The Lollipop Shoes

by Joanne Harris

  ‘What? You really think you’ve got something here? Think again. The chocolate shop? Thierry will have you out by Easter. Like all conceited men, he’s vindictive. In four months’ time, you’ll be back where you started, the three of you, penniless and on the road.

  ‘Think you’ll have Vianne? You won’t, you know. She hasn’t the courage to be herself, let alone be a mother to you. Think you’ll have Roux? Don’t count on it. He’s the biggest liar of all. Ask to see his boat, Anouk. Ask to see his precious boat—’

  But I’m losing her, and I know it now. She looks at me with no fear in her eyes. Instead there’s something I can’t quite make out—

  Pity? No. She wouldn’t dare.

  ‘It must be very lonely, Zozie.’

  ‘Lonely?’ I snarled.

  ‘Being you.’

  I uttered a silent howl of rage. It’s the hunting cry of One Jaguar, of Black Tezcatlipoca in his most terrible Aspect. But the child didn’t flinch. Instead, she smiled and took my hand.

  ‘All those hearts you’ve collected,’ she said. ‘And still you don’t have one of your own. Is that why you wanted me? So you wouldn’t be alone any more?’

  I stared at her, speechless now with indignation. Does the Pied Piper steal children for love? Does the Big Bad Wolf seduce Red Riding Hood out of a misguided need for company? I’m the Eater of Hearts, you stupid child; I’m the Fear of Death; I’m the Wicked Witch; I’m the grimmest of all fairytales, and don’t you dare feel sorry for me—

  I pushed her away. She wouldn’t leave. She reached out for my hand again, and suddenly, don’t ask me why, I began to feel afraid—

  Call it a warning, if you like. Call it an attack brought on by excitement, champagne and too much pulque. But suddenly I was cold with sweat; my chest was tight; my breath came in gasps. Pulque is an unpredictable brew; it brings a heightened awareness to some; visions that may be intense, but may also drift into delirium, pushing the drinker to perform rash acts; to reveal perhaps more of themselves than is entirely safe for one such as myself.

  And now I understood the truth: that in my eagerness to collect this child I’d somehow slipped; I’d shown my true face, and the sudden intimacy of it was unsettling, unspeakable, tearing at me like a hungry dog.

  ‘Let go of me!’

  Anouk just smiled.

  And now true panic swept through me, and I pushed at her with all my strength. She slipped and fell backwards into the snow, and even then I could feel her reaching for me with that look of pity in her eyes—

  There are times when even the best of us has to decide to cut and run. There will be others, I tell myself; new cities, new challenges, new gifts. But no one will be collected today.

  Least of all, myself.

  I run, almost blindly through the snow, slipping on the cobblestones, reckless in my haste to escape, losing myself on the wind from the Butte that rises like a whisper of black smoke over Paris, on its way to who knows where—

  18

  Monday, 24th December

  Christmas Eve. 11.35 p.m.

  I MADE A pot of chocolate. It’s what I do in times of stress; and the strange little scene outside the shop had shaken more than one of us. It must have been the light, said Nico; that weird light you get with snow; or too much wine, or something we ate—

  I let him believe it. The others, too, as I led Anouk shivering into the warmth of the shop and poured hot chocolate into her mug.

  ‘Be careful, Nanou,’ I said. ‘It’s hot.’

  It has been four years since she drank my hot chocolate. But this time she drank it without complaint. Wrapped in a blanket, she was already half-asleep; and she could not tell us what she had seen during those few minutes outside in the snow, nor could she explain Zozie’s disappearance, nor the strange feeling I’d had at the end of hearing their voices from far away—

  Outside, Nico had found something.

  ‘Hey, folks. She lost a shoe.’ He shook the melting snow from his boots and put the shoe on the table between us. ‘Whoa. Chocolate. Excellent!’ He poured himself a generous cup.

  Meanwhile Anouk had picked up the shoe. A single shoe in luscious red velvet, stack-heeled and peep-toed and stitched all through with glamours and charms fit for an adventuress on the run—

  Try me, it says.

  Try me. Test me.

  For a second, Anouk frowns. Then she drops the shoe to the floor. ‘Don’t you know it’s bad luck to put shoes on a table?’

  I hide a smile behind my hand.

  ‘Nearly midnight,’ I tell her. ‘Are you ready to open your presents?’

  To my surprise, Roux shakes his head. ‘I nearly forgot. It’s getting late. If we hurry, we’ll just have time.’

  ‘Time for what?’

  ‘Surprise,’ says Roux.

  ‘Better than presents?’ says Anouk.

  Roux grins. ‘You’ll have to see.’

