Chocolat

36

Friday March 28 Good Friday

AT SOME POINT QUITE EARLY ON I FORGOT WHAT THE party was all about and began to enjoy myself. While Anouk played in Les Marauds, I orchestrated preparations for the largest and most lavish meal I had ever cooked, and became lost in succulent detail. I had three kitchens: my own large ovens at La Praline where I baked the cakes, the Cafe des Marauds up the road for the shellfish, and Armande's tiny kitchen for the soup, vegetables, sauces and garnishes. Josephine offered to lend Armande the extra cutlery and plates she might need, but Armande shook her head, smiling.

`That's all dealt with,' she replied. And so it was; early on Thursday morning a van arrived bearing the name of a large firm in Limoges and delivered two boxes of glass and silverware and one of fine china, all wrapped in shredded paper. The delivery man smiled as Armande signed the goods receipt.

`One of your granddaughters getting married, hein?’ he asked cheerily.

Armande gave a bright chuckle. `Could be,' she replied. `Could be.’

She spent Friday in high spirits, supposedly overseeing things but mostly getting underfoot. Like a mischievous child she had her fingers in sauces, peeped under dish covers and the lids of hot pans until finally I begged Guillaume to take her to the hairdresser in Agen for a couple of hours, if only to get her out of the way. When she returned she was transformed: hair smartly cropped and set under a rakish new hat, new gloves, new shoes. Shoes, gloves and hat were all the same shade of cherry red, Armande's favourite colour.

`I'm working upwards,' she informed me with satisfaction as she settled into her rocker to watch the proceedings. `By the end of the week I might have the courage to buy a whole red dress. Imagine me walking into church with it on. Wheee!'

`Get some rest,' I told her sternly. `You've a party to go to tonight. I don't want you falling asleep in the middle of dessert.’

`I won't,' she said, but accepted to doze for an hour in the late sun while I dressed the table and the others went home to rest and change for the evening. The dinner table is large, absurdly so for Armande's little room, and with a little care would seat us all. A heavy piece of black oak, it took four people to manoeuvre it out into Narcisse's newly built arbour where it stood beneath a canopy of foliage and flowers. The tablecloth is damask, with a fine lace border, and smells of the lavender in which she laid it after her marriage – a gift, never yet used, from her own grandmother. The plates from Limoges are white with a tiny border of yellow flowers running around the rim; glasses – three different kinds are crystal, nests of sunlight flicking rainbow flecks across the white cloth. A centrepiece of spring flowers from Narcisse, napkins folded neatly beside each plate. On each napkin, inscribed cards with the name of the guest: Armande Voizin, Vianne Rocker, Anouk Rocker, Caroline Clairmont, Georges Clairmont, Luc Clairmont, Guilaaurrie Duplessis, Josephine Bonnet, Julien Narcisse, Michel Roux, Blanche Demand, Cerisette Planpon.

For a moment I did not recognize the last two names, then I remembered Blanche and Zezette, still moored upriver and waiting. I realized that until now I had not known Roux's name, had assumed it to be a nickname, perhaps, for his red hair.

The guests began to arrive at eight. I left my kitchen at seven for a quick change and a shower, and when I returned the boat was already moored under the house, and the river people were arriving. Blanche in her red dirndl and a lace shirt, Zezette in an old black evening dress with her arms tattooed in henna and a ruby in.her eyebrow, Roux in clean jeans and a white T-shirt, all of them bringing presents with them, wrapped in scraps of gift paper or wallpaper or pieces of cloth. Then came Narcisse in his Sunday suit, then Guillaume, a yellow flower in his buttonhole, then the Clairmonts, resolutely cheery, Caro watching the river people with a wary eye but nevertheless prepared to enjoy herself if such a sacrifice was demanded. Over aperitifs, salted pinenuts and tiny biscuits we watched as Armande opened her presents: from Anouk a picture of a cat in a red envelope, from Blanche a jar of honey, Zezette sachets of lavender embroidered with the letter B – `I didn't have time to do one with your initial,' she explained with cheery unconcern, `but I promise I will next year' – from Roux a carved oak leaf, delicate as the real thing, with a cluster of acorns clinging to the stem, from Narcisse a big basket of fruit and flowers. More lavish gifts came from the Clairmonts; a scarf from Caro – not Hermes, I noticed, but silk nevertheless – and a silver flower vase, from Luc something shiny and red in an envelope of crinkly paper, which he hides from his mother as best he can beneath a pile of discarded wrapping-papers. Armande smirks and mouths at me – Wheeee! – behind her cupped hand. Josephine brings a small gold locket, smiles apologetically. `It's not new,' she says.

