Page 87 of Vianne

By the time they left, it was dark. The cakes and madeleines were gone, and we were down to the last cup of chocolate.

Outside, the saxophone player packed up his things and went home, although the customers still came and went, buying Christmas chocolates.

At my count, we have already sold forty-two chocolate Virgins, five dozen Christmas assortments, eighty sachets of santons , and many more of chocolate mice, Nipples of Venus, mendiants, and the thirteen desserts of Christmas, re-imagined in chocolate.

Louis almost has to drag Lo?c away from the viewing area, only coaxing him to leave by promising to teach him how to make his mother’s tapenade.

As they leave, I hand Lo?c the river stone with the footprint.

‘This is yours,’ I tell him. ‘To remind you that we all make our mark. Even in the smallest ways, we can put good into the world.’

Six forty-five, and it’s time to close. The man in black is still there, sitting at his table: now, in the lull at the end of the day, he finally gets up and enters.

I’ve known this moment was coming, of course.

I’ve played it back and forth in my mind.

His questions, and my answers. The moment of confrontation.

He came in; an elderly man in a suit and an expensive-looking coat. Now that he is closer, I see his clever, mobile face; his eyes a surprisingly sunny blue beneath the dark fedora hat. He looks about eighty, but hale and alert; the suit under the winter coat is not black, but charcoal-grey.

‘Welcome to Xocolatl,’ I said. ‘Please, let me pour you some chocolate.’

The man in black gave a quizzical smile, but accepted a cup of hot chocolate, and drank it as he inspected the shop.

I saw him linger over the trays of Seville orange slices, mendiants, black and white nougat, chocolate dates, chilli truffles, apricot creams, navettes, quince jellies, calissons ; those sweet temptations, candied dreams, tiny fragments of history, kept under glass like butterflies, awaiting their moment to unfold.

Finally he turned and said: ‘You can’t be turning a profit, giving out so many samples.’

I smiled again, feeling suddenly cold. ‘We had to make a name for ourselves. We can’t take goodwill for granted.’

‘Why not? Don’t people like chocolate in Marseille?’

I tried to explain; the challenge of starting a business in the Panier; the initial resistance; the outreach; the chocolate van; the hours of preparation, and now, the hope that today would mark the turn of a new page for Guy and Mahmed.

‘The owners?’ said the man in black. ‘And who are you?’

‘A friend,’ I said. ‘They gave me a job when I needed one. Taught me all about chocolate. Did you know that chocolate was used by the—’

‘Mayans and Aztecs,’ he said. ‘And before them, the Olmecs and the Mayo-Chinchipe. Its use goes back many thousands of years, long before the birth of Christ. Columbus was a parvenu. Like so many of his kind.’ He smiled. ‘Forgive me. I happen to know quite a lot about chocolate.’

I smiled again, feeling stiff and forced. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t catch your name?’

‘That’s because I didn’t tell you. I’m Ghislain Ducasse. And you?’

‘Vianne Rocher.’

‘How apt.’ He gave a smile. ‘I seem to remember something different in Le Petit Marseillais .’

‘The paper got both our names wrong,’ I said. ‘They thought I was Guy’s partner.’

He has a surprisingly sunny smile, illuminating his features. ‘Local papers. What do they know? I’m very pleased to meet you, Vianne. This place is something special.’

Now he’ll start asking questions, I thought. Where were you born? Are you from Marseille? Have you ever heard the name Jeanne Rochas? Sylviane Caillou?

Instead, he said: ‘What’s your favourite?’

I must have looked confused. That’s my trick; no one ever asks me which chocolate I prefer.

‘Let me guess,’ said the man in black, and, looking over the display, seemed to consider the chocolates, the candied fruits, the nougatines . Lingered for a moment over the green tea truffles; the salted pralines. Then he looked up, and his sea-blue eyes were filled with crazed reflections.

‘You didn’t like chocolate at first,’ he said.

‘You never used to eat it. But now, you’re starting to understand.

Its power to awaken the past; its dark and troubled history.

The stories it tells about itself. Its many re-inventions.

Ah. Here we are.’ He paused at a tray of chocolate-dipped cherries, still with the stalks attached, and said.

‘These, I think, Vianne Rocher. Dark chocolate, not always your favourite, but here, with cherries, it evokes something almost magical. Bite through the bitter chocolate shell to the brandied fruit inside. Hold the little stone on the tongue. Roll it gently around your mouth, like a long-kept secret.’ He smiled, and I found myself liking him in spite of the coldness in my heart: the Man in Black has a kind of charm that I would never have suspected.

I said: ‘You may be right, monsieur . Yours is—’ A gilded thread in the air. A little bastide on the Garonne. Not Vianne, but somewhere close; light, like the bloom on an apricot, a sky like the edge of forever—

I said, in a slightly trembling voice: ‘Apricot hearts. They’re your favourite.’ I reached into the display case, using the silver sugar tongs. ‘Here, try one. On the house.’

He smiled again; took the chocolate. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever tasted these. My local man doesn’t make them.’

‘Your local man?’ I took a deep breath, feeling suddenly dizzy and disoriented. Sat on the stool behind the bar. Caught the scent of incense smoke and Christmas on the salty air. He knows me , I thought. He’s toying with me. Somehow he sees who I really am —

The Man in Black finished his chocolate. ‘You may be right,’ he said at last. ‘What do you call these?’

‘Apricot hearts.’

‘I’ll take a box. Here, keep the change.’

My heart was still beating furiously as I wrapped his chocolates and tied them with a ribbon. Is he playing games with me? Will he turn at the door and say: ‘I know who you are, Sylviane Caillou. You’ll never escape who you once were?’

He took the box and smiled at me. ‘Thanks again, Vianne Rocher. Give my regards to my grandson. I’m always happy to invest in a thriving business. After all, we graduates of the Liars’ Academy should always stick together.’

And then I saw someone at the door, a figure in a Hawaiian shirt under a battered overcoat, and felt my heart fly like a rocket. ‘I’m sorry I missed the opening,’ said Guy. ‘I see you’ve already met my pépé?’