Page 89 of Vianne

Epilogue

The first of January, and the wind has finally decided to change.

A strange, warm wind from the south-west, bringing with it the scent of salt, and the glamour of other places.

For a moment I remember New York, and the fireworks on that Fourth of July, and the smell of diesel on the wind, and the blush of fried, sugared dough on the air.

But then I think of the village called Vianne; the little bastide , with its massive walls and tiny lancet windows; and the riverboats on the brown Ba?se, with the smoke rising from the chimneys.

And the thought is like a little voice, an echo of the future, repeating softly:

Which will it be? Will it be Vianne, or Mother?

I have not seen Khamaseen since the day of the opening of the chocolaterie. Perhaps she has already moved on, like the desert wind of her name that blows for fifty days at a time over Egypt and North Africa. Besides, I know what I must do: the wind has its own way of speaking.

Christmas Eve at Xocolatl was both poignant and celebratory.

We invited some friends for dinner, and I made Margot’s soupe à l’oignon , and her herb-roasted chicken with pastis and green grapes, served on a bed of fennel.

Lo?c has gained confidence during his time at La Bonne Mère.

His parents have come over to stay for a couple of weeks in Marseille, and have cautiously approved their son’s urge to find his father.

And Louis’ gruff demeanour has veered to a kind of tolerance, punctuated from time to time by a bark of unwilling laughter.

Yes, Louis Martin laughs now. It is a miracle Emile assumes to be a sign of senility.

And yet he too has been known to display signs – not quite of hilarity, but certainly of improved good cheer, in spite of his avowed hatred of Christmas, and church, and festivals, and the clergy.

My mother’s cards are back in their box.

I have not looked at them since the eve of Xocolatl’s Grand Opening.

My clothes, too, have been put away in boxes to give to charity.

The one pair of boots that still fit me – my feet have swollen in pregnancy – are well-worn, seam-stretched, comfortable.

My clothes, too, are good for travelling.

A pair of oversized cargo pants; a knitted sweater; a pea coat.

And I have taken to carrying my bag – with my papers, my mother’s cards, the pink bootees, the map book – with me every time I go out, in case of sudden developments.

Ten o’clock; and the sound of the bells strikes me like a crosswind.

The Good Mother is almost raucous today; clashing against the hard blue sky like a call to battle.

And there’s a wind from the top of the Butte; a cold, dry wind, like the Mistral, bringing with it the scent of sage and spices from the hills.

Two winds; one warm, one icy; each with its own set of stories.

Which one? Vianne or Mother? The cold clash of the bells on the Butte, or the whisper of the water?

Either way seems hard today, and yet it will be no easier tomorrow, or the next day.

And my Anouk is ready to go, scenting out the trail of the wind like an eager puppy.

I turn towards the top of the Butte, where Bonne Mère looks down from her golden perch, her infant in her arms. Whose was the toy rabbit I found that day?

Did it find its way back to the child who left it by the confessional?

Was it a sign for me to hold on, or to leave behind my past?

‘So, have you decided yet?’

I turn, expecting Khamaseen. But turning, all I see is Stéphane, wearing his coat and woolly hat, and carrying his duffel bag, and his wicker basket. Inside the basket, Pomponette gives a low, impatient yowl.

‘Decided what?’ I look at him. ‘Stéphane, where are you going?’

He gives his sweet and damaged smile. ‘I might ask you the same thing. Don’t think I haven’t noticed you, hanging around the station, the docks? You’re trying out ways to leave. I know. I’ve done that often enough myself.’

‘But there’s no reason for you to leave! You’ve earned your place. You love it here!’

‘I’m not letting you go alone.’ His expression is gentle, and adamant.

‘I know people in Toulouse. People on the river. River-rats, they call them. They’re a good community.

Working, helping each other get by. I travelled with them once, for a time, before the booze got hold of me.

But if you want to go that way, I can help you get there. ’

I smile. ‘You’re already helping, Stéphane.’

Looking into his colours, I see the deep division in his heart.

The need to do something to pay for the things he did when he was first in Marseille; his years of alcoholism; his failed and abusive marriage.

I see his love for Allée du Pieu; for the crew at Happy Noodles; for Mahmed and Guy; for the Li family; for all the little community we have built with nothing but hope and chocolate.

And yet he is willing to give that away, to go back to a life of uncertainty.

I smile at him, and make the sign that I have watched Khamaseen use so many times. A tiny scrawl of light in the air; almost a benediction. I see it mirrored in his eyes; a glow that could be a reflection of the Virgin on the Butte; or a memory of home, or the promise of new beginnings.

I whisper: ‘Go home, and be happy, Stéphane. Only daughters follow the wind.’

And I leave him there by the water’s edge, with a dreaming smile on his face. In a few minutes’ time, he will hear Pomponette yowling from her basket, and return to the here and now, but a few minutes is all I need.

The soft wind from the south-west calls in a voice like my mother’s.

Italy , it whispers. Greece . Corsica, Sardinia .

Its name is Sirocco , Levante , Ostrale , and sometimes even Khamaseen , and it promises magic, and freedom, and love.

But that cold, clean wind from the north-north-east has a chilly charm of its own: its name is Mistral, and it calls to me in a voice I think I know; a voice I first heard when I opened the map and saw the village with my name. The voice of an unknown future.

Vianne or Mother? Which will it be?

The bells have stopped their carillon, and everything is silent again.

But for the whisper of the wind, and the sounds of waves on the pier.

I reach into my travelling bag and pull out my mother’s map book.

The road to Vianne is marked in blue; the river Garonne, and its tributaries, branching all across the page.

I think of Stéphane’s river-rats. Working, helping each other get by .

Follow the river, and the Man in Black will not know how to find me.

And there will be a community; travelling people just like me; following the river’s call, moving with the seasons.

Will this be the place, Anouk? Or will it be just another place on a road that never ends?

In any case, the choice is mine. Not my mother’s. Not this time.

I close the map book and replace it in the bag’s inside pocket.

Behind me, the cries of the gulls on the wind are scratches of silver in the sky.

And it smells of smoke, and the carnival, and of the river in the sun, and sugared dough fried on the hot plate, and herbs to heal a troubled heart.

I walk from the harbour and do not look back.

Vianne, or Mother?

Vianne it is.