Page 86 of Vianne

By eleven, we’d had three more visitors, all of them chocolate van regulars.

Two of them in their sixties, with a look I associate with Stéphane; that look of having to try too hard to get what others are given for free.

The third was a young man I’d seen before, with a woman and a child; this time he came alone, and bought an assorted gift box, some mendiants and a chocolate Virgin.

I gave out cups of hot chocolate to all three of my visitors, with slices of ganache cake, and santons de Margot on the house.

Mahmed was dismissive; one box doesn’t make for a profit, he says, especially given the samples we’re handing out for free, but it made me feel better, somehow; as if putting good into the world could make the world a better place.

At ten past eleven, Grandmother Li came in with Francoise and Karine; sighed at the display window with its origami birds, and stayed to drink hot chocolate, while the girls watched Mahmed through the window.

‘This is so cool,’ said Francoise. ‘I like to watch how he dips the shapes into the melted chocolate.’

‘I like watching the machine go round and round. It’s like magic,’ said Karine.

Grandmother Li chose four boxes: one of her green tea truffles; assortment boxes for the rest. I told her: ‘These are on the house. To thank you all, for your help here.’ Behind the glass, Mahmed shook his head, but did not comment further.

At twelve, the chocolate fountain arrived. I set it up on the counter. We should have more people by now. Now, they must start coming. Three more chocolate van regulars; two young men and a woman carrying three shopping bags. All of them wide-eyed, hesitant; wondering if they’d be turned away.

I said: ‘I know your favourites. ‘Here, come try them. On the house.’

Funny, how easy I find this game. I barely even have to look.

A hint of colours through the steam that rises from the chocolate pot; a memory of happiness, glimpsed through the gleaming shadows.

This man’s rough exterior comes with a secret tenderness: he will love my apricot hearts, topped with crushed pistachio.

His friend will love my mendiants; the woman will prefer pralines.

One by one, I send them away with the sense of something accomplished; I don’t know what it is yet, but seeds must take their time to grow.

At last, there’s someone from La Bonne Mère.

Sweet-toothed Marinette, then Rodolphe, whose favourites are my chilli squares, and finally, in a commotion, there’s Tonton, with Galipette, who has discovered Pomponette sitting by the counter.

Pomponette hisses; seeks shelter on the top of one of the cabinets.

I coax Galipette into silence with a piece of leftover croissant, and pour hot chocolate for my guests, and cut slices of ganache cake.

‘How’s Louis?’ I try to make the question as neutral as possible.

Tonton and Rodolphe exchange glances. ‘ Bof . You know Louis. Serving lunch. I don’t think he’ll be here today.’

‘And Lo?c?’

Once again, that look. ‘He stayed in the bistrot overnight. But Louis says that’s it. No more nonsense. The boy goes home today, he says, or there’ll be serious trouble.’

That means Lo?c stayed all morning. I hid a smile behind my hand. ‘What was for lunch?’

‘Bouillabaisse. And tiramisu for dessert.’

Bouillabaisse. I smiled again. That mouli . I wondered how Lo?c had coped with it; if he’d been allowed in the kitchen at all. Somehow I imagined he had; Lo?c has a certain way of getting through defences.

‘I’ll take a box of truffles, please. And a chocolate Virgin.’ Marinette’s voice was determined. ‘A gift to myself this Christmas.’

‘Maybe some lemon slices. And a florentine for the dog.’

‘And for me, a big box of those.’ Rodolphe indicated the truffles. ‘Maybe I have a lady friend,’ he said, when Tonton seemed surprised. ‘Maybe I want to impress her with my sophistication.’

I wrapped up their various purchases and tied them with coloured ribbon.

The air was starting to shimmer once more with rising steam and coloured lights.

I felt my heart lift – it’s working , I thought – and then I caught sight of a man in black standing in the alleyway.

A man of maybe eighty or so; stern-faced, white-haired under a wide-brimmed hat.

I expected him to come in, but he stayed where he was, under the heater, watching people come and go.

Four more regulars from La Bonne Mère: Amadou, Hélène from the flower shop, Henriot, André from the bakery – plus a handful of tourists, instantly recognizable; accents from London, Paris, Bruges.

Five boxes of truffles, three Virgins, a couple of packets of santons , and now the saxophone player Guy hired has settled himself on the corner, and has drawn a little crowd, to whom we bring cups of chocolate.

‘Grand opening today! Come in! Watch our chocolates being made!’ Stéphane is eager to help draw people in, but Francoise and Karine have more success, with their bright eyes and smiling faces.

‘Did you know that chocolate has been used for five thousand years?’

‘Did you know Montezuma drank fifty cups of chocolate a day?’

Outside the shop, we have installed a handful of little tables and chairs; it’s warm there, under the heaters, encouraging people to linger.

Stéphane offers the man in black a cup of chocolate; he takes it and sits at a table, still watching the shop.

Through the open door comes the scent of freshly prepared hot chocolate; a scent like a dark caress over the little alleyway.

The sign from Happy Noodles lights the murals in orange and scarlet; more people come to see the shop, exclaiming over the window display.

There were so many that at first, I hardly noticed Khamaseen, waiting at the edge of the group, eyes like polished hagstones under a moth-coloured headscarf. I glanced at the other customers, but none of them seemed to have noticed her.

