Page 85 of Vianne

At ten o’clock, the bells of Bonne Mère ring for the end of the service.

They announced our opening. Stéphane went to put the signs in place at the end of the alleyway: New chocolaterie opening today!

Everyone welcome! After a dull start, the sun was out; the air was crisp and sparkling.

We waited; Mahmed in the back, Stéphane in the alleyway, I in the shop, almost trembling with hope and indecision.

At ten fifteen, I wedged open the door, to make sure prospective customers knew that we were open.

At ten twenty-five I thought I heard a sound outside, but it was only Stéphane, lighting the patio heaters on either side of the shop front.

Now they are lit, it looks welcoming. Everything looks welcoming.

Bar stools by the counter, to encourage people to sit.

A viewing gallery at the back, for people to watch the chocolates being made.

Behind the counter, on the bar, a pot of hot chocolate stands ready to be served; three cakes, under their glass cloches ; a pile of chocolate madeleines.

Still, there are no customers. Why do they not come?

There has been so much curiosity about the new chocolaterie.

Why are there no customers? What have I done wrong?

Ten thirty-five, and a woman wanders into the alleyway. Maybe fifty or older; grey-haired; overcoat the colour of rain. I saw her look into the window; cross the street to come closer. I saw the lights of the window display reflected in her hungry eyes.

‘Feel free to come in,’ I said. ‘Have a cup of chocolate.’

She looked at me suspiciously. I recognized her now as one of the people who came to the van; one of those people Mahmed says will never be our customers.

She never talks to us, but takes her little paper cup and dashes away into the crowd, as if she fears that someone will accuse her of stealing.

Now she came closer; I saw her face shining with indecision.

This woman doesn’t buy chocolates. Her home is a women’s shelter; her job, cleaning rooms in a cheap hotel.

And yet I know that she will love my violet creams, blanketed in dark chocolate: that they will remind her of something she had thought forgotten.

‘On the house,’ I told her. ‘Please, come in. You’re welcome.’

She entered, with the cautious look of a wild thing, fearing a trap. I smiled and poured her a cup of spiced hot chocolate from the pot. She took it almost fearfully, handling the china cup with exaggerated care.

‘Pretty, isn’t it?’ I said. ‘None of the cups or the saucers match, which is why Stéphane picked them up for almost nothing at the Marché aux Puces. This is how people used to drink chocolate three hundred years ago; sweet, spiced with vanilla, nutmeg, cloves.’

The woman drank her chocolate, and I thought she looked less troubled.

‘You’re the ones from the chocolate van,’ she said.

‘I wasn’t sure at first. This place is so—’ She looked around.

I saw her looking at the figures of the Virgin, in dark chocolate, features picked out in a lighter grade; the glass display cases, with trays of Nipples of Venus, gilded mendiants, coconut clusters, hazelnut swirls.

And the dishes filled with santons de Margot ; those little chocolate babies in three different grades of chocolate.

‘This place is too fancy for me,’ she said, putting down her chocolate cup. ‘I wouldn’t even know what to choose.’

‘You don’t have to choose,’ I told her. ‘I bet I know your favourite.’ With the silver sugar tongs, I reached into the display case and brought out a violet cream.

‘Trust me,’ I said. ‘I have a knack.’

Reluctantly, she accepted it. I watched her eat the chocolate; wary at first, then tasting, testing every moment. She closed her eyes. I could see her trying to remember—

My grandmother’s house, on Sundays. Her violet perfume.

Her stories. The scent of her wardrobe, filled with clothes that hadn’t been worn for a hundred years; silk scarves, sequinned dresses, and dancing shoes and ostrich plumes, and it smelt of cedarwood, and silk, and the ghosts of a thousand matinees—

‘Oh, yes,’ she said in a soft voice.

‘You’re my first visitor. On the house.’ I made up her gift – four violet creams, in a box, tied with a pink ribbon – and gave it to her to take away. She left as if she were walking on air; her face alight with memories.

From the back, I heard Mahmed say: ‘Did she buy anything?’

I shook my head. He went back to work. His silence was somehow more damning than words.