by Jenny Colgan
I shook my head. I was neither of those things; I was just a bit overwhelmed and tearful and exhausted with traveling and as far away from home as I’d been in my whole life really, and I kind of just wanted a table and a chair and a cup of tea, not some crazy bohemian workshop super mess, if that was all right with everyone. I had no idea who this guy was, except I knew I had to share with someone who didn’t work in the shop.
“What is all this stuff?” I said, gesticulating.
“Oh, I bring my work home,” he said. “I work too hard, this is my problem.”
This, I was to discover, was nothing like Sami’s worst problem, but I took him at his word.
It turned out Sami worked at the Paris Opera in their costume department, earning next to nothing at all, with dozens of tiny seamstresses, making clothes for the opera productions. He’d really come to work in one of the big couture houses but had had no luck and was practicing his trade letting out stays for singers and complaining about fat tenors and sullen sopranos who insisted they needed space in their costumes to sing but were, he confided, just too greedy.
But that all came later. Now it just all seemed a big mess.
“I have a room for you!” he said. “It is nothing like this.”
His face looked briefly panicked.
“Wait here,” he said and vanished through a door at the back. From a quick count of the doors, I ascertained, with some relief, that there must be another bedroom and a bathroom. For a hideous second, I’d thought that might be it and that I would be stuck in one hideously messy room with a distracted giant.
Within a few moments, and looking rather as if he were concealing something about his person, Sami returned rather sheepishly.
“It is prêt, ready for you,” he said, bowing from the waist. Sami would have, quite frankly, gotten killed at our school. Probably literally. It would have been on the news.
I followed with my clumpy bag, feeling very nondescript and plain, where he was pointing.
My old bedroom in Kidinsborough was very small, so it wasn’t like I wasn’t expecting it. But there’s something about being thirty and walking into something tinier than a prison cell…it was absolutely minuscule. Tiny. The size of the single bed they’d squeezed in there—who knows how—and a tiny chest of drawers crammed up against it and nothing else at all; there just wasn’t the space. I blinked once, twice. I wasn’t going to start crying. For starters, there was nowhere private to do it. I must admit, I’d fantasized, maybe a tiny bit. About a little bitty en suite, maybe, or some grand space; I’d seen them in magazines. Paris had all those grand apartments with the posh rooms and marble fireplaces and high ceilings and…this was basically a coffin. Probably where the maids used to sleep or something. It was painted totally white, with dark brown scuffed parquet on the floor.
“What do you think?” said Sami. “Isn’t it AMAZING?”
I put my head back out of the doorway.
Amazing? I wondered. What on earth must his be like?
“AMAZING!” he said. I blinked at him.
“Oh, AnNA Tron, she is very sad and cross with me,” he said, making his face go sad. “Can I get you something?”
“Tea?” I ventured.
“I ’ave no tea.”
“Coffee?”
“Mais bien sûr!”
He clattered happily over to the tiny kitchenette, while I advanced inside my little monk cell with my large purple bag. I put it on the bed—there was literally nowhere else it could possibly go—and clambered past the chest of drawers over to the window. And that’s when I saw it. I gasped.
The window opened sideways and was full-length. I thought briefly of how many children must have fallen out of it. But I didn’t think it for long before seeing past the net curtain and opening the catch, to find outside two extraordinary things: the tiniest balcony, only just big enough to fit a tiny wrought iron table and two wrought iron chairs, but directly in the path of the sun and, from six floors up on the Île de la Cité—Paris. Paris all around. The rooftops of the other buildings across the water, with tables out on their south-facing side. The road down, and the bridges all the way down the Seine. To my left, to the northwest, I could just make out the ominous looking black tip of La Défense, the great center of the financial district, which looks like a sinister black bridge. And everywhere, the teeming, pulsating life of the city, the noise insulated from six stories up—the little fruit van chugging its way furiously down the street; a collection of stunningly attractive people emerging from a sleek black car to a chic bar; two little lines of schoolchildren walking politely down the next street hand in hand. And if I craned my neck really, really far to the left, to the west, I could see it. The one and only unmistakable fretted iron of the Eiffel Tower.
