Free Chocolat by Joanne Harris Page A

when she mentioned him earlier. The second man was short but powerful; checked shirt rolled up over shiny red forearms, small intellectual’s glasses oddly at variance with the thick, fleshy features. A look of unfocused hostility hung about him, and at last I realized I had seen him before. In a white beard and red robe, flinging sweets into the crowd. At the carnival. Santa Claus, throwing bonbons to the crowd as if he hoped he might take out someone’s eye. At that moment a group of children came up to the window and I was unable to see more, but I thought I knew now why Josephine had fled in such haste.
           “Lucie, do you see that man in the square? The one in the red shirt? Who is he?”
           The child pulls a face. White chocolate mice are her special weakness; five for ten francs. I slip a couple of extra ones into the paper cornet. “You know him, don’t you?”
           She nods. “Monsieur Muscat. From the cafe.”
           I know it; a drab little place down at the end of the Avenue des Francs Bourgeois. Half-a-dozen metal tables on the pavement, a faded Orangina parasol. An ancient sign identifies it; Cafe de la Republique. Clutching her cornet of sweets the small girl turns to go, reconsiders, turns again. “You won’t ever guess his favourite,” she says. “He hasn’t got one.”
           “I find that difficult to believe,” I smile. “Everyone has a favourite. Even Monsieur Muscat.”
           Lucie considers this for a moment. “Maybe his favourite is the one he takes from someone else,” she tells me limpidly. Then she is gone, with a little wave through the display window.
           “Tell Anouk we’re off to Les Marauds after school!”
           “I will.”
           Les Marauds. I wonder what they find there to amuse them. The river with its brown, stinking banks. The narrow streets drifted with litter. An oasis for children. Dens, flat stones flick-flacking across the stagnant water. Secrets whispered, stick swords and shields made of rhubarb leaves. Warfare amongst the blackberry tangle, tunnels, explorers, stray dogs, rumours, purloined treasures…Anouk came from school yesterday with a new jauntiness in her step and a picture she had drawn to show me.
           “That’s me.” A figure in red overalls topped with a scribble of black hair. “Pantoufle.” The rabbit is sitting on her shoulder like a parrot, ears cocked. “And Jeannot.” A boy figure in green, one hand outstretched. Both children are smiling. It seems mothers — even schoolteacher mothers — are not allowed in Les Marauds. The Plasticine figure still sits beside Anouk’s bed, and she has stuck the picture to the wall above it.
           “Pantoufle told me what to do.” She scoops him up in a casual embrace. In this light I can see him quite clearly, like a whiskered child. I sometimes tell myself I should discourage this pretence of hers, but cannot bear to inflict such loneliness upon her. Maybe, if we can stay here, Pantoufle can give way to more substantial playmates.
           “I’m glad you managed to stay friends,” I told her, kissing the top of her curly head. “Ask Jeannot if he wants to come here some day soon, to help takedown the display. You can bring your other friends too.”
           “The gingerbread house?” Her eyes were sunlight-on-water. “Oh yes!” Skipping across the room with sudden exuberance, almost knocking over a stool, skirting an imaginary obstacle with a giant leap, then up the stairs three at a time — “Race you, Pantoufle!” A thump as she slammed, the door against the wall — bam-bam! A sudden stabbing sweetness of love for her, taking me off guard as it always does. My little stranger. Never still, never silent.
           I poured myself another cup of chocolate, turning as I heard the door-chimes jangle. For a second I saw his face unguarded, the appraising look, chin thrust out,