Шоколад / Chocolat - стр. 58

I fix her with a cold stare.,

“I think you know exactly what I’m talking about.”

Again, that look of polite enquiry.

“Chocolate festival. All welcome.” My anger is rising like boiling milk, uncontrollable. For the instant I feel empowered, energized by its heat. I stab an accusing finger at her. “Don’t think I haven’t guessed what this is all about.”

“Let me guess.” Her voice is mild, interested. “It’s a personal attack on you. A deliberate attempt to undermine the foundations of the Catholic Church.” She gives a laugh which betrays itself in sudden shrillness. “God forbid that a chocolate shop should sell Easter eggs at Easter.”

Her voice is unsteady, almost afraid, though of what I am unsure. The redhaired man glares at me. With an effort she recovers, and the glimpse of fear I thought I saw in her is swallowed by her composure.

“I’m sure there’s room here for both of us,” she says evenly. “Are you sure you don’t want a drink of chocolate? I could explain what I – ”

I shake my head furiously, like a dog tormented by wasps. Her very calm infuriates me, and I can hear a kind of buzzing in my head, an unsteadiness which sends the room spinning about me. The creamy smell of chocolate is maddening. For a moment my senses are unnaturally enhanced; I can smell her perfume, a caress of lavender, the warm spicy scent of her skin. Beyond her, a whiff of the marshes, a musky tang of engine-oil and sweat and paint from her redhaired friend.

“I – no – I…” Nightmarishly, I have forgotten what I intended to say. Something about respect, I think, about the community. About pulling together in the same direction, about righteousness, decency, about morality. Instead I gulp air, my head swimming. “I–I…”

I cannot shake the thought that she is doing this, pulling the threads of my senses apart, reaching into my mind.

She leans forward, pretending solicitude, and her scent assails me once more.

“Are you all right?” I hear her voice from a great distance. “Monsieur Reynaud, are you all right?”

I push her away with trembling hands.

“Nothing.” At last I manage to speak. “An – indisposition. Nothing. I’ll bid you good – ”

Blindly I stumble towards the door. A red sachet suspended from the door-jamb brushes my face more of her superstition – and I cannot shake off the absurd impression that the ridiculous thing is responsible for my malaise; herbs and bones sewn together and hung there to trouble my mind. I stagger out into the street, gasping for breath.

My head clears as soon as the rain touches it, but I keep walking. Walking.

I did not stop until I reached you, mon pere. My heart was pounding, my face running with sweat, but at last I feel purged of her presence. Was this what you felt, mon pere, that day in the old chancery? Did temptation wear this face?

The dandelions are spreading, their bitter leaves pushing up the black earth, their white roots forking deep, biting hard. Soon they will be in bloom. I will walk home via the river, pare, to observe the small floating city which even now grows, spreads across the swollen Tannes. More boats have arrived since last we spoke so that the river is paved with them. A man might walk across.

Is this what she intends? A gathering of these people, a celebration of excess? How we fought to eradicate those remaining pagan traditions, pere, how we preached and cajoled. The egg, the hare, still-living symbols of the tenacious root of paganism, exposed for what they are. For a time we were pure. But with her the purge must begin anew. This is a stronger strain, defying us once again. And my flock, my stupid, trustful flock, turning to her, listening to her… Armande Voizin. Julien Narcisse. Guillaume Duplessis. Josephine Muscat. Georges Clairmont. They will hear their names spoken in tomorrow’s sermon along with all those who have listened to her. The chocolate festival is only a part of the sickening whole, I will tell them. The befriending of the river-gypsies. Her deliberate defiance of our customs and observances. The influence she brings to bear on our children. All signs, I will tell them, all signs of the insidious effect of her presence here.