Шоколад / Chocolat - стр. 8
“It looks wonderful,” he said, looking around. “You must have been up all night doing this.”
I laughed.
“It’s quite a transformation,” said Guillaume. “You know, I’m not sure why, but I’d just assumed it was going to be another bakery.”
“What, and ruin poor Monsieur Poitou’s trade? I’m sure he’d thank me for that, with his lumbago playing up the way it is, and his poor wife an invalid and sleeping so badly.”
Guillaume bent to straighten Charly’s collar, but I saw his eyes twinkle.
“I see you’ve met,” he said.
“Yes. I gave him my recipe for bedtime tisane.”
“If it works, he’ll be a friend for life.”
“It works,” I assured him. Then, reaching under the counter I pulled out a small pink box with a silver valentine bow on it. “Here. For you. My first customer.”
Guillaume looked little startled.
“Really, Madame, I-”
“Call me Vianne. And I insist.” I pushed the box into his hands. “You’ll like them. They’re your favourite kind.”
He smiled at that. “How do you know?” he enquired, tucking the box carefully into his coat pocket.
“Oh, I can just tell,” I told him mischievously. “I know everyone’s favourite. Trust me, this is yours.”
The sign wasn’t finished until about noon. Georges Clairmont came to hang it himself then, profusely apologetic at his lateness. The scarlet shutters look beautiful against the new whitewash and Narcisse, grumbling halfheartedly about the late frosts, brought some new geraniums from his nursery to put in my planters. I sent them both away with valentine boxes and similar expressions of bemused pleasure. After that, barring a few schoolchildren, I had few visitors. It is always the case when a new shop opens in such a small village; there is a strict code of behaviour governing such situations and people are reserved, pretending indifference though inwardly they burn with curiosity. An old lady ventured in, wearing the traditional black dress of the country widow. A man with dark, florid features bought three identical boxes without asking what was inside. Then for hours, no-one came. It was what I expected; people need time to adapt to change, and though I caught several sharp glances at my display window, no-one seemed inclined to go in. Behind the studied unconcern however, I sensed a kind of seething, a whispering of speculation, a twitching of curtains, gathering of resolve. When at last they came, it was together; seven or eight women, Caroline Clairmont, wife of the signmaker, amongst them. A ninth, arriving somewhat behind the group, remained outside, her face almost touching the window, and I recognized the woman in the tartan coat.
The ladies eyed everything, giggling like schoolgirls, hesitant, delighting in their collective naughtiness.
“And do you make them all yourself?” asked Cecile, who owns the pharmacy on the main street.
“I should be giving it up for Lent,” commented Caroline, a plump blonde with a fur collar.
“I won’t tell a soul,” I promised. Then, observing the woman in the tartan coat still gazing into the window, “Won’t your friend join us?”
“Oh, she isn’t with us,” replied Joline Drou, a sharp featured woman who works at the local school. She glanced briefly at the square-faced woman at the window. “That’s Josephine Muscat.” There was a kind of pitying contempt in her voice as she pronounced the name. “I doubt she’ll come in.”