Armande puts it around her neck, hugs Josephine roughly, pours St Raphael with a reckless hand. I can hear the conversation from the kitchen; preparing so much food is a tricky business and much of my attention is given to it, but I catch some of what is going on. Caro is gracious, ready to be pleased; Josephine silent; Roux and Narcisse have found a common interest in exotic fruit trees. Zezette sings part of a folk song in her piping voice, her baby crooked casually into her arm. I notice that even the baby has been ceremonially daubed with henna, so that it looks like a plump little gris nantais melon with its mottled golden skin and grey-green eyes.

They move to the table. Armande, fn high spirits, supplies much of the conversation. I hear Luc's low, pleasant accents, talking about some book he has read. Caro's voice sharpens a little – I suspect Armande has poured herself another glass of St Raphaiil.

'Maman, you know you shouldn't,' I hear her say, but Armande simply laughs.

`It's my party,' she declares merrily. 'I won't have anyone being miserable at my party. Least of all me.’

For the time being, nothing more is said on the subject. I hear Zezette flirting with Georges. Roux and Narcisse are discussing plums.

`Belle du Languedoc,' declares the latter earnestly. `That's the best for me. Sweet and small, with a bloom on her like a butterfly's wing.’

But Roux is adamant. `Mirabelle,' he says firmly. `The only yellow plum worth growing. Mirabelle.’

I turn back to my stove and for a while I hear nothing more. It is a self-taught skill, born of obsession. No-one taught me how to cook. My mother brewed spells and philtres; I sublimated the whole into a sweeter alchemy. We were never much alike, she and I. She dreamed of floating, of astral encounters and secret essences: I pored over recipes and menus filched from restaurants where we never could afford to dine. Gently she jeered at my fleshly preoccupations.

`It's a good thing we don't have the money,' she would say to me. `Otherwise you'd get fat as a pig.’

Poor Mother. When cancer had eaten away the best of her, she was still vain enough to rejoice at the lost weight. And while she read her cards and muttered to herself, I would leaf through my collection of cookery cards, incanting the names of never-tasted dishes like mantras, like the secret formulae of eternal life. Boeuf en Daube. Champignon farcis d la greque. Escalopes d la Reine. Creme Caramel. Schokoladentarte. Tiramisu. In the secret kitchen of my imagination I made them all, tested, tasted them, added to my collection of recipes wherever we went, pasted them into my scrapbook like photographs of old friends. They gave weight to my wanderings, the glossy clippings shining out from between the smeary pages like signposts along our erratic path.

I bring them out now like long-lost friends. Souce de tomates d la gasconne, served with fresh basil and a slice of tartelette meridonale, made on biscuit-thin pate brisee and lush with the flavours of olive oil and anchovy and the rich local tomatoes, garnished with olives and roasted slowly to produce a concentration of flavours which seems almost impossible. I pour the '85 Chablis into tall glasses. Anouk drinks lemonade from hers with an air of exaggerated sophistication. Narcisse expresses interest in the tartlet's ingredients, praises the virtues of the misshapen Roussette tomato as opposed to the tasteless uniformity of the European Moneyspinner. Roux lights the braziers, at either side of the table and sprinkles them with citronella to keep away the insects. I catch Caro watching Armande with a look of disapproval. I eat little. Steeped in the scents of the cooking food for most of the day I feel light-headed this evening, keyed-up and unusually sensitive, so that when Josephine's hand brushes against my leg during the meal I start and almost cry out. The Chablis is cool and tart, and I drink more of it than I should. Colours begin to seem brighter, sounds take on a cut-glass crispness. I hear Armande praising the cooking. I bring a herb salad to clear the palate, then foie gras on warm toast. I notice that Guillaume has brought his dog with him, surreptitiously feeding him with titbits under the crisp tablecloth. We pass from the political situation, to the Basque separatists, to ladies' fashions via the best way to grow rocket and the superiority of wild over cultivated lettuce. The Chablis runs smooth throughout. Then the vol-au-vents, light as a puff of summer air, then elderflower sorbet followed by plateau de fruits de mer with grilled langoustines, grey shrimps, prawns, oysters, berniques, spider-crabs and the bigger tourteaux which can nip off a man's fingers as easily as I could nip a stem of rosemary, winkles, palourdes and atop it all a giant black lobster, regal on its bed of seaweed. The huge platter gleams with reds and pinks and sea-greens and pearly whites and purples, a mermaid's cache of delicacies which gives off a nostalgic salt smell, like childhood days at the seaside. We distribute crackers for the crab claws, tiny forks for the shellfish, dishes of lemon wedges and mayonnaise. Impossible to remain aloof with such a dish; it demands attention, informality. The glasses and silverware glitter in the light of the lanterns hanging from the trellis above our heads. The night smells of flowers and the river. Armande's fingers are nimble as lacemakers'; the plate of discarded shells in front of her grows almost effortlessly. I bring more of the Chablis; eyes brighten, faces made rosy with the effort of extracting the shellfish's elusive flesh. This is food which must be worked at, food which demands time. Josephine begins to relax a little, even to talk to Caro, struggling with a crab claw. Caro's hand slips, a jet of salt water from the crab hits her in the eye. Josephine laughs. After a moment Caro joins in. I find myself talking too. The wine is pale and deceptive, its intoxication hidden beneath its smoothness. Caro is already slightly drunk, her face flushed, her hair coming down in tendrils. Georges squeezes my leg beneath the tablecloth, winks salaciously. Blanche talks of travelling; we have places in common, she and I. Nice, Vienna, Turin. Zezette's baby begins to wail; she dips a finger in Chablis for it to suck. Armande discusses de Musset with Luc, who stammers less the more he drinks. At last I remove the dismantled plateau, now reduced to pearly rubble on a dozen plates. Bowls of lemon-water and mint salad for the fingers and palate. I clear the glasses, replace them with the coupes d’champagne. Caro is looking alarmed again. As I move into the kitchen once more I hear her talking to Armande in a low, urgent voice.

