Джоанн Харрис - Шоколад / Chocolat

I knew now why no customers had dared to come this morning. That word – appropriate held all the glacial condemnation of a prophet’s curse.

I forked at him again, savagely, under the counter. Reynaud slapped at the back of his neck, as if an insect had stung him there.

“I don’t think the cities have the franchise on enjoyment,” I snapped. “Everyone needs a little luxury, a little self indulgence from time to time.”

Reynaud did not reply. I suppose he disagreed. I said as much.

“I expect you preached exactly the opposite doctrine in your sermon this morning?” I ventured boldly. Then, as he still did not answer, “Still, I’m sure there’s room enough in this town for both of us. Free enterprise, isn’t that right?”

Looking at his expression I could see he understood the challenge. For a moment I held his gaze, making myself brazen, hateful. Reynaud flinched back from my smile as if I had spat in his face.

Softly,

“Of course.”

Oh, I know his type. We saw them enough, Mother and I, on our chase around Europe. The same polite smiles, the disdain, the indifference. A small coin dropped from the plump hand of a woman outside Rheims’ crowded cathedral; admonishing looks from a group of nuns as a young Vianne leaps to grab it, bare knees scuffing the dusty floor. A black-frocked man in angry, earnest conversation with my mother; she running white-faced from the shadow of the church; squeezing my hand until it hurt… Later I learned she had tried to confess to him. What prompted her to do it? Loneliness, perhaps; the need to talk, to confide in someone who was not a lover. Someone with an understanding face. But didn’t she see? His face, now not so understanding, contorted in angry frustration. It was sin, mortal sin… She should leave the child in the care of good people. If she loved little – what was her name? Anne? If she loved her she must – must make this sacrifice. He knew a convent where she could be cared for. He took her hand, crushing her fingers. Didn’t she love her child? Didn’t she want to be saved? Didn’t she? Didn’t she?

That night my mother wept, rocking me to and fro in her arms. We left Rheims in the morning, more like thieves than ever, she carrying me close like stolen treasure, her eyes hot and furtive.

I understood he had almost convinced her to leave me behind. After that she often asked me if I was happy with her, whether I missed having friends, a home… But however often I told her yes, no, no, however often I kissed her and said I regretted nothing, nothing, a little of the poison remained. For years we ran from the priest, the Black Man, and when his face returned time and again in the cards it would be time to run once more, time to hide from the darkness he had opened in her heart.

And here he is again, just as I thought we had found our place at last, Anouk and I. Standing at the door like the angel at the gate.

Well, this time, I swear I will not run. Whatever he does. However he turns the people of this place against me. His face is as smooth and certain as the turn of an evil card. And he has declared himself my enemy – and I his as clearly as if we had both spoken aloud.

“I’m so glad we understand each other.” My voice is bright and cold.

“And I.”

Something in his eyes, some light where there was none before, alerts me. Amazingly, he is enjoying this, this closing of two enemies for battle; nowhere in his armoured certainty is there room for the thought that he might not win.

He turns to go, very correct, with just the right inclination of the head. Just so. Polite contempt. The barbed and poisonous weapon of the righteous.

“M’sieur le Cure!” For a second he turns back, and I press a small beribboned packet into his hands. “For you. On the house.”

My smile brooks no refusal, and he takes the packet with bemused embarrassment.

“My pleasure.”

He frowns slightly, as if the thought of my pleasure pains him.

“But I don’t really like – ”

“Nonsense.” The tone is brisk, unaswerable. “I’m sure you’ll like these. They just remind me so much of you.”

Behind his calm exterior I think he looks startled. Then he is gone, the little packet white in his hand, into the grey rain. I notice that he does not run for shelter but walks with the same measured tread, not indifferent but with the look of one who relishes even that small discomfort.

I like to think he will eat the chocolates. More probably he will give them away, but I like to think he will at least open them and look… Surely he can spare one glance for the sake of curiosity.

They remind me so much of you.

A dozen of my best huitres de Saint-Malo, those small flat pralines shaped to look like tightly closed oysters.

Fifteen customers yesterday. today, thirty-four. Guillaume was among them; he bought a cornet of florentines and a cup of chocolate. Charly was with him, curling obediently beneath a stool while, from time to time, Guillaume dropped a piece of brown sugar into his expectant, insatiable jaws.

It takes time, Guillaume tells me, for a newcomer to be accepted in Lansquenet. Last Sunday, he says, Cure Reynaud preached such a virulent sermon on the topic of abstinence that the opening of La Celeste Praline that very morning had seemed a direct affront against the Church. Caroline Clairmont – who is beginning another of her diets was especially cutting, saying loudly to her friends in the congregation that it was “Quite shocking, just like stories of Roman decadence, my dears, and if that woman thinks she can just shimmy into town like the Queen of Sheba disgusting the way she flaunts that illegitimate child of hers as if – oh, the chocolates? Nothing special, my dears, and far too pricey.” The general conclusion amongst the ladies was that ‘it’– whatever it was – wouldn’t last. I would be out of town within a fortnight. And yet, the number of my customers has doubled since yesterday, amongst them a number of Madame Clairmont’s cronies, bright-eyed if a little shameful, telling each other it was curiosity, that was all, that all they wanted was to see for themselves.

I know all their favourites. It’s a knack, a professional secret like a fortune-teller reading palms: My mother would have laughed at this waste of my skills, but I have no desire to probe further into their lives than this. I do not want their secrets or their innermost thoughts. Nor do I want their fears or gratitude. A tame alchemist, she would have called me with kindly contempt, working domestic magic when I could have wielded marvels. But I like these people. I like their small and introverted concerns. I can read their eyes, their mouths, so easily: this one with its hint of bitterness will relish my zesty orange twists; this sweet-smiling one the soft-centred apricot hearts; this girl with the windblown hair will love the mendiants; this brisk, cheery woman the chocolate brazils. For Guillaume, the florentines, eaten neatly over a saucer in his tidy bachelor’s house. Narcisse’s appetite for double-chocolate truffles reveals the gentle heart beneath the gruff exterior. Caroline Clairmont will dream of cinder toffee tonight and wake hungry and irritable. And the children… Chocolate curls, white buttons with coloured vermicelli, pains d’epices with gilded edging, marzipan fruits in their nests of ruffled paper, peanut brittle, clusters, cracknels, assorted misshapes in half-kilo boxes… I sell dreams, small comforts, sweet harmless temptations to bring down a multitude of saints crash-crash-crashing amongst the hazels and nougatines.

Is that so bad? Cure Reynaud thinks so, apparently.

“Here, Charly. Here boy.”

Guillaume’s voice is warm when he speaks to his dog, but always a little sad. He bought the animal when his father died, he tells me. That was eighteen years ago. But a dog’s life is shorter than a man’s, and they grew old together.