No orange-boxes here, of course. Last year Thierry got us a complete new kitchen. Well, he would, wouldn’t he? He is the landlord, after all – he’s got lots of money, and besides, he’s supposed to fix the house. But Maman insisted on making a fuss, and cooking him a special dinner in the new kitchen. Oh, boy. Like we’d never had a kitchen before. So even the mugs are new now, with Chocolat written on them in fancy lettering. Thierry bought them – one for each of us and one for Madame Poussin – though he doesn’t actually like hot chocolate. (I can tell because he adds too much sugar.)
I used to have my own cup, a fat red one that Roux gave me, slightly chipped, with a painted letter A for Anouk. I don’t have it now; I don’t even remember what happened to it. Perhaps it got broken or left behind. It doesn’t matter, anyway. I don’t drink chocolate any more.
‘Suzanne says I’m weird,’ I said, as Maman came back into the kitchen.
‘Well, you’re not,’ she said, scraping the inside out of a vanilla pod. The chocolate was nearly ready by now, simmering gently in the pan. ‘Want some? It’s good.’
‘No thanks.’
‘OK.’
She poured some for Rosette instead, and added sprinkles and a dollop of cream. It looked good and smelt even better, but I didn’t want to let it show. I looked in the cupboard and found half a croissant from breakfast and some jam.
‘Pay no attention to Suzanne,’ said Maman, pouring out chocolate for herself into an espresso cup. I noticed neither she nor Rosette was using the Chocolat mugs. ‘I know her type. Try to make friends with somebody else.’
Well, easier said than done, I thought. Besides, what’s the point? It wouldn’t be me they were friends with at all. Fake hair, fake clothes, fake me.
‘Like who?’ I said.
‘I don’t know.’ Her voice was impatient as she put the spices back into the cupboard. ‘There must be someone you get on with.’
It isn’t my fault, I wanted to say. Why does she think I’m the difficult one? The problem is that Maman never really went to school – learnt everything the practical way, so she says – and all she knows about it now is what she’s read in children’s books, or seen through the wrong side of some schoolyard railings. From the other side, believe me, it’s not all jolly hockey sticks.
‘Well?’ Still that impatience, that tone that says you should be grateful, I worked hard to get you here, to send you to a proper school, to save you from the life I had—
‘Can I ask you something?’ I said.
‘Of course, Nanou. Is anything wrong?’
‘Was my father a black man?’
She gave a start, so small that I wouldn’t have seen it if it hadn’t been in her colours.
‘That’s what Chantal says at school.’
‘Really?’ said Maman, beginning to slice up some bread for Rosette. Bread, knife, chocolate spread. Rosette with her little monkey fingers turning the bread slice over and over. A look of intense concentration in Maman’s face as she worked. I couldn’t tell what she was thinking. Her eyes were as dark as Africa, impossible to read.
‘Would it matter?’ she said at last.
‘Dunno.’ I shrugged.
She turned to me then, and for a second she looked almost like the old Maman, the one who never cared what anyone thought.
‘You know, Anouk,’ she said slowly. ‘For a long time I didn’t think you even needed a father. I thought it would always be just the two of us, the way it was with my mother and me. And then Rosette came along, and I thought, well maybe—’ She broke off, and smiled, and changed the subject so fast that for a minute I didn’t realize that she hadn’t actually changed it at all, like one of those fairground acts with the three cups and a ball. ‘You do like Thierry, don’t you?’ she said.
I shrugged again. ‘He’s OK.’
‘I thought you did. He likes you.’
I bit the corner off my croissant. Sitting in her little chair, Rosette was making an aeroplane out of her slice of bread.
‘I mean, if either of you didn’t like him—’
Actually, I don’t like him that much. He’s too loud, and he smells of cigars. And he’s always interrupting Maman when she’s talking, and he calls me jeune fille, like it’s a joke, and he doesn’t get Rosette at all, or understand when she signs at him, and he’s always pointing out long words and what they mean, as if I’d never heard them before.
