Chocolat (15 page)

TWENTY-TWO

     Friday, March 7

       THE GYPSIES ARE LEAVING. I walked by Les Marauds early this morning and they were making ready, stacking their fishing-pots and taking in their interminable lines of washing. Some left last night, in darkness. I heard the sounds of their whistles and airhorns, like a final defiance, most superstitiously awaiting first light. It was just after seven when I passed. In the pale grey-green of the dawn they looked like war refugees, white-faced, sullenly tying the last remains of their floating circus into bundles. What was garish and magical-tawdry last night is now merely drab, scorched of its glamour. A smell of burning and oil hangs in the mist. A sound of flapping canvas, the hacking of early-morning engines. Few even bother to look at me, going about their business with tight mouths and narrowed eyes. No-one speaks. I do not see Roux among these stragglers. Perhaps he left with the early crowd. There are maybe thirty boats still left on the river, their bows sagging with the weight of the accumulated baggage. The girl Zezette works alongside the wrecked hulk, transferring unidentifiable pieces of blackened something onto her own boat. A crate of chickens rests precariously on top of a charred mattress and a box of magazines. She flings me a look of hatred, but says nothing.

       Don’t think I feel nothing for these people. There is no personal grudge, mon pere, but I have my own congregation to think of. I cannot waste time in unsolicited preaching to strangers, to be jeered at and insulted. And yet I am not unapproachable. Any one of them would be welcome in my church, if their contrition were sincere. If they need guidance, they know they can come to me.

       I slept badly last night. Since the beginning of Lent I have suffered troubled nights. I often leave my bed in the early hours, hoping to find sleep in the pages of a book, or in the dark silent streets of Lansquenet, or on the banks of the Tannes. Last night I was more restless than usual, and, knowing I would not sleep, left the house at eleven for an hour’s walk along the river. I skirted Les Marauds and the gypsies’ camp and made my way across the fields and upriver, though the sounds of their activity remained clearly audible behind me. Looking back downriver I could see campfires on the river bank, dancing figures outlined in the orange glow. Looking at my watch I realized I had been walking for almost an hour, and I turned to retrace my footsteps. I had not intended to pass through Les Marauds, but to walk across the fields once more would add half an hour onto my journey home, and I was feeling dull and dizzy with fatigue. Worse, the combination of cold air and sleeplessness had awoken in me an acute feeling of hunger which I already knew would be inadequately broken by my early morning collation of coffee and bread. It was for this reason that I made my way to Les Marauds, pere, my thick boots sinking deep into the clay of the banking and my breath glowing with the light of their fires. I was soon close enough to distinguish what was going on. A kind of party was under way. I saw lanterns, candles stuck onto the sides of the barques, giving the carnival scene a strangely devotional look. A scent of woodsmoke and something tantalizing which might be grilling sardines; beneath that the sharp, bitter scent of Vianne Rocher’s chocolate wafted across the river. I should have known she would be there. But for her the gypsies would have left long ago. I could see her on the jetty below Armande Voizin’s house, her long red coat and loose hair giving her an oddly pagan look among the flames. For a second she turned towards me and I saw a flare of bluish fire rise from her outstretched hands, a burning something between her fingers lighting the surrounding faces purple…

       For a moment I was frozen with terror. Irrational thoughts — arcane sacrifice, devil worship, live burnt-offerings to some savage ancient god — leaped within my mind and I almost fled, stumbling in the thick mud, hands held out to prevent a fall into the tangle of blackthorn bushes which hid me. Then relief. Relief, understanding and a searing embarrassment at my own absurdity as she turned back towards me, the flames dying down even as I watched.

       “Mother of God!” My knees almost gave way beneath me with the intensity of my reaction. “Pancakes. Flambeed pancakes. That was all.”

       I was half-laughing now, breathless with hysteria. My stomach ached and I dug my fists into my guts to stop the laughter spilling out. As I watched she lit another mountain of pancakes and served them deftly from the frying pan, liquid flame running from plate to plate like St Elmo’s fire.

       Pancakes. This is what they have done to me, pere. Hearing things — seeing things — which are not there. This is what she has done to me, she and her friends from the river. And yet she looks so innocent. Her face is open, delighted. The sound of her voice across the water — her laughter mingling with that of the others — is alluring, vibrant with humour and affection. I find myself wondering what my own voice would sound like amongst those others, my own laughter meshed with hers, and the night is suddenly very lonely, very cold, very empty.

       If only I could, I thought. Walk out from my hiding place and join them. Eat, drink — suddenly the thought of food was a delirious imperative, my mouth filling enviously. To gorge myself on pancakes, to warm myself by the brazier and the light from her golden skin.

