Шоколад / Chocolat

“My wife couldn’t find her arse with both hands and a pocket torch! It’s my name above the door, and I – say – we’re – closed!”

He had taken three steps from behind the bar, and now he stood barring the doorway, hands on hips, like an overweight gunslinger in a spaghetti western. I could see the yellowy gleam of his knuckles at his belt, hear the whistle of his breath. His face was congested with rage.

“Right.” Roux’s face was expressionless. He flicked a hostile, deliberate glance at the few customers scattered about the room.

“Closed.”

Another glance around the room. For a moment our eyes met.

“Closed to us,” he said quietly.

“Not as stupid as you look, are you?” said Muscat with sour glee. “We had enough of your lot last time. This time, we’re not standing for it!”

“OK.”

Roux turned to go. Muscat saw him off, strutting stiff-legged, like a dog scenting a fight. I walked past him without a word, leaving my coffee half-finished on the table. I hope he wasn’t expecting a tip.

I caught up with the river-gypsies halfway down the Avenue des Francs Bourgeois: It had begun to drizzle again, and the five of them looked drab and sullen.

I could see their boats now, down in Les Marauds, a dozen of them – two dozen – a flotilla of green-yellow-blue-white-red, some flying flags of damp washing, others painted with Arabian nights and magic carpets and unicorn variations reflected in the dull green water.

“I’m sorry that happened,” I told them. “They’re not an especially welcoming lot in Lansquenet-sous-Tannes.

”

Roux gave me a flat, measuring look.

“My name is Vianne,” I told him. “I have the chocolaterie just opposite the church. La Celeste Praline.”

He watched me, waiting. I recognized myself in his carefully expressionless face. I wanted to tell him – to tell all of them – that I knew their rage and humiliation, that I’d known it too, that they weren’t alone. But I also knew their pride, the useless defiance which remains after everything else has been scoured away.

The last thing they wanted, I knew, was sympathy.

“Why don’t you drop in tomorrow?” I asked lightly. “I don’t do beer, but I think you might enjoy my coffee.”

He looked at me sharply, as if he suspected me of mocking him. -

“Please come,” I insisted. “Have coffee and a slice of cake on the house. All of you.”

The thin girl looked at her friends and shrugged. Roux returned the gesture.

“Maybe.” The voice was non-committal.