Шоколад / Chocolat - стр. 39

I will stand triumphant.

Caroline Clairmont called just after mass. Her son was with her satchel slung across his shoulders, a tall boy with a pale, impassive face. She was carrying a bundle of yellow hand-lettered cards.

I smiled at them both. The shop was almost empty – I expect the first of my regulars at about nine, and it was eight-thirty. Only Anouk was sitting at the counter, a half-finished bowl of milk and a pain au chocolat in front of her. She shot a bright glance at the boy, waved the pastry in a vague gesture of greeting, and returned to her breakfast.

“Can I help you?”

Caroline looked around her with an expression of envy and disapproval. The boy stared straight in front of him, but I saw his eyes wanting to slide towards Anouk. He looked polite and sullen, his eyes bright and unreadable beneath an overlong fringe.

“Yes.” Her voice is light and falsely cheery, her smile as sharp and sweet as icing, setting the teeth on edge. “I’m distributing these”– she held up the stack of cards “and I wonder if you’d mind displaying one in your window.” She held it out. “Everyone else is putting them up,” she added, as if that might sway my decision.

I took the card. Black on yellow, in neat, bold capitals:

“Why do I need this?” I frowned, puzzled. “Why should I want to refuse to serve anyone?”

Caroline sent me a look of pity and contempt.

“Of course, you are new here,” she said with a sugared smile. “But we have had problems in the past. It’s just a precaution, anyway. I very much doubt you’ll get- a visit from Those People: But you may as well be safe as sorry, don’t you think?”

I still didn’t understand. “Sorry about what?”

“Well, the gypsies. The river people.” There was a note of impatience in her voice. “They’re back, and they’ll be wanting to”– she made a small, elegant moue of disgust “do whatever it is they do.”

“And?” I prompted gently.

“Well, we’ll have to show them we won’t stand for it!” Caroline was becoming flustered. “We’re going to have an agreement not to serve these people. Make them go back to wherever it is they came from.”

“Oh.” I considered what she was saying. “Can we refuse to serve them?” I enquired curiously. “If they have the money to spend, can we refuse?”

Impatiently: “Of course we can. Who’s to stop us?”

I thought for a moment, then handed back the yellow card. Caroline stared at me.

“You’re not going to do it?” Her voice rose half an octave, losing much of its well-bred intonation in the process.

I shrugged.

“It seems to me that if someone wants to spend their money here, it isn’t up to me to stop them,” I told her.

“But the community…” insisted Caroline. “Surely you don’t want people of that type – itinerants, thieves, Arabs for heaven’s sake”

Flutter-click snapshot of memory, scowling New York doormen, Paris ladies, Sacre-Coeur tourists, camera in hand, face averted to avoid seeing the beggar-girl with her too-short dress and too-long legs… Caroline Clairmont, for all her rural upbringing, knows the value of finding the right modiste. The discreet scarf she wears at her throat bears an Herms label, and her perfume is Coco de Chanel. My reply was sharper than I intended.