       Is this temptation, pere? I tell myself that I resisted it, that my inner strength defeated it, that my prayer — please oh please oh please oh please — was one of deliverance, not of desire.

       Did you feel this too? Did you pray? And when you succumbed that day in the chancery, was the pleasure bright and warm as a gypsies’ campfire, or was it with a brittle sob of exhaustion, a final unheard cry in the darkness?

       I should not have blamed you. One man — even a priest — cannot hold back the tide for ever. And I was too young to know the loneliness of temptation, the sour taste of envy. I was very young, pere. I looked up to you. It was less the nature of the act — or even with whom you performed it — than the simple fact that you were capable of sin. Even you, pere. And knowing that, I realized that nothing was safe. No-one. Not even myself.

       I do not know, how long I watched, pere. Too long, for when I moved at last my hands and feet were without sensation. I saw Roux among the gathering, and his friends Blanche and Zezette, Armande Voizin, Luc Clairmont, Narcisse, the Arab, Guillaume Duplessis, the tattooed girl, the fat woman with the green headscarf. Even the children — mainly river children, but some like Jeannot Drou and, of course, Anouk Rocher — were there, some almost asleep, some dancing by the river’s edge or eating sausages wrapped in thick barley pancakes, or drinking hot lemonade laced with ginger. My sense of smell seemed preternaturally enhanced so that I could almost taste every dish — the fish grilled in the ashes of the brazier, the roasted goat’s cheese, the dark pancakes and the light, hot chocolate cake, the confit de canard and the spiced merguez. I could hear Armande’s voice above the rest; her laughter was like that of an overtired child. Sprinkled across the water’s edge, the lanterns and candles looked like Christmas lights.

       At first I took the cry of alarm for one of amusement. A bright spike of sound, laughter, perhaps, or hysteria. For a moment I thought one of the children had fallen into the water. Then I saw the fire.

       It was on one of the boats closest to the bank, a little distance away from the revellers. A fallen lantern, maybe, a careless cigarette, a candle dripping burning wax onto a roll of dry canvas. Whatever it was, it spread fast. One second it was on the roof of the boat, the next it had spilled onto the deck. The flames began the same gauzy blue as the flambeed pancakes, but warmed as they spread, becoming the vivid orange of a burning haystack on a hot August night. The redhaired man, Roux, was the first to react. I supposed it was his boat. The flames had barely time to change colour and he was on his feet, jumping from one boat to another to reach the fire. One of the women called after him in distress. But he paid no attention. He is surprisingly light on his feet. He crossed two other boats in a matter of thirty seconds, yanking at the ropes which bound them together to free them, kicking one untethered barque away from the next and moving on. I saw Vianne Rocher watching with her hands outstretched; the others stood in a silent circle at the jetty. The barques which had been freed from their moorings drifted slowly downriver, and the water itself was choppy with their rocking motion. Roux’s boat was already beyond salvation, black pieces of airborne debris drifting on a column of heat across the water. In spite of this I saw him grab a roll of half-charred tarpaulin and try to beat at the flames, but the heat was too intense. A speck of fire adhered to his jeans, another to his shirt; dropping the tarpaulin he beat them out with his hands. Another attempt to reach the cabin, one arm shielding his face; I heard him cry out some angry profanity in his thick dialect. Armande was calling to him now, her voice sharp with worry. I caught something about petrol, and tanks.

       Fear and elation, clawing so sweetly, nostalgically, at my viscera. It was so like that other time, the smell of burning rubber, the full-throated roar of the fire, the reflections…I could almost have believed that I was a boy again, that you were the cure, both of us absolved by some miracle of all responsibility.

       Ten seconds later Roux jumped off the burning boat into the water. I saw him swimming back, though the petrol tank did not rupture until several minutes later, and then it was with a dull thumping sound and not the gaudy fireworks which I had expected. For a few minutes he disappeared from sight, hidden by the strings of flame skating effortlessly across the water. I stood up, no longer afraid of being seen, craning my neck to catch sight of him. I think I prayed.

       You see, pere. I am not without compassion. I feared for him.

       Vianne Rocher was already in the water, hip-deep in the sluggish Tannes with her red coat soaked to the armpits, one hand over her eyes, scanning the river. Beside her, Armande, sounding anxious and old. And when they pulled him dripping onto the jetty I felt relief so great that my knees buckled and I fell into the mud at the river bank in an attitude of prayer. But the elation of seeing their camp burning — that was glorious, like a memory of childhood, the joy of secretly watching, of knowing…In my darkness I felt power, pere, I felt that somehow I had caused it — the fire, the confusion, the man’s escape — that somehow by my proximity I had brought about a re-enactment of that distant summer. Not a miracle. Nothing so gauche as that. But a sign. Surely, a sign.

