The Loveliest Chocolate Shop in Paris (14 page)

“That very much depends,” I said, “on whether or not I get the next pancake.”

He looked at it, all perfectly cooked, then grabbed a bottle from the side of the boat and poured Grand Marnier, the orange liqueur, all over the top. It sizzled, and as the alcohol burned off, a delicious smell filled the air. Then he picked up a napkin and, in a move that seemed almost like magic, flicked the pancake onto it, and in a trice, folded it up into an envelope so I could eat it.

“I shall tell him you're a very good boy,” I said. The crepe was painfully hot, but totally delicious.

Something crossed his face at that moment, something that wasn't just about him being a party boy. Some remembered pain.

“No,” he said quietly. “No. Don't tell him anything at all.”

I looked straight at him, wondering what these two larger-than-life personalities could possibly have fallen out about that was this bad.

“Come in and see me,” I said, a bit tipsy, not quite realizing what I was saying. Then I stopped horrified.

“I don't mean like that,” I said. “I mean, come by to see me and you can see your dad. But not like that.”

He smiled, put out a calloused hand, and suddenly, out of the blue, touched my cheek. I flushed a fiery red.

“Ah, not like that, huh?”

I reminded myself about Frédéric and that this was what French men were like. Incorrigible flirts. Ridiculously flirtatious. Cor, they were good at it though. I resisted a sudden strong temptation to reach out and touch his stubbled chin, his thick curly hair.

“Laurent! Laurent! More crepes! Encore!”

The girls were calling for him from the other side of the boat, the torches still burning high. I checked my watch. It was late; I was up early. Someone moored the boat to give me time to get off, and a party of people dressed as Harlequins to get on.

He smiled, as if he knew exactly what was going through my mind, gave me a quick kiss on either cheek—perfectly normal here, I knew, absolutely standard French behavior, brothers did it to one another, so there was no reason for it to set my cheeks flaming so, or for me to catch the slightly burned sugar smell that came off his warm skin—and vanished back into the crowd, as I, with a mix of relief and regret, found my own way across the gangplank and back to the safe ground of the Île de la Cité—no long walk home for me, lost in the big city. I knew the way. The lights and the fire and the laughter and music from the barge lit up the river all the way home.

I
didn't mention the previous evening when Thierry marched in the next day. It was barely eight o'clock and I was sweeping up the husks when I heard the ting of the front doorbell. Frédéric and Benoît looked at me, confused. They had been playing the radio loudly. French pop music was, I discovered, very much an acquired taste. Frédéric immediately turned it down and called out, “
Bonjour
.”

But standing in the doorway, without Alice or any bluster from yesterday or any of the constant motion I'm used to, was Thierry, his large bulk outlined in the still hazy light from the front door, his normal broad grin completely absent.

“Anna,” he said. “Come, walk with me.”

- - -

I did as he said. It was going to be a beautiful day, but there was still a hint of dawn chilliness in the air. There were many fewer tourists about this time in the morning; it was mostly just shop keepers, the rattling of grates, the sluicing of dirty water in the mop buckets going down the drains, everywhere the scent of coffee and fresh baking.

“Let us walk,” he repeated, without saying anything else. I glanced at him quickly, wondering if his knees were up to it. He didn't look like he took any exercise at all. He saw me glancing and smiled, though less ebulliently than usual.

“I used to love to walk,” he said. “I used to walk everywhere. It was my favorite thing to do. Look!”

He took me down the cobbled lane that led to Île Saint-Louis and then across the beautiful Pont de Sully, which is lined with the padlocks of lovers. People just leave them there, to signify their love, and the authorities let them stay. They're beautiful. A
bateau
mouche
wended lazily down the river, and a large flock of seagulls took off just in front of us. Ahead was the somber, riveting wall of the old Bastille.

“Paris changes too much,” he said, even though I was thinking absolutely the opposite, pointing out a huge field of banners over on the Left Bank. “Look, they are having a festival,” he said. “Food from all around the world.”

“Why don't we take a stall,” I said, not thinking about it.

He looked at me. “Because we do not need to! We are far too good,” he said.

“All right,” I said. “It was just an idea.”

“Does Chanel take a stall at a market? Does Christian Dior?”

I didn't point out that you could find these brands all over the world, but decided to change the subject.

“Why don't you walk so much anymore?”

