The Lollipop Shoes (20 page)

And to think I first assumed there was nothing for me here. This place is a gift. It draws them in. And think of what we could collect – not just the money, but the stories, the people, the
lives
—

We?
Well, of course. I’m prepared to share. Three of us
– four, if we count Rosette – each of us with our own special skills. We could be extraordinary. She’s done it before, in Lansquenet. She covered her trail, but not well enough. That name – Vianne Rocher – and the small details I have gleaned from Annie were enough to plot her trajectory. The rest was easy: a few long-distance telephone calls, some back editions of a local newspaper, dated four years ago; one of them showing a grainy, yellowed photograph of Vianne, smiling brashly from the doorway of a chocolate shop, while a tousled someone – Annie, of course – looks out from beneath her outstretched arm.

La Céleste Praline. Intriguing name. Vianne Rocher enjoyed her share of whimsy; though you wouldn’t think it to see her now. In those days she was unafraid; wore red shoes and jangling bracelets and long, wild hair like a comic-book gypsy. Not entirely a beauty, perhaps – her mouth is too large, her eyes not entirely wide enough – but any witch worth her spell-book could tell that she was alight with glamours. Glamours to change the course of lives; glamours to charm, to heal, to hide.

So – what happened?

Witches don’t just quit, Vianne. Skills like ours beg to be used.

I watch her as she works in the back, making her truffles, her chocolate liqueurs. Her colours have brightened since we first met, and now that I know where to look, I see the magic in everything she does. And yet she seems unaware of this, as if she could blind herself to what she is by simply ignoring it long enough, the way she ignores her children’s totems. Vianne is no fool – so why does she behave like one? And what will it take to open her eyes?

She spent this morning in the back room; a scent of
baking drifted through. In front – a pot of chocolate. In less than a week, the place has altered almost beyond recognition. Our table and chairs, hand-printed by the children, give the place a holiday look. There is something of the schoolyard in those primary colours, and however neatly they are aligned, there’s always a vague impression of disorder. There are pictures on the wall now: framed, embroidered sari squares in hot pink and lemon yellow. There are two old armchairs rescued from a skip; the springs are shot, and the legs are bowed. But I have made them comfortable, using nothing but a couple of metres of plush fabric, in a fuchsia leopard print, and some gold material from a charity shop.

Annie loves them, and so do I. But for our size, we might almost be a little café from one of the trendier quarters of Paris – and the timing couldn’t be better for us.

Two days ago, Le P’tit Pinson was closed down (not
quite
unexpectedly) following an unfortunate food-poisoning incident and a visit from the health inspector. I’ve heard say that Laurent has at least a month’s worth of cleaning and refurbishment before he’s allowed to reopen the café; which means that his Christmas clientèle is likely to suffer.

So he ate the chocolates after all. Poor Laurent. The Hurakan works in mysterious ways. And some people bring these things down on themselves, as lightning-rods draw the lightning.

Still, all the more for us, I say. We don’t have a licence for alcohol, but hot chocolate, cakes, biscuits, macaroons – and of course the siren-call of bitter truffle, mocha liqueurs, dipped strawberries, walnut cluster, apricot cup—

Till now, our shopkeepers have stayed away, slightly wary of the changes here. They are so used to thinking of the
chocolaterie
as a tourist trap, a place where locals fear to tread, that it will take all my powers of persuasion to entice them to our door.

But it helps that Laurent has been seen inside. Laurent, who detests any kind of change; who lives in a Paris of his own imagination where only native Parisians are allowed. Like all alcoholics, he has a sweet tooth – besides, where will he go, now that his café has closed down? Where will he find an audience for his endless catalogue of complaints?

He came in yesterday lunchtime, sulky but palpably curious. It’s the first time he’s been here since we refurbished, and he took in the improvements with a sour look. As luck would have it, we had customers: Richard and Mathurin, who had dropped in on their way to their usual game of pétanque in the park. They looked slightly embarrassed to see Laurent – as well they might, being long-standing regulars of Le P’tit Pinson.

Laurent shot them a look of disdain. ‘Someone’s doing well,’ he said. ‘What’s this supposed to be – a bloody café, or something?’