I gazed and gazed and gazed at the pinkening skyline, as if I were thirsty and this was water. I could no longer feel the pain in my foot, or my longing for a shower, or my general exhaustion.
“Your café,” said Sami, coming in my room without bothering to knock. “You really not like?”
I smiled.
“I didn’t see the balcony. It’s amazing. Amazing.”
He had given me a tiny cup of black stuff with a sugar lump sitting next to it. I normally just like lattes or Nescafé. I looked at him.
“Have you got any milk for the coffee?” I asked apologetically.
“Milk? No. Milk is a feelthy thing. You suck the teets of a cow. No. Milk. No.”
“Okay,” I said.
“Brandy? I have a leetle brandy.”
And as it was such a gorgeous evening, I said yes, why not, and we sat out on my little balcon (he had one too, on the opposite side of the sitting room; we could wave to each other in the morning) and drank coffee with brandy in it and looked out over Paris. I don’t think if anyone could have looked up and seen me (which they couldn’t, because we were up in the eaves, where pigeons flew by and the sky turned pink and yellow and lavender, and there was no one else there but the birds) that they would have thought for a second that I was anything other than as much a part of Paris as anybody else, and I looked out on the strange and extraordinary foreign landscape and I wondered. I wondered.
- - -
1972
Claire was totally charmed by Arnaud and Claudette, her charges. They were incredibly polite, thought her accent was hilarious, and tested her endlessly on words she did and didn’t know, marveling at the way she said “Mickey Mouse.”
In return, she let them dictate the pace of the lazy spring days; normally a stroll around the play park of the Tuileries, in the shadow of the Eiffel Tower; a goûter, or snack, of warm croissants, torn apart and guzzled on a bench, followed by home for lunch. The two children still took naps in the afternoon, leaving Claire free to read or do her French grammar (Madame was very strict on the matter), and on Fridays, Madame liked to take the children to their swimming lessons, so she had the afternoon off.
At first, unsure what to do with herself, she took herself off to the exhibitions and museums she felt she ought to see, as if ticking things off in a guidebook. Madame would ask her questions about them when she returned and occasionally ask her to take the children. But it was hard for Claire to enjoy them; she felt lonely, among large families and young lovers and lines of schoolchildren nattering away without a care in the language she found so difficult to master. She didn’t know a soul here, and Kidinsborough felt a long way away.
But as she grew more confident, she began to stride farther afield, and she found, gradually, her fear falling away as she saw and visited more—Montmartre, with its winding streets, odd, highly perched church, and candy-colored steps stole her heart almost immediately. She spent many days there, looking at the young women with their scooters, helmetless, scarves tied around their thick hair, chatting and laughing with the young men on the steps, their cigarettes drooping from
their mouths. She spent warm afternoons with books in the Luxembourg Gardens, seeing her legs go brown. Everywhere, it seemed, were couples kissing, chatting, gesticulating in the air, sharing a picnic with wine in unmarked bottles. To feel alone at seventeen is to feel very lonely indeed, and even as she looked forward all week to her free time, she found the Friday afternoons sometimes very long. It was a relief, as her French improved, to be able to slip into a cinema on the boulevard du Montparnasse, where it didn’t matter that she was by herself, or at least not so much. There were, she had heard, places for young English people to meet, but Mme. LeGuarde had made it clear she didn’t think they were a good idea if she was to have a proper French experience, and Claire always wanted to please.