       I crept home in silence, keeping to the shadows. In the crowd of onlookers, of crying children, angry adults, silent stragglers holding hands before the blazing river like dazed children in some evil fairy tale, one man could easily pass unnoticed. One man — or two.

       I saw him as I reached the top of the hill. Sweating and grinning, he was red-faced from his exertions, his glasses smeared. The sleeves of his checked shirt were rolled above the elbow, and in the lurid afterglow of the fire his skin looked hard and red as polished cedar. He showed no surprise at my presence but simply grinned. A foolish, sly grin, like that of a child caught out by an indulgent parent. I noticed that he smelt strongly of petrol.

       “Evening, mon pere.”

       I dared not acknowledge him, as if by so doing I should be obliged to admit a responsibility of which silence might absolve me. Instead I lowered my head, a reluctant conspirator, and hurried on. Behind me I sensed Muscat watching me, face slickered with sweat and reflections, but when I finally looked back, he had gone.

       A candle, dripping wax. A cigarette flicked across the water, bouncing into a pile of stovewood. One of their lanterns, the bright paper catching, powdering the deck with embers. Anything could have started it.

       Anything at all.

TWENTY-THREE

     Saturday, March 8

       I CALLED ON ARMANDE AGAIN THIS MORNING. She was sitting in her rocking-chair in her low-ceilinged living room, one of her cats lying sprawled across her knees. Since the fire at Les Marauds she has looked frail and determined, her round apple-face sinking slowly in upon itself, eyes and mouth swallowed by wrinkles. She was wearing a grey housedress over lumpy black stockings, and her hair was lank and unplaited.

       “They’ve gone, you noticed.” Her voice was flat, almost indifferent. “Not a single boat left on the river.”

       “I know.”

       Walking down the hill into Les Marauds I find their absence is still a shock, like the ugly patch of yellowed grass where a circus tent once stood. Only the hulk of Roux’s boat remains, a waterlogged carcass a few feet below the surface, blackly visible against the river mud.

       “Blanche and Zezette have moved a little way downriver. They said they’d be back sometime today, to see how things were doing.”

       She began to work her long grey hair into her customary plait. Her fingers were stiff and awkward, like sticks.

       “What about Roux? How is he?”

       “Angry.”

       As well he might be. He knows the fire was no accident, knows he has no proof, knows that even if he had, it wouldn’t help him. Blanche and Zezette offered him a place on their cramped houseboat, but he refused. The work on Armande’s house is still unfinished, he says flatly. He needs to see to that first. I myself have not spoken to him since the night of the fire. I saw him once, briefly on the river bank, burning litter left by the travellers. He looked dour and unresponsive, eyes reddened by the smoke, refusing to answer when I addressed him. Some of his hair was burnt away in the fire and he has chopped the rest spikily short, so that now he looks like a newly struck match.

       “What is he going to do now?”

       Armande shrugged. “I’m not sure. I think he’s been sleeping in one of the derelict houses down the road. Last night I left him some food on the doorstep, and this morning it had gone. I already offered him money, but he won’t take it.” She pulled irritably at her finished plait. “Stubborn young fool. What good’s all that money to me, at my age? Might as well give some of it to him as to the Clairmont clan. Knowing them, it’ll probably end up in Reynaud’s collection-box anyway.”

       She made a sound of derision. “Pigheaded, that’s what it is. Redhaired men, God save us. You can’t tell them anything.” She shook her head peevishly. “He stalked off in a temper yesterday, and I haven’t seen him since.”

       I smiled in spite of myself. “You’re a pair,” I told her. “Each as stubborn as the other.”

       Armande shot me a look of indignation. “Me?” she exclaimed. “You’re comparing me with that carrot-topped, obstreperous?”

       Laughing, I recanted. “I’ll see if I can find him,” I told her.

       I did not find him, though I spent an hour on the banks of the Tannes looking. Even my mother’s methods failed to reveal him. I did find where he was sleeping, however. A house not far from Armande’s, one of the least run-down of the derelicts. The walls are slick with damp, but the top floor seems sound enough and there is glass in several of the windows. Passing by I noticed that the door had been forced open, and that a fire had been lit recently in the living-room grate. Other signs of occupancy; a roll of charred tarpaulin salvaged from the fire, a stack of driftwood, a few pieces of furniture, presumably left in the house as being of no value. I called Roux’s name, but there was no answer.

