Page 79 of Vianne

It’s such an easy dish to make. All you need is onions, flour, olive oil, anchovies, olives, butter and fresh rosemary – the kind you find growing in every back yard. Even in Louis’ absence, and with no time to run to the market, these ingredients could be found among his depleted supplies.

Lo?c was excited to see me. I found him in the bar with Emile, along with a couple of regulars who had called in for breakfast and to ask after Louis.

There was a coffee pot on the bar, along with some bread, and a plate of croissants.

Marinette said: ‘We missed you. Emile won’t set foot in the kitchen. ’

‘I said I could help,’ protested Lo?c, ‘but Emile said to wait for Vianne. Said I’d only make a mess if I did anything on my own. I don’t think that’s fair, do you, Vianne? Besides, it’s already a mess in there. Does Louis really use all those things? Did they belong to my mother?’

Emile saw me coming and stubbed out his Gitane . ‘Thank God you’re here,’ he said fervently. ‘I’ve never known anyone talk so much. People keep coming in to ask if we have any news of Louis. I tell them I phoned the hospital. It sounds like he’s doing better.’

‘Good,’ I said, and smiled. ‘I’m glad.’

Emile gave a short laugh. ‘So am I. The boy kept pestering till I called. Why don’t you take him somewhere else? It’s exhausting. Like having a dog.’

‘He likes me,’ said Lo?c.

‘I know.’

‘But maybe you’d like to get to know your mother’s kitchen with me?’ I said. ‘Cook with me from her cookery book? Use the instruments she used?’

The brown eyes shone with excitement. ‘Yes! Oh, please. Let’s make—’

I looked around at the regulars. They were watching both of us with that combination of wariness and curiosity I know well.

I said: ‘We’ll be serving lunch today for anyone who wants to come.

Lo?c and I will be helping Emile, at least until Louis gets back.

So spread the word: we’re still open. Today we’ll be making—’

‘Pissaladière.’

While I began to make the dough, Lo?c began to peel and chop and caramelize the onions, using a small copper-bottomed pan and one of Margot’s hand-carved spoons, scarred and burnt with years of long use.

The boy has a knack. I can see that from the way he handles the chopping-block, the kitchen knives, the copper pan.

He does not read the recipe, but he does read his mother’s side notes; following the words on the page with a blunt and earnest finger.

‘ Better a heartache than a bellyache . What does that mean?’

‘A quotation,’ I said. ‘From Cyrano .’ I told him about his mother’s love of Edmond Rostand, and the story of the man who thought himself too ugly to love.

‘Too ugly to love?’ repeated Lo?c. He worked in silence for a while. Then he said: ‘A boy at school once told me that’s why my parents gave me away. Because I was too different for normal people to love.’

I looked at him. ‘That isn’t true. That boy was just being mean to you.’

Lo?c nodded uncertainly. ‘But I am different, aren’t I? My parents say I’m special . Other people say that too, but not like it’s a good thing.’

I bit my lip. There are so many things that I would like to tell him. Instead I showed him the album; the name written under his footprint. Edmond Lo?c Bien-Aimé Martin.

‘That’s what your mother called you,’ I said. ‘Bien-Aimé. Beloved .’

Lo?c looked at the page for a while. ‘I wish I could have known her,’ he said, a forlorn note in his voice.

‘What do you think you’re doing now?’ I said.

‘You’re getting to know her. She’s here, in her books and her recipes.

She’s here in the pots and pans she used.

She’s outside, in her garden.’ I showed him a handful of rosemary I’d picked outside the back door; the scent was sweet and nostalgic.

‘She planted this,’ I told him. ‘Now you’re using it to make one of her recipes.

’ I had a sudden memory of Khamaseen, and her scented sachet.

‘You should put some among the clothes in your wardrobe,’ I told him. ‘It will help you remember.’

By now, the onions were caramelized, and the dough had rested and risen. Emile was dozing by the bar in a square of winter sunlight. Lo?c took the onions off the heat. The scent was complex, rich and sweet. ‘Now for the olives and anchovies.’

While he was busy with topping the dough with olives, anchovy fillets, sea salt and pieces of rosemary, I reached in my bag for the chocolate spice I’d brought with me from Allée du Pieu.

It works on almost any dish; its influence can be subtle or strong, savoury or bittersweet, depending on its companions.

In this dish it would be smoky, I thought; woodsmoke and paprika.

Herbs to heal a troubled heart. A welcoming smile from Marguerite.

‘What’s that?’ said Lo?c, whose sense of smell seems almost as well-developed as mine.

‘A spice mix,’ I said, handing him the jar. ‘It’s—’

‘ Chocolate ,’ said Lo?c in delight. ‘Chocolate, and some other things. Chilli, cardamom, er – cumin?’

‘Nearly. Star anise,’ I said. ‘It works in nearly everything. Go on. Try it.’

He shook out some of the mixture into his palm and sprinkled it on the laden dough. ‘I like it,’ he said. ‘Did my mother use this?’

I nodded. ‘Yes, I think she did.’

The big smile was open, unabashed. I wondered what Louis had made of it. Had the shock of seeing his son provoked his collapse? I slid the finished pissaladière into the oven, while Lo?c sliced ripe tomatoes into a wooden salad bowl.

‘Are you a chef?’ he asked me.

‘No, I work in a chocolaterie.’

‘Wow!’ The brown eyes widened. ‘That’s cool. Can I see it?’

‘Tomorrow.’