The Confectioner's Tale Part 3

She pursed her lips at him for a second.

'Do you know where this is?' she asked. He shook his head. 'We are in the Opera district. Go to the end of the alley, take the first left, then the first right. Follow your nose and you will find the river soon enough.'

He took a couple of steps, but the ground tilted beneath him, his eyes clouded with black snow. A wall, blessedly solid, slid against his back.

The mademoiselle sighed. Her breath was a cloud in the air.

'Let him sit there until he can walk.'

Sick and ashamed, Gui held his head in his hands and fought back the urge to vomit. The business of unloading went on around him, thumps and creaks, the girl's quiet directions and the crisp hush of pages being turned in a ledger.

He must have dozed, for when he opened his eyes, the cart was empty. The deliverymen were leaning against the side, talking softly, their hands wrapped around steaming bowls. The darkness of the streets felt less oppressive; Gui sensed early morning, rather than late night. The young woman stepped from the door.

'Would you like some chocolate?' she asked.

He stared blankly. She rolled her eyes, motioned to one of the deliverymen, who came forward, thrust a white china bowl at him. It was hot and burned his chilled hands, but he took it. The girl remained on the step, her own bowl clasped between kid gloves.

'You should drink,' she said, 'it will help to clear your head.'

He rotated the bowl. A rich steam rose and he took a sip. Sweetness flooded his tongue, followed by cream, sugar, spices, chocolate finer than anything he had ever tasted, dark and bitter and delicious. Greedily, he raised the bowl again.

A faint smile lifted the corner of the young woman's lips.

Gui remembered to wipe his mouth.

'I ...' He coughed to clear his throat. 'This is wonderful. Thank you.'

She shrugged. 'I am not supposed to serve the best chocolate to tradesmen, but they work hard. I think they deserve it.'

She nodded at one of the men, who returned the greeting respectfully. The delivery workers were keeping a safe distance. No wonder, thought Gui, eyeing the young woman warily. He put down the bowl, picked it up again, uncertain how to behave. She did not seem to notice.

'So, now that you have found your voice again, you can tell me of your adventure,' she said calmly. 'You were in Pigalle?'

'Yes. It was our first night out so we went to see the city,' he answered between sips. 'Don't remember much about it, though, except for the lights. Have you ever been?'

'I beg your pardon?'

'Have you ever been to Pigalle?'

Her eyebrows shot up in surprise. The expression betrayed her stern manner. She was no older than eighteen, he realized.

'I should think not!' she laughed, and he felt himself smiling along with her. 'You should be careful, boys such as you can lose their wits, smoking opium there.'

'I ...' He paused. The deliverymen were watching the conversation with interest. 'I didn't know what it was ... Mademoiselle.'

The word was clumsy in his mouth. He watched the smile drop from her face as she drew back into herself once again.

'These men are going across the city.' Her voice was perfectly flat. 'They can take you as far as the Place de la Republique. I am sure you can find your way across the river from there.'

Briskly, she shook her skirts, held out a hand towards him. He staggered to his feet, clasping her gloved fingers in thanks. Her face flushed red.

'Might I have the bowl back?' she asked awkwardly.

He s.n.a.t.c.hed his arm away, cursing himself.

'I'm Gui,' he blurted, almost dropping the china as he placed it in her hands. He could hear the deliverymen trying to cover their laughter. 'Guillaume du Frere.'

'Indeed. I am Mademoiselle Clermont.'

'Thank you, Mademoiselle.' He hesitated, ashamed of his behaviour. 'I'm afraid I can't pay for the chocolate. My money was stolen. But if I can ever be of any a.s.sistance ...'

Mademoiselle Clermont opened her mouth as if to speak, but said nothing. Gui made his escape towards the cart. Her voice followed him as he climbed up.

'We are expecting a large delivery next Sat.u.r.day,' she called quickly. 'I believe we could use more staff. If you wish to a.s.sist, and do not mind lifting and carrying, you may come along. Luc there will tell you the details.'

