on the bed beside him. I noticed he had oil on his hands; the kind you get from handling tools. We sat there in silence for a time, and Pomponette curled up and purred. Finally, without looking at me, he said:

‘I didn’t go ahead with it. I was going to, but I didn’t.’

I said nothing, but nodded.

‘I just wanted the noodle bar to be closed for the big day on Saturday. I wouldn’t have done it otherwise. But everyone’s worked so hard, and—’

‘The Lis are part of that,’ I said. ‘They’ve helped us fix up the alleyway. If you wanted the takeaway closed, you could just have asked them.’

He shook his head. ‘That wouldn’t work. After the broken window—’

‘That wasn’t them, Stéphane,’ I said. ‘Besides, I thought you liked that place.’

He looked at me. ‘I did. But—’ He gave his Hallowe’en-pumpkin smile. ‘I like it here . I love it here. For the first time in years, I have a home. I can work. I can help other people. I can’t afford to lose all that.’

‘But you told Mahmed about Guy.’

Stéphane looked stricken. ‘I had to,’ he said.

‘Yes, I know. Pomponette.’

He shrugged. ‘I suppose you think I’m ridiculous, making a fool of myself over a cat. But Pomponette—’ His pumpkin smile was both wistful and self-mocking. ‘For all those years, she was all I had. I couldn’t bear it if something happened to her.’

I thought of all those empty tins of tuna in the basement. ‘Mahmed would never have hurt her, you know.’

‘I know that. But I couldn’t be sure.’ He gave his sad, cartoonish smile. ‘I never told you why I ended up on the streets, did I, Vianne?’

I shook my head. He’d told me certain things – that he’d been an alcoholic, that he had had issues with depression and unemployment – but there was always something more; a kind of cheerful bleakness. ‘Stéphane, you don’t need to tell me,’ I said.

‘Perhaps I want to,’ said Stéphane. ‘Perhaps you need to know who I am.’

‘People are a lot of things. You don’t have to always be who you were.’

‘But I have to carry it,’ said Stéphane.

‘I have to carry what I did. Some days it’s like a pile of stones waiting to fall on my head.

Some days it feels like I’m buried alive.

Some days it feels like I’m already dead.

’ He looked at me again, and with a kind of desperation.

‘Vianne, you deserve to know the truth. And I deserve to tell it to you.’ He spat out the words and sentences like bitter little cherry-stones.

‘I’d been drinking. I drank a lot in those days.

I wanted to drive out to buy some beer. Elise didn’t want me to go.

We argued. I got angry. I jumped in the car, backed out onto the drive.

I didn’t see my son, Matou, playing with his tricycle. ’

It’s a sorry little tale. Maman and I saw so many of those during our time on the road.

Everyday tragedies, accidents that can divert the path of a life.

Most people are not inherently bad. But people make bad decisions, mistakes that tumble a life like dominoes, taking plans and loves and dreams with the same inevitability.

The boy survived. He says it as if that, too, is a kind of tragedy.

Survived, but with an injury that left him paralysed from the waist down.

No more playing with tricycles. No more running in the park.

No chance of grandchildren for Elise; instead, a round of hospitals and surgeons and operations, and finally the terrible truth.

There was no hope of recovery. Stéphane had stopped drinking.

But it was too late. His marriage was broken beyond repair.

His wife took their son to her parents’ in Rouen.

The police asked Stéphane to stay in Marseille while they looked into the crime.

‘And so I ran,’ Stéphane went on. ‘I ducked under the radar. I ended up in a bidonville on the outskirts of Marseille, doing whatever I could to survive. I went back to drinking. I wanted to die. I wanted to see Elise and Matou. I wanted the life I’d thrown under the bus.

I wanted a second chance. But life doesn’t give second chances.

And so I drifted from place to place, waiting for the inevitable.

And then, one day, by the river, I decided it was time to go.

’ He sighed. ‘It’s funny, isn’t it? The first decision I’d made in years.

And all it took to derail it was a bag of abandoned kittens.

’ He stroked Pomponette, who stretched lazily, showing a sudden spread of claws.

‘And here we both are.’ He looked away. ‘Eight lives down, and one to go.’

I put my hand on his arm and said: ‘Everybody makes mistakes. And every day is a new start. Every day you have the chance to make a difference to the world.’

He nodded. ‘Yes, I know. And yet—’

‘One little thing at a time,’ I said. ‘Little things make a difference. Come downstairs. I’ll make you some chocolate. It’ll help us both to sleep.’

‘You and your hot chocolate,’ he said, but this time, he was smiling. ‘Can I have a cognac instead?’

‘Absolutely not,’ I said.

He followed me down to the kitchen.