I smiled. ‘Do you like it?’

Laurent made his favourite noise. ‘
Mweh!
Everyone thinks they’re a bloody café. Everyone thinks they can do what I do.’

‘I wouldn’t dream of it,’ I said. ‘It’s not easy to create an authentic atmosphere nowadays.’

Laurent snorted. ‘Don’t start me on
that
. There’s the Café des Artistes down the road – the owner’s a Turk, wouldn’t you guess – and the Italian coffee place next to
it, and that English tea-shop, and any number of Costas and Starbucks – bloody Yanks think they
invented
coffee—’ He glared at me as if I too might harbour American ancestry. ‘I mean, what about
loyalty
?’ he bugled. ‘What about good, old-fashioned, French
patriotism
?’

Mathurin is quite deaf, and genuinely may not have heard him, but I was pretty sure Richard was pretending.

‘That was nice, Yanne. Better go.’

They left the money on the table and fled without looking back, as Laurent’s face grew slightly redder, and his eyes bulged alarmingly.

‘Those two old faggots,’ he began. ‘The number of times they’ve dropped in for a beer and a game of cards – and now, the minute things go wrong . . .’

I gave him my most sympathetic smile. ‘I know, Laurent. But chocolate-houses are quite traditional, you know. In fact, I believe that historically they actually
precede
coffee-houses, which makes them totally authentic and Parisian.’ I guided him, still blustering, to the table the others had just vacated. ‘Why don’t you sit down and try a cup? On the house, of course, Laurent.’

Well, that was only the start of it. For the price of a drink and chocolate praline, Laurent Pinson is on our side. It’s not that we need his custom, of course; he’s a parasite, filling his pockets with lump sugar from the bowl and sitting for hours over a single demitasse – but he’s the weak link in this little community, and where Laurent goes, the others will follow.

Madame Pinot popped round this morning – she didn’t actually buy anything, but she did have a good look round, and left with a chocolate on the house. Jean-Louis
and Paupaul did the same; and I happen to know that the girl who bought truffles from me this morning works in the
boulangerie
on the Rue des Trois Frères, and will spread the word to her customers.

It’s not just the taste
, she will try to explain. The rich dark truffle, flavoured with rum; the hint of chilli in the blend; the yielding smoothness of the centre and the bitterness of the cocoa-powder finish . . . None of these explain the strange allure of Yanne Charbonneau’s chocolate truffles.

Perhaps it’s the way they make you feel: stronger, perhaps; more powerful; more alert to the sounds and scents of the world; more aware of the colours and textures of things; more aware of yourself; of what’s under the skin; of the mouth, of the throat, of the sensitive tongue.

Just one
, I say.

They try. They buy.

They buy so many that Vianne was busy all day today, leaving me to run the shop and serve hot chocolate to those who came in. We can seat six, with a little goodwill – and it is a strangely attractive place; quiet and restful, yet cheery as well, where folk can come to forget their troubles, and sit and drink their chocolate, and talk.

Talk? And how! The exception is Vianne. Still, there’s time. Start small, I say. Or rather,
big
, in Fat Nico’s case.

‘Hey, Shoe Lady! What’s for lunch?’

‘What do you
want
it to be?’ I said. ‘Rose creams, chilli squares, coconut macar
ooooons
.’ I drew out the word suggestively, knowing his passion for coconut.

‘Whoa! I shouldn’t.’

It’s an act, of course. He likes to put up a token resistance; grins sheepishly, knowing that I am not fooled.

‘Try one,’ I say.

‘I’ll just have half.’

Broken sweets, of course, don’t count. Nor does a small cup of chocolate, with four more macaroons on the side, or the coffee cake that Vianne brings in, or the frosting he cleans from the mixing bowl.

‘My ma always used to make extra,’ he said. ‘So I’d have more to lick from the bowl at the end. Some days she’d make so much frosting that even I couldn’t eat it all—’ He stopped abruptly.

‘Your ma?’

‘She died.’ His baby face drooped.

‘You miss her,’ I said.