‘He’s OK,’ I said again.
‘Well – Thierry wants to marry me.’
‘Since when?’ I said.
‘He mentioned it first to me last year. I told him I didn’t want to be involved with anybody just then – there was Rosette to think of, and Madame Poussin – and he said he was happy to wait. But now we’re alone . . .’
‘You didn’t say yes, did you?’ I said, too loudly for Rosette, who put her hands over her ears.
‘It’s complicated.’ She sounded tired.
‘You always say that.’
‘That’s because it’s always complicated.’
Well, I don’t see why. It seems simple to me. She’s never been married before, has she? So why would she want to get married now?
‘Things have changed, Nanou,’ she said.
‘What things?’ I wanted to know.
‘Well, the chocolaterie, for a start. The rent’s paid till the end of the year. But after that . . .’ She gave a sigh. ‘It won’t be easy making it work. And I can’t just take money from Thierry. He keeps offering, but it wouldn’t be fair. And I thought . . .’
Well of course I’d known there was something wrong. But I’d thought she was sad about Madame. Now I could see it was Thierry instead, and her worry that I might not fit in with their plan.
Some plan. I can see us now. Maman, Papa and the two little girls, like something out of a story by the Comtesse de Ségur. We’d go to church; eat steack-frites every day; wear dresses from Galeries Lafayette. Thierry would have a picture of us on his desk, a professional portrait, with Rosette and me in matching outfits.
Don’t get me wrong; I said he’s OK. But—
‘Well?’ she said. ‘Cat got your tongue?’
I bit a little piece from my croissant. ‘We don’t need him,’ I said at last.
‘Well, we need someone, that’s for sure. I thought at least you’d understand that. You need to go to school, Anouk. You need a proper home – a father—’
Don’t make me laugh. A father? As if. You choose your family, she always says, but what choice does she think she’s giving me?
‘Anouk,’ she said. ‘I’m doing it for you . . .’
‘Whatever.’ I shrugged and took my croissant out into the street.
8
Saturday,10th November
I DROPPED IN at the chocolaterie this morning and bought a box of liqueur cherries. Yanne was there, with the little one in tow. Though the shop was quiet, she looked harried, almost uncomfortable at seeing me, and the chocolates, when I tried them, were nothing special.
‘I used to make these myself,’ she said, handing me the cherries in a paper twist. ‘But liqueurs are so fussy, and there’s never the time. I hope you like them.’
I popped one into my mouth with well-feigned greed. ‘Fabulous,’ I said, through a sour paste of pickled cherry. On the floor behind the counter, Rosette was singing softly to herself, sprawled among a scatter of crayons and coloured paper.
‘Doesn’t she go to nursery school?’
Yanne shook her head. ‘I like to keep an eye on her.’
Well, of course, I can see that. I see other things, too, now that I happen to look for them. The sky-blue door hides a number of things that regular customers overlook. First, the place is old and in some considerable disrepair. The window is attractive enough with its display of pretty little tins and boxes, and the walls are painted a cheerful yellow, but even so the damp awaits, lurking in corners and beneath the floor, speaking of too little money and not enough time. Some care has been taken to hide
this: a scrawl of cobweb-gold across a nest of cracks, a welcoming shimmer in the doorway, a luscious quality to the air that promises more than those second-rate chocolates.
Try me. Test me.
Discreetly, with my left hand, I conjured the Eye of Black Tezcatlipoca. Around me, the colours flared, confirming my suspicions on that first day. Someone has been at work here, and I don’t think it was Yanne Charbonneau. There is a youthful, naïve, exuberant aspect to this glamour that speaks of a mind as yet untrained.
Annie? Who else? And the mother? Well. There’s something about her that needles me, something I’ve seen only once – on that first day, as she opened the door at the sound of her name. She had brighter colours then, all right; and something tells me she has them still, even though she chooses to conceal them.
