Chocolat

38

Sunday March 30 Easter Sunday 4.00 a.m.

I BARELY SLEPT LAST NIGHT. HER WINDOW WAS LIT UNTIL two, and even then I dared not move in case she was lying awake in the darkness. In the armchair I dozed for a couple of hours, setting the alarm in case I overslept. I need not have worried. My sleep, such as it was, was shot through with pinpricks of dream so fleeting that I barely remembered them even as they stung me awake. I think I saw Armande – a young Armande, though obviously I never knew her then – running through the fields at the back of Les Marauds. in a red dress, black hair flying. Or maybe it was Vianne, and I had somehow confused them. Then I dreamed of the fire at Les Marauds, of the slattern and her man, of the harsh red banks of the Tannes and of you, ire, and my mother in the chancery… All that summer's bitter vintage seeped through my dreams, and 1, like a pig snouting for truffles, turning over more and more of the rotten delicacies and gorging, gorging.

At four I rise from the chair. I have slept in my clothes, discarding my soutane and collar. The Church has nothing to do with this business. I make coffee, very strong, but with no sugar, though technically my penance is over. I say technically. In my heart I know that Easter has not yet come. He is not yet risen. If I succeed today, then He will rise.

I find that I am trembling. I eat dry bread to give myself courage. The coffee is hot and bitter. When I have accomplished my task I promise myself a good meal; eggs, ham, sugar rolls from Poitou 's. My mouth fills at the thought. I put on the radio to a station which plays classical music. `Sheep may Safely Graze'. My mouth twists in a hard, dry grin of contempt. This is no time for pastorals. This is the hour of the pig, the cunning pig. Off with the music. – The time is five to five. Looking out of the window I can see the very first crack of light on the horizon. I have plenty of time. The curate will be here at six to ring the Easter carillon; I have more, than enough time for my secret business. I put on the balaclava which I have laid aside for my purpose; in the mirror I look different, alarming. A saboteur. That makes me smile again. My mouth under the mask looks tough and cynical. I almost hope she sees me.

5.10 a.m.

The door is unlocked. I can hardly believe my luck. It shows her confidence, her insolent belief that no-one can withstand her. I discard the thick screwdriver with which I would have jimmied the door, and take up the heavy piece of wood – part of a lintel, p &e, that fell during the war – in both hands. The door opens into silence. Another of her red sachets swings above the doorway; I pull it down and drop it contemptuously onto the floor. For a time I am disoriented. The place has changed since it was a bakery, and in any case I am less familiar with the back part of the shop. Only a very faint reflection of light gleams from the tiled surfaces, and I am glad I thought to bring a torch. I switch it on now, and for a moment I am almost blinded by the whiteness of the enamelled surfaces, the tops, the sinks, the old ovens all-shining with a moony glow in the torch's narrow beam. There are no chocolates to be seen. Of course. This is only the preparation area. I am not sure why I am surprised that the place is so clean; I imagined her a slattern, leaving pans unwashed and plates stacked in the sink and long black hairs in the cake mixture. Instead she is scrupulously tidy; rows of pans arranged on the shelves in order of size, copper with copper, enamel with enamel, porcelain bowls to hand and utensils – spoons, skillets – hanging from the whitewashed walls. On the scarred old table several stone bread pans are standing. In the centre, a vase with shaggy yellow dahlias cast a – shock of. shadows before them. For some reason the flowers enrage me. What right has she to flowers, when Armande Voizin lies dead? The pig inside me tips the flowers onto the table, grinning. I let him have his way. I need his ferocity for the task in hand.

5.20 a.m The chocolates must be in the shop itself. Quietly I make my way through the kitchen and open the thick pine door into the front section of the building. To my left, stairs lead up into the living area. To my right, the counter, the shelves, the displays, the boxes… The smell of chocolate, though expected, is startling. The darkness seems to have intensified it so that for an instant the smell is the darkness, folding around me like a rich brown powder, stifling thought. The beam of my torch picks out clusters of brightness, metallic paper, ribbons, sparkling puffs of Cellophane. The cave of treasures is all around me. A thrill runs through my body. To be here, in the witch's house, unseen, an intruder. To touch her things in secret as she sleeps. I feel a compulsion to see the display window, to tear down the screen of paper and to be the first – absurd, as I intend to wreck the whole thing. But the compulsion will not be denied. I pad softly in my rubber soles, the heavy block of wood held loosely in my hand. I have plenty of time. Time enough to indulge my curiosity, if I want to. Besides, this moment is too precious to be squandered. I want to savour it.

5.30 a.m Very gently I pull aside the film of paper which covers the window. It comes away with a small ripping sound, and I lay it aside, straining to hear any signs of activity from the floor above. There are none. My torchlight illuminates the display, and for a moment I almost forget why- I am here. It is an amazement of riches, glare fruits and marzipan flowers and mountains of loose chocolates of all shapes and colours, and rabbits, ducks, hens, chicks, lambs gazing out at me with merry-grave chocolate eyes like the terracotta armies of ancient China, and above it all a statue of a woman, graceful brown arms holding a sheaf of chocolate wheat, hair rippling. The detail is beautifully rendered, the hair added in a darker grade of chocolate, the eyes brushed -on in white. The smell of chocolate is overwhelming, the rich fleshy scent of it which drags down the throat in an exquisite trail of sweetness. The wheatsheaf-woman smiles very slightly, as if contemplating mysteries.

