The Lollipop Shoes

by Joanne Harris

  ‘Chocolate?’

  ‘No thanks.’

  She poured me a Coke. ‘That bad?’ she said, watching me drink it all in one go, so fast that bubbles came out of my nose. ‘Here, have another, and tell me what’s wrong.’

  I told her then, but quietly enough for Maman not to overhear. I had to stop twice, once when Nico came in with Alice, and once more when Laurent came in for a coffee and sat for nearly half an hour complaining about all the work to be done on Le P’tit Pinson, and how impossible it was to get a plumber at this time of year, and the immigrant problem, and all the usual things Laurent complains about.

  By the time he’d gone it was time to close and Maman was cooking dinner. Zozie put out the lights in the shop so I could see the Advent house. The Pied Piper has gone now, replaced by a choir of chocolate angels singing in the sugar snow. It looks so beautiful, I thought. But the house is still a mystery. Doors shut, curtains drawn; only a single fairy-light shining out from an attic room.

  ‘Can I see inside?’ I said.

  ‘Maybe tomorrow,’ Zozie said. ‘Why don’t you come to my room? Then we can finish our little talk.’

  Slowly I followed her upstairs. On each narrow step in front of me, the lollipop shoes went tak-tak-tak on their fabulous heels, like someone knocking at a door, asking me, begging me to let them in.

  8

  Thursday, 6th December

  THIS MORNING, FOR the third day running, the mist hangs like a Sail over Montmartre. They’re promising snow in a day or two; but for today the silence is eerie, swallowing the usual sounds of traffic and the footsteps of the pedestrians on the cobbles outside. It might be a hundred years ago, with frock-coated ghosts looming out of the fog—

  Or it might be the morning of my last day of school, the day of my emancipation from St Michael’s-on-the-Green, the day I first realized that life – that lives – are nothing but dead letters on the wind, to be picked up, collected, burnt or thrown away whenever the opportunity demands.

  You’ll learn that soon enough, Anouk. I know you better than you know yourself; there’s a complex potential for anger and hate behind that good-little-girl façade, just as there was in the Girl Who Was It – the girl who was I – all those years ago.

  But everything needs a catalyst. Sometimes it’s a little thing; a featherweight; a flick of the fingers. Some piñatas are tougher than others. But everyone has a pressure point; and the box, once opened, cannot be shut.

  Mine was a boy. His name was Scott McKenzie. He was seventeen; blond, athletic, unblemished. He was new to St Michael’s-on-the-Green; otherwise he would have known better from the start, and would have avoided the Girl Who Was It in favour of some more worthy candidate for his affections.

  Instead, he chose me – at least for a time – and that was how it all began. Not the most original start, though it ended in flames, as these things should. I was sixteen, and with the aid of my System, I had made the most of myself. I was a little mousy, perhaps – the legacy of so many years of being the freak. But I had potential, even then. I was ambitious, resentful, nicely underhand. My methods were mainly practical, rather than occult. I had a working knowledge of poisons and herbs; I knew how to inflict violent stomach-aches on those who incurred my displeasure, and I soon learnt that a dash of itching powder in a fellow-pupil’s socks, or a squeeze of chilli oil in a mascara bottle could have a more instant and dramatic effect than any number of incantations.

  As for Scott, he was easy to snare. Teenage boys, even the brightest ones, are one-third brain to two-thirds testosterone, and my recipe – a mixture of flattery, glamour, sex, pulque and very small doses of a powdered mushroom available to only a select few of my mother’s clientèle – made him my slave in no time at all.

  Don’t get me wrong. I never loved Scott. Almost, perhaps – but not quite enough. But Anouk doesn’t need to know that; nor does she need to know the more sordid details of what happened at St Michael’s-on-the-Green. Instead I gave her the sanitized version; made her laugh; painted a picture of Scott McKenzie that would have cast Michelangelo’s David into the shade. Then told her the rest in language she understands: the graffiti; the gossip; the spite and the dirt.

  Small miseries – at least at first. Clothes stolen, books ripped, locker plundered, gossip spread. I was used to that, of course. Petty annoyances that I could hardly be bothered to avenge. Besides, I was almost in love; and there was a certain vicious pleasure to be had in the knowledge that, for the first time, other girls envied me: looked at me, wondered what on earth it was that a boy like Scott McKenzie found to admire in the Girl Who Was It.