Before he could respond she hurried away through the door. A key sc.r.a.ped in the lock. He caught a glimpse of writing, engraved onto a bra.s.s plaque before the cart lurched away: Deliveries: Ptisserie Clermont.

Chapter Seven.

March 1988 My grandfather poured the hot chocolate from a pan into a round china bowl.

He had found me crying, sitting where my mum had left me with a pile of toys, before racing off for yet another meeting with the solicitors. I knew she'd come back silent and angry, knew that my dad wouldn't be coming to collect me like he had promised.

Grandpa Jim had scooted me through to the kitchen, lifted me onto the worktop while he bustled and hummed, pouring milk and chopping something into a pan. He had told me to blow my nose on his handkerchief, the one with his initials sewn in the corner.

A strange, rich scent rose from the hob. I sniffed hard, through the hiccups, and asked him what it was.

'Chocolat chaud.' He had smiled. 'Proper hot chocolate, the way they make it in Paris ...'

The train jolts, shaking me out of a doze. Blinking, I refocus on my handwriting, the words 'Mademoiselles at Ptisserie Clermont' scrawled across a page in my notebook.

I scrub at my eyes, feeling strange. The memory of being in my grandfather's kitchen was so vivid, but those words ... the way they make it in Paris. Had he truly said that, or was my mind playing tricks on me?

Before I fell asleep I had been thinking about the last time I saw Grandpa Jim alive. He had become frail by then, no longer the energetic, wiry old man I'd known as a child. I'd been staying with him for a few days. He'd said it was because he needed help with a particular piece of work, but in hindsight, he must have felt that something was wrong.

I had spent the day in the cool, dark house, watching the countryside beyond the windows of his study. It was peaceful there, smelled of camphor and paper and old soot from the un-swept chimney. Grandpa read in his chair while I typed up some university work on his old Smith-Corona, his head drooping into a doze now and then.

In the evening we had sat in the kitchen with the door open to the night. He'd shared some of his best old whisky and we'd played rummy. I should have noticed how weak he was, but I think he was trying his hardest to hide it from me.

Then he was gone, and all that was left was his literary estate, obituaries with the same decade-old photograph that graced the dust jackets of all his books. Grandpa Jim the sad, funny man with the same grey eyes as me had slipped away, and in his place he left 'J. G. Stevenson'.

When the train arrives at King's Cross, I try to shake off my pensive mood. Hopefully, I will find something conclusive at the gallery; something to help me understand Grandpa Jim's secrecy, to show Hall that there is nothing to be seen, nothing to be dug up from my grandfather's past.

I brave the crowded tube and head towards North London. By the time I reach Belsize Park, it's after two.

The weather is skittish; rain showers and weak sunlight. I pull out my A to Z and struggle to find the right page as a breeze grabs at the paper. I hunch into my jacket and walk. Ten minutes later I almost miss the road and have to backtrack. On a grimy Victorian building I see a notice, taped to the gla.s.s-paned door: Lewis-Medford Gallery.

I venture in. At the top of a flight of stairs is a reception area. Thick rugs carpet the floor; pamphlets are piled lazily on a desk. Through a pair of double doors I can see paintings, stretching along a gallery.

'It's fifty pence entrance!' a voice shrills at me.

A middle-aged woman swathed in cardigans has emerged from an alcove and is staring at me, half-eaten biscuit in hand. I smile at her, count out a few coins.

'I telephoned earlier, about the Ahlers painting?'

Her expression brightens as she drops the money into the till.

'Yes, you found us, then. I'm so sorry I don't know more, it's my brother who's in charge here really, I'm just covering. The Sat.u.r.day girl's gone off sick. You'll want to have a look round then, here ...'

She scrabbles through the papers and comes up with a photocopied sheet bearing details of the exhibition. Thanking her, I escape into the gallery. It is a silent place, the sunlight dimmed by blinds. There are little nests of dust in the corners. Many of the paintings have tarnished frames, and the unmistakable scent of objects long untouched.

