The Lollipop Shoes (51 page)

‘So where are you staying now?’ I asked.

Not the hostel, I knew that already. But he looked, if anything, even worse than last time we’d met; pale and unshaven and very tired. And now I’d found him here again—

People do sleep in the cemetery. The
gardien
turns a blind eye as long as they don’t make a mess, but you sometimes find a stash of blankets, or an old kettle, or a
trashcan packed with fuel for tonight’s fire, or a neat little stack of tins hidden away inside some chapel-of-rest that no one uses any more, and sometimes at night, so Jean-Loup says, you can see as many as half a dozen little fires in different spots inside the cemetery walls—

‘You’re sleeping here, aren’t you?’ I said.

‘I’m sleeping on my boat,’ said Roux.

But he was lying – I could see that at once. And I didn’t believe he had a boat. If he had, he wouldn’t be here, and he wouldn’t have stayed at Rue de Clichy. But Roux wasn’t telling; he just kept playing with Rosette, tickling her and making her laugh, while Rosette made wet
squeee
noises with her new whistle and laughed in that silent way she has, with her mouth open as wide as a frog’s.

‘So what are you going to do now?’ I said.

‘Well, for a start, I’ve got a party to go to on Christmas Eve. Or had you forgotten?’ He made a face at Rosette, who laughed and hid her face behind her hands.

I was beginning to think that Roux wasn’t taking any of this seriously enough. ‘You’re coming?’ I said. ‘Do you think it’s safe?’

‘I promised, didn’t I?’ he said. ‘In fact, I’ve got a surprise for you.’

‘A present?’

He grinned. ‘Just wait and see.’

I was dying to tell Maman I’d seen Roux. But after last night I knew I had to be careful. There are things I don’t quite dare tell her now, in case she gets angry, or doesn’t understand.

With Zozie, of course, it’s different. We talk about all kinds of things. In her room I wear my red shoes and we sit on her bed with the furry blanket over our knees and
she tells me stories about Quetzalcoatl and Jesus and Osiris and Mithras and Seven Macaw – the kind of stories Maman used to tell, but doesn’t have time for any more. I guess she thinks I’m too old for stories. She’s always telling me I should grow up.

Zozie says growing up’s overrated. She never wants to settle down. There are too many places she hasn’t seen. She won’t give them up for anyone.

‘Not even for me?’ I said tonight.

She smiled, but I thought she looked sad at that. ‘Not even for you, little Nanou.’

‘But you’re not going away,’ I said.

She shrugged. ‘That depends.’

‘Depends on what?’

‘Well, on your mother, for a start.’

‘What do you mean?’

She gave a sigh. ‘I wasn’t going to tell you,’ she said. ‘But your mother and I – we’ve been talking. And we’ve decided – well,
she’s
decided – that maybe it’s time for me to move out.’

‘Move out?’ I said.

‘Winds change, Nanou.’ And that was so close to what Maman might have said that it took me right back to Les Laveuses, and that wind, and the Kindly Ones. But this time I wasn’t remembering. I was thinking about Ehecatl, the Changing Wind, and I was seeing things as they would be if Zozie left us: her room deserted, dust on the floor, everything just ordinary again, just a little chocolate shop with nothing special any more—

‘You can’t,’ I said wildly. ‘We need you here.’

She shook her head. ‘You
needed
me. But look at you now – business is good, you’ve got lots of friends.
You don’t need me any more. As for me – I have to move on. Ride that wind to wherever it goes.’

A horrible thought came to me. ‘This is about me, isn’t it?’ I said. ‘It’s about what we’ve been doing here. Our lessons, and the peg-dolls, and everything. She’s afraid that if you stay there’ll be another Accident—’

Zozie shrugged. ‘I won’t lie to you. But I didn’t think she’d be so jealous—’

Jealous?
Maman?

‘Well, of course,’ said Zozie. ‘Remember, she used to be like us once. Free to go wherever she liked. But now she’s got other responsibilities. She can’t just do what she wants any more. And whenever she looks at you now, Nanou – well, maybe it just reminds her too much of everything she’s had to give up.’