Armande shushes her. `Talk to me about it later. Tonight I want to celebrate.’

She greets the champagne with a squawk of satisfaction.

The dessert is a chocolate fondue. Make it on a clear day – cloudy weather dims the gloss on the melted chocolate – with 70 per cent dark chocolate, butter, a little almond oil, double cream added at the very last minute and heated gently over a burner. Skewer pieces of cake or fruit and dip into the chocolate mixture. I have all their favourites here tonight, though only the gateau de savoie is meant for dipping. Caro claims she cannot eat another, thing, but takes two slices of the dark-and-white chocolate roulade bicolore. Armande samples everything, flushed now and growing more expansive by the minute. Josephine is explaining to Blanche why she left her husband. Georges smiles lecherously at me from behind chocolate-smeared fingers. Luc teases Anouk who is half asleep in her chair. The dog bites playfully at the table leg. Zezette, quite unselfconsciously, begins to breastfeed her baby. Caro appears to be on the verge of comment, but shrugs and says nothing. I open another bottle of champagne.

`You're sure you're OK?’ says Luc quietly to Armande: `I mean, you don't feel ill or anything? You've been taking your medicine?’

Armande laughs. `You worry too much for a boy of your age,' she tells him. `You should be raising hell, making your mother anxious. Not teaching your grandmother how to suck eggs.’

She is still good-humoured, but looks a little tired now. We have been at table almost four hours. It is ten to midnight..

`I know,' he says with a smile. `But I'm in no hurry to i-inherit just yet.’

She pats his hand and pours him another glass. Her hand is not quite steady, and a little wine spills on the tablecloth. `Not to worry,' she says brightly. ‘Plenty more left.’

We round off the meal with my own chocolate ice cream, truffles and coffee in tiny demi-tasses, with a calvados chaser, drunk from the hot cup like an explosion of flowers Anouk demands her canard; a sugar-lump moistened with a few drops of the liqueur, then wants another for Pantoufle. Cups are drained, plates cleared. The braziers are burning lower. I watch Armande, still talking and laughing, but less animated than before, her eyes half-closed, holding Luc's hand under the table.

`What time is it?’ she asks, some time later.

`Almost one,' says Guillaume.

She sighs. `Time for me to go to bed,' she declares. `Not as young as I was, you know.’

She fumbles to her feet, picking up an armful of presents from under her chair as she does so. I can see Guillaume watching her attentively. He knows. She throws him a smile of peculiar, quizzical sweetness: `Don't think I'm going to make a speech,' she says with comical brusqueness. `Can't bear speeches. Just wanted to thank you all – all of you – and to say what a good time I had. Can't remember a better. Don't think there's ever been a better. People always think the fun has to stop when you get old. Well it doesn't.’

Cheers from Roux, Georges and Zezette. Armande nods wisely. `Don't call on me too early tomorrow, though,' she advises with a little grimace. `I don't think I've drunk so much since I was twenty, and I need my sleep.’

She gives me a quick glance, almost of warning. `Need my sleep,' she repeats vaguely, beginning to make her way from the table.

Caro stood up to steady her, but she waved her away with a peremptory gesture. `Don't fuss, girl,' she said. `That was always your way. Always fussing.’

She gave me one of her bright looks. 'Vianne can help me,' she declared. `The rest can wait till the morning.’

I took her to her room while the guests left slowly, still laughing and talking. Caro was holding on to Georges's arm; Luc supported her from the other side. Her hair had come entirely undone now, making her look young and softer-featured. As I opened the door of Armande's room I heard her say: `… virtually promised she'd go to Les Mimosas – what a weight off my mind…’

Armande heard it too and gave a sleepy chuckle. `Can't be easy, having a delinquent mother,' she said. `Put me to bed, Vianne. Before I drop.’

