The Lollipop Shoes (54 page)

The chimes ring again, and it’s Laurent Pinson, all shiny shoes and with fresh shaving-marks on his face, then Richard and Mathurin, Jean-Louis and Paupaul – Jean-Louis wearing the most garish yellow waistcoat I have ever seen – then Madame Pinot, who has come as a nun, then that anxious-looking lady who gave Rosette the doll (invited by Zozie, I think), and suddenly we are a jamboree of people, drinks, laughter, canapés and sweets, and I watch with one eye to the kitchen while Anouk plays hostess in my place and Alice nibbles a
mendiant
, and Laurent takes a handful of almonds and puts them in his pocket for later, and Nico calls again for Zozie, and I wonder when she will make her move—

Tak-tak-tak
come her shoes down the stairs.

‘So sorry I’m late,’ she says, and smiles, and for a moment there’s an ebb; a silence as she enters the room, all fresh and glowing in her red dress, and now we can all see that she has cut her hair to shoulder-length, exactly like mine, tucked back behind her ears, like mine, with my straight fringe and that little kick at the back that nothing ever seems to tame—

Madame hugs Zozie as she comes down. I must find out her name, I think, although for the moment I cannot take my eyes from Zozie, who now moves into the centre of the room, to laughter and applause from the guests.

‘So who have you come as?’ says Anouk.

But it is to me that Zozie speaks, with that knowing smile that only I see.

‘Well, Yanne, isn’t this fun? Can’t you see? I’ve come as
you
.’

7

Monday, 24th December
Christmas Eve. 8.30 p.m
.

WELL, YOU KNOW,
there’s no pleasing some people. But wasn’t it worth it just for the look on her face, that sudden, sorry, stricken pallor, the tremor that goes through her body as she sees herself coming down the stairs—

I have to say it’s a good job. Dress, hair, jewellery, everything but her shoes, all reproduced to eerie perfection and worn with just that hint of a smile . . .

‘Hey, it’s like you’re twins, or something,’ says Fat Nico with childish delight as he helps himself to more macaroons. Laurent twitches nervously, as if caught out in some private fantasy. Of course people can still tell us apart – you can do so much with glamours, but outright transformation is the stuff of fairytale – and yet it is uncanny, how easily I take to the role.

The irony is not lost on Anouk, whose excitement has reached near-manic proportions as she flits in and out of the
chocolaterie
– to see the snow, or so she says, but she
and I know she is waiting for Roux – and I guess that the sudden flashes of iridescence in her colours are born, not from pleasure, but from an energy that must be discharged, or risk burning her up like a paper lantern.

Roux is not here. Not yet, at least – and now it is time for Vianne to serve dinner.

With some reluctance, she begins. It’s early yet, and he may still come – his place is set at the end of the table, and if anyone asks, she will say that this is the place set to honour the dead, an old tradition that echoes the
Día de los Muertos
, quite appropriate for this evening’s celebration.

We begin with an onion soup as smoky and fragrant as autumn leaves, with croutons and grated Gruyère and a sprinkle of paprika over the top. She serves and watches me throughout, waiting, perhaps, for me to produce from thin air an even more perfect confection that will cast her effort into the shade.

Instead I eat, and talk, and smile, and compliment the chef, and the chink of crockery goes through her head, and she feels slightly dazed, not quite herself. Well,
pulque
is a mysterious brew, and the punch is liberally spiked with it, courtesy of Yours Truly, of course, in honour of the joyful occasion. As comfort, perhaps, she serves more punch, and the scent of the cloves is like being buried alive, and the taste is like chillies spiced with fire, and she wonders,
will it ever end
?

The second course is sweet
foie gras
, sliced on thin toast with quinces and figs. It’s the snap that gives this dish its charm, like the snap of correctly tempered chocolate, and the
foie gras
melts so lingeringly in the mouth, as soft as praline truffle, and it is served with a glass of ice-cold
Sauternes that Anouk disdains, but which Rosette sips in a tiny glass no larger than a thimble, and gives her rare and sunny smile, and signs impatiently for more.

The third course is a salmon baked
en papillote
and served whole, with a Béarnaise sauce. Alice complains she is nearly full, but Nico shares his plate with her, feeding her titbits and laughing at her minuscule appetite.

Then comes the
pièce de résistance
: the goose, long roasted in a hot oven so that the fat has melted from the skin, leaving it crisp and almost caramelized, and the flesh so tender it slips off the bones like a silk stocking from a lady’s leg. Around it there are chestnuts and roast potatoes, all cooked and crackling in the golden fat.

Nico makes a sound half-lust, half-laughter. ‘I think I just died and went to calorie heaven,’ he says, attacking a goose leg with relish. ‘You know, I haven’t tasted anything this good since my ma died. Compliments to the chef! If I wasn’t
totally
in love with the stick-insect here, I’d marry you just like
that
—’ And he waves his fork in a cheery way, almost putting out Madame Luzeron’s eye in his exuberance (she turns her face away just in time).

Vianne smiles. The punch must be taking effect by now, and she is flushed with her success. ‘Thank you,’ she says, standing up. ‘I’m so glad you’re all here tonight so I can thank you for all the help you’ve given us.’

That’s rich, I think to myself. Exactly what have
they
done, I ask?

‘For your custom, support, and friendship,’ she says, ‘at a time when all of us needed it.’ She smiles again, perhaps dimly aware now of the chemistries coursing freely through her veins, making her strangely talkative, strangely imprudent and almost reckless, like some
much younger Vianne from some other half-forgotten life.

