Шоколад / Chocolat - стр. 50
I admitted she didn’t.
“Well, then.” She sipped the strong, sweetened mixture with visible satisfaction. “Good. Hmm. Very good. Supposed to give you energy, isn’t it? It’s a, what do you call it, a stimulant?”
I nodded.
“An aphrodisiac too, so I heard,” added Armande roguishly, peeping at me from above the rim of her cup. “Those old men down at the cafe had better watch out. You’re never too old to have a good time!”
She cawed laughter. She sounded shrill and keyed-up, her crabbed hands unsteady. Several times she put her hand to the brim of her hat, as if to adjust it.
I looked at my watch under cover of the counter, but she saw my movement.
“Don’t expect he’ll turn up,” she said shortly. “That grandson of mine. I’m not expecting him, anyway.”
Her every gesture belied her words. The tendons in her throat stood out like an ancient dancer’s.
We talked for a while of trifling matters: the children’s idea of the chocolate festival – Armande squawking with laughter when I told her about Jesus and the white chocolate Pope – and the river-gypsies. It seems that Armande has ordered their food supplies herself, in her name, much to Reynaud’s indignation. Roux offered to pay her in cash, but she prefers to have him fix her leaky roof instead. This will infuriate Georges Clairmont, she revealed with an impish grin.
“He’d like to think he’s the only one who can help me out,” she said with satisfaction. “Bad as each other, both of them, clucking about subsidence and damp. They want me out of that house, there’s the truth of it. Out of my nice house and into some lousy old folks’ home where you have to ask permission to go to the bathroom!” She was indignant, her black eyes snapping. “Well, I’ll show them,” she declared. “Roux used to be a builder, before he went on the river. He and his friends will make a good enough job of it. And I’d rather pay them to do the work honestly than to have that imbecile do it for free.”
She adjusted the brim of her hat with unsteady hands.
“I’m not expecting him, you know.”
I knew it was not the same person to whom she referred. I looked at my watch. Four-twenty. Night was already falling. And yet I’d been so sure… That was what came of interfering, I told myself savagely. So easy to inflict pain on others, on myself.
“I never imagined he would come,” continued Armande in that crisp, determined voice. “She’s seen to that all right. Taught him well, she has.” She began to struggle off her perch. “I’ve been taking up too much of your time already,” she said shortly. “I must be – ”
“M-memee.”
She twists around so abruptly that I am sure she must fall. The boy is standing quietly by the door. He is wearing jeans and a navy sweatshirt. He has a wet baseball cap on his head. In his hand he carries a small, scuffed hardback book. His voice is soft and self-conscious.
“I had to w-wait until my m-mother went out. She’s at the h-hairdresser’s. She won’t be back till s-six.”
Armande looks at him. They do not touch, but I feel something pass between them like a jolt of electricity. Too complex for me to analyse, but there is warmth and anger, embarrassment, guilt – and behind it all a promise of softness.
“You look soaked. I’ll make you a drink,”
I suggest, going into the kitchen. As I leave the room I hear the boy’s voice again, low and hesitant.