  I made a fine tale of it for Anouk. I drew her a list of small vengeances – just naughty enough to make us alike, yet harmless enough to spare her tender heart. The truth is less winsome; but then of course the truth usually is.

  ‘They asked for it,’ I told Anouk. ‘You only gave them what they deserved. It wasn’t your fault.’

  Her face was still pale. ‘If Maman knew . . .’

  ‘Don’t tell her,’ I said. ‘Besides, where’s the harm? It’s not as if you hurt anyone. Although,’ I added, looking thoughtful, ‘if you don’t learn to use those skills of yours, then maybe one day, by accident—’

  ‘Maman says it’s just a game. That it isn’t real. That it’s all just my imagination playing tricks.’

  I looked at her. ‘Do you think that’s true?’

  She muttered something, not meeting my eyes, and levelled her gaze at my shoes instead.

  ‘Nanou,’ I said.

  ‘Maman doesn’t lie.’

  ‘Everyone lies.’

  ‘Even you?’

  I grinned. ‘I’m not everyone. Am I, Nanou?’ I kicked my foot at a slight angle, throwing out light from a jewelled red heel. I imagined its counterpart in her eyes, a tiny reflection in ruby and gold. ‘Don’t worry, Nanou. I know how you feel. What you need is a System, that’s all.’

  ‘A System?’ she said.

  And now she told me, hesitantly at first, but with a growing eagerness that warmed my heart. They’d had their own System once, I saw: a motley collection of tales, tricks and glamours; medicine bags to keep out the spirits; songs to quiet the winter wind to keep it from blowing them away.

  ‘But why would the wind blow you away?’

  Anouk shrugged. ‘It just does.’

  ‘What song did you sing?’

  She sang it to me. It’s an old song – a love song, I think – wistful, just a little sad. Vianne sings it still – I hear her sometimes as she talks to Rosette or works at her tempering in the kitchen.

  V’là l’bon vent, v’là l’joli vent

  V’là l’bon vent, ma mie m’appelle—

  ‘I see,’ I said. ‘And now you’re afraid you’ll raise the wind.’

  Slowly, she nodded. ‘It’s stupid. I know.’

  ‘No it isn’t,’ I said. ‘Folk have believed it for hundreds of years. In English folklore, witches raised the wind by combing their hair. The Aborigines believe the good wind Bara is held captive for half the year by the bad wind, Mamariga, and every year they have to sing it free. As for the Aztecs . . .’ I smiled at her. ‘They knew the power of the wind, whose breath moves the sun and drives away rain. Ehecatl was his name, and they worshipped him with chocolate.’

  ‘But – didn’t they make human sacrifices as well?’

  ‘Don’t we all, in our own way?’

  Human sacrifice. Such a loaded phrase. But isn’t that just what Vianne Rocher has done, sacrificing her children to the fat gods of contentment? Desire demands a sacrifice – the Aztecs knew it; and the Maya. They knew the terrible greed of the gods; their insatiable greed for blood and death. And they understood the world a lot better, you might say, than those worshippers in the Sacré-Coeur, the big white hot-air balloon at the top of the Butte. But scratch the icing on the cake, and underneath there’s the same dark, bitter centre.

  Because wasn’t every stone of the Sacré-Coeur built
upon the fear of death? And are the pictures of Christ exposing his heart so very dissimilar to the images of hearts being cut out of sacrificial victims? And is the ritual of Communion, where the blood and the flesh of the Christ is shared, any less cruel or gruesome than these?

  Anouk was watching me, wide-eyed.

  ‘It was Ehecatl who gave mankind the ability to love,’ I said. ‘It was he who breathed life into the world. Wind was important to the Aztecs; more so than rain, even more important than the sun. Because wind means change; and without change, the world will die.’

  She nodded like the bright pupil she was, and I felt a startling swell of affection for her, something almost tender – dangerously maternal—

  Oh, I’m in no danger of losing my head. But there’s an undeniable pleasure in being with Anouk; in teaching her; in telling her the old tales. I remember my own excitement at that first trip to Mexico City; at the colours; the sun; the masks; the chants; the sense of coming home at last—

  ‘You’ve heard of that phrase – a wind of change?’

