Шоколад / Chocolat

Is that so bad? Cure Reynaud thinks so, apparently.

“Here, Charly. Here boy.”

Guillaume’s voice is warm when he speaks to his dog, but always a little sad. He bought the animal when his father died, he tells me. That was eighteen years ago. But a dog’s life is shorter than a man’s, and they grew old together.

“It’s here.” He brings my attention to a growth under Charly’s chin. It is about the size of a hen’s egg, gnarled like an elm burr. “It’s growing.” A pause during which the dog stretches luxuriously, one leg pedalling as, his master scratches his belly.

“The vet says there’s nothing to be done.”

I begin to understand the look of guilt and love I see in Guillaume’s eyes.

“You wouldn’t put an old man to sleep,” he tells me earnestly. “Not if he still had”– he struggles for words “some quality of life. Charly doesn’t suffer. Not really.”

I nod, aware he is trying to convince himself.

“The drugs keep it under control.”

For the moment. The words ring out unspoken.

“When the time comes, I’ll know.

” His eyes are soft and horrified. “I’ll know what to do. I won’t be afraid.”

I top up his chocolate-glass without a word and sprinkle the froth with cocoa powder, but Guillaume is too busy with his dog to see. Charly rolls onto his back, head lolling.

“M’sieur le Cure says animals don’t have souls,” says Guillaume softly. “He says I should put Charly out of his misery.”

“Everything has a soul,” I answer. “That’s what my mother used to tell me. Everything.

”

He nods, alone in his circle of fear and guilt.

“What would I do without him?” he asks, face still turned towards the dog, and I understand he has forgotten my presence. “What would I do without you?”

Behind the counter I clench my fist in silent rage. I know that look – fear, guilt, covetousness – I know it well. It is the look on my mother’s face the night of the Black Man. His words – What would I do without you? – are the words she whispered to me all through that miserable night.

As I glance into my mirror last thing in the evening, as I awake with the growing fear – knowledge, certainty – that my own daughter is slipping away from me, that I am losing her, that I will lose her if I do not find The Place… it is the look on my own.

I put my arms around Guillaume. For a second he tenses, unused to female contact. Then he relaxes. I can feel the strength of his distress coming from him in waves.

“Vianne,” he says softly. “Vianne.