Laurent marched in confidently and a fat man came out, muttering, with a harsh northern accent I found difficult to understand, but I quickly realized that Laurent had basically pulled a “don’t you know who I am” on him and was insisting that they feed the famous chocolatier, the way they might have behaved for a footballer or a rock star in England. When Laurent lifted Claire down, she made a little “oh” sound, as if she recognized it.
The man fussed and worried around his elderly visitors. I was worried about Claire; she seemed so frail and she’d hardly eaten all day. But in the tiny restaurant, which was absolutely full—the waiter had pulled up and washed down fresh tables and chairs himself and put us outside under a shady chestnut tree—I ordered her a beautiful lobster bisque and took off her shoes so she could let her bare feet touch the grass. The meadow nearest us had cows wandering back from pasture, the grass full of the poppies unavoidable in northern France and Belgium, bees humming wistfully around us, reminding us that autumn was just around the corner. Thierry ordered snails and seemed on the point of ordering a second starter, but Laurent gave him a very sharp look, and he didn’t and had the fish instead. Everyone had one small medicinal glass of red wine, and at first conversation was difficult…where did you begin after forty years? But Claire did her best with her soup—I had it too, utterly sensational, followed by a side of bream I would never have dared order just a few months ago, with locally harvested mushrooms. I wasn’t surprised this place was so busy.
“So,” said Claire, finally putting down her spoon. “Where did you go? You must have realized I wasn’t getting your letters.”
Thierry stopped mopping up the garlicky butter of his snails. Alice was going to have her work cut out with this one.
“Algerie,” he said, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.
“Algeria? What happened? Did you get called up?”
“Of course I got called up,” said Thierry crossly. “Everyone got called up.”
Claire’s hand went to her mouth. “Military service?”
“But of course.”
“But I thought military service was just marching up and down and having fun.”
“There was an insurgency,” said Thierry. “Didn’t they report it in your papers?”
Claire had spent that entire year mooning about and focusing entirely on herself. Of course she hadn’t read the papers. “I didn’t realize,” she said.
“I had the papers in my pocket when I waved you off,” said Thierry.
“We came here on the way,” said Claire faintly, playing with the grass with her toes.
“Yes, we did.”
“You made me try the hake.”
“I’ll make you try it again in a minute.”
She smiled, weakly. “But…letters…”
“Mme. LeGuarde took in my post. She did not forward me to you?”
Claire’s hand flew to her mouth. She remembered the elegant woman again. “I hope you will take your good memories, Claire.”
“I thought it was my dad,” she said.
“I thought you had gone back to England…got married…had children.”
Suddenly everyone looked at Laurent, furiously doing arithmetic. Laurent muttered under his breath and excused himself from the table.
I was worried about Claire getting overtired and agitated. I’d much rather she was asleep in bed right now, but she was a determined so-and-so.
“Oh,” said Claire quietly.
“Oui,” said Thierry.
I nearly swore out loud. No wonder Laurent was so cross with his father…and his skin so olive.
“I did…I could not stay,” said Thierry. “I was a soldier. Then I was not a soldier. And I was so young, and I had a business to run.”
We were both looking at him. I felt for both of them, so young, and a local girl, pregnant and shamed…
“But I sent for him,” said Thierry quickly.
“You did not send for me,” said Claire, softly and sadly, nodding to herself.
“Has he forgiven you for that?” I added.
“I don’t think so,” said Thierry.
Thierry was suddenly interrupted. The proprietor had come over. The second course plates had been cleared away and coffee and eau de vie had appeared from nowhere. I tried to explain that we hadn’t ordered them when the little man put down a plate, full of Chapeau chocolates.
We all gasped, amazed.
“Where did you get these?” said Thierry. The cost of sending away for them was astronomical, Alice saw to that, and Thierry hated fulfilling private orders. He preferred everything to get chomped on the day. To keep longer, they needed less cream and a touch of preservative, which he hated using.
“I keep them,” said the man, “for my most special customers. Which you undoubtedly are.”
And then he insisted on getting his photograph taken with Thierry, and then some other customers came to have a look at what was going on and, when they realized who it was, were also effusive in his compliments until the proprietor had to open the entire box and Thierry had to promise to send him another one and sign the photograph.
When the hubbub finally died down, Thierry turned his kind, ruined face to Claire.
“Chocolat,” he said. “It’s all I’m good for, really. You see what I am saying?”
Claire nodded and moved a hand to his arm.
“You,” she said softly. “It’s you I was only ever good for. It didn’t do me a lot of favors either.”
Thierry put his huge hand on her tiny bruised one and held it there, as the crickets started to make noise into the night and the huge bright stars overhead popped out, one by one.
- - -
I crept off to find Laurent. He was finishing up a slim black cigarillo by the trees. They were loud with insects.
“Sorry,” he said when he saw me. “Filthy habit. Very rare.”
“I don’t mind,” I said, and I didn’t really. The smoke smelled exotic on the warm summer evening. “I quite like it.”
There was a silence.
“So now you know,” he said.
“He was very young,” I said.
“So was my mother,” said Laurent. He glanced back toward the table. “Claire,” he said. “She is very, very sick.”