‘But that’s not fair!’

Zozie smiled. ‘No one said it was fair,’ she said. ‘It’s about control. You’re growing up. You’re developing skills. You’re growing beyond your mother’s authority. It makes her anxious; makes her scared. She thinks I’m taking you away from her, giving you things she can’t give you herself. And that’s why I have to leave, Nanou. Before something happens we’ll both regret.’

‘But what about the party?’ I said.

‘If you want me, I’ll stay till then.’ She put her arms around me and hugged me tight. ‘Listen, Nanou. I know it’s hard. But I want you to have what I never had. A family. A home. A place of your own. And if the wind needs a sacrifice, then let it be me. I’ve nothing to lose. Besides—’ She gave a little sigh. ‘I don’t want to settle down. I don’t want to spend my life wondering what’s
over the next hill. I would have left sooner or later – and now’s as good a time as any—’

She pulled the blanket over us both. I shut my eyes tight, not wanting to cry, but I could feel a lump in the back of my throat like I’d swallowed a little potato whole.

‘But I
love
you, Zozie—’

I couldn’t see her face (my eyes were still shut), but I felt her let out a long, deep sigh – like air that’s been trapped for a long time in a sealed box, or underground.

‘I love you too, Nanou,’ she said.

We stayed like that for a long time, sitting in bed wrapped up in the blanket. Outside, the wind started up again, and I was glad there were no trees on the Butte, because the way I was feeling just then, I think I could have let them all come crash-crashing down if that could have persuaded Zozie to stay, and made the wind take someone else.

9

Sunday, 23rd December

WHAT A PERFORMANCE.
Told you so. In another life I’d have made a fortune in the movie business. It certainly had Anouk convinced – the seeds of doubt are germinating nicely – which should serve me well come Christmas Eve.

I don’t think she’ll mention our talk to Vianne. My little Nanou is secretive; she does not share her thoughts so easily. And her mother has let her down, of course; has lied to her on several points, and on top of all that, is evicting her friend—

She too can dissemble, when required. Today she looked a little withdrawn, though I doubt whether Vianne will have noticed that. She’s too busy planning tomorrow’s celebration to wonder at her daughter’s sudden lack of excitement, or to ask herself where she has been all day while cakes baked and spiced wine simmered.

Of course I too have plans to fulfil. But mine are rather less culinary in emphasis. Vianne’s kind of magic – such as it is – is far too domestic for my taste. Don’t think I
can’t see what you’re doing, Vianne. The place is alive with petty seductions: rose-scented treats, miracles and macaroons. And Vianne herself – in that red dress, with a red silk flower in her hair—

Who do you think you’re fooling, Vianne? Why bother, when I do it so much better?

I was out for most of the day. People to see; things to do. Today I ditched all that was left of my current identities, including Mercedes Desmoines, Emma Windsor and even Noëlle Marcelin. I have to admit, it caused me a pang. But too much ballast slows you down – and besides, I won’t be needing them.

After that it was time for a few social calls. Madame from Le Stendhal, who is coming on nicely; Thierry le Tresset, who has been watching the
chocolaterie
from nearby in the vain hope of a glimpse of Roux; and Roux himself, who has checked out of his digs by the cemetery and into the cemetery itself, where a small chapel-of-rest serves as his current home.

It’s comfortable enough, I daresay. These tombs were built in the days when the wealthy dead were housed in a luxury undreamt-of by the living poor. And with the help of regular doses of misinformation, sympathy, rumour, flattery – not to mention cash and a steady supply of my very own specials – I have ensured, if not his trust and affection, at least his presence on Christmas Eve.

I found him at the back of the cemetery, near the wall that divides it from the Rue Jean Le Maistre. It’s the furthest place from the entrance lodge, where broken and abandoned graves lie among compost and rubbish bins, and that’s where the down-and-outs assemble round a fire that burns in a metal can.

Today there were half a dozen of them, dressed in coats too big for them and boots as scarred and cracked as their hands. Most were old – the young ones can earn their cash in Pigalle, where youth is always in demand – and one of them had a cough that started deep in his lungs and hacked its way out every minute or so.