       By eight-thirty I had to open La Praline, so I abandoned the search. Roux would emerge when he wanted to. Guillaume was waiting outside the shop when I arrived, although the door was unlocked.

       “You should have gone inside to wait for me,” I told him.

       “Oh no.” His face was gravely mocking. “That would have been taking a liberty.”

       “Live dangerously,” I advised him, laughing. “Come in and try some of my new religieuses.”

       He still seems diminished since Charly’s death, shrunken to less than his size, his young-old face impish and wizened with grief. But he has retained his humour, a wistful, mocking quality which saves him from self-pity. This morning he was full of what had happened to the river-gypsies.

       “Not a word from Cure Reynaud at Mass this morning,” he declared as he poured chocolate from the silver pot. “Not yesterday or today. Not a single word.” I admitted that, given Reynaud’s interest in the travelling community, this silence was unusual.

       “Perhaps he knows something he can’t tell,” Guillaume suggested. “You know. The secret of the confessional.”

       He has seen Roux, he tells me, talking to Narcisse outside his nurseries. Perhaps he can offer Roux a job. I hope so.

       “He often takes on occasional labourers, you know,” said Guillaume. “He’s a widower. He never had children. There’s no-one to manage the farm except a nephew in Marseille. And he doesn’t mind who he takes on in the summer when it gets busy. As long as they’re reliable it doesn’t matter whether they go to church or not.” Guillaume gave a little smile, as he does when he is about to say something he considers daring. “I sometimes wonder,” he said reflectively, “whether Narcisse isn’t a better Christian, in the purest sense, than me or Georges Clairmont — or even Cure Reynaud.” He took a mouthful of his chocolate. “I mean, at least Narcisse helps,” he said seriously. “He gives work to people who need the money. He lets gypsies camp on his land. Everyone knows he was sleeping with his housekeeper for all those years, and he never bothers with church except as a means of seeing his customers, but at least he helps.”

       I uncovered the dish of religieuses and put one on his plate. “I don’t think there is such a thing as a good or bad Christian,” I told him. “Only good or bad people.”

       He nodded and took the little round pastry between finger and thumb. “Maybe.”

       A long pause. I poured a glass for myself, with noisette liqueur and hazelnut chips. The smell is warm and intoxicating, like that of a woodpile in the late autumn sun. Guillaume ate his religieuse with careful enjoyment, dabbling the crumbs from the plate with a moistened forefinger.

       “In that case, the things I’ve believed all my life — about sin and redemption and the mortification of the body — you’d say none of those things mean anything, wouldn’t you?”

       I smiled at his seriousness. “I’d say you’ve been talking to Armande,” I said gently. “And I’d also say that you and she are entitled to your beliefs. As long as they make you happy.”

       “Oh.” He watched me warily, as if I were about to sprout horns. “And what — if it isn’t an impertinent question — what do you believe?”

       Magic-carpet rides, rune magic, Ali Baba and visions of the Holy Mother, astral travel and the future in the dregs of a glass of red wine…

       Florida? Disneyland? The Everglades? What about it, cherie? What about it, hein?

       Buddha. Frodo’s journey into Mordor. The transubstantiation of the sacrament. Dorothy and Toto. The Easter Bunny. Space aliens. The Thing in the closet. The Resurrection and the Life at the turn of a card…I’ve believed them all at one time or another. Or pretended to. Or pretended not to.

       Whatever you like, Mother. Whatever makes you happy.

       And now? What do I believe right now?

       “I believe that being happy is the only important thing,” I told him at last.

       Happiness. Simple as a glass of chocolate or tortuous as the heart. Bitter. Sweet. Alive.

       In the afternoon Josephine came. Anouk was back from school, and ran off almost at once to play in Les Marauds, wrapped tightly in her red anorak and with strict instructions to run back if it began to rain. The air smells sharp as new-cut wood, slicing low and sly round the angles of buildings. Josephine was wearing her coat buttoned to the neck, her red beret and a new red scarf which fluttered wildly in her face. She walked into the shop with a defiant look of assurance, and for a moment she was a radiant, striking woman, cheeks flushed and eyes sparkling with the wind. Then the illusion dispersed and she was herself once more, hands digging fiercely into her pockets and head lowered as if to headbutt some unknown aggressor. She pulled off her beret revealing wildly tousled hair and a new, fresh welt across her forehead. She looked both terrified and euphoric.

       “I’ve done it,” she declared recklessly. “Vianne, I’ve done it.”

       For a dreadful instant I was sure she was going to confess to murdering her husband. She had that look a wild and lovely look of abandon — her lips drawn back over her teeth as if she had bitten into a sour fruit. Fear came from her in alternating hot and cold waves.