I helped her undress. There was a linen nightdress laid out in readiness by the pillow, I folded her clothes while she pulled it over her head.

`Presents,' said Armande. `Put them there, where I can see them.’

A vague gesture in the direction of the dresser. `Hmm. That's good.’

I carried out her instructions in a kind of daze. Perhaps I, too, had drunk more than I intended, for I felt quite calm. I knew from the number of insulin ampoules in the fridge that she had stopped taking it a couple of days ago… I wanted to ask her if she was sure, if she really knew what she was doing. Instead I draped Luc's present – a silk slip of lavish, brazen, indisputable redness – on the chair-back for her to see. She chuckled again, stretched out her hand to touch the fabric.

`You can go now, Vianne.’ Her voice was gentle but firm. `It was lovely.’

I hesitated. For a second I caught a glimpse of us both in the dressing-table mirror. With her newly cut hair she looked like the old man of my vision, but her hands were a splash of crimson and she was smiling. She had closed her eyes.

`Leave the light on, Vianne.’

It was a final dismissal. `Goodnight.’

I kissed her gently on the cheek. She smelt of lavender and chocolate. I went into the kitchen to finish the washing-up.

Roux had stayed behind to help me. The other guests had gone. Anouk was asleep on the sofa, a thumb corked into her mouth. We washed up in silence and I put the new plates and glasses into Armande's cupboards. Once or twice Roux tried to begin a conversation, but I could not talk to him; only the small percussive sounds of china and glass punctuated our silence.

`Are you all right?’ he said at last. His hand was gentle on my shoulder. His hair was marigolds.

I said the first thing which came into my head. `I was thinking about my mother.’

Strangely enough I realized it was true. `She would have loved this. She loved fireworks.’

He looked at me. His strange skyline eyes had darkened almost to purple in the dim yellow kitchen lighting. I wished I could tell him about Armande.

`I didn't know you were called Michel,' I said at last.

He shrugged. `Names don't matter.’

`You're losing your accent,' I realized in surprise. `You used to have such a strong Marseille accent, but now…’

He gave his rare, sweet smile. `Accents don't matter; either.’

His hands cupped my face. Soft, for a labourer's, pale and soft as a woman's. I wondered if anything he had told me was true. For the time, it didn't seem to matter. I kissed him. He smelt of paint and soap and chocolate. I tasted chocolate in his mouth and thought of Armande. I'd always thought he cared for Josephine. Even as I kissed him I knew it, but this was the only magic we had between us to combat the night. The simplest magic, the wildfire we bring down the mountainside at Beltane, this year a little early. Small comforts in defiance of the dark. His hands sought my breasts under my jumper.

For a second I hesitated. There have already been too many men along the road, men like this one, good men about whom I cared but did not love. If I was right, and he and Josephine belonged together, what might this do to them? To me? His mouth was light, his touch simple. From the flowers outside I caught a wafting of lilac, brought in by the warm air from the braziers.

`Outside,' I told him softly. `In the garden.’

He glanced at Anouk, still sleeping on the sofa, and nodded. Together we padded outside under the starry purple sky.

The garden was still warm in the glow of the braziers. The seringas and lilacs of Narcisse's trellis blanketed us beneath their scent. Ve lay on the grass like children. We made no promises, spoke no words of love though he was gentle, almost passionless, moving instead with a slow sweetness along my body, lapping my skin with fluttering movements of the tongue. Above his head the sky was purple-black like his eyes, and I could see the broad band of the Milky Way like a road around the world. I knew that this could be the only time between us, and felt only a dim melancholy at the thought. Instead a growing sense of presence, of completion filled me, overriding my loneliness, even my sorrow for Armande. There would be time for grieving later. For the moment, simple wonder; at myself lying naked in the grass, at the silent man beside me, at the immensity above and the immensity within. We lay for a long time, Roux and I, until our sweat cooled, and little insects ran across our bodies, and we smelt lavender and thyme from the flowerbed at our feet as, holding hands, we watched the unbearable slow wheeling of the sky.

Under his breath I could hear Roux singing a little song:

V’la l'bon vent, V'la l'joli vent V'la l'bon vent, ma vie m'appelle…

The wind was inside me now, tugging at me with its relentless imperative: At the very centre, a small still space, miraculously untroubled, and the almost familiar sense of something new. This too is a kind of magic, one that my mother never understood, and yet I am more certain of this – this new, miraculous, living warmth inside me – than of anything I have done before. At last I understand why I drew the Lovers that night. Holding the knowledge close, I closed my eyes and tried to dream of her, as I did in those months before Anouk was born, of a little stranger with bright cheeks and snapping black eyes.

When I awoke, Roux was gone, and the wind had changed again.