Шоколад / Chocolat

” I wish my voice were more commanding. Rage has tightened my throat and instead of the righteous bellow which I intended I release nothing but a croak of indignation, like a polite frog. “Mademoiselle Rocher.” She looks at me enquiringly. “I have seen your poster!”

“Thank you,” she says. “Would you join us in a drink?”

“No!”

Coaxingly: “My chococcino is wonderful if you have a delicate throat.”

“I do not have a delicate throat!”

“Don’t you?” Her voice is falsely solicitous. “I thought you sounded rather hoarse.

A grand creme, then? Or a mocha?”

With an effort I regained my composure.

“I won’t trouble you, thank you.”

At her side the red haired man gives a low laugh and says something in his gutter patois. I notice his hands are streaked with paint, a pale tint which fills the creases in his palms and his knuckles. Has he been working? I ask myself uneasily. And if so, for whom? If this were Marseille the police would arrest him for working illegally. A search of his boat might reveal enough evidence – drugs, stolen property, pornography, weapons to put him away for good.

But this is Lansquenet. Nothing short of serious violence would bring the police here.

“I saw your poster.” I begin again, with all the dignity I can muster.

She watches me with that look of polite concern, her eyes dancing.

“I have to say”– at this point I clear my throat, which has filled again with bile – “I have to say that I find your timing – the timing of your – event deplorable.”

“My timing?” She looks innocent.

“You mean the Easter festival?” She gives a small, mischievous smile. “I rather thought your people were responsible for that. You ought to take it up with the Pope.”

I fix her with a cold stare.,

“I think you know exactly what I’m talking about.”

Again, that look of polite enquiry.

“Chocolate festival. All welcome.” My anger is rising like boiling milk, uncontrollable. For the instant I feel empowered, energized by its heat. I stab an accusing finger at her.

“Don’t think I haven’t guessed what this is all about.”

“Let me guess.” Her voice is mild, interested. “It’s a personal attack on you. A deliberate attempt to undermine the foundations of the Catholic Church.” She gives a laugh which betrays itself in sudden shrillness. “God forbid that a chocolate shop should sell Easter eggs at Easter.”

Her voice is unsteady, almost afraid, though of what I am unsure. The redhaired man glares at me.