me.” A figure in red overalls topped with a scribble of black hair. “Pantoufle.” The rabbit is sitting on her shoulder like a parrot, ears cocked. “And Jeannot.”
A boy figure in green, one hand outstretched. Both children are smiling. It seems mothers – even schoolteacher mothers – are not allowed in Les Marauds. The Plasticine figure still sits beside Anouk’s bed, and she has stuck the picture to the wall above it.
“Pantoufle told me what to do.”
She scoops him up in a casual embrace. In this light I can see him quite clearly, like a whiskered child. I sometimes tell myself I should discourage this pretence of hers, but cannot bear to inflict such loneliness upon her. Maybe, if we can stay here, Pantoufle can give way to more substantial playmates.
“I’m glad you managed to stay friends,” I told her, kissing the top of her curly head. “Ask Jeannot if he wants to come here some day soon, to help takedown the display. You can bring your other friends too.”
“The gingerbread house?” Her eyes were sunlight-on-water. “Oh yes!” Skipping across the room with sudden exuberance, almost knocking over a stool, skirting an imaginary obstacle with a giant leap, then up the stairs three at a time – “Race you, Pantoufle!”
A thump as she slammed, the door against the wall – bam-bam! A sudden stabbing sweetness of love for her, taking me off guard as it always does. My little stranger. Never still, never silent.
I poured myself another cup of chocolate, turning as I heard the door-chimes jangle. For a second I saw his face unguarded, the appraising look, chin thrust out, shoulders squared, the veins popping out on the bare shiny forearms. Then he smiled, a thin smile without warmth.
“Monsieur Muscat, isn’t it?”
I wondered what he wanted. He looked out of place, glancing, head lowered, at the displays… His gaze fell short of my face, flicking casually to my breasts; once, twice.
“What did she want?” His voice was soft but heavily accented. He shook his head once, as if in disbelief. “What the hell did she want in a place like this?” He indicated a tray of sugared almonds at fifty francs a packet. “This sort of thing, he?” He appealed to me, hands spread. “Weddings and christenings. What’s she want with wedding and christening stuff?” He smiled again. Wheedling now, trying for charm and failing. “What did she buy?”
“I take it you mean Josephine.”
“My wife.” He gave the words an odd intonation, a kind of flat finality. “That’s women for you. Work yourself senseless to earn money to live on and what do they do, hi? Waste it all on-” Another gesture at the ranks of chocolate gems, marzipan fruit garlands, silver paper, silk flowers. “What was it, a present?” There was suspicion in his voice. “Who’s she buying presents for? Herself?”
He gave a short laugh, as if the thought was ludicrous.
I didn’t see what business it was of his. But there was a kind of aggression in his manner, a nervousness around the eyes and the gesticulating hands, that made me careful. Not for myself – I learned enough ways to take care of myself in the long years with Mother – but for her. Before I could prevent it an image leaped out from him towards me; a bloodied knuckle etched in smoke. I closed my fists under the counter. There was nothing in this man I wanted to see.
“I think you may have misunderstood,” I told him. “I asked Josephine in for a cup of chocolate. As a friend.”
“Oh.” He seemed taken aback for a moment. Then he gave that barking laugh again. It was almost genuine now, real amusement touched with contempt. “You want to be friends with Josephine?”
Again the look of appraisal. I felt him comparing us, his hot eyes flicking to my breasts over the counter. When he spoke again it was with a caress in the voice, a crooning note of what he imagined to be seduction.
“You’re new here, aren’t you?”
I nodded.
“Perhaps we could get together some time. You know. Get to know each other.”
“Perhaps.” I was at my most casual. “Maybe you could ask your wife to come too,” I added smoothly.
A beat of time. He looked at me again, this time a measuring glance of sly suspicion.
“She’s not been saying anything, has she?”
Blankly: “What kind of thing?”
A quick shake of the head.
“Nothing. Nothing. She talks, that’s all. She’s all talk. Doesn’t do anything but, he? Day in, day out.” Again, the short, mirthless laugh. “You’ll find that out soon enough,” he added with sour satisfaction.
I murmured something non-committal. Then, on impulse, I brought out a small packet of chocolate almonds from beneath the counter and handed them to him.
“Perhaps you could give these to Josephine for me,” I said lightly. “I was going to give them to her, but I forgot.”
He looked at me, but did not move.
“Give them to her?” he repeated.
“Free. On the house.” I gave my most winning smile. “A present.”
His smile broadened. He took the chocolates in their pretty silver sachet.
“I’ll see she gets them,” he said, cramming the packet into his jeans’ pocket.
“They’re her favourites,” I told him.
“You won’t go far in this job if you keep giving out freebies,” he said, indulgently. “You’ll be out of business in a month.”
Again the hard, greedy look, as if I too were a chocolate he couldn’t wait to unwrap.
“We’ll see,” I said blandly, and watched him leave the shop and begin the road home, shoulders slouched in a thickset James Dean swagger. He didn’t even wait to be out of sight before I saw him take out Josephine’s chocolates and open the packet. Perhaps he guessed I might be watching. One, two, three, his hand went to his mouth with lazy regularity, and before he had crossed the square the silver wrapping was already balled in a square fist, the chocolates gone. I imagined him cramming them in like a greedy dog who wants to finish his own food before robbing another’s plate. Passing the baker’s he popped the silver ball at the bin outside but missed, bouncing it off the rim and onto the stones. Then he continued on his way past the church and down the Avenue des francs Bourgeois without looking back, his engineer boots kicking sparks from the smooth cobbles underfoot.
12
Friday, February 21
The weather turned cold again last night. St Jerome’s weathervane turned and swung in anxious indecision all night, scraping shrilly against its rusted moorings as if to warn against intruders. The morning began in fog so dense that even the church tower, twenty paces.from the shopfront, seemed remote and spectral; the bell for Mass tolling thickly through wadded candyfloss as the few comers approached, collars turned against the fog, to collect absolution.
When she had finished her morning milk, I wrapped Anouk into her red coat and, in spite of her protests, pushed a fluffy cap onto her head.
“Don’t you want any breakfast?”
She shook her head emphatically, grabbed an apple from a dish by the counter.
“What about my kiss?”
This has become a morning ritual.
Wrapping sly arms around my neck, she licks my face wetly, jumps away giggling, blows a kiss from the doorway, runs out into the square. I mime appalled horror, wiping my face. She laughs delightedly, pokes out a small sharp tongue in my direction, bugles, “I love you!” and is off like a scarlet streamer into the fog, her satchel dragging behind her. I know that in thirty seconds the fluffy hat will be relegated to the inside of the satchel, along with books, papers