       “I’ve left Paul,” she said. “I’ve done it at last.”

       Her eyes were knives. For the first time since we met I saw Josephine as she was before ten years of Paul-Marie Muscat made her wan and ungainly. Half-mad with fear, but underneath the madness, a sanity which chills the heart.

       “Does he know yet?” I asked, taking her coat. The pockets were heavy, though not, I thought, with jewellery.

       Josephine shook her head. “He thinks I’m at the grocer’s,” she said breathlessly. “We ran out of microwave pizzas. He sent me out to stock up.” She gave a smile of almost childish mischief. “And I took some of the housekeeping money,” she told me. “He keeps it in a biscuit tin under the bar. Nine hundred francs.” Beneath the coat she was wearing a red jumper and a black pleated skirt. It was the first time I could remember her wearing anything but jeans. She glanced at her watch.

       “I want a chocolat espresso, please,” she said. “And a big bag of almonds.” She put the money on the table. “I’ll have just enough time before my bus leaves.”

       “Your bus?” I was puzzled. “To where?”

       “Agen.” Her look was mulish, defensive. “Then I don’t know. Marseille, maybe. As far away from him as I can get.” She gave me a look of suspicion and surprise. “Don’t start saying I shouldn’t do it, Vianne. You were the one who encouraged me. I’d never have thought of it if you hadn’t given me the idea.”

       “I know, but…”

       Her words sounded like an accusation. “You told me I was free.”

       True enough. Free to run, free to take off on a word from a virtual stranger, cut loose like an untethered balloon to drift on the changing winds. The fear was suddenly chill certainty in my heart. Was this the price of my remaining? To send her out in my place? And what choice had I really given her?

       “But you were safe.” I choked out the words with difficulty, seeing my mother’s face in hers. To give up her safety in exchange for a little knowledge, a glimpse of an ocean…and what then? The wind always brings us back to the foot of the same wall. A New York cab. A dark alley. A hard frost.

       “You can’t just run away from it all,” I said. “I know. I’ve tried it.”

       “Well, I can’t stay in Lansquenet,” she snapped, and I could see she was close to tears. “Not with him. Not now.”

       “I remember when we lived like that. Always moving. Always running away.”

       She has her own Black Man. I can see him in her eyes. He has the unanswerable voice of authority, a specious logic which keeps you frozen, obedient, fearful. To break free from that fear, to run in hope and despair, to run and to find that all the time you were carrying him inside yourself like a malignant child. At the end, Mother knew it. Saw him at every street corner, in the dregs of every cup. Smiling from a billboard, watching from behind the wheel of a fast car. Getting closer with every beat of the heart.

       “Start running away and you’ll be on the run for ever,” I told her fiercely. “Stay with me instead. Stay and fight with me.”

       Josephine looked at me. “With you?” Her astonishment was almost comic.

       “Why not? I have a spare room, a camp bed…” She was already shaking her head and I subdued an urge to clutch at her, to force her to stay. I knew I could do it. “Just for a while, till you find somewhere else, till you find a job ?”

       She laughed in a voice tight with hysteria. “A job? What can I do? Apart from clean — and cook — and wipe ashtrays and — pull pints and dig the garden and screw my h-husband every Fri-Friday night?” She was laughing harder now, grabbing at her stomach.

       I tried to take her arm. “Josephine. I’m serious. You’ll find something. You don’t have to…”

       “You should see him sometimes.” She was still laughing, each word a bitter bullet, her voice metallic with self-loathing. “The pig in heat. The fat, hairy porker.” Then she was crying with the same hard rattling sounds as her laughter, eyes squeezed shut and hands pressing against her cheeks as if to prevent some inner explosion. I waited.

       “And when it was over he’d turn away, and I’d hear him snoring. And in the morning I’d try”— her face contorted, her mouth twisting to form the words — “I’d try — to shake — his stink — out of the sheets, and all the time I’d be thinking: what happened to me? To Josephine Bonnet, who was so bright at s-school and who used to dream of being a d-dancer?”

       She turned to me abruptly, her hot face flaring, but calm. “It sounds stupid, but I used to think that there must have been a mistake somewhere, that one day someone was going to come and tell me that it wasn’t happening, that this was all some other woman’s dream and that none of it could ever have happened to me?”

       I took her hand. It was cold and trembling. One of her nails was torn down to the quick, and there was blood grimed into the palm.

       “The funny thing is, I try to remember what it must have been like loving him, but there’s nothing there. It’s all a blank. Nothing there at all. I remember everything else — the first time he hit me, oh I remember that — but you’d think that even with Paul-Marie there’d be something to remember. Something to excuse it all. All that wasted time.”