Шоколад / Chocolat. Джоанн Харрис

I said tartly. “It isn’t up to me – or anybody – to decide how these people should live their lives.”

      Caroline gave me a venomous look.

      “Oh, well, if that’s how you feel”– turning superciliously towards the door – “then I won’t keep you from your business.” A slight emphasis upon the last word, a disdainful glance at the empty seats. “I just hope you don’t regret your decision, that’s all.”

      “Why should I?”

      She shrugged petulantly.

      “Well, if there’s trouble, or anything.” From her tone I gathered the conversation was at an end. “These people can cause all kinds of trouble, you know. Drugs, violence…”

      The sourness of her smile suggested that if there were any such trouble she would be pleased to see me the victim of it. The boy stared at me without comprehension. I smiled back.

      “I saw your grandmother the other day,” I told him. “She told me a lot about you.”

      The boy flushed and mumbled something unintelligible.

      Caroline stiffened.

      “I’d heard she was here,” she said. She forced a smile. “You really shouldn’t encourage my mother,” she added with counterfeit archness. “She’s quite bad enough already.”

      “Oh, I found her most entertaining company,” I replied without taking my eyes off the boy. “Quite, refreshing. And very sharp.”

      “For her age,” said Caroline.

      “For any age,” I said.

      “Well, I’m sure she seems so to a stranger,” said Caroline tightly. “But to her family…” She flashed me another of her cold smiles. “You have to understand that my mother is very old,” she explained. “Her mind isn’t what it used to be. Her grasp of reality-” She broke off with a nervous gesture. “I’m sure I don’t have to explain to you,” she said.

      “No, you don’t,” I answered pleasantly. “It’s none of my business, after all.”

      I saw her eyes narrow as she registered the barb. She may be bigoted, but she isn’t stupid.

      “I mean…”

      she floundered for a few moments. For a second I thought I saw a glint of humour in the boy’s eyes, though that might have been my imagination.

      “I mean my mother doesn’t always know what’s best for her.” She was back in control again, her smile as lacquered as her hair. “This shop, for instance.”

      I nodded encouragement.

      “My mother is diabetic,” explained Caroline. “The doctor has warned her repeatedly to avoid sugar in her diet. She refuses to listen. She won’t accept treatment.” She glanced at her son with a kind of triumph. “Tell me, Madame Rocher, is that normal? Is that a normal way to behave?”

      Her voice was rising again, becoming shrill and petulant. Her son looked vaguely embarrassed and glanced at his watch.

      “Maman, I’ll be l-late.” His voice was neutral and polite. To me: “Excuse me, Madame, I have to get to s-school.”

      “Here, have one of my special pralines. On the house:”

      I held it out to him in a twist of Cellophane.

      “My son doesn’t eat chocolate.” Caroline’s voice was sharp. “He’s hyperactive. Sickly. He knows it’s bad for him.”

      I looked at the boy. He looked neither sickly nor hyperactive, merely bored and a little self-conscious.

      “She thinks a great deal about you,” I told him. “Your grandmother. Maybe you could drop in and say hello one of these days. She’s one of my regulars.”

      The bright eyes flickered for a moment from beneath the lank brown hair.

      “Maybe.” The voice was unenthusiastic.

      “My son doesn’t have time to hang about in sweetshops,” said Caroline loftily. “My son’s a gifted boy. He knows what he owes his parents.”

      There was a kind of threat in what she said, a smug note of certainty. She turned to walk past Luc, who was already in the doorway, his satchel swinging.

      “Luc.” My voice was low, persuasive. He turned again with some reluctance. I was reaching for him before I knew it, seeing past the polite blank face and seeing – seeing… “Did you like Rimbaud?” I spoke without thinking, my head reeling with images.

      For a moment the boy looked guilty.

      “What?”

      “Rimbaud. She gave you a book of his poems for your birthday, didn’t she?”

      “Y-yes.” The reply was almost inaudible. His eyes – they are a bright green-grey – lifted towards mine. I saw him give a tiny shake of his head, as if in warning. “I d-didn’t read them, though,” he said in a louder voice. “I’m not a f-fan of p-poetry.”

      A dog-eared book, carefully hidden at the bottom of a clothes chest. A boy murmuring the lovely words to himself with a peculiar fierceness. Please come, I whispered silently. Please, for Armande’s sake.

      Something in his eyes flickered.

      “I have to go now.”

      Caroline was waiting impatiently at the door.

      “Please. Take these.”

      I handed him the tiny packet of pralines. The boy has secret. I could feel them itching to escape. Deftly, keeping out of his mother’s line of vision he took the packet, smiled. I might almost have imagined the words he mouthed as he went.

      “Tell her I’ll be there,” he whispered, “when Maman goes to the h-hairdresser’s.”

      Then he was gone.

      I told Armande about their visit when she came later today. She shook her head and rocked with laughter when I recounted my conversation with Caroline.

      “He, he, he!” Ensconced in her sagging armchair, a cup of mocha in her delicate claw, she looked more like an apple-doll than ever. “My poor Caro. Doesn’t like to be reminded, does she?” She sipped the drink gleefully. Where does she get off, he?” she demanded with some testiness. “Telling you what I can and can’t have. Diabetic, am I? That’s what her doctor would like us all to think.” She grunted. “Well, I’m still alive, aren’t I? I’m careful. But that isn’t enough for them, no. They have to have control.” She shook her head. “That, poor boy. He stutters, did you notice that?”

      I nodded.

      “That’s his mother’s doing.” Armande was scornful. “If she’d left him alone – but no. Always correcting him. Always carrying on. Making him worse. Making out there’s something wrong with him all the time:” She made a sound of derision. “There’s nothing wrong with him that a good dose of living wouldn’t cure,” she declared stoutly. “Let him run awhile without worrying what would happen if he fell over. Let him loose. Let him breathe.”

      I said that it was normal for a mother to be protective of her children.

      Armande gave me one of her satirical glances.

      “Is that what you call it?” she said. “The same way the mistletoe is protective of the apple tree?” She gave a cackle. “I used to have apple trees in my garden,” she told me. “Mistletoe got them all, one by one. Nasty little plant, doesn’t look like much, pretty berries, no strength of its own, but lord! Invasive!” She sipped again at her drink. “And poison to everything it touches.” She nodded to me knowingly. “That’s my Caro,” she said. “That’s her.”

      I saw Guillaume again after lunch. He didn’t stop except to say hello, saying he was on his way to the newsagent for his papers. Guillaume is addicted to film magazines, although he never goes to the cinema, and