They looked at me incuriously as I picked my way through the neglected graves towards the little circle of men. Roux met me with his usual lack of enthusiasm.

‘You again.’

‘So glad you’re pleased.’ I handed him a parcel of food – coffee, sugar, cheese, some sausages from the butcher’s around the corner and some buckwheat pancakes to wrap them in. ‘Don’t share it with the cats this time.’

‘Thanks.’ At last he deigned to smile. ‘How’s Vianne?’

‘She’s fine. She misses you.’ It’s a small flattery that never fails.

‘And Mr Big?’

‘He’s coming round.’

I’ve managed to convince Roux that Thierry calling the police is just a ploy to get Vianne back on his side. I have not gone into details of the charge; but I have led him to believe that it has already been dropped for lack of evidence. The only danger now, I have told him, is that Thierry, in a fit of pique, will evict Vianne from her home in the
chocolaterie
if she transfers her allegiance too quickly to Roux, and so he must be patient awhile, wait for the dust to settle, and trust me to make Thierry see sense.

Meanwhile, I pretend to believe in his boat, moored, he says, in the Port de l’Arsenal. Its existence (even fictional) makes him a man of property, a man of pride who, far
from accepting charity from me in the shape of food parcels and loose change, is actually doing us all a favour by staying close by to watch over Vianne.

‘Been to check on the boat today?’

He shook his head. ‘Later, perhaps.’

This is another fiction I pretend to believe. That he goes over to the Arsenal every day to check on his boat. Of course I know he does no such thing. But I rather like to see him squirm. ‘If Thierry won’t see sense,’ I said, ‘it’s a comfort to think that Vianne and the kids could stay with you on the boat for a while. At least till they find another place – never easy at this time of year—’

He glared at me. ‘That’s not what I want.’

I gave him my sweetest smile. ‘Of course not,’ I said. ‘It’s just nice to know there’s the option, that’s all. So how are you set for tomorrow, Roux? Need any clothes washing?’

Once more he shook his head, and I wondered how he’d managed so far. There’s a laundrette round the corner, of course, and some public showers off the Rue Ganeron. That’s probably where he goes, I thought. He must think I’m an imbecile.

Still, I need him – for a little longer. After tomorrow it won’t matter any more. After that he can go to perdition any way he likes.

‘Why are you doing this, Zozie?’ It’s a question he has asked before, with a growing suspicion that only increases with every attempt I make at seduction. Some men are just like that, I think – impervious to my kind of charm. Still, it rankles. He owes me so much, and scarcely a word of gratitude—

‘You know why I’m doing it, Roux,’ I said, allowing a trace of asperity to enter my voice. ‘I’m doing it for Vianne
and the kids. For Rosette, who deserves a father. For Vianne, who has never got over you. And – I’ll admit it – for myself, because if Vianne goes, I go, and I’ve come to like that
chocolaterie
, and I don’t see why I should have to leave.’

That
convinced him. I knew it would. A suspicious type like Roux mistrusts anything close to altruism. Well, he would – Roux, who acts out of self-interest – who is only here now because he sees some profit in it for himself; some share in Vianne’s lucrative business, perhaps, now that he knows Rosette is his child—

It was three o’clock when I returned to the
chocolaterie
, and already it was getting dark. Vianne was serving a customer, and she looked at me sharply as I came in, although her greeting was pleasant enough.

I know what she’s thinking. Folk
like
Zozie. To advertise her hostility now would be damaging only to Vianne herself. Already she is wondering if my threats of the other night were designed to lure her into an ill-considered attack, to show her colours too soon and thereby lose the safe ground.

The battle begins tomorrow
, she thinks. Canapés and frivolities, sweet enough to tempt the saints.
They
will be her weapons of choice – and how naïve of her to imagine that I will respond in kind. Domestic magic is
such
a bore – ask any child, and you’ll see how they prefer the villains to the heroes of the books they read, the wicked witches and hungry wolves to the plain-vanilla princes and princesses.