11
Thursday, February 20
I was waiting for her. Tartan coat, hair scraped back in an unflattering style, hands deft and nervous as a gunslinger’s. Josephine Muscat, the lady from the carnival. She waited until my regulars – Guillaume, Georges and Narcisse – had left before she came in, hands thrust deeply into her pockets.
“Hot chocolate, please.” She sat down uncomfortably at the counter, speaking down into the empty glasses I had not yet had time to clear.
“Of course.”
I did not ask her how she liked her drink but brought it to her with chocolate curls and Chantilly, decorated with two coffee creams at the side. For a moment she looked at the glass with narrowed eyes, then touched it tentatively.
“The other day,” she said, with forced casualness. “I forgot to pay for something.” She has long fingers, oddly delicate in spite of the calluses on the fingertips. In repose her face seems to lose some of its dismayed expression, becoming almost attractive. Her hair is a soft brown, her eyes golden. “I’m sorry.”
She threw the ten-franc piece onto the counter with a kind of defiance.
“That’s OK.” I made my voice casual, disinterested. “It happens all the time.”
Josephine looked at me for a second, suspiciously, then sensing no malice, relaxed a little.
“This is good.” Sipping the chocolate. “Really good.”
“I make it myself,” I explained. “From the chocolate liquor before the fat is added to make it solidify. This is exactly how the Aztecs drank chocolate, centuries ago.”
She shot me another quick, suspicious glance.
“Thank you for the present,” she said at last. “Chocolate almonds. My favourite.” Then, quickly, the words rushing out of her in desperate, ungainly haste, “I never took it on purpose. They’ll have spoken about me, I know. But I don’t steal. It’s them”– contemptuous now, her mouth turned down in rage and self-hatred – “the Clairmont bitch and her cronies. Liars.” She looked at me again, almost defiantly. “I heard you don’t go to church.”
Her voice was brittle, too loud for the small room and the two of us.
I smiled.
“That’s right. I don’t.”
“You won’t last long here if you don’t,” said Josephine in the same high, glassy voice. “They’ll have you out of here the way they do everyone they don’t approve of. You’ll see. All this”– a vague, jerking gesture at the shelves, the boxes, the display window with its pieces montees – “none of this will help you. I’ve heard them talking. I’ve heard the things they say.”
“So have I.” I poured myself a cup of chocolate from the silver pot. Small and black, like espresso, with a chocolate spoon to stir it. My voice was gentle. “But I don’t have to listen.” A pause while I sipped. “And neither do you.”
Josephine laughed.
The silence revolved between us. Five seconds. Ten.
“They say you’re a witch.” That word again. She lifted her head defiantly. “Are you?”
I shrugged, drank.
“Who says?”
“Joline Drou. Caroline Clairmont. Cure Reynaud’s bible groupies. I heard them talking outside St Jerome ‘s. Your daughter was telling the other children. Something about spirits.” There was curiosity in her voice and an underlying, reluctant hostility I did not understand. “Spirits!” she hooted.
I traced the dim outline of a spiral against the yellow mouth of my cup.
“I thought you didn’t care what those people had to say.”
“I’m curious:” That defiance again, like a fear of being liked. “And you were talking to Armande the other day. No-one talks to Armande. Except me.”
Armande Voizin. The old lady from Les Marauds.
“I like her,” I said simply. “Why shouldn’t I talk to her?”
Josephine clenched her fists against the counter. She seemed agitated, her voice cracking like frostbitten glass.
“Because she’s mad, that’s why!” She waved her fingers at her temple in a vague indicative gesture. “Mad, mad, mad.” She lowered her voice for a moment. “I’ll tell you something,” she said. “There’s a line across Lansquenet”– demonstrating on the counter with a callused finger – “and if you cross it, if you don’t go to confession, if you don’t respect your husband, if you don’t cook three meals a day and sit by the fire thinking decent thoughts and waiting for him to come home, if you don’t have children – and you don’t bring flowers to your friends’ funerals or vacuum the parlour or – dig – the – flowerbeds!” She was red-faced with the effort of speaking. Her rage was intense, enormous. “Then you’re crazy!” she spat. “You’re crazy, you’re abnormal and people – talk- about – you behind your back and – and – and-”
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She broke off, the agonized expression slipping from her face. I could see her looking beyond me through i1e window, but the reflection against the glass was enough to obscure what she might be seeing. It was as if a shutter had descended over her features; blank and sly and hopeless.
“Sorry. I got a bit carried away for a moment.” She swallowed a last mouthful of chocolate. “I shouldn’t talk to you. You shouldn’t talk to me. It’s going to be bad enough already.”
“Is that what Armande says?” I asked gently.
“I have to go.” Her clenched fists dug into her breastbone again in the recriminatory gesture which seemed so characteristic of her. “I have to go.”
The look of dismay was back on her face, her mouth turning downwards in a panicked rictus so that she looked almost dull witted. And yet the angry, tormented woman who had spoken to me a moment ago was far from that. What whom – had she seen to make her react in that way? As she left La Praline, head pushed down into an imaginary blizzard, I moved to the window to watch her. No-one approached her. No-one seemed to be looking, in her direction. It was then that I noticed Reynaud standing by the arch of the church door. Reynaud and a balding man I did not recognize. Both were staring fixedly at the window of La Praline.
Reynaud? Could he be the source of her fear? I felt a prick of annoyance at the thought that he might be the one who had warned Josephine against me. And yet she had seemed scornful, not afraid, when she mentioned him earlier. The second man was short but powerful; checked shirt rolled up over shiny red forearms, small intellectual’s glasses oddly at variance with the thick, fleshy features. A look of unfocused hostility hung about him, and at last I realized I had seen him before. In a white beard and red robe, flinging sweets into the crowd. At the carnival. Santa Claus, throwing bonbons to the crowd as if he hoped he might take out someone’s eye. At that moment a group of children came up to the window and I was unable to see more, but I thought I knew now why Josephine had fled in such haste.
“Lucie, do you see that man in the square? The one in the red shirt? Who is he?”
The child pulls a face. White chocolate mice are her special weakness; five for ten francs. I slip a couple of extra ones into the paper cornet.
“You know him, don’t you?”
She nods.
“Monsieur Muscat. From the cafe.”
I know it; a drab little place down at the end of the Avenue des Francs Bourgeois. Half-a-dozen metal tables on the pavement, a faded Orangina parasol. An ancient sign identifies it; Cafe de la Republique. Clutching her cornet of sweets the small girl turns to go, reconsiders, turns again.
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“You won’t ever guess his favourite,” she says. “He hasn’t got one.”
“I find that difficult to believe,” I smile. “Everyone has a favourite. Even Monsieur Muscat.”