He nodded. ‘I guess.’

‘When did she die?’

‘Three years ago. She fell down the stairs. I guess she was a little overweight.’

‘That’s hard,’ I say, trying not to smile.
A little overweight
, to him, must mean something in the region of three hundred pounds. His face takes on a blank expression – his colours shift into the spectrum of dull greens and silvery-greys that I associate with the negative emotions.

He blames himself, of course. I know. The stair-carpet was loose, perhaps; he was late from work; he stopped by the
boulangerie
for a fatal ten minutes too long or sat down on a bench to watch the girls go by—

‘You’re not the only one,’ I said. ‘Everyone feels the same, you know. I blamed myself when my mother died . . .’

I took his hand. Beneath the flab his bones felt small, like a child’s.

‘It happened when I was sixteen. I’ve never stopped thinking it was somehow my fault.’ I gave him my most
earnest look, forking my hand behind my back to stop myself from laughing. Of course I believed it – and with good reason.

But Nico’s face lit up at once. ‘That true?’ he said.

I nodded.

I heard him sigh like a hot-air balloon.

I turned away to hide a smile and busied myself with the chocolates that were cooling on the counter at my side. They smelt innocent, like vanilla and childhood. Nico’s type rarely make friends. Always the fat boy, living alone with his fatter ma; lining up his substitutes against the arm of the sofa while she watches him eat with anxious approval.

You’re not fat, Nico. Just big-boned. There you are, Nico. Such a good boy.

‘Perhaps I shouldn’t,’ he said at last. ‘My doctor says I oughta cut down.’

I raised an eyebrow. ‘What does he know?’

He shrugged. The ripples went all the way down his arms.

‘You feel OK, don’t you?’ I said.

That sheepish smile. ‘I guess I do. The thing is . . .’

‘What?’

‘Well – girls.’ He flushed. ‘I mean, what do they see? This great big fat guy. I thought if I lost a little weight – toned up a bit – then maybe, you know . . .’

‘You’re not so fat, Nico. You don’t need to change. You’ll find someone. Just wait and see.’

Once more he sighed.

‘So. What’s it to be?’

‘I’ll have a box of the macaroons.’

I was tying the bow when Alice came in. I’m not sure
why he
needs
a bow – we both know that box will be open long before he gets it home – but for some reason he likes it that way; tied with a length of yellow ribbon, incongruous between his big hands.

‘Hi, Alice,’ I said. ‘Just take a seat. I’ll be with you in a minute.’

In fact, it was five. Alice needs time. She stares at Nico fearfully. He’s a giant beside her – a
hungry
giant – but Nico has become unexpectedly mute. He bridles – all three hundred pounds of him – and a flush creeps over his broad face.

‘Nico, meet Alice.’

She whispers hello.

It’s the easiest thing in the world to do. With the fingernail, to scratch a sign along the satin of the chocolate-box. It might be anything – an accident – but then again it might be the beginning of something: a turn in the road; a path into another life—

All change.

Once more she whispers something. Looks down at her boots – and sees the box of macaroons.

‘I love ’em,’ says Nico. ‘Try one with me?’

Alice begins to shake her head. But he looks nice, she tells herself. There’s something about him, in spite of his bulk; something reassuringly childish, almost vulnerable. And there’s something about his eyes, she thinks; something about him that makes her feel that maybe – just maybe – he understands.

‘Just one,’ he says.

And the symbol scratched on the lid of the box begins to gleam with a pale light – it’s Rabbit Moon, for love and fertility – and instead of her usual plain chocolate square,
Alice shyly accepts a cup of frothy mocha, with a macaroon to accompany it, and they leave at the same time (if not quite together), she with her small box, he with his large one, into the November rain.

And as I watch, Nico opens a red umbrella of giant proportions bearing the legend
Merde, il pleut!
and holds it over little Alice. The sound of her laughter is distant and bright, like something remembered rather than heard. And I watch them down the cobbled road, she skipping in the puddles with her giant boots, he solemnly holding that absurd umbrella over them both, like a cartoon bear and an ugly duckling in some fractured fairytale, on their way to a great adventure.

4