Page 84 of Vianne

Traditionally, the feast of Sainte Barbe marks the start of the Christmas season.

Lights along the Canebière; Christmas markets selling santons ; Christmas trees in the town squares, and every shop window in Marseille displaying the best of their merchandise.

And by Notre-Dame, there will be a crèche, and bakeries all the way down the Panier will sell the traditional sachets of wheat, to be germinated and planted in time for the great celebration on Christmas Eve.

We’ve worked so hard to reach this point.

So many hours of labour, from sorting piles of cacao beans to making the different chocolates.

Now it is ready, and what I feel most is a terrible sense of foreboding.

So much depends on what happens today. So many opportunities.

And yet the visibility that we have worked so hard to build is also the spotlight that pins me.

Tsk-tsk, begone. This has to work. It has to.

I got up and dressed with unusual care – summer dress, winter boots, hair in a practical ponytail – and washed my face in cold water.

Outside, the sky was growing light. A sharp wind came from the ocean.

A thrill in the air, like the promise of snow.

A rosy pallor in the sky; reflections from the Christmas lights that hang like fruit along Le Panier.

Feeling a little better, I went downstairs to make breakfast, and found Stéphane already there, with coffee on the table.

‘I couldn’t sleep. I got croissants.’

I smiled and took a pastry. I don’t have morning sickness any more, but I do need to eat at breakfast. ‘Are you ready?’ said Stéphane.

‘We’re all ready,’ I told him.

There came the sound of the door opening, and Mahmed came in, wearing an apron, his hair caught up in a topknot. ‘Less than two hours to opening time. Everything’s ready. Machines are on. Now all we need is the magic.’

At any other time, his words could have been a joke, but today his face was unreadable. The magic, if it was ever there, was part of Guy’s belief in us; in his passion for chocolate and in his conviction that we could succeed.

‘My mother used to tell me that we have to make our own magic,’ I said.

‘Here.’ I added a pinch of chocolate spice to the pot of coffee; poured a bowl for each of us.

Mahmed drank his slowly, eyes half closed through the rising steam.

I tried a little finger-sign, to coax a spark from chilly air, but there were no glamours to be found, no colours but the Christmas lights.

‘No sign of Guy, then.’

Mahmed shrugged. ‘We’re on our own. It’ll have to do.’

I nodded. ‘Of course. And when he comes back—’ I hesitated, thinking of Guy in his Toulouse apparel; well-cut suit, slicked-back hair, as comfortable in this guise as in his Hawaiian shirts and straw hat. Which Guy will come back to us? The chocolatier , or the stranger?

If he comes back. The words stayed unsaid, but I could feel them in the air, like tiny stinging insects. I poured more coffee and ate my croissant, and wished it could be over.

Stéphane reached into his pocket and brought out a little muslin sachet. ‘Wheat seeds,’ he said shyly. ‘We’re supposed to plant these today.’

‘Why?’ said Mahmed.

‘For luck, I suppose. We always did when –’ he paused – ‘when I lived with my family.’ He reached for a saucer.

‘Look, like this.’ He opened the little bag carefully, then, holding the seeds in one hand, added a little water to the absorbent muslin.

‘Now we scatter the seeds on here in three little piles, for the Trinity, and leave them here to germinate.’ He took a glass bowl from a cupboard and placed it over the saucer.

‘What’s that for?’

‘It keeps them warm. And stops Pomponette from eating them.’ He reached down and stroked the cat, who had been sniffing around under the table. Pomponette gave a rusty purr, and Mahmed almost smiled. ‘Oh.’

I like this tradition. It’s hopeful, somehow.

A dream of something better. On Christmas Eve, the shoots will be there to remind us that nothing starts fully formed, and that with love and hard work, we can grow.

I think of the rose in Khamaseen’s garden, Vianne , the rose that has my name.

I too can grow. With hard work, and love, I can grow and flourish.