Page 76 of Vianne

I nodded. ‘I’m his daughter.’

‘Then maybe come back in the morning? And could you persuade your brother to leave? He’s been waiting here for hours.’

I looked across from the desk, and saw a young man of about my own age sitting in the passageway. Dark-haired, round-faced, absurdly youthful for twenty. Warm brown eyes and a wide mouth that broadened into a sunny smile as soon as I approached him.

‘Can I go in now?’

I shook my head. ‘Not yet, I’m afraid.’

The big smile wavered mournfully. ‘I’ve been waiting ages.’

I smiled and came to sit next to him. ‘I’m Vianne. I’m a friend of Louis’. I’ve been waiting for you, too.’

‘Oh?’ The smile was back, like the sun from the clouds, and I thought for a moment of Margot. Sometimes we inherit our parents’ features; their hair, their eyes. But sometimes a piece of the soul shines through, like fragments of mica caught in stone.

I convinced him to leave the hospital on the understanding that we would return the next day.

Then I found a café nearby and bought us both a coffee.

Lo?c drinks his very sweet, with milk and lots of sugar.

He likes pastries, too; the small, round, sugared brioches that Stéphane would probably call pomponettes.

As we drank coffee and made our way through a pile of the pastries, he told me how he had come to be here, and why he had come in search of Louis.

‘It was my birthday this month,’ he said.

‘Maman and Papa threw a party. We all had champagne and chocolate cake. They said it’s because I was all grown up.

’ He smiled. He has a winning smile, which seemed to fill the whole of the room, as well as the kind of enthusiasm that seems not to care who is watching.

He went on: ‘And then they said there was something that they had to tell me. A secret they’d kept for me since I was born.

My other parents didn’t die. My mother died, but my father’s alive, and living in Marseille.

’ He paused and took a pomponette . ‘I like these,’ he said.

‘You should have one. I’m not supposed to eat them all. ’

‘Thank you,’ I said, and took a brioche. There was something appealing about this young man, an exuberance and a sincerity that was just as profound as wisdom. ‘Do your parents know you’re here?’

He shook his head. ‘They’re in Cassis for their wedding anniversary.’

‘For how long?’

‘Just for the weekend.’ He smiled, a little ruefully. ‘I took the bus into Marseille. I guess I’m lucky it was so close.’

‘So you’ve always known you were adopted?’

He nodded. ‘ Chosen . That’s what they said. The families we choose are the best.’

‘My mother used to say that, too.’ As always, grief catches me unawares. When will that stop happening? The families we choose are the ones we carry always in our hearts. Lo?c understands that, and yet, he was the one who went looking for Louis.

The big smile wavered a little. ‘Used to?’

‘She died.’

‘Mine did, too. She died and I never knew her.’

I thought about Margot’s cookery book on the shelf at La Bonne Mère; and her photographs of Bergerac, and the baby album, and the river stone. ‘I think there’s a way to fix that,’ I said. ‘Where are you staying?’

He looked mournful. ‘I thought I might stay with my father. But he’s sick. Is that my fault? The man in the bistrot said so.’

I said: ‘It’s not your fault, Lo?c.’ And because he still looked uncertain, I scrawled a sign against my palm; a little shard of lightning. ‘Come and stay at La Bonne Mère. I’ll show you your mother’s kitchen. Her photographs. Her cookery book. Her poetry.’

That smile again. ‘She liked cooking?’

‘Yes. Louis taught me her recipes.’

‘Could he teach me ? Could you ?’ said Lo?c. The light was back in his face again. ‘I love to cook. I cook all the time. That’s because I love to eat. I want to be a chef one day, but Maman says for that I’d need to go back to school and study.’

I smiled. ‘I think there are other ways. Would you like to come with me?’

He nodded. ‘Can we take the last of the pomponettes? In case we get hungry on the way?’

I smiled again. ‘Of course we can.’