Шоколад / Chocolat

He had taken three steps from behind the bar, and now he stood barring the doorway, hands on hips, like an overweight gunslinger in a spaghetti western. I could see the yellowy gleam of his knuckles at his belt, hear the whistle of his breath. His face was congested with rage.

“Right.” Roux’s face was expressionless. He flicked a hostile, deliberate glance at the few customers scattered about the room. “Closed.”

Another glance around the room. For a moment our eyes met.

“Closed to us,” he said quietly.

“Not as stupid as you look, are you?” said Muscat with sour glee. “We had enough of your lot last time. This time, we’re not standing for it!”

“OK.”

Roux turned to go. Muscat saw him off, strutting stiff-legged, like a dog scenting a fight. I walked past him without a word, leaving my coffee half-finished on the table. I hope he wasn’t expecting a tip.

I caught up with the river-gypsies halfway down the Avenue des Francs Bourgeois: It had begun to drizzle again, and the five of them looked drab and sullen. I could see their boats now, down in Les Marauds, a dozen of them – two dozen – a flotilla of green-yellow-blue-white-red, some flying flags of damp washing, others painted with Arabian nights and magic carpets and unicorn variations reflected in the dull green water.

“I’m sorry that happened,” I told them. “They’re not an especially welcoming lot in Lansquenet-sous-Tannes.”

Roux gave me a flat, measuring look.

“My name is Vianne,” I told him. “I have the chocolaterie just opposite the church. La Celeste Praline.”

He watched me, waiting. I recognized myself in his carefully expressionless face. I wanted to tell him – to tell all of them – that I knew their rage and humiliation, that I’d known it too, that they weren’t alone. But I also knew their pride, the useless defiance which remains after everything else has been scoured away. The last thing they wanted, I knew, was sympathy.

“Why don’t you drop in tomorrow?” I asked lightly. “I don’t do beer, but I think you might enjoy my coffee.”

He looked at me sharply, as if he suspected me of mocking him. -

“Please come,” I insisted. “Have coffee and a slice of cake on the house. All of you.”

The thin girl looked at her friends and shrugged. Roux returned the gesture.

“Maybe.” The voice was non-committal.

“We got a busy schedule,” chirped the girl pertly.

I smiled. “Find a window,” I suggested.

Again that measuring, suspicious look.

“Maybe.”

I watched them go down into Les Marauds as Anouk came running up the hill towards me, the tails of her red raincoat flapping like the wings of an exotic bird.

“Maman, Maman! Look, the boats!”

We admired them for a while, the flat barges, the tall houseboats with the corrugated roofs, the stovepipe chimneys, the frescoes, the multicoloured flags, slogans, painted devices to ward against accident and shipwreck, the small barques, fishing lines, pots for crayfish hoisted up against.the tidemark for the night, tattered umbrellas sheltering decks, the beginnings of campfires in steel drums on the riverside. There was a smell of burning wood and petrol and frying fish, a distant sound of music from across the water as a saxophone began its eerily human melodious wail. Halfway across the Tannes I could just make out the figure of a redheaded man standing alone on the deck of a plain black houseboat. As I watched he lifted his arm. I waved back.

It was almost dark when we made our way home. Back in Les Marauds a drummer had joined the saxophone, and the sounds of his drumming slapped flatly off the water. I passed the Cafe de la Republique without looking in.

I had barely reached the top of the hill when I felt a presence at my elbow. I turned and saw Josephine Muscat, coatless now but with a scarf around her head and half covering her face. In the semi-darkness she looked pallid, nocturnal.

“Run home, Anouk. Wait for me there.”

Anouk gave me a curious glance, then turned and ran off obediently up the hill, her coat-tails flapping wildly.

“I heard what you did.” Josephine’s voice was hoarse and soft. “You walked out because of that business with the river people.”

I nodded. “Of course.”

“Paul-Marie was furious.” The stern note in her voice was almost admiration. “You should have heard the things he was saying.”

I laughed.

“Fortunately I don’t have to listen to anything Paul-Marie has to say,” I told her blandly.

“Now I’m not supposed to talk to you any more,” she went on. “He thinks you’re a bad influence.” A pause, as she looked at me with nervous curiosity. “He doesn’t want me to have friends,” she added.

“Seems to me I’m hearing rather too much about what Paul-Marie wants,” I said mildly. “I’m not really all that interested in him. Now you-” I touched her arm fleetingly. “I find you quite interesting.”

She flushed and looked away, as if expecting to find someone standing at her shoulder.

“You don’t understand,” she muttered.

“I think I do.” With my fingertips I touched the scarf which hid her face. “Why do you wear this?” I asked abruptly. “Do you want to tell me?”

She looked at me in hope and panic. Shook her head. I pulled gently at the scarf.

“You’re pretty,” I said as it came loose. “You could be beautiful.”

There was a fresh bruise just beneath her lower lip, bluish in the failing light. She opened her mouth for the automatic lie. I interrupted her.

“That’s not true,” I said.

“How can you know that?” Her voice was sharp. “I hadn’t even said?”

“You didn’t have to.”

Silence. Across the water a flute scattered bright notes among the drumbeats. When she spoke at last her voice was thick with self-loathing. “It’s stupid, isn’t it?” Her eyes were tiny crescents. “I never blame him. Not really. Sometimes I even forget what really happened.” She took a deep breath, like a diver going under. “Walking into doors. Falling downstairs. St-stepping on rakes.” She sounded close to laughter. I could hear hysteria bubbling beneath the surface of her words. “Accident-prone, that’s what he says I am. Accident-prone.”

“Why was it this time?” I asked gently. “Was it because of the river people?”

She nodded.

“They didn’t mean any harm. I was going to serve them.” Her voice rose shrilly for a second. “I don’t see why I should have to do what that bitch Clairmont wants all the time! Oh we must stand together,” she mimicked savagely. “For the sake of the community. For our children, Madame Muscat”– breaking back into her own voice with a stricken intake of breath – “when in normal circumstances she wouldn’t say hello to me in the street – wouldn’t give me steam off her shit!” She took another deep breath, controlling the outburst with an effort. “It’s always Caro this, Caro that. I’ve seen the way he looks at her in church. Why can’t you be like Caro Clairmont?” Now she was her husband, his voice thick with beery rage. She even managed his mannerisms, the thrust-out chin, the strutting, aggressive posture. “She makes you look like a clumsy sow. She’s got style. Class. She’s got a fine son doing well at school. And what have you got, he?”

“Josephine.”

She turned towards me with a stricken expression.