Page 80 of Vianne

At midday, the bistrot started to fill up as usual.

All our regulars were there – Amadou and Monsieur Georges, Marinette, Rodolphe, Tonton and his dog, Galipette.

Curious glances at Lo?c from those who had not seen him at breakfast. But Lo?c seems impervious to judgemental looks and whispers.

Instead he is openly curious, asking questions all the time:

‘Did you like the pissaladière? I helped make it, you know. Vianne and I baked the madeleines. And we’re going to have hot chocolate.’

Tonton gave him a quelling look. ‘You’re supposed to serve the food, not talk about it.’

‘Sorry,’ said Lo?c. ‘Is that your dog?’ He knelt to stroke Galipette, who growled, unused to attention.

‘He doesn’t like me,’ said Lo?c.

‘He doesn’t like anyone,’ said Tonton.

Lo?c stroked the dog again. ‘You’re a good dog,’ he told Galipette. ‘You just needed someone to tell you.’ Galipette tried another growl, but it didn’t sound convincing. Rolling over, he licked Lo?c’s hand. ‘I knew you were a good dog!’

There’s something about Lo?c that makes it hard to be annoyed with him.

In some ways, he reminds me of Guy; his openness; his exuberance.

Emile was eating pissaladière, watching Lo?c all the time, his colours a perplexing swirl of troubled greens, anxious yellows.

I sense that he is discovering something new in himself – a strange and hitherto unexpected capacity for affection.

‘You made this?’ he said to Lo?c.

Lo?c nodded.

‘It’s not bad. But it’s an easy dish to make. Vianne started off with bouillabaisse.’

‘That infernal mouli ,’ I said, laughing at the memory. ‘I wouldn’t wish it on anyone. How on earth did the new man cope?’

He shrugged. ‘The new man didn’t work out.’

‘Is that why you stayed here?’

The shrug again. ‘Where else would I go?’

Lo?c went into the kitchen to make a start on the chocolate.

He knows exactly what to do; whole milk, sugar, chocolate.

I have shown him which pan to use; which wooden spoon is best for the task.

And of course, a generous pinch from the jar of chocolate spice.

Herbs to heal a restless heart. Try me. Taste me. Test me.

The scent of chocolate begins to fret the smoky air of the bistrot.

It smells of winter nights by the fire; of marshmallow sunsets; of snowball fights.

Lo?c has his own way of making this simplest of recipes; but this is Margot’s kitchen, and here her presence lingers.

And now it almost seems to me as if the light has shifted; the colours have merged; the cards are falling into place.

Fragments of light rise up from the floor like bubbles in an aquarium.

‘Here, I made hot chocolate.’

There comes a kind of collective sigh, barely audible in the room. Mmmm . ‘I’ve missed it,’ said Marinette. ‘I’ve tried to make it your way, Vianne, but it never seems to taste the same.’

‘Maybe I’ll have a cup,’ said Tonton, who was feeding sugar to his dog. ‘It’s cold. I need the energy.’

One by one, the regulars held out their cups.

In the eerie light, they looked like children at a firework display, faces keen and luminous.

Lo?c poured out the hot chocolate, his round face rosy with pleasure.

He had just gone into the kitchen to fetch the dish of madeleines, when the bistrot door opened, letting in the scent of the sea, and engine oil, and woodsmoke.

A man came in, and for a second I saw him outlined against the door; a figure in a dark coat.

‘Louis!’

Heads turned as he walked to the bar, and I saw him react to the atmosphere, the comforting scent of chocolate.

‘It’s good to see you back,’ I said. ‘How are you?’

‘Fine.’ His voice was cool. ‘They’re telling me it was stress, or something. They kept me in to run some tests.’ He looked at me sardonically. ‘I suppose you assumed I was at death’s door?’

‘We all care about you, Louis.’

‘Well, as you see, I’m fine.’

‘Emile has been looking after the place. And—’ I saw his face darken. A silence fell. Lo?c was at the kitchen door, holding a plate of madeleines.

‘Who let him into my kitchen?’

I said: ‘Lo?c’s been helping here, Louis. We couldn’t have opened without him.’

‘We made pissaladière,’ said Lo?c, with his big and open smile. ‘Vianne makes it with chocolate. And there are chocolate madeleines, and—’

Louis turned to look at me, his face alight with anger. ‘You did this. You planned this, somehow. You found out where he was and you thought you’d ambush me.’

‘Louis.’ I put a hand on his arm. ‘He’s your son. He deserves to know you.’

He shook me away. ‘I don’t have a son. Whoever that boy is, I want him gone. I don’t want you befriending him, or giving him ideas. Understand?’

I understand. I see you, Louis. I see your anger and self-doubt, all snarled into a banner of flame. Most of all, though, I see fear; the fear of a man who is afraid to feel anything that may not be returned.

‘I understand,’ I said. ‘You’re afraid. Don’t be. People love you here.’

Louis made an inarticulate sound. ‘What the hell do you care?’ he said. ‘Things were fine before you came along. I was managing just fine. I had my café, my routine. Why did you come and change all that?’

I said: ‘Change is the only way we survive.’

‘And what if I don’t want it? What if I just want to stay here, in the place we were happy?’

I thought of the anniversary plate, with the piece knocked out of the rim.

Good Lord bless this happy home. ‘But you weren’t happy, were you?

’ I said. ‘She wasn’t happy. She wanted a child.

She wanted him so badly that she was willing to risk her life.

And now he’s here, it reminds you of everything she sacrificed. ’

‘No more from you!’ Louis’ voice was harsh. ‘You should look after your own affairs. I hear things about people too. I’ve heard about you, and your mother—’

Now all eyes were fixed on me. Marinette’s mouth was half-open; Emile’s face was blank with distress. Under that harsh exterior, his heart is as tender as Lo?c’s.

‘My mother?’ I said softly.

‘That’s right.’ His voice was almost a sob. ‘I guess you don’t know everything, Vianne – if that’s your real name. Because that man who came looking for you the day you ran off to Toulouse seemed to think it was something else. Sylviane, perhaps? Sylviane Caillou?’

I suddenly felt as if the ground beneath me had been pulled away. That name – the name from the papers Maman had kept for all those years – was like a sudden gust of wind, blowing me off-course towards a dark and rocky coastline.

‘I don’t know what you mean,’ I said.

He grinned like his ancient mouli . ‘I mean you’re not the only one with a secret or two to hide.

The day you left, I was worried. I reported you missing.

The police wouldn’t help, but I did get a call.

A man, a private detective, working for someone in Paris.

He was looking for Jeanne Rochas, a person of no fixed abode, who might be travelling alone, or with a younger woman.

He even had a photograph. Do you want to see it, Vianne?

’ And he pulled out from his wallet a black-and-white picture of a child – a little girl of two or three – wearing a sundress and sandals, and carrying a stuffed rabbit that I would have recognized anywhere.

Molfetta .

‘So you see, Sylviane. You’re not the only one with a past. Maybe you should be thinking of that instead of meddling with mine.’