On the floor, Rosette was drawing, still singing her little wordless song. ‘Bam-bam-bammm . . . Bam-badda-bammm . . .’
‘Come on, Rosette. Time for your nap.’
Rosette did not look up from her drawing. The singing grew a little louder, now accompanied by the rhythmic thumping of a sandalled foot against the floor. ‘Bam-bam-bamm . . .’
‘Now, Rosette,’ said Yanne gently. ‘Time to put the crayons away.’
Still no reaction from Rosette.
‘Bam-bam-bamm . . . Bam-badda-bammm . . .’ At the same time, her colours bloomed from chrysanthemum-gold to brilliant orange, and she laughed, reaching out as if to grasp falling petals. ‘Bam-bam-bamm . . . Bam-badda-bamm . . .’
‘Shh, Rosette!’
And now I could feel a tension in Yanne. It was not just the embarrassment of a mother whose child will not behave, but more like the sense of approaching danger. She picked up Rosette – still warbling unconcerned – flinging me a grimace of apology as she did so.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘She gets like this when she’s overtired.’
‘It’s OK. She’s cute,’ I said.
A pot of pencils fell from the counter-top. Pencils rolled across the floor.
‘Bam,’ said Rosette, pointing at the fallen pencils.
‘I need to put her to bed now,’ said Yanne. ‘She gets too excited if she doesn’t have her nap.’
I looked at Rosette again. She didn’t look tired at all, I thought. It was the mother who looked exhausted: pale and washed-out with her too-sharp haircut and her cheap black sweater that made her face seem paler still.
‘Are you all right?’ I said.
She nodded.
Above her, the single lightbulb began to flicker. These old houses, I thought to myself. The wiring’s always out of date.
‘Are you sure? You’re looking a little pale.’
‘Just a headache. I’ll manage.’
Familiar words. But I doubt she will; she clings to the child as if I might snatch her from her arms.
Might I, do you think? Twice married (though on neither occasion under my own name), and still I’ve never once thought of having a child. The complications are endless, so I’ve heard, and besides, in my line of work, the last thing I can afford is excess baggage.
And yet . . .
I drew the cactus sign of Xochipilli in the air, keeping my hand well out of view. Xochipilli the silver-tongued; the god of prophecy and dream. Not that I’m particularly interested in prophecies. But careless talk can bring rewards, so I have found, and information of any kind is currency for someone in my line of business.
The symbol gleamed and floated for a second or two, dispersing like a silvery smoke-ring in the dark air.
For a moment, nothing happened.
Well, to be honest, I hadn’t expected much of a result. But I was curious; and didn’t she owe me a little satisfaction, after all the effort I’ve made on her behalf?
So I made the sign again. Xochipilli the whisperer, unlocker of secrets, bringer of confidences. And this time, the result was beyond all my expectations.
First, I saw her colours flare. Just a little, but very bright, like a flame in the hearth as it encounters a pocket of gas. Almost at the same time, Rosette’s sunny mood altered abruptly. She arched back in her mother’s arms, throwing herself backwards with a whimper of protest. The flickering lightbulb popped with a sudden sharp report – and at the same time, a pyramid of biscuit tins fell over in the window display with a clatter fit to wake the dead.
Yanne Charbonneau was taken off-balance and she took a step sideways, striking her hip against the counter.
There was a little open-fronted cabinet on the counter, which housed a collection of pretty glass dishes filled with sugared almonds in pink, gold, silver and white. It wobbled – instinctively Yanne reached out a hand to steady it – and one of the dishes fell to the floor.
‘Rosette!’ Yanne was almost in tears.
I heard the dish pulverize on impact, skittering bonbons across the terracotta tiles.
I heard it go, but did not look down; instead I watched Rosette and Yanne – the child aflame in her colours now, the mother so still she might as well have been stone.
‘Let me help.’ I bent down to scoop up the mess.
‘No, please—’
‘I’ve got it,’ I said.