So after meeting Thierry, she couldn’t deny it. She wanted to see him again—partly because she had liked him, she thought, but mostly because he had shown some interest in her, and at the moment, nobody was showing the least bit of interest in her; they were too busy being in Paris and being glamorous and busy and having stuff to do that she simply didn’t have. Two Fridays after the party, she found herself straying closer and closer to the part of the Île de la Cité where she’d heard, from fervent eavesdropping at one of Madame’s lunches, that the new shop was to open, the first of its kind in Paris. (Lunch with Claire’s mum when her friends came around was a large tray of homemade ham sandwiches on white bread with margarine and a packet of chocolate cookies for after, dished up with pints of dark brown tea. Lunch for Madame’s friends involved much planning, four courses, an ice bucket full of champagne, and lots of running back and forth to the fishmongers early in the morning.) There was Persion’s, which had been in situ since 1794 and was respected for that, but there was a rumor that its products had grown as dusty as its upper stories, and its offerings hadn’t changed in centuries.
Friday afternoon in early July on the Île de la Cité was hot and sticky and bustling with tourists. Away from the formal “placement” of the organized streets and wide boulevards, the far corner betrayed its twisty, hugger-mugger medieval origins: little alleyways springing hither and thither, roads narrowing to nearly nothing or ending abruptly at the wall of one of the great churches. It was hot; Claire had taken out a summer dress that she’d brought from home the weekend before, when she was to accompany the children as the family went to a wedding. Mme. LeGuarde had immediately shaken her head, pointed out to Claire that it didn’t actually fit very well, and disappeared. When she returned, it was with a soft brown and green silk dress, very loose and almost weightless.
“This was mine,” she said. “After the children, pfft. I cannot wear.”
Claire pointed out that she was very slim still, which Mme. LeGuarde knew but waved away.
“It does not matter, my shape,” she said. “It is my age, my outlook that cannot wear it.”
For a moment, she looked sad.
“Oh, these days come and go,” she said. Claire had barely met her husband, Bernard; he traveled almost constantly for work and seemed tired and distracted when he did appear. But the LeGuardes were, to her, so grown-up; far more so than her own warm family. They were sophisticated, worldly socialites who dressed for dinner and drank cocktails. Claire simply assumed that anything they did was correct.
The dress was totally out of style—fashionable women in Paris were wearing soft flared denims on their long skinny legs, big hair, huge sunglasses, and large, soft felt hats tied around with Hermès scarves. But the soft leaf pattern and pulled-in waist suited Claire’s shape and made a virtue out of her slenderness; by making her look petite and delicate, the dress turned her short stature into a positive attribute. In her jeans, she was often overshadowed.
“There,” said Madame. “Much better.”
Claire walked out with a basket to pick up some bits and bobs and with soft sandals on her feet. Several men were actively appreciative as she walked past, often with an approving smile or a murmured, “Très jolie, mam’zelle,” which made a difference to the shouts and wolf whistles girls were subjected to at home and added a bounce to her steps, and her nerves added a pinkness to her face and a sparkle to her eyes.
Of course, she told herself, he was hardly likely to remember someone he’d met for two seconds at a party. And he would doubtless be far too busy; the shop would be a huge success, and he wouldn’t have two seconds to spend on her. Still, what would she even say to him if he did? Maybe he wouldn’t even be there, too busy off being creative somewhere else?
She decided to pretend to herself that anyway, she was only going to find some lovely chocolate, nothing more, and try to stay concentrating on how excited Arnaud and Claudette would be when she brought some home. Yes. That was all.
There was a bustle of people outside the shop as she arrived; already the buzz around town was growing. Claire couldn’t help smiling; she was so pleased. It seemed such a bold thing to do, to announce to the world that you had made something wonderful, and everyone was welcome to come and pay you money to have it. She couldn’t imagine anything she could do possibly being worth that amount of attention. There was as yet no name painted above the door.
She advanced a little closer, drawn by the window. A crowd stood, just looking at it, and Claire realized why as she came closer—it was an entire, beautiful scene in the window, a fairytale castle with a carriage arriving at the door and a princess emerging. In the sky above was a hot air balloon, Montgolfier in French. Every single bit was sculpted from chocolate. There was white piping on the princess’s lacy gown, and the castle windows were of dark chocolate, cut into shapes. A tree had chocolate leaves and the balloon white chocolate designs inlaid on it. In the middle of the courtyard of the castle stood a fountain, chocolate bubbling through it merrily.