  Again, she nodded.

  ‘Well, that’s what we are. People like us. People who can raise the wind.’

  ‘But isn’t that wrong?’

  ‘Not always,’ I said. ‘There are good winds and bad winds. You just have to choose what you want, that’s all. Do what thou wilt. It’s as simple as that. You can be bullied or you can fight back. You can ride the wind like an eagle, Nanou – or you can choose to let it blow you away.’

  For a long time she said nothing, but sat very quietly, looking at my shoe. Finally she raised her head.

  ‘How do you know all this?’ she said.

  I smiled. ‘Born in a bookshop, raised by a witch.’

  ‘And you’ll teach me how to ride the wind?’

  ‘Of course I will. If that’s what you want.’

  Silence, as she watched that shoe. A bead of light flicked from the heel and scattered into prisms that laddered the wall.

  ‘Do you want to try them on?’

  She looked up at that. ‘D’you think they’d fit?’

  I hid a smile. ‘Try them and see.’

  ‘Oh, wow. Oh, wow! How cool is that?’

  Teetering like a newborn giraffe on those heels; eyes alight; hands held out in a blind man’s fumble and grinning, oblivious of the sign of Lady Blood Moon scratched in pencil against the sole—

  ‘D’you like them?’

  She nodded, smiling, suddenly shy. ‘I love them,’ she said. ‘They’re lollipop shoes.’

  Lollipop shoes. That made me smile. And yet there’s a rightness to that phrase. ‘So they’re your favourites, are they?’ I said.

  She nodded again, her eyes like stars.

  ‘Well, you can have them, if you like.’

  ‘Have them? To keep?’

  ‘Why not?’ I said.

  For a moment she was beyond speech. She lifted her foot in a way that managed to be adolescent-gawky and heartbreakingly beautiful all at the same time, and gave me a smile that almost stopped my heart.

  Suddenly her face fell. ‘Maman would never let me wear these . . .’

  ‘Maman doesn’t need to know.’

  Anouk was still watching her foot; watching the way the light reflected from the spangled red heels on to the floor. I think even then she knew my price; but the lure of those shoes was too much to resist. Shoes that could take you anywhere; shoes that could make you fall in love; shoes that could make you someone else—

  ‘And nothing bad will happen?’ she said.

  ‘Nanou.’ I smiled. ‘They’re only shoes.’

  9

  Thursday, 6th December

  THIERRY HAS BEEN working hard this week. So hard that I’ve barely spoken to him; between our work in the shop and his refurbishments in the house, there seems to have been no time at all. He phoned today to talk to me about parquet flooring (do I prefer light oak or dark?), but has warned me against dropping by. The place is a mess, he tells me. Plaster dust everywhere; half the floor taken up. Besides, he says, he wants it to be perfect before I see it again.

  I dare not ask after Roux, of course, though I know from Zozie that he is there. Five days since he arrived here so unexpectedly, and so far he has not returned. That surprises me a little – though perhaps it should not. I tell myself it’s better this way; that seeing him again would only make things even more difficult. But the damage is done. I’ve seen his face. And outside I can hear a tinkle of chimes, as the wind begins to stir again . . .

  ‘Perhaps I should just drop by,’ I said, in a casual tone that fools no one. ‘It seems so wrong not to see him at all, and . . .’

  Zozie shrugged. ‘Sure – if you want to get him sacked.’

  ‘Sacked?’

  ‘Well, duh,’ she said impatiently. ‘I don’t know if you’ve noticed, Yanne, but I think Thierry might be just a little bit squiggle-eyed about Roux already, and if you start just dropping by, there’ll be a scene, and before you know it—’

  It made sense, as always, I thought. Trust Zozie to point it out. But I must have looked disappointed, because she grinned and put her arm around my shoulders. ‘Look, if you like, I’ll check on Roux. I’ll tell him he’s more than welcome to come by here whenever he wants to. Hell, I’ll even bring him sandwiches if you like.’

  I laughed at her exuberance. ‘I don’t think that will be necessary.’

  ‘Just don’t worry. Things’ll work out.’

  I’m beginning to think perhaps they will.

