Page 75 of Vianne

Today was our last day in the van before the start of our opening celebrations.

Guy was subdued, but hard at work, packing boxes of chocolates and tying coloured ribbons, while Stéphane worked out in the street, painting the wooden panels that hid the disused properties in red and yellow swirling designs of cacao pods and lanterns.

Meanwhile, Mahmed and I took the van to the top of the Butte, selling cups of hot chocolate and spiced madeleines, and giving out invitations.

Taste our specialities! Bring your friends and family!

Then at noon, I went to La Bonne Mère to remind everyone about Saturday. But when I arrived, I found only Emile, drinking coffee laced with cognac and holding a half-smoked Gitane . The kitchen was closed, the bar empty. Louis was nowhere to be seen.

‘Where’s Louis?’

Emile gave a listless shrug. ‘He left me in charge yesterday. Said he’d be back in the morning. But there’s no news from the hospital yet, and I don’t know what to do.’

‘The hospital?’

I looked through the smoke of his cigarette for answers, but saw nothing there.

Normally his colours show a mixture of rage and chaotic energy; but here I saw a dullness that I’d never seen in him before.

‘Heart attack; yesterday lunchtime. At least, that’s what I’m assuming.

No one tells me anything. It was the shock.

I know it was. I found him in the kitchen—’

‘What happened, Emile? What shock do you mean?’

‘The boy.’ Emile seemed half in shock himself. ‘Walked in yesterday lunchtime. Asked for Louis, bold as can be. Said Louis was his father.’

‘What did he look like? What was his name?’ My heart was beating wildly now, like a shutter in the wind. You came, Edmond. You really came .

‘What the hell does it matter?’ he said.

‘He was a half-wit. A chancer. People like Louis attract his kind. People who think they can take advantage of a man with money.’ He took a drink of his coffee.

‘He must have heard about us somewhere. Thought he’d try his chances.

Heard Margot’s child was born a—’ I saw the ugly word in his thoughts, his mixture of pity and disgust. I thought of what Khamaseen had said.

The child was a child, who deserved to be loved . What else really matters?

‘You knew her child was alive?’ I said.

He pulled a face, and I realized that there was far more cognac in the cup than I’d thought. ‘Some sort of genetic condition, Louis said. Probably wouldn’t survive. And besides, who would have looked after it? Knowing what it had done to Margot? Knowing it had cost her life?’

I thought of the baby album, and what Margot had written there. He’s afraid: he doesn’t know how we would cope with a damaged child. But Edmond is already perfect. Already he’s a miracle. I wish Louis could see it that way. I wish he could let himself love our son without being afraid to lose him.

I said: ‘Let me show you something, Emile.’

The baby album was still in the chest in the guest room, with the linen. I went upstairs and retrieved it, then handed it silently to Emile. I waited as he looked through the book, turning the pages one by one. Outside, I heard the van start up, and knew that Mahmed was leaving.

‘Where did you get this?’ said Emile at last.

‘From Khamaseen.’

‘Of course you did.’ He lingered on the final page; the footprint; the inscription. ‘This is where you got the idea.’

Silently, I nodded.

There are times when I do not look. I could already feel his distress. To reach into his memories would have been an intrusion. Instead I took his coffee cup. ‘I’ll make you something better than this.’

Emile said nothing as I took my copper pan down from the wall.

I don’t think it has been touched since I left.

Whole milk; grated chocolate; a pinch of Guy’s xocolatl spice.

The scent was safe and comforting, like the childhood I never had.

Poor Emile, I thought suddenly; living his life on the edges of the life he would have wanted.

Poor Emile; so much anger, and with nowhere for it to go.

I set the cup in front of him; I’d made it sweet, to help with the shock.

He drank it without comment, still looking at the album.

Then he said in a gentler voice than I’d ever heard him use:

‘You know, she would have adopted a child. But Louis didn’t like the idea. He thought he wouldn’t be able to love a child that belonged to someone else.’

I said nothing, but let the soft vapour from the chocolate spice rise into the smoky air, teasing out its secrets.

‘He always blamed that foreign woman for encouraging Margot to keep trying. But really, she was doing it for him. Margot would have loved any child. Wherever they’d come from.

Whatever they were.’ He reached out to touch the album; traced the words with his fingertips.

‘ Edmond Lo?c Bien-Aimé Martin . That boy said his name was Lo?c. D’you really think he was the one? ’

‘I think so, yes.’

‘He’s gone now. I told him never to come back.’

‘It’s okay,’ I said. ‘I’ll find him.’