Шоколад / Chocolat - Харрис Джоанн. Страница 27

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.