  19

  Monday, 24th December

  Christmas Eve. Midnight

  THE PORT DE L’ARSENAL is ten minutes’ walk from place de la Bastille. We took the last Métro from Pigalle, arriving just minutes before twelve. The clouds had mostly cleared by then, and I could see slices of starry sky, bracketed with orange and gold. A faint scent of smoke distressed the air, and in the eerie luminescence of the fallen snow, the pale spires of Notre-Dame were just visible in the middle distance.

  ‘What are we doing here?’ I said.

  Roux grinned and put a finger to his lips. He was carrying Rosette, who looked quite alert, watching everything with the wide-eyed interest of a child up long past her bedtime and enjoying every minute of it. Anouk, too, looked wide-awake, although there was a tension in her face that led me to think that whatever had happened in Place des Faux-Monnayeurs was not quite over. Most of our guests had stayed in Montmartre, but Michèle was with us, looking almost afraid to follow the group, as if someone might think she had no right. Every now and again she would touch my arm, as if by accident, or stroke Rosette’s hair, and look at her hands, as if she expected to see something there – a mark, a stain – to prove to herself that it was all real.

  ‘Would you like to hold Rosette?’

  Silent, Michèle shook her head. I hadn’t really heard her speak since I’d told her who I was. Thirty years of grief and longing have given her face the look of something too often folded and creased; a smile seems unfamiliar, and she tries it on now as she might some garment that she’s almost certain will not suit.

  ‘They try to prepare you for loss,’ she said. ‘It never occurs to them to prepare you for the opposite.’

  I nodded. ‘I know. We’ll manage,’ I said.

  She smiled – a better smile than before, that brought a fugitive gleam to her eyes. ‘I think I will,’ she said, taking my arm. ‘I’ve a feeling it runs in the family.’

  It was then that the first of the city’s fireworks went off, a chrysanthemum spray across the river. Another followed from further away; then another, and another, arching gracefully across the Seine in arabesques of green and gold.

  ‘Midnight. Merry Christmas,’ said Roux.

  The fireworks were almost soundless, muted by distance as well as by snow. They went on for almost ten minutes more, spiderweb trails and rocket bouquets and shooting stars, and ringlets of fire in blue and silver and scarlet and rose, all calling and beckoning to each other all the way from Notre-Dame to Place de la Concorde.

  Michèle watched them, her face calm and illuminated with something more than just fireworks. Rosette signed madly, crowing with joy, and Anouk watched with solemn delight.

  ‘That was the best present ever,’ she said.

  ‘There’s more,’ said Roux. ‘Just follow me.’

  We walked down Boulevard de la Bastille towards the Port de l’Arsenal, where boats of all sizes are moored in safety away from the swell and turbulence of the Seine.

  ‘She said you didn’t have a boat.’ It was the first time Anouk had mentioned Zozie s
ince the events at Le Rocher de Montmartre.

  Roux grinned. ‘Look for yourself.’ And he pointed over the Pont Morland.

  Anouk stood on tiptoe, eyes wide. ‘Which one’s yours?’ she said eagerly.

  ‘Can’t you guess?’ said Roux.

  There are more impressive river-boats moored along the Arsenal. The port takes crafts up to twenty-five metres, and this one is no more than half that size. It is old, I can see that from here, built more for comfort than speed, and its shape is old-fashioned, less sleek than its neighbours, with a hull made out of solid wood rather than modern fibreglass.

  And yet Roux’s boat stands out at once. Even from some distance away, there is something about the shape of it, the brightly painted hull, the plant pots clustered at the stern, the glass roof through which to see the stars—

  ‘That’s yours?’ says Anouk.

  ‘You like it? There’s more. Wait here,’ says Roux, and we see him racing down the steps towards the boat moored down by the bridge.

  For a moment he disappears. Then there’s a flicker of flame from a match. A light comes on. A candle is lit. The flame moves, and the boat comes to life as candles burn on the deck, on the roof, on sills and ledges from stem to stern. Dozens – maybe hundreds – of them, glowing in jam-jars, on saucers, shining out from tin cans and flower pots until Roux’s boat is lit up like a birthday cake, and we can see what we missed before: the awning, the window, the sign on the roof . . .

  He waves to us extravagantly, signalling for us to approach. Anouk does not run, but holds my hand, and I can feel her trembling. I’m barely surprised to see Pantoufle in the shadows at our feet, and isn’t there something else as well, some long-tailed and loping thing that matches him naughtily, step for step?

  ‘Do you like it?’ says Roux.

  For a moment, the candles themselves are enough; a small miracle reflected in a thousand little points of light across the quiet waterway. Rosette’s eyes are filled with them, and Anouk, watching with my hand in hers, lets out a long and languorous breath.

  Michèle says: ‘It’s beautiful.’

  And so it is. But more than that—

  ‘It’s a chocolaterie, isn’t it?’

