Шоколад / Chocolat

“I’m sorry. For a moment I almost forgot where?”

“I know.”

I could feel rage pricking at my thumbs.

“You must think I’m stupid to have stayed with him all these years.”

Her voice was dull, her eyes dark and resentful.

“No, I don’t.”

She ignored my reply. “Well I am,” she declared. “Stupid and weak. I don’t love him – can’t remember a time when I ever loved him – but when I think of actually leaving him-” She broke off in confusion. “Actually leaving him,” she repeated in a low, wondering voice. “No. It’s no use.” She looked up at me again and her face was closed, final. “That’s why I can’t talk to you again,” she told me in calm desperation. “I couldn’t leave you guessing – you deserve better than that. But this is how it has to be.”

“No,” I told her. “It doesn’t.”

“But it does.” She defends herself bitterly, desperately, against the possibility of comfort. “Can’t you see? I’m no good. I steal. I lied to you before. I steal things. I do it all the time!”

Gently: “Yes. I know.” The clear realization turns quietly between us like a Christmas bauble. “Things can be better,” I told her at last. “Paul-Marie doesn’t rule the world.”

“He might as well,” retorted Josephine mulishly.

I smiled. If that stubbornness of hers could be turned out instead of in, what could she not achieve? I could do it, too. I could feel her thoughts, so close, welcoming me in. It would be so easy to take control… I turned the thought aside impatiently. I had no right to force her to any decision.

“Before, you had no-one to go to,” I said. “Now you do.”

“Do I?”

In her mouth, it was almost an admission of defeat.

I did not reply. Let her answer that for herself.

She looked at me in silence for a while. Her eyes were full of river lights from Les Marauds. Again it struck me, with what small a twist she might become beautiful.

“Goodnight, Josephine.”

I did not turn to look at her, but I know she watched me as I made my way up the hill, and I know she stood watching long after I had rounded the corner and disappeared from sight.

15

Tuesday, February 25

Still more of this interminable rain. It falls like A piece of the sky upended to pour misery onto the aquarium life below. The children, bright plastic ducks in their waterproofs and boots, squawk and waddle across the square, their cries ricocheting off the low clouds. I work in the kitchen with half an eye to the children in the street. This morning I unmade the window display, the witch, the gingerbread house and all the chocolate animals sitting around watching with glossy expectant faces, and Anouk and her friends shared the pieces between excursions into the rainy backwaters of Les Marauds. Jeannot Drou watched me in the kitchen, a piece of gilded pain d’epices in each hand, eyes shining. Anouk stood behind him, the others behind her, a wall of eyes and whisperings.

“What next?” He has the voice of an older boy, an air of casual bravado and a smear of chocolate across the chin. “What are you doing next? For the display?”

I shrugged. “Secret,” I said, stirring creme de cacao into an enamel basin of melted couverture.

“No, really.” He insists. “You ought to make something for Easter. You know. Eggs and stuff: Chocolate hens, rabbits, things like that. Like the shops in Agen.”

I remember them from my childhood; the Paris chocolateries with their baskets of foil-wrapped eggs, shelves of rabbits and hens, bells, marzipan fruits and marrons glaces, amourettes and filigree nests filled with petits fours and caramels and a thousand and one epiphanies of spun-sugar magic-carpet rides more suited to an Arabian harem than the solemnities of the Passion.

“I remember my mother telling me about the Easter chocolates.”

There was never enough money to buy those exquisite things, but I always had my own cornet surprise, a paper cone containing my Easter gifts, coins, paper flowers, hard-boiled eggs painted in bright enamel colours, a box of coloured papier-mache – painted with chickens, bunnies, smiling children amongst the buttercups, the same every year and stored carefully for the next time encasing a tiny packet of chocolate raisins wrapped in Cellophane, each one to be savoured, long and lingeringly, in the lost hours of those strange nights between cities, with the neon glow of hotel signs blink-blinking between the shutters and my mother’s breathing, slow and somehow eternal, in the umbrous silence.

“She used to say that on the eve of Good Friday the bells leave their steeples and church towers in the secret of the night and fly with magical wings to Rome.”

He nods, with that look of half-believing cynicism peculiar to the growing young.

“They line up in front of the Pope in his gold and white, his mitre and his gilded staff, big bells and tiny bells, clochettes and heavy bourdons, carillons and chimes and do-si-do-mi-sols, all waiting patiently to be blessed.”

She was filled with this solemn children’s lore, my mother, eyes lighting up with delight at the absurdity. All stories delighted her – Jesus and Eostre and Ali Baba working the homespun of folklore into the bright fabric of belief again and again. Crystal healing and astral travel, abductions by aliens and spontaneous combustions, my mother believed them all, or pretended to believe.

“And the Pope blesses them, every one, far into the night, the thousands of France’s steeples waiting empty for their return, silent until Easter morning.”

And I her daughter, listening wide-eyed to her charming apocrypha, with tales of Mithras and Baldur the Beautiful and Osiris and Quetzalcoatl all interwoven with stories of flying chocolates and flying carpets and the Triple Goddess and Aladdin’s crystal cave of wonders and the cave from which Jesus rose after three days, amen, abracadabra, amen.

“And the blessings turn into chocolates of all shapes and kinds, and the bells turn upside-down to carry them home. All through the night they fly, and when they reach their towers and steeples on Easter Sunday they turn over and begin swinging to peal out their joy.”

Bells of Paris, Rome, Cologne, Prague. Morning bells, mourning bells, ringing the changes across the years of our exile. Easter bells so loud in memory that it hurts to hear them.

“And the chocolates fly out across the fields and towns. They fall through the air as the bells sound. Some of them hit the ground and shatter. But the children make nests and place them high in the trees to catch the falling eggs and pralines and chocolate hens and rabbits and guimauves and almonds…”

Jeannot turns to me with vivid face and broadening grin.

“Cool!”

“And that’s the story of why you get chocolates at Easter.”

His voice is awed, sharp with sudden certainty. “Do it! Please, do it!”

I turn deftly to roll a truffle in cocoa powder. “Do what?”

“Do that! The Easter story. It’d be so cool – with the bells and the Pope and everything – and you could have a chocolate festival – a whole week – and we could have nests – and Easter-egg hunts – and – ” He breaks off excitedly, tugging at my sleeve imperiously. “Madame Rocher, please.”

Behind him Anouk watches me closely. A dozen smudgy faces in the background mouth shy entreaties.

“A Grand Festival du Chocolat.”

I consider the thought. In a month’s time the lilacs will be out. I always make a nest for Anouk, with an egg and her name on it in silver icing. It could be our own carnival, a celebration of our acceptance in this place. The idea is not new to me, but to hear it from this child is almost to touch its reality.

“We’d need some posters.” I pretend hesitation.

“We’ll make those!” Anouk is the first to suggest it, her face vivid with excitement.

“And flags – bunting – ”

“Streamers-”