“Because I am busy, because Alice does not like to walk; she thinks it is vulgar.”

“How is walking vulgar?” I couldn't stop myself from asking.

“Well, because you cannot wear beautiful shoes, and you look like you cannot afford a car.”

I thought that was possibly the stupidest thing I had ever heard in my life, but I'd already insulted him once this morning, so I decided to keep it to myself.

“I like it,” I ventured instead. “It's a good way to see a place.”

“It is!” agreed Thierry fervently. We'd reached the other side of the bridge; the morning rush-hour traffic was inelegantly struggling for places on the roundabout, but we ignored them all. He turned and gestured back at what I'd already come to think of as my home; the Île de la Cité, the square familiar towers of Notre Dame Cathedral visible through the gaps.

“Look at it! A perfect tiny city-state in miniature. Everything you could possibly want is there.”

Except a supermarket that opens at lunchtime, I thought but didn't say.

“You could live on that island forever and never leave. People did. It was the first inhabited area of Paris. Right in the heart of the world.”

I smiled at his absolute certainty that where he was was the heart of the world. He moved surprisingly swiftly for such a large man.

He looked at me.

“I got another letter from Claire.”

There wasn't any point in prevaricating.

“She is very unwell,” he said.

“She is,” I said. I felt immediately guilty. Sami had the oldest laptop in the world and sometimes we could hook on to our neighbor's Wi-Fi, but I hadn't kept in touch anything like as much as I should have. She didn't have a lot to occupy her days; a bit of gossip would have come in very handy. Later she told me she was thrilled I was too busy and happy to write, just as her own mum had been, so convincingly I almost believed her. I called Mum and Dad every Sunday and told them about new things I'd tried and new food and they tried to sound interested, but I don't think they were really. They told me about the dog (barbed wire in paw) and Joe (new building apprenticeship, fat girlfriend). And Cath texted from time to time. But my new life felt so immersive. I vowed at the very least to be better at talking to Claire.

“What was wrong with you?” he said.

“I lost two toes,” I said.

Thierry scrunched up his face in pained sympathy. “Ah, look.” He showed me his littlest finger. It was slightly blunted. He'd obviously sliced the top off. “This is how I knew I was bound for sweets,
non
? No more butchering for me. No more cooking for big hungry soldiers in the desert. Ugh.”

I nodded in sympathy.

“So,” he said. “And she…she has all her toes?”

“She has cancer,” I said.

“Yes.”

We were walking above the embankment by the river, which was running fast today, a kind of dark blue color. There were a lot of boats up and down; goods and coal were coming in.

Thierry stared at the water as if he didn't see it.

“Ah, the cancer,” he said simply. “It is the sniper at the party. Everyone, we are happy, then…boom.”

We kept staring.

“They can do many, many good things for cancer now,” he said.

I shook my head. “Maybe. She has it in three places. It is hard to have it in three places. And she is stubborn.”

Thierry glanced at me then looked away very quickly. “So it is as bad as that.”

“Maybe,” I shrugged. I didn't want to think about it.

“And her family is kind.”

“Her sons are very good.”

“She has sons?”

“Two.”

“Ah, sons,” he said, and I supposed he was thinking of Laurent. “They are kind? They look after her?”

“They're wonderful,” I said.

He harrumphed.

“Mine would not call the
pompiers
if I were on fire.”

Thierry bit his lip at this.

“Oh, my little Claire,” he said suddenly, as if I wasn't there. “My little English bird. My little Claire.”

- - -

1972

“You look…you look beautiful.”

Claire
giggled. She had never seen Thierry lost for words; she didn't think it was possible. He was as greedy for words, for ideas and new information and jokes, as he was for food, for wine, for chocolate, for Paris, for her.

But
here, out in the garden of the LeGuarde house, all closed down as the family decamped to Provence, leaving her alone in Paris, it felt like everyone had left, en masse. The entire city had emptied out, leaving the heat for the soft breezes and mimosas of the South. Businesses had closed down, restaurants were no longer serving. The city was like a ghost town. Or a playground.

