Шоколад / Chocolat - стр. 47

“She used to say that on the eve of Good Friday the bells leave their steeples and church towers in the secret of the night and fly with magical wings to Rome.”

He nods, with that look of half-believing cynicism peculiar to the growing young.

“They line up in front of the Pope in his gold and white, his mitre and his gilded staff, big bells and tiny bells, clochettes and heavy bourdons, carillons and chimes and do-si-do-mi-sols, all waiting patiently to be blessed.”

She was filled with this solemn children’s lore, my mother, eyes lighting up with delight at the absurdity. All stories delighted her – Jesus and Eostre and Ali Baba working the homespun of folklore into the bright fabric of belief again and again. Crystal healing and astral travel, abductions by aliens and spontaneous combustions, my mother believed them all, or pretended to believe.

“And the Pope blesses them, every one, far into the night, the thousands of France’s steeples waiting empty for their return, silent until Easter morning.”

And I her daughter, listening wide-eyed to her charming apocrypha, with tales of Mithras and Baldur the Beautiful and Osiris and Quetzalcoatl all interwoven with stories of flying chocolates and flying carpets and the Triple Goddess and Aladdin’s crystal cave of wonders and the cave from which Jesus rose after three days, amen, abracadabra, amen.

“And the blessings turn into chocolates of all shapes and kinds, and the bells turn upside-down to carry them home. All through the night they fly, and when they reach their towers and steeples on Easter Sunday they turn over and begin swinging to peal out their joy.”

Bells of Paris, Rome, Cologne, Prague. Morning bells, mourning bells, ringing the changes across the years of our exile. Easter bells so loud in memory that it hurts to hear them.

“And the chocolates fly out across the fields and towns. They fall through the air as the bells sound. Some of them hit the ground and shatter. But the children make nests and place them high in the trees to catch the falling eggs and pralines and chocolate hens and rabbits and guimauves and almonds…”

Jeannot turns to me with vivid face and broadening grin.

“Cool!”

“And that’s the story of why you get chocolates at Easter.”

His voice is awed, sharp with sudden certainty. “Do it! Please, do it!”

I turn deftly to roll a truffle in cocoa powder. “Do what?”

“Do that! The Easter story. It’d be so cool – with the bells and the Pope and everything – and you could have a chocolate festival – a whole week – and we could have nests – and Easter-egg hunts – and – ” He breaks off excitedly, tugging at my sleeve imperiously. “Madame Rocher, please.”

Behind him Anouk watches me closely. A dozen smudgy faces in the background mouth shy entreaties.

“A Grand Festival du Chocolat.”

I consider the thought. In a month’s time the lilacs will be out. I always make a nest for Anouk, with an egg and her name on it in silver icing. It could be our own carnival, a celebration of our acceptance in this place. The idea is not new to me, but to hear it from this child is almost to touch its reality.

“We’d need some posters.” I pretend hesitation.

“We’ll make those!” Anouk is the first to suggest it, her face vivid with excitement.