I said: ‘Have you come to warn me again?’

She shook her head. ‘You’ve made your choice. But I wouldn’t say no to some chocolate.’

I poured her a cup. ‘On the house.’

She drank it, eyes closed. ‘Wonderful. You know, I’ve missed it here, Vianne. I’ve missed the sense of community. You did that, of course,’ she said. ‘Made this place visible. Made it shine .’

I smiled. ‘It’s only chocolate.’

She laughed, a surprisingly youthful sound. ‘You don’t really believe that. You’ve found a new kind of magic. Not the kind your mother used, but a gentler, sweeter kind. Look.’ And she indicated the door, where a trio of people was standing.

‘ Vianne! ’ A round ungainly shape hurled itself towards me.

Lo?c flung his arms around me. ‘This place is amazing! Is it yours? What are these? Can I try some?’ Suddenly the little shop seemed very full of Lo?c, as he ran around the display cases, exclaiming at the window display, then stopped at the viewing window, awed into sudden silence.

‘Wow!’

Behind him, Louis and Emile, both of them looking warily at the piled gift boxes; little sachets of nougatines and mendiants; the chocolate Virgins all in white; the gleaming bouquets of Cellophane.

‘Emile! Louis!’ I felt a tug of happiness that almost felt like tears. ‘You came!’

Emile gave a shrug. ‘You said it was free.’

I laughed. ‘Of course!’ I poured him a cup of hot chocolate, with a rose cream on the side. ‘And you, Louis—’

A dry, disapproving sound. ‘The boy insisted on coming. He wouldn’t give me any peace. He said he’d finally go home as long as we came here first.’

I tried not to smile, but poured him a cup. He made no attempt to take it. He said in a low voice: ‘I understand what you tried to do, Vianne. I’m not saying it was right , mind you, but I understand.’

I nodded and waited. Some people need time.

Louis picked up his cup of chocolate and tasted it reluctantly.

I caught the scent of cardamom and star anise, and allspice.

This chocolate blend is confessional; teasing out transgressions and fears; promising the solace of change; the peace of absolution.

Emile had said nothing so far, but I knew he was listening.

The flame that burns almost constantly around him had intensified; but this time, its colour had shifted to something warmer, more intimate.

His friendship with Louis has always been coloured with resentment: a friendship of shared experience rather than genuine liking.

Today, though, he is different. Perhaps Lo?c has changed him.

Or maybe he senses this change in Louis, this reluctant letting-go.

‘You think you know me,’ said Louis. ‘You think you know about Margot. But Margot was never mine. We married because she was pregnant. And when she lost the child at three months—’ He lowered his voice. ‘I was happy . Because I knew it wasn’t mine. Because I knew she loved someone else.’

Once more I thought of my mother’s cards, and the ones I had drawn when I first arrived.

The Two of Coins. Change. The Lovers, the Fool, the Hermit, the Six of Sorrows.

And finally, I saw the thread that bound them all together, not in the vapours, not in the cards, but in his colours, and in Louis’.

A tale of one woman and two men, bound together by friendship, and love, and sorrow, and hope, and jealousy.

A woman disillusioned by the men who claimed to love her, seeking unconditional love, and finding it in motherhood—

‘You idiot, Louis,’ said Emile. Both of us turned to look at him. ‘Is that what you thought for all those years?’

Louis stared at him, uncomprehending.

‘It was a stupid mistake, that’s all. A one-night stand, that meant nothing to her. She loved you. She’d always loved you.’

For a long time Louis was silent. Then he said: ‘She told you that?’

‘She didn’t have to,’ said Emile. ‘Louis, I was there. I know.’

The group of customers had gone. Only Lo?c remained inside, staring through the display-window glass, fascinated by Mahmed and his chocolate-making.

Khamaseen, too, had faded away, although I thought I saw her outside, standing in the scarlet light from the Happy Noodles sign.

Night was falling: I could see Stéphane had placed tea-lights on the tables.

The sound of saxophone music came plaintively from the alleyway.

And the Man in Black was still sitting at his table, a cup of hot chocolate by his side, his face consumed in shadow.

‘So it was you,’ Louis said at last. His colours were close to breaking. ‘You were the father. I never knew. Margot never told me.’

‘Because it didn’t matter,’ said Emile. ‘She loved you, Louis, even when you tried to push her away. And now you’re doing the same to the boy Vianne took so much trouble to find.’

Louis turned to face me again. ‘Why did you come here?’ he said. ‘We were happy before you came.’

‘No, you weren’t,’ said Emile. ‘You were dead before she came. Now you’re alive, and sometimes it hurts.’

Louis watched us both in silence for what seemed like forever.

The distress in his colours was gone, replaced by something more than grief; maybe even more than love.

‘I told him you’d already moved away.’ His voice was almost a whisper.

‘That man from Paris. The private eye. I didn’t tell him anything. ’

‘I never thought you had,’ I said. I handed Louis a little box of santons de Margot . To Emile, a sachet of rose creams. To Lo?c, a white chocolate mouse, wrapped in crinkly Cellophane and tied with a long, curly ribbon. ‘Go ahead. They’re on the house. I happen to know they’re your favourites.’