Chocolat Read Free

sidestepping. “Cure of the parish.”
           I laughed at that; I couldn’t help it.
           “Oh, that’s it,” I said maliciously. “I thought you were with the carnival.”
           Polite laughter; heh, heh, heh.
           I held out a yellow plastic glove. “Vianne Rocker. And the bombardier back there is my daughter Anouk.”
           Sounds of soap explosions, and of Anouk fighting Pantoufle on the stairs. I could hear the priest waiting for details of Monsieur Rocker. So much easier to have everything on a piece of paper, everything official, avoid this uncomfortable, messy conversation.
           “I suppose you are very busy this morning.”
           I suddenly felt sorry for him, trying so hard, straining to make contact. Again the forced smile. “Yes, we really need to get this place in order as soon as possible. It’s going to take time! But we wouldn’t have been at church this morning anyway, Monsieur le Curd. We don’t attend, you know.”
           It was kindly meant, to show him where we stood, to reassure him; but he looked startled, almost insulted.
           “I see.”
           It was too direct. He would have liked us to dance a little, to circle each other like wary cats.
           “But it’s very kind, of you to welcome us,” I continued brightly. “You might even be able to help us make a few friends here.”
           He is a little like a cat himself, I notice; cold, light eyes which never hold the gaze, a restless watchfulness, studied, aloof.
           “I’ll do anything I can.”
           He is indifferent now he knows we are not to be members of his flock. And yet his conscience pushes him to offer more than he is willing to give. “Have you anything in mind?”
           “Well, we could do with some help here,” I suggested. “Not you, of course”— quickly, as he began to reply. “But perhaps you know someone who could do with the extra money? A plasterer, someone who might be able to help with the decorating?”
           This was surely safe territory.
           “I can’t think of anyone.”
           He is guarded, more so than anyone I have ever met. “But I’ll ask around.”
           Perhaps he will. He knows his duty to the new arrival. But I know he will not find anyone. His is not, a nature which grants favours graciously. His eyes flicked warily to the pile of bread and salt by the door.
           “For luck.” I smiled, but his face was stony. He skirted the little offering as if it offended him.
           “Maman?” Anouk’s head appeared in the doorway, hair standing out in crazy spikes. “Pantoufle wants to play outside. Can we?”
           I nodded. “Stay in the garden.”
           I wiped a smudge of dirt from the bridge of her nose. “You look a complete urchin.”
           I saw her glance at the priest and caught her comical look just in time. “This is Monsieur Reynaud, Anouk. Why don’t you say hello?”
           “Hello!” shouted Anouk on the way to the door. “Goodbye!” A blur of yellow jumper and red overalls and she was gone, her feet skidding manically on the greasy tiles. Not for the first time, I was almost sure I saw Pantoufle disappearing in her wake, a darker smudge against the dark lintel.
           “She’s only six,” I said by way of explanation.
           Reynaud gave a tight, sour smile, as if his first glimpse of my daughter confirmed every one of his suspicions about me.

 
    THREE

           Thursday, February 13

           Thank God that’s over. Visits tire me to the bone. I don’t mean you, of course, mon pere; my weekly visit to you is a luxury, you might almost say my only one. I hope you like the flowers. They don’t look much, but they smell wonderful. I’ll put them here, beside your chair, where you can see them. It’s a good view from here across the