It was so childlike and adorable and witty, Claire couldn’t help it—she burst into a huge smile and clapped her hands together. As she did so, she suddenly felt someone’s eyes upon her and glanced up. Frozen on the other side of the glass, clearly in the middle of talking to somebody else, was Thierry, suddenly stock still and gazing at her like he couldn’t tear his face away. Claire felt her smile fade from her face and her cheeks go pink. She bit her lip anxiously. Without even realizing it, it was as if all the crowds, the customers, the noise and bustle of the summer in the city had completely vanished. Tentatively, she raised her hand in a gesture of hello and pressed it against the vitrine, the shop window. Thierry put down his scoop—his customer started talking to him, but he completely ignored her—and raised his great bearlike paw. Claire noticed what she hadn’t seen before; his thick black eyelashes were ridiculously long—they protruded over the dark brown, lively eyes and hooded lids. She felt, even through the window, as if she could see every last one, trace every hair, every cell.
Suddenly someone, trying to get a better look, jostled her out of the way. Instantly it was as if the spell was broken. She staggered slightly to the side, and in an instant, Thierry was out of the door, pushing his way through the crowd.
“Are you all right? Are you hurt? Who did that?” he barked.
The crowd sidled away from one slightly awkward-looking small man.
“You!” said Thierry, waggling his finger directly in the man’s face. “You are banned from this shop forever. Go!”
The man blushed violently, muttered some words of apology in Claire’s direction, then disappeared.
“Bon!” said Thierry. “Everyone else, come in. Well, only if you wish to experience the best chocolate in the world. Otherwise, it is unimportant to me what you would like to do.”
People started flooding into the shop, but Thierry led from the front, a huge arm around Claire’s shoulders. Next to him, she thought, all the other men looked puny.
He led her straight through the selling area, with its original ’30s golden lettering and polished glass cases. The walls were lined, Claire saw, with great old jars for different kinds of sugar—vanilla, demerara
, violet, lemon, icing. He led her through to the back of the shop, where a grumpy old man with a unibrow was tending, and nodded him through to the front. The man went, looking sullen.
Claire hardly noticed. She had just seen the room for the first time. To her, the far back wall was a flower garden. Many of the herbs and plants she didn’t even recognize; her family’s meals at home were plain affairs. Her mother had attempted spaghetti Bolognese once and everyone had felt it dangerously daring. Mme. LeGuarde believed in eating lightly and cleanly, so there was much plain steamed fish and vast amounts of salad and vegetables. But this was something else; all the greenery sent its competing perfumes into the air, set against the warm, comforting, utterly solid scent of chocolate everywhere; warm and thick and comforting, the scent, Claire realized later, of Thierry himself.
“You like it?” he said. She beamed, her face and heart full. “I…I love it!” she said, completely sincerely. She saw how much this pleased him; he couldn’t hide anything he felt in his face.
“Here, here,” he said, beckoning her to the large copper vat. He dropped in the long ladle spoon, then drew it up to her. Then he stopped.
“Non,” he said. “Close your eyes.”
Claire looked at him quizzically. Inside her chest, she could feel her heart beat. “Why?” she said.
“Oh! Coquette!” he said smiling. “So I can kidnap you and sell you to white traders. Then, so I can chop up your body and disguise it in the chocolate.”
He took a handkerchief from his pocket—“clean, I most solemnly vow”—and tied it around her eyes.
“It is so,” he said, his voice suddenly disturbingly close to her ear, “you can truly taste it. So you shut out distractions.”
Claire, her eyes tight shut against the handkerchief which smelled exactly as he did—of chocolate and tobacco—felt as distracted as she had ever been in her entire life.
“Only then can you truly appreciate it.”
She felt his breath briefly on her neck, then he left. Then, the next second, she felt something at her lips prodding and pushing them aside—the spoon of the ladle.