Шоколад / Chocolat - Харрис Джоанн - Страница 20

I nodded.

“That’s his mother’s doing.” Armande was scornful. “If she’d left him alone – but no. Always correcting him. Always carrying on. Making him worse. Making out there’s something wrong with him all the time:” She made a sound of derision. “There’s nothing wrong with him that a good dose of living wouldn’t cure,” she declared stoutly. “Let him run awhile without worrying what would happen if he fell over. Let him loose. Let him breathe.”

I said that it was normal for a mother to be protective of her children.

Armande gave me one of her satirical glances.

“Is that what you call it?” she said. “The same way the mistletoe is protective of the apple tree?” She gave a cackle. “I used to have apple trees in my garden,” she told me. “Mistletoe got them all, one by one. Nasty little plant, doesn’t look like much, pretty berries, no strength of its own, but lord! Invasive!” She sipped again at her drink. “And poison to everything it touches.” She nodded to me knowingly. “That’s my Caro,” she said. “That’s her.”

I saw Guillaume again after lunch. He didn’t stop except to say hello, saying he was on his way to the newsagent for his papers. Guillaume is addicted to film magazines, although he never goes to the cinema, and every week he receives an entire parcel of them; Video and Cine-Club, Telerama and Film Express. His is the only satellite dish in the village, and in his sparse little house there is a widescreen television and a Toshiba video recorder wall-mounted above an entire bookcase of video cassettes. I noticed that he was carrying Charly again, the dog looking dull-eyed and listless on his master’s arm. Every few moments Guillaume stroked the dog’s head with the familiar gesture of tenderness and finality.

“How is he?” I asked at last.

“Oh, he has his good days,” said Guillaume. “There’s plenty of life in him yet.”

And they went on their way, the small dapper man clutching his sad brown dog as if his life depended upon it.

Josephine Muscat went by but did not stop. I was a little disappointed that she did not come in, for I’d been hoping to talk to her again, but she simply shot me a wild-eyed look as she passed; hands jammed deeply into her pockets. I noticed her face looked puffy, the eyes slitted closed, though it might have been against the gritty rain, the mouth zipped shut. A thick no-colour scarf bound her head like a bandage. I called to her, but she did not answer, quickening her step as if at some impending danger.

I shrugged and let her go. These things take time. Sometimes for ever.

Still, later, when Anouk was playing in Les Marauds and I had closed shop for the day, I found myself strolling down the Avenue des Francs Bourgeois in the direction of the Cafe de la Republique. It is a small, dingy place, soaped windows with an unchanging specialite du jour scrawled across, and a scruffy awning which reduces the available light still further. Inside, a couple of silent slot machines flank the round tables at which the few customers sit, moodily discussing matters of no importance over interminable demis and cafes-creme. There is the bland oily smell of microwaved food, and a pall of greasy cigarette smoke hangs over the room, even though no-one seems to be smoking. I noticed one of Caroline Clairmont’s hand-lettered yellow cards in a prominent position by the open door. A black crucifix hangs above it.

I looked in, hesitated, and entered. Muscat was at the bar. He eyed me as I walked in, his mouth stretching. Almost imperceptibly I saw his eyes flick to my legs, my breasts – whap-whap, lighting up like the dials on a slot-machine. He laid a hand on the pump, flexing one heavy forearm.

“What can I give you?”

“Cafe-cognac, please.”

The coffee came in a small brown cup with two wrapped sugar lumps. I took it to a table by the window. A couple of old men – one with the Legion d’honneur clipped to one frayed lapel – eyed me with suspicion.

“D’you want some company?” smirked Muscat from behind the bar. “It’s just that you look a little – lonely, sitting there on your own.”

“No, thank you,” I told him politely. “In fact, I thought I might see Josephine today. Is she here?”

Muscat looked at me sourly, his good humour gone. “Oh yes, your bosom friend.”

His voice was dry. “Well, you missed her. She just went upstairs to lie down. One of her sick headaches.” He began to polish a glass with peculiar ferocity. “Spends all afternoon shopping, then has to lie down in the bloody evening while I do the work.”

“Is she all right?”

He looked at me.

“Course she is.” His voice was sharp. “Why shouldn’t she be? If Her Bloody Ladyship could just get up off her fat arse once in a while we might even be able to keep this business afloat.” He dug his dishcloth-wrapped fist into the glass, grunting with the effort. “I mean.” He made an expressive gesture, “I mean, just look at this place.” He glanced at me as if about to say something else, then his gaze slid past me to the door. “He!” I gathered he was addressing someone just out of my field of vision. “Don’t you people listen? I’m closed!”

I heard a man’s voice say something indistinct in reply. Muscat gave his wide, cheerless grin.

“Can’t you idiots read?” Behind the bar he indicated the yellow twin of the card I had seen at the door. “Get lost, go on!”

I stood up to see what was happening. There were five people standing uncertainly at the cafe entrance, two men and three women. All five were strangers to me, unremarkable but for their air of indefinable otherness; the patched trousers, the workboots, the faded T-shirts which proclaimed them outsiders. I should know that look. I had it once. The man who had spoken had red hair and a green bandanna to keep it out of his face. His eyes were cautious, his tone carefully neutral.

“We’re not selling anything,” he explained. “We just want to get a couple of beers and some coffee. We’re not going to be any trouble.”

Muscat looked at him in contempt.

“I said, we’re closed.”

One of the women, a drab, thin girl with a pierced eyebrow, tugged at the redhead’s sleeve.

“It’s no good, Roux. We better – ”

“Wait a minute.” Roux shook her off impatiently. “I don’t understand. The lady who was here a moment ago your wife she was going to-”

“Screw my wife!” exclaimed Muscat shrilly. “My wife couldn’t find her arse with both hands and a pocket torch! It’s my name above the door, and I – say – we’re – closed!”

He had taken three steps from behind the bar, and now he stood barring the doorway, hands on hips, like an overweight gunslinger in a spaghetti western. I could see the yellowy gleam of his knuckles at his belt, hear the whistle of his breath. His face was congested with rage.

“Right.” Roux’s face was expressionless. He flicked a hostile, deliberate glance at the few customers scattered about the room. “Closed.”

Another glance around the room. For a moment our eyes met.

“Closed to us,” he said quietly.

“Not as stupid as you look, are you?” said Muscat with sour glee. “We had enough of your lot last time. This time, we’re not standing for it!”

“OK.”

Roux turned to go. Muscat saw him off, strutting stiff-legged, like a dog scenting a fight. I walked past him without a word, leaving my coffee half-finished on the table. I hope he wasn’t expecting a tip.

I caught up with the river-gypsies halfway down the Avenue des Francs Bourgeois: It had begun to drizzle again, and the five of them looked drab and sullen. I could see their boats now, down in Les Marauds, a dozen of them – two dozen – a flotilla of green-yellow-blue-white-red, some flying flags of damp washing, others painted with Arabian nights and magic carpets and unicorn variations reflected in the dull green water.