I could feel the nervous tension in her, banked and ready to explode. It was surely not the loss of the dish – in my experience women like Yanne Charbonneau don’t go to pieces over a bit of broken glass. But the oddest things can trigger the blast: a bad day, a headache, the kindness of strangers.
And then I saw it from the corner of my eye, hunched beneath the counter-top.
It was a bright orange-gold, and clumsily drawn, but it was clear enough from the long curly tail and bright little eyes that it was supposed to be some kind of monkey. I turned abruptly to see it face-on, and it bared its pointed teeth at me before blinking back into empty air.
‘Bam,’ said Rosette.
There was a long, long silence.
I picked up the dish – it was blue Murano glass, delicately fluted at the edges. I’d heard it smash like the sound of firecrackers going off; scattering shrapnel across the tiles. And yet here it was, unbroken in my hand. No accident.
Bam, I thought.
Under my feet I could still feel the spilled bonbons grinding like teeth. And now Yanne Charbonneau was watching me in a fearful silence that spun and spun like a silk cocoon.
I could have said, well, that was lucky, or just put back the dish without a word, but it was now or never, I told myself. Strike at once, while resistance is low. There may not be another chance.
And so I stood up, looked Yanne straight in the eyes and levelled at her all the charm that I could muster.
‘It’s all right,’ I said. ‘I know what you need.’
For a moment she stiffened and held my gaze, her expression all defiance and haughty incomprehension.
Then I took her arm, and smiled.
‘Hot chocolate,’ I told her gently. ‘Hot chocolate, to my special recipe. Chilli and nutmeg, with Armagnac and a dash of black pepper. Come on. No arguments. Bring the brat.’
Silently she followed me into the kitchen.
I was in.
PART THREE
Two Rabbit
1
Wednesday, 14th November
I NEVER WANTED to be a witch. Never even dreamed of it – though my mother swore she could hear me calling months before I appeared on the scene. I don’t remember that, of course. My early childhood was a blur of places, scents and people passing fast as trains; crossing borders without papers; travelling under different names; leaving cheap hotels at night; seeing the dawn in a new place every day, and running, always running, even then. As if the only way to survive was to run through every artery, vein, capillary on the map, leaving nothing – not even our shadows – behind.
You choose your family, Mother said. My father had apparently not been chosen.
‘What would we need with him, Vianne? Fathers don’t count. It’s just you and me.’
Tell the truth, I didn’t mi
ss him. How could I? I had nothing against which to measure his absence. I imagined him dark, and slightly sinister; a relative, perhaps, of the Black Man we fled. And I loved my mother. I loved the world we had made for ourselves, a world we carried with us wherever we went; a world just out of reach of ordinary folk.
Because we’re special, she would say. We saw things; we had the knack. You choose your family – and so we did, wherever we went. A sister here, a grandmother there; familiar faces of a scattered tribe. But as far as I could tell, there were no men in my mother’s life.
Except for the Black Man, of course.
Was my father the Black Man? It gave me a start to hear Anouk come so close. I’d considered it myself, as we fled all shirt-tailed and carnival-coloured and ragged with the wind. The Black Man wasn’t real, of course. I came to think my father was the same.
Still, I was curious; and from time to time I would scan the crowds – in New York or Berlin, in Venice or Prague – hoping perhaps to see him there – a man, alone, with my dark eyes . . .
Meanwhile, we ran, my mother and I. First, it seemed for the sheer joy of running; then, like everything else, it became a habit, then a chore. In the end I began to think that running was the only thing that kept her alive as the cancer ran through her, blood, brain and bone.
It was then that she first mentioned the girl. Ramblings, I thought at the time, born of the painkillers she was taking. And she did ramble, as the end approached: told stories that made no sense at all; spoke of the Black Man; talked earnestly with people who weren’t there.
That little girl, with the name that so resembled mine, could have been another figment of those uncertain times – an archetype, an anima; a snippet from a newspaper; some other little lost soul with dark hair and dark eyes, stolen away from outside a cigarette kiosk one rainy day in Paris.
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