Джоанн Харрис - Шоколад / Chocolat

My eyes skimmed over the poster again. The writing was childish, unformed.

I read it again, slow indignation dawning. Inside the shop I could still hear the sound of her voice above the clinking of glasses. Too absorbed in her conversation, she had still not noticed me, but stood with her back to the door, one foot turned out like a dancer. She wore flat pumps with little bows on them, and no stockings.

I see it all now. Her malice, her damnable malice. She must have planned this from the start, this chocolate festival, planned it to coincide with the most holy of the Church’s ceremonies. From her arrival on carnival day she must have had this in mind, to undermine my authority, to make a mockery of my teachings. She and her friends from the river.

Too angry now to withdraw, as I should have, I pushed the door and went into the shop. A brightly mocking carillon heralded my entrance, and she turned to look at me, smiling. If I had not that moment received irrefutable proof of her vindictiveness, I could have sworn that smile was genuine.

“Monsieur Reynaud.”

The air is hot and rich with the scent of chocolate. Quite unlike the light powdery chocolate I knew as a boy, this has a throaty richness like the perfumed beans from the coffee-stall on the market, a redolence of amaretto and tiramisu, a smoky, burnt flavour which enters my mouth somehow and makes it water. There is a silver jug of the stuff on the counter, from which a vapour rises. I recall that I have not breakfasted this morning.

“Mademoiselle.” I wish my voice were more commanding. Rage has tightened my throat and instead of the righteous bellow which I intended I release nothing but a croak of indignation, like a polite frog. “Mademoiselle Rocher.” She looks at me enquiringly. “I have seen your poster!”

“Thank you,” she says. “Would you join us in a drink?”

“No!”

Coaxingly: “My chococcino is wonderful if you have a delicate throat.”

“I do not have a delicate throat!”

“Don’t you?” Her voice is falsely solicitous. “I thought you sounded rather hoarse. A grand creme, then? Or a mocha?”

With an effort I regained my composure.

“I won’t trouble you, thank you.”

At her side the red haired man gives a low laugh and says something in his gutter patois. I notice his hands are streaked with paint, a pale tint which fills the creases in his palms and his knuckles. Has he been working? I ask myself uneasily. And if so, for whom? If this were Marseille the police would arrest him for working illegally. A search of his boat might reveal enough evidence – drugs, stolen property, pornography, weapons to put him away for good. But this is Lansquenet. Nothing short of serious violence would bring the police here.

“I saw your poster.” I begin again, with all the dignity I can muster.

She watches me with that look of polite concern, her eyes dancing.

“I have to say”– at this point I clear my throat, which has filled again with bile – “I have to say that I find your timing – the timing of your – event deplorable.”

“My timing?” She looks innocent. “You mean the Easter festival?” She gives a small, mischievous smile. “I rather thought your people were responsible for that. You ought to take it up with the Pope.”

I fix her with a cold stare.,

“I think you know exactly what I’m talking about.”

Again, that look of polite enquiry.

“Chocolate festival. All welcome.” My anger is rising like boiling milk, uncontrollable. For the instant I feel empowered, energized by its heat. I stab an accusing finger at her. “Don’t think I haven’t guessed what this is all about.”

“Let me guess.” Her voice is mild, interested. “It’s a personal attack on you. A deliberate attempt to undermine the foundations of the Catholic Church.” She gives a laugh which betrays itself in sudden shrillness. “God forbid that a chocolate shop should sell Easter eggs at Easter.”

Her voice is unsteady, almost afraid, though of what I am unsure. The redhaired man glares at me. With an effort she recovers, and the glimpse of fear I thought I saw in her is swallowed by her composure.

“I’m sure there’s room here for both of us,” she says evenly. “Are you sure you don’t want a drink of chocolate? I could explain what I – ”

I shake my head furiously, like a dog tormented by wasps. Her very calm infuriates me, and I can hear a kind of buzzing in my head, an unsteadiness which sends the room spinning about me. The creamy smell of chocolate is maddening. For a moment my senses are unnaturally enhanced; I can smell her perfume, a caress of lavender, the warm spicy scent of her skin. Beyond her, a whiff of the marshes, a musky tang of engine-oil and sweat and paint from her redhaired friend.

“I – no – I…” Nightmarishly, I have forgotten what I intended to say. Something about respect, I think, about the community. About pulling together in the same direction, about righteousness, decency, about morality. Instead I gulp air, my head swimming. “I–I…”

I cannot shake the thought that she is doing this, pulling the threads of my senses apart, reaching into my mind.

She leans forward, pretending solicitude, and her scent assails me once more.

“Are you all right?” I hear her voice from a great distance. “Monsieur Reynaud, are you all right?”

I push her away with trembling hands.

“Nothing.” At last I manage to speak. “An – indisposition. Nothing. I’ll bid you good – ”

Blindly I stumble towards the door. A red sachet suspended from the door-jamb brushes my face more of her superstition – and I cannot shake off the absurd impression that the ridiculous thing is responsible for my malaise; herbs and bones sewn together and hung there to trouble my mind. I stagger out into the street, gasping for breath.