  Madame Luzeron was in today, on her way to the cemetery with her little fluffy peach-coloured dog. She bought, as always, three rum truffles, but seems less distant nowadays; more inclined to sit and stay; to taste a cup of mocha and a slice of my three-layer chocolate cake. She stays, but still she rarely talks, although she likes to watch Rosette drawing under the counter, or looking at one of her story books.

  Today she was watching the Advent house, now open to show the tableau inside. Today’s scene is set in the hallway, with guests arriving at the door of the house, and the hostess in her party dress standing there to welcome them in.

  ‘That’s a most original display,’ said Madame Luzeron, moving her powdered face closer to the window. ‘All the little chocolate mice. And the little dolls—’

  ‘Clever, aren’t they? Annie made those.’

  Madame sipped at her chocolate. ‘Perhaps she’s right,’ she said at last. ‘There’s nothing so sad as an empty house.’

  The dolls are all made of wooden pegs, carefully coloured and painstakingly dressed. Much time and effort has gone into making them, and I recognize myself in the lady of the house. At least, I recognize Vianne Rocher, her dress made from a scrap of red silk; her long black hair – at Anouk’s request – made from a snip of my own hair, glued on and tied up with a bow.

  ‘Where’s your doll?’ I asked Anouk later.

  ‘Oh, I haven’t finished making it yet. But I will,’ she said, looking so earnest that I smiled. ‘I’ll make a doll for everyone. And by Christmas Eve, they’ll all be done, and all the doors in the house will be open, and there’ll be a big party for everyone—’

  Ah, I thought. The point emerges.

  It’s Rosette’s birthday on the 20th. We’ve never had a party for her. A bad time, and always was, too close to Yule and not far enough away from Les Laveuses. Anouk always mentions it every year, though Rosette doesn’t seem to mind. To Rosette, all days are magical, and a handful of buttons or a piece of scrunched-up silver paper can be every bit as marvellous as the most exquisite of toys.

  ‘Could we have a party, too, Maman?’

  ‘Oh, Anouk. You know we can’t.’

  ‘Why not?’ she said stubbornly.

  ‘Well, you know, it’s a busy time. And besides, if we’re moving to Rue de la Croix—’

  ‘Well, duh,’ said Anouk. ‘That’s exactly my point. We shouldn’t just move without saying goodbye. We should have a party on Christmas Eve. For Rosette’s birthda
y. For our friends. Because you know that as soon as we move into Thierry’s place, everything’s going to be different, and we’ll have to do everything Thierry’s way, and—’

  ‘That’s not fair, Anouk,’ I said.

  ‘But it’s true, isn’t it?’

  ‘Maybe,’ I said.

  A party on Christmas Eve, I thought. As if I didn’t have enough to do in the chocolaterie at the very busiest time of the year . . .

  ‘Well, I’d help, of course,’ said Anouk. ‘I could write out invitations, and plan the menu, and put up the decorations, and I could make a cake for Rosette. You know she likes chocolate orange best. We could make her a cake in the shape of a monkey. Or it could be a fancy dress party, with everyone dressed like animals. And we could have grenadine – and Coke – and chocolate, of course.’

  I had to laugh. ‘You’ve thought about this a lot, haven’t you?’

  She made a face. ‘Well, maybe a bit.’

  I sighed.

  Why not? Perhaps it’s time.

  ‘All right,’ I said. ‘You can have your party.’

  Anouk gave a gleeful wriggle. ‘Cool! D’you think it’ll snow?’

  ‘Well, it might.’

  ‘And could people come in fancy dress?’

  ‘If they wanted to, Nanou.’

  ‘And could we invite whoever we liked?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Even Roux?’

  I should have guessed. ‘Why not?’ I said. ‘If he’s still here.’

  I have not really spoken of Roux to Anouk. I have not mentioned that he is working for Thierry only a couple of blocks away. Lying by omission doesn’t quite count; and yet I’m sure that if she knew—

  Last night I read the cards again. I don’t know why, but I took them out; still fragrant with my mother’s scent. I do this so seldom – I barely believe—

  And yet, here I am, shuffling the cards with the expertise of many years. Laying them out in the Tree of Life pattern my mother favoured; seeing the images flicker by.