Try me. Test me. Taste me.

Its song is louder than ever, here in the very nest of temptation. I could reach out a hand in any direction and pick up one of these forbidden fruits, taste its secret flesh. The thought pierces me in a thousand places.

Try me. Test me. Taste me.

No-one would be any the wiser.

Try me. Test me. Taste- Why not?

5.40 a.m.

I will take the first thing which falls beneath my fingers. I must not lose myself in this distraction. A single chocolate – not theft, precisely, but salvage; alone of all its brethren it will survive the wreck. My hand lingers in spite of itself; a hovering dragonfly above a cluster of dainties. A Plexiglas tray with a lid protects them; the name of each piece is lettered on the lid in fine, cursive script. The names are entrancing. Bitter orange cracknel. Apricot marzipan roll. Cerisette russe. White rum truffle. Manon blanc. Nipples of Venus. I feel myself flushing beneath the mask. How could anyone order something with a name like that? And yet they look wonderful, plumply white in the light of my torch, tipped with darker chocolate. I take one from the top of the tray. I hold it beneath my nose; it smells of cream and vanilla. No-one will know. I realize that I have not eaten chocolate since I was a boy, more years ago than I can remember, and even then it was a cheap grade of chocolat d croquer, 15 per cent cocoa solids – twenty for the dark – with a sticky aftertaste of fat and sugar. Once or twice I bought Suchard from the supermarket, but, at five times the price of the other, it was a luxury I could seldom afford. This is different altogether; the brief resistance of the chocolate shell as it meets the lips, the soft truffle inside… There are layers of flavour like the bouquet of a fine wine, a slight bitterness, a richness like ground coffee; warmth brings the flavour to life and it fills my nostrils, a taste succubus which has me moaning.

5.45 a.m.

I try another after that, telling myself it will not matter. Again I linger over the names. Creme de cassis. Three nut cluster. I select a dark nugget from a tray marked Eastern journey. Crystallized ginger in a hard sugar shell, releasing a mouthful of liqueur like a concentration of spices, a breath of aromatic air where sandalwood and cinnamon and lime vie for attention with cedar and allspice. I take another, from a tray marked Peche au miel millef leurs. A slice of peach steeped in honey and eau-de-vie, a crystallized peach sliver on the chocolate lid. I look at my watch. There is still time.

I know I should begin my righteous work in earnest. The display in the shop, though bewildering, is not enough to account for the hundreds of orders she has received. There must be another place where she keeps her gift boxes, her stores, the bulk of her business. The things here are just for show. I grab an aniandine and stuff it into my mouth to aid thought. Then a caramel fondant. Then a manon blanc, fluffy with fresh cream and almond. So little time, when so many morsels remain to be tasted. I could do my work in five minutes, maybe less. As long as I know where to look. I'll take one more chocolate, for luck, before I go searching. just one more.

5.55 a.m.

It is like one of my dreams. I roll in chocolates. I imagine myself in a field of chocolates, on a beach of chocolates, basking-rooting-gorging. I have no time to read the labels; I cram chocolates into my mouth at random. The pig loses his cleverness in the face of so much delight, becomes a pig again, and though something at the top of my mind screams at me to stop I cannot help myself. Once begun it cannot end. This has nothing to do with hunger; I force them down, mouth bulging, hands full. For a terrible instant I imagine Armande returning to haunt me, to curse me perhaps with her own peculiar affliction; the curse of death by gluttony. I can hear myself making sounds as I eat, moaning, keening sounds of ecstasy and despair, as if the pig within has finally found a voice.

6.00 a.m.

He is risen! The sound of the bells jangles me out of my enchantment. I find myself sitting on the floor, spilled chocolates around me as if I have indeed, as I imagined, rolled in them. The cudgel lies forgotten, at my side. I have removed the restrictive mask. The window, cleared of its wrapping, gapes blankly with the fast pale rays of morning.

He is risen! Drunkenly I stagger to my feet. In five minutes the early worshippers will begin to arrive for Mass. Already I must have been missed. I grab at my cudgel with fingers slimed with melted chocolate. Suddenly I know where she keeps her stock. The old cellar, cool and dry, where flour sacks were once kept. I can get there. I know I can.

He is risen! I turn, holding my cudgel, desperate for time, time…

She is waiting for me, watching from behind the bead curtain. I have no way of knowing how long she has watched me. A tiny smile curves her lips. Very gently she takes the cudgel from my hand. Between her fingers she is holding something which looks like a charred piece of coloured paper. A card, maybe.

And that was how they saw me, pere, crouching in the ruins of her window, face smeared with chocolate, eyes haggard. From nowhere people seemed to come running to her aid. Duplessis with his dog-lead in one hand, standing guard at the door. The Rocher woman at the back door with my cudgel crooked in her elbow. Poitou from across the road; up early for his baking, calling the curious in to see. The Clairmonts, like landed carp, staring. Narcisse shaking his fist. And the laughter. God! The laughter. And all the time the bells are ringing He is risen across St Ji'rome's square.

He is risen.