  And, of course, I can see it is. From the sign (still blank) above the door to the little display window lined with nightlights, I can see what it’s meant to be. I cannot begin to guess how long it took him to create this little miracle – how much time and work and love such a project must demand—

  He’s watching me with his hands in his pockets. There’s a trace of anxiety in his eyes.

  ‘I bought it as wreck,’ he says. ‘Dried it out and fixed it up. Been working on it ever since. Paid for it over nearly four years. But I always thought that maybe one day—’

  My mouth on his stops him mid-phrase. He smells of paint and gunpowder smoke. And all around us the candles are lit, and Paris is luminous under the snow, and the last unofficial fireworks are dying away beyond Place de la Bastille, and—

  ‘Meh. You two. Get a room,’ says Anouk.

  Neither of us has breath to reply.

  It’s quiet now under Pont Morland as we lie watching the candles burn out. Michèle is asleep in one bunk, and Rosette and Anouk are sharing another, with Anouk’s red cloak flung over them both, and Pantoufle and Bam standing guard in case of evil dreams.

  Above us, in our own room, the glass roof shows us a sky sprawling and apocalyptic with stars. In the distance, the sound of traffic from Place de la Bastille might almost be the sound of surf on a lonely beach.

  I know it’s only cheap magic. Jeanne Rocher would not have approved. But it’s our magic, mine and his, and he tastes of chocolate and champagne, and finally, we slip out of our clothes and lie entwined beneath a blanket of stars.

  Across the water, music plays, a tune I almost recognize.

  V’là l’bon vent, v’là l’joli vent

  There isn’t so much as a breath of wind.

  Epilogue

  Tuesday, 25th December

  Christmas Day

  ANOTHER DAY, ANOTHER gift. Another city opens its arms. Well, Paris was getting stale, you know, and I love New York at this time of year. A pity about Anouk, I guess. Chalk it down to experience.

  As for her mother – well, she had her chance. There may be a little short-term unpleasantness. Thierry, especially, will try to make his fraud charge stick, though I wouldn’t rate his chance of success. Identity theft is so common these days – as I imagine he’ll soon find out, when he looks at his savings account. As for Françoise Lavery – there are too many people who can swear Vianne Rocher was in Montmartre at the time.

  Meanwhile, it’s off to pastures new. There’s plenty of mail in New York, you know, and it goes without saying that a certain percentage of it may go astray. Names, addresses, credit cards – not to mention bank details, final demands, gym memberships, curriculum vitae, all the trivia that makes up your life, just waiting to be harvested by someone with initiative . . .

  Who am I now? Who could I be? I could be the next person you meet walking down the street. I could be standing behind you at the supermarket checkout. I could be your new best friend. I could be anyone. I could be you—

  I’m a free spirit, don’t forget—

  And I go wherever the wind takes me.

  THE END

  About the Author

  Joanne Harris is the author of Chocolat (made into an Oscar-nominated film in 2000, with Juliette Binoche and Johnny Depp), and ten more bestselling novels. Her work is published in over fifty countries and has sold an estimated 30 million copies worldwide. Born in Barnsley, of an English father and a French mother, she studied Modern and Medieval Languages at Cambridge and spent fifteen years as a teacher before (somewhat reluctantly) becoming a full-time writer. She lives in Yorkshire with her family, plays bass in a band first formed when she was sixteen, works in a shed in her garden, likes musical theatre and old sci-fi, drinks rather too much caffeine, spends far too much time online and occasionally dreams of faking her own death and going to live in Hawaii.

  Meet up with her at http://www.joanne-harris.co.uk

  Also by Joanne Harris

  The Evil Seed

  Sleep, Pale Sister

  Chocolat

  Blackberry Wine

  Five Quarters Of The Orange

  Coastliners

  Holy Fools

  Jigs & Reels

  Gentlemen & Players

  The Lollipop Shoes

  Blueeyedboy

  Peaches For Monsieur Le Curé

  Runemarks

  Runelight

  With Fran Warde

  The French Kitchen: A Cookbook

  The French Market: More Recipes From a French Kitchen

  TRANSWORLD PUBLISHERS

  61–63 Uxbridge Road, London W5 5SA

  A Random House Group Company

  www.transworldbooks.co.uk

  THE LOLLIPOP SHOES

  A BLACK SWAN BOOK: 9780552773157

  Version 1.0 Epub ISBN: 9781407039657

  First published in Great Britain

  in 2007 by Doubleday

  a division of Transworld Publishers

  Black Swan edition published 2008

  Copyright © Frogspawn Ltd 2007

  Joanne Harris has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

  This book is a work of fiction and, except in the case of historical fact, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorized distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those re
sponsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  Addresses for Random House Group Ltd companies outside the UK can be found

  at: www.randomhouse.co.uk

  The Random House Group Ltd Reg. No. 954009