My head clears as soon as the rain touches it, but I keep walking. Walking.

I did not stop until I reached you, mon pere. My heart was pounding, my face running with sweat, but at last I feel purged of her presence. Was this what you felt, mon pere, that day in the old chancery? Did temptation wear this face?

The dandelions are spreading, their bitter leaves pushing up the black earth, their white roots forking deep, biting hard. Soon they will be in bloom. I will walk home via the river, pare, to observe the small floating city which even now grows, spreads across the swollen Tannes. More boats have arrived since last we spoke so that the river is paved with them. A man might walk across.

Is this what she intends? A gathering of these people, a celebration of excess? How we fought to eradicate those remaining pagan traditions, pere, how we preached and cajoled. The egg, the hare, still-living symbols of the tenacious root of paganism, exposed for what they are. For a time we were pure. But with her the purge must begin anew. This is a stronger strain, defying us once again. And my flock, my stupid, trustful flock, turning to her, listening to her… Armande Voizin. Julien Narcisse. Guillaume Duplessis. Josephine Muscat. Georges Clairmont. They will hear their names spoken in tomorrow’s sermon along with all those who have listened to her. The chocolate festival is only a part of the sickening whole, I will tell them. The befriending of the river-gypsies. Her deliberate defiance of our customs and observances. The influence she brings to bear on our children. All signs, I will tell them, all signs of the insidious effect of her presence here.

This festival of hers will fail. Ridiculous to imagine that with such strength of opposition it could succeed. I will preach against it every Sunday. I will read out the names of her collaborators and pray for their deliverance. Already the gypsies have brought unrest. Muscat complains that their presence deters his customers. The noise from their camp, the music, the fires, have made Les Marauds into a floating shanty town, the river gleaming with spilled oil, drifts of litter sailing downstream. And his wife would have welcomed them, so I heard. Fortunately Muscat is not intimidated by these people. Clairmont tells me he ousted them easily last week when they dared to set foot in his cafe. You see, pere, in spite of their bravado they are cowards. Muscat has blocked off the path from Les Marauds to discourage them from passing. The possibility of violence should appal me, pere, but in a way I would welcome it. It might give me the excuse I need to call the police from Agen. I should talk to Muscat again. He would know what to do.

Roux’s boat is one of the nearest to the shore, moored some distance from the rest, opposite Armande’s house. Tonight paper lanterns were strung across its bows like glowing fruit, and, as we made our way into Les Marauds, we caught the sharp scent of grilling food from the river bank. Armande’s windows had been flung open to overlook the river, and the light from the house made irregular patterns on the water. I was struck by the absence of litter, the care with which every scrap of waste had been placed in the steel drums for burning. From one of the boats further downriver came the sound of a guitar playing. Roux was sitting on the little jetty, looking into the water. A small group of people had already joined him, and I recognized Zezette, another girl called Blanche and the North African, Mahmed. Beside them something was cooking on a portable brazier filled with coals.

Anouk ran to the fire at once. I heard Zezette warn her in a soft voice,

“Careful, sweetheart, it’s hot.”

Blanche held out a mug containing warm spiced wine and I took it with a smile.

“See what you think of this.”

The drink was sweet and sharp with lemon and nutmeg, the spirit so strong that it caught at the throat.

For the first time in weeks the night was clear, and our breath made pale dragons in the still air. A thin mist hung over the river, lit here and there by the lights from the boats.

“Pantoufle wants some too,” said Anouk, pointing at the pan of spiced wine.

Roux grinned. “Pantoufle?”

“Anouk’s rabbit,” I told him quickly. “Her – imaginary friend.”

“I’m not sure Pantoufle would like this very much,” he told her. “Perhaps he’d like a little apple juice instead?”

“I’ll ask him,” said Anouk.

Roux seemed different here, more relaxed, outlined in fire as he supervised his cooking. I remember river crayfish, split and grilled over the embers, sardines, early sweetcorn, sweet potatoes, caramelized apples rolled in sugar and flash-fried in butter, thick pancakes, honey. We ate with our fingers from tin plates and drank cider and more of the spiced wine. A few children joined Anouk in a game by the river bank. Armande came down to join us too, holding out her hands to warm them by the brazier.

“If only I were younger,” she sighed. “I wouldn’t mind this every night.”She took a hot potato from its nest of coals and juggled it deftly to cool it. “This is the life I used to dream about as a child. A houseboat, lots of friends, parties every night…” She gave Roux a malicious look. “I think I’ll run away with you,” she declared. “I always had a soft spot for a redheaded man. I may be old, but I bet I could still teach you a thing or two.”

Roux grinned. There was no trace of self-consciousness in him tonight. He was good-humoured, filling and refilling the mugs with wine and cider, touchingly pleased to be the host. He flirted with Armande, paying her extravagant compliments, making her caw with laughter. He taught Anouk how to skim flat stones across the water. Finally he showed us his boat, carefully maintained and clean, the tiny kitchen, the storage hold with its water tank and food stores, the sleeping area with its plexiglass roof.