‘I had what you’d call an unstable childhood. It meant I never really settled down. I didn’t feel accepted anywhere I went. I always felt like an outsider. But now I’ve managed to stay here four years, and I owe it all to people like you.’

Yawn, yawn. Speech coming on.

I pour myself a glass of punch and catch my little Anouk’s eye. She’s looking a little restless, I see, perhaps because of Jean-Loup’s absence. He must be very ill, poor boy. They think it might have been something he ate. And with a delicate heart like his, anything can be dangerous. A cold, a chill, a cantrip, even—

Could it be that she feels guilty, somehow?

Please, Anouk. Perish the thought. Why should
you
feel responsible? As if you’re not already alert enough to every little negative. But I can see your colours, dear, and the way you’ve been looking at my little Nativity scene, with its magic circle of three standing under the light of electric stars.

Speaking of which, we’re missing one. Late as expected, but approaching fast, sneaking up the back streets of the Butte as sly as a fox around a henhouse. His place is still set at the head of the table; plates, glasses, all untouched.

Vianne thinks maybe she is a fool. Anouk herself is beginning to think that all her planning and invocations have been for nothing, that even the snow will change nothing, and that nothing is left to keep her here.

But there is time yet as the meal comes to an end, for red wines from the Gers, for
p’tits cendrés
rolled in oak-wood ash, for fresh unpasteurized cheeses, for old matured cheeses and aged Buzet and quince paste and walnuts and green almonds and honey.

And now Vianne brings out the thirteen desserts and the Yule log, thick as a strongman’s arm and armoured in inch-thick chocolate, and everyone who thought they might have had enough by now – even Alice – finds just a
little
more space for a slice (or two, or three, in Nico’s case) and although the punch is finished at last, Vianne opens a bottle of champagne and we drink a toast.

Aux absents.

8

Monday, 24th December
Christmas Eve. 10.30 p.m
.

ROSETTE IS GETTING
sleepy now. She’s been so good throughout this meal, eating with her fingers, but clean enough, not dribbling much, and talking (well, signing) a lot to Alice, who’s sitting beside her little chair.

She loves Alice’s fairy wings, which is good because Alice has brought her a pair of her own, wrapped up under the Christmas tree. Rosette’s too little to wait for midnight – she really ought to be in bed by now – and so we thought she could open her presents now. But she stopped right there at the fairy wings, which are purple and silver and kind of cool – in fact I’m hoping Alice might have brought me a pair, which looks kind of likely from the shape of the package. So now Rosette’s a flying monkey, which she thinks is hilarious, and she’s crawling all over the place in her purple wings and monkey suit, laughing at Nico from under the table, a chocolate biscuit in her hand.

But now it’s late and I’m feeling tired. Where’s Roux? Why didn’t he come? I can’t think about anything else; not food; not even presents. I’m too wound up. My heart feels like a clockwork toy spinning around, out of control. For a minute I close my eyes, and there’s the scent of coffee now, and the spiced hot chocolate that Maman drinks, and the sound of plates being cleared away.

He’ll come
, I think.
He has to come
.

But it’s so late, and he isn’t here. Didn’t I do everything right? The candles, and the sugar, and the circle, and the blood? The gold and frankincense? The snow?

So why isn’t he here by now?

I don’t want to cry. It’s Christmas Eve. But it wasn’t supposed to be like this. Is this the payoff Zozie mentioned? Get rid of Thierry – but at what cost?

Then I hear the chimes, and I open my eyes. There’s someone standing at the door. For a moment I see him quite clearly; all in black, with his red hair loose—

But I look again, and it isn’t Roux. It’s Jean-Loup at the door, and the red-haired woman next to him must be his mother, I guess. She’s looking kind of sour-faced and embarrassed, but Jean-Loup seems OK, a bit pale perhaps, but then he always looks pale—

I jump out of my chair. ‘You made it! Hooray! Do you feel all right?’

‘Never better,’ he says, grinning. ‘How lame would it be if I missed your party after all the work you’ve done?’

Jean-Loup’s mother tries to smile. ‘I don’t want to intrude,’ she says. ‘But Jean-Loup insisted—’

‘You’re welcome,’ I say.

And as Maman and I hurry to find a couple of extra chairs in the kitchen, Jean-Loup puts a hand in his pocket
and pulls out something. It looks like a present, wrapped in gold paper, but it’s small, about the size of a praline.

He gives it to Zozie. ‘I guess they’re not my favourites, after all.’

She’s standing with her back to me, so I don’t see her face, or what the little packet contains. But he must have decided to give Zozie a chance, and I’m so relieved I could almost cry. Things are really working out. All we need is for Roux to come back, and for Zozie to decide to stay—

Then she turns and I see her face, and for a second it doesn’t look like Zozie at all. Must be a trick of the light, I guess, but just for a moment there she looked angry – angry? No,
furious
– her eyes like slits, her mouth full of teeth, her hand clenched so hard around the half-open packet that chocolate oozes out like blood . . .

Well, like I said, it’s getting late. My eyes must be playing tricks on me. Because half a second later she’s back again, all smiling and gorgeous in her red dress and red velvet shoes, and I’m just about to ask Jean-Loup what the little package was when the wind-chimes ring again, and another someone comes in, a tall figure in red and white with a furry hood and a big fake beard—

‘Roux!’ I yell, and I jump to my feet.