In
a
feat
of
devastating
boldness, Claire had left a note. A little note, at the shop, in the morning before he would be in. She had thought about it many times. She had gone to Papeterie Saint-Sabin, the great stationers, and spent an enormous amount of her earned cash on the most exquisite stationery. She had been almost unable to choose from how beautiful it all was. Finally she had gone for a pale green and yellow flower, very similar to her new dress. The heavy cream envelope was lined with pale green and gold stripes. It was absolutely beautiful. Her heart in her mouth, she had slipped into M. LeGuarde's private office, all leather chairs and heavy furniture, and borrowed one of his fountain pens, trying to make sure not to blot the ink. And she had written, simply, a time and the address, her hand shaking with excitement.

Of
course
he
had
come; had found her, as she planned, around the back door. He took off his hat, his face a little pink in the heat, mopping his brow. The garden was built high, with fruit trees bordering the edge to give the area privacy. On the perfectly straight lawn, Claire had put out a picnic: the finest Morbier cheese, which she knew he adored; some pâté and heavy sourdough bread from the tiny southern bakery on the corner; grapes, big, shiny, and pitted with seeds—he liked to chop them with a tiny knife, nipping out the seeds with extraordinary dexterity in his huge bearlike paws; carved Serrano ham from the terrifying butcher that she had had to pluck up a lot of courage to enter; and, chilling in a bucket of ice, a bottle of Laurent Perrier '68. Mme. LeGuarde had told her to help herself to whatever she wanted. This was clearly pushing it, Claire realized. She would make it up to them, she told herself.

The
sun
fell
heavy
and
huge, rippling through the great old oak trees as she sought out some shade. The light felt thick and golden, almost like syrup, as Claire sat, waiting, unable to concentrate, fiddling with her hair, her new dress, the food, the delicate china she had carefully removed from the tall armoire in the dining room, the small jar of fresh flowers she'd picked from the beds, behind other plants so hopefully nobody would notice. She had showered as late as possible and sat, anxiously. He made his way around to the door which led onto the little back alleyway between their grand imposing street and the next, knocked quickly, then entered, taking off his hat and wondering where his handkerchief was.

Then
she
stood
up. The sun lit up her pale hair, made it shine as if it were gold. The gentle green silk of her dress ran off her like a river; she looked like something conjured from the water, or a dryad from the trees.

“Claire. You look…you look beautiful,” he breathed quietly, for once moved to silence. She moved toward him, and he pulled her close, then sat her on his lap in the shade of the great green tree. Nothing was eaten. Words were no longer necessary. Some little time later, the birds started into the bright blue sky.

- - -

Thierry led me down to the corner of the street, where there was a tiny, packed boulangerie with a few tables and chairs very close. You could no longer see the river, nor the Île de la Cité, which sat in the middle like a great ship. Thierry barked a quick order to the waiter, who came charging back right through the middle of everyone with two tiny coffees, each with four sugar lumps placed on the side, and two enormous
religieuse
buns—two profiteroles, one smaller than the other, covered in chocolate and held together by cream, so they look like little nuns or priests. He ate his without thinking about it, then held up his hand for another, like a cowboy downing whisky shots at a bar.

Then he paused while I waited for him. The bun was totally delicious.

“It was difficult,” he said. “Her father…well. We were very young. It was the summer. She had to return, then I got called up…”

He looked up at me, and suddenly through his jolly, tubby demeanor, I saw a lot of sadness in his eyes.

“When you are young,” he said, “you think you will get lots of chances at love. You are careless, you spend your youth and your freedom and your love because you think you will be rich with all these things forever. But they do not last. You spend it all, then you see if you have spent wisely.”

He took a more reflective bite of his second cake.

“I thought…I thought we would have time, always. That the summer would never end, that things would never have to change…I am an old fool, Anna. Don't be like me.”

“Things aren't so bad for you,” I said instantly.

He smiled. “Ha. Thank you. You are kind.” He leaned forward. “Do you think…do you think I could talk to Claire?”

I tutted. “Have you never heard of the telephone? You can talk to her whenever you like.”

“I feel uncomfortable on the telephone,” said Thierry. “And also I did not know; what if she didn't want to talk to me?”

“You two are worse than teenagers,” I said, meaning it. When my brother Joe had a crush on Selma Torrington, he sat in his bedroom for a week. James found a poem he'd written and we were so taken with the horrible seriousness of it all, we didn't even tease him about it.

“You're grown-ups,” I said. “Just phone her. Or write back to her.”

His face looked unhappy again.

“I don't…I am not so good with the letters.”