Five Quarters of the Orange / Пять четвертинок апельсина. Джоанн Харрис

Yannick quickly. “The point is that there were three of you. And the legacy was divided into three. That’s right, isn’t it?”

      I nodded cautiously.

      “But now since poor Papa has passed away, we have to ask ourselves whether the informal arrangement you two made between you is entirely fair to the remaining members of the family.”

      His tone was casual, but I could see the gleam in his eyes, and I shouted out, suddenly furious.

      “What ”informal arrangement‘? I told you, I paid good money – I signed papers…“

      Laure put her hand on my arm.

      “Yannick didn’t mean to upset you, Mamie.”

      “No one’s upset me,” I said stonily.

      Yannick ignored that and continued:

      “It’s just that some people might think that an agreement such as you made with poor Papa – a sick man desperate for cash – ”

      I could see Laure was watching Pistache, and cursed under my breath.

      “Besides the unclaimed third that should have belonged to Tante Reine – ”

      The fortune under the cellar floor. Ten cases of Bordeaux laid down the year she was born, tiled over and cemented into place against the Germans and what came later, worth a thousand francs or more per bottle today, I daresay, all awaiting collection. Damn. Cassis could never keep his mouth shut when it was needed. I interrupted harshly.

      “That’s being kept for her. I haven’t touched any of it.”

      “Of course not, Mamie. All the same…” Yannick grinned unhappily, looking so like my brother that it almost hurt. I glanced briefly again at Pistache, sitting bolt upright in her chair, face expressionless. “All the same, you have to admit that Tante Reine is hardly in any position to claim it now, and don’t you think it would be fairer to all concerned – ”

      “All that belongs to Reine,” I said flatly. “I won’t touch it. And I wouldn’t give it to you if I could. Does that answer your question?”

      Laure turned to me then. In her black dress, with the yellow lamplight on her face, I thought she looked quite ill.

      “I’m sorry,” she said, with a meaningful glance at Yannick. “This was never meant to be about money. Obviously we wouldn’t expect you to give up your home-or any part of Tante Reine’s inheritance. If either of us gave the impression…”

      I shook my head, bewildered.

      “Then what on earth was all that-”

      Laure interrupted, her eyes gleaming.

      “There was a book…”

      “A book?” I repeated.

      Yannick nodded.

      “Papa told us all about it,” he said. “You showed it to him.”

      “A recipe book,” said Laure with strange calmness. “You must have all the recipes by heart already. If we could only see it… borrow it…”

      “Of course, we’d pay for anything we used,” added Yannick hastily. “Think of it as a way to keep the Dartigen name alive.”

      It must have been that-that name-which did it. Confusion, fear and disbelief warred in me for a while, but at the mention of that name a great spike of terror pierced me and I swept the coffee cups off the table, where they shattered against my mother’s terra-cotta tiles. I could see Pistache looking at me strangely, but could do nothing but follow the seam of my rage.

      “No! Never!”

      My voice rose like a red kite in the little room, and for a second I left my body and looked down upon myself emotionlessly, a drab sharp-faced woman in a gray dress, her hair drawn fiercely back into a knot at the back of her head. I saw strange comprehension in my daughter’s eyes and veiled hostility in the faces of my nephew and niece, then the rage slammed into place again and I lost myself for a while:

      “I know what you want!” I snarled. “If you can’t have Mamie Framboise, then you’ll settle for Mamie Mirabelle. Is that it?” My breath tore through me like barbed wire. “Well, I don’t know what Cassis told you, but he had no business, and nor have you. That old story’s dead. She’s dead, and you’ll get none of it from me, not if you were to wait fifty years for it!”

      I was out of breath now, and my throat hurt from shouting. I picked up their most recent present-a box of linen handkerchiefs lying on the kitchen table in their silver wrapping-and pushed it fiercely at Laure.

      “So you can take your bribes,” I yelled hoarsely, “and you can stick them up your fancy ass with your Paris menus and your tangy apricot coulis and your poor old Papas-”

      For a second our eyes met and I saw hers unveiled at last and filled with spite.

      “I could talk to my lawyer-” she began.

      I began to laugh.

      “That’s right!” I hooted. “Your lawyer! It always comes to that in the end, doesn’t it?” I yarked savage laughter. “Your lawyer!”

      Yannick tried to calm her down, his eyes bright with alarm.

      “Now, chérie… you know how we – ”

      Laure turned on him savagely.

      “Get your fucking hands off me!”

      I howled laughter, cramping my stomach. Points of darkness danced before my eyes. Laure’s eyes shot me with hate – shrapnel, then she recovered.

      “I’m sorry.” Her voice was chilly. “You don’t know how important this is to me. My career…”

      Yannick was trying to steer her toward the door, keeping a wary eye on me.

      “No one meant to upset you, Mamie,” he said hastily. “We’ll come back when you’re more reasonable – it’s not as if we were asking to keep the book…”

      Words like spilled cards sliding. I laughed harder. The terror in me grew, but I could not control my laughter, and even when they had gone – the screech of their Mercedes’ tires oddly furtive in the night – I still felt the occasional spasm, souring into half – sobs as the adrenaline fell from me, leaving me feeling shaken and old.

      So old.

      Pistache was looking at me, her face unreadable. Prune’s face appeared round the bedroom door.

      “Mémée? What’s wrong?”

      “Go to bed, sweetheart.” said Pistache quickly. “It’s all right. It’s nothing.”

      Prune looked doubtful.

      “Why was Mémée shouting?”

      “Nothing.” Her voice was sharp now, anxious. “Go to bed!”

      Prune turned reluctantly. Pistache closed the door.

      We sat in silence.

      I knew she’d talk when she was ready, and I knew better than to rush her. She looks sweet enough, but there’s a stubborn streak in her all the same. I know it well; I have it too. Instead I washed the dishes and the cups, dried them and put them away. After that I took out a book and pretended to read.

      After a while Pistache spoke.

      “What did they mean about a legacy?”

      I shrugged. “Nothing. Cassis made out he was a rich man so that they’d look after him in his old age. They should have known better. That’s all.”

      I hoped she might leave it at that, but there was a stubborn line between her eyes that promised trouble.

      “I never even knew I had an uncle,” she said tonelessly.

      “We weren’t close.”

      Silence. I could see her going over it in her mind and I wished I could stop the circle of her thoughts, but knew I couldn’t.

      “Yannick’s