Through the first hallway, then the adjacent one, I peer at anything that might resemble a cafe scene. I eventually find Ahlers down a flight of stairs in the lower gallery.

It's darker here, and musty. I pull my denim jacket tighter, moving along the line of frames. They are all Paris scenes: Notre Dame, the Ca.n.a.l St Martin. I don't see any 'Mademoiselles' on my first pa.s.s, so I check more carefully, reading each label. After a third examination, my heart sinks.

'Looking for the missing Ahlers?' someone asks.

A small man in an oilskin cape has emerged from a side door marked 'Private'. It must lead to the outside, because he brings the smell of rain with him.

'Yes,' I stutter, searching my bag for the details. 'I'm looking for a cafe scene, Mademoiselles at Ptisserie Clermont.'

Unclipping his cape, the man produces a handkerchief and wipes the rain from his face.

'Gone, I'm afraid, miss.'

It takes a second for his words to sink in, and even then, I hope that I've misheard.

'Pardon?'

'Gone. Sold, about five years ago. Surprised me, too, no one ever expressed much of an interest before.'

'Do you know where it is now? Is it in another gallery, or-'

'I'm sorry.' He stops me. 'It was a private sale, the details are confidential.'

'Yes, of course,' I falter, staring at the piece of paper in my notebook. It was stupid to have pinned my hopes on one picture. The curator is asking me if I'm all right. I swallow with difficulty, pus.h.i.+ng down my disappointment.

'Yes, thank you anyway.'

'Young lady?' His voice stops me in my tracks. He is smiling. 'If it's important, I do have a facsimile.'

Back in the reception, he pulls cardboard tubes from a long cupboard. It is warmer here, the smell of coffee pervading the air. The curator and his sister are friendly, ask about my research. I tell them about the thesis I am writing, about my interest in the belle epoque. I can't quite bring myself to mention Grandpa Jim.

'I was a historian once,' the curator says brightly, squinting at labels. 'Studied Cla.s.sics. Didn't stay on, though. Ran off to art school halfway through. Here we are.'

He struggles to extract the roll of paper, using a couple of mugs as paperweights. A black-and-white copy of a painting is stretched out on the desk. It shows a fairly ordinary tableau, a pair of hazily painted women reclining in cafe chairs, cups or gla.s.ses at their fingertips.

One of the women catches my attention. She is at the front of the table, the painter's main subject, her head turned as if she has noticed something just beyond the frame. My neck p.r.i.c.kles. It is the woman from my grandfather's photograph.

'Who is she?' I murmur.

The curator has pushed his gla.s.ses onto his forehead and is surveying the picture with something like tenderness.

'A young lady, enjoying afternoon tea with her friend, I suppose.'

I look for a long time. There's an arresting quality about the girl and I study her face, captured more fully in paint than in a blurred photograph. Her skin is pale, save for some shading high on her cheeks to suggest a flush. Her hair is painted as a dark sweep above a high-necked gown. She looks taut, as though she is about to spring to her feet.

'I don't suppose you know anything about this place, Ptisserie Clermont?' I ask, straightening up.

'Afraid not,' the curator says. 'I've always a.s.sumed it was just a cafe, named after the owners.'

I stare in astonishment. The idea that 'Clermont' might be a person hadn't even occurred to me. It's such an obvious suggestion I could kick myself.

'Hope it's been of some help,' the curator continues, re-rolling the copy. 'The work isn't a masterpiece. Ahlers was a rather average painter, but I miss the mademoiselle and her friend. I think they were just starting to like me.'

'Why did you sell it? If you don't mind me asking?'

He smiles ruefully. 'To be honest, we needed the money. You've seen the state of this place for yourself. Besides, the buyer was quite intent on possessing it.'

I desperately want to ask him more about the painting who bought it and why but I know he'll only tell me it's confidential. I thank him, and shoulder my bag.

He stops me as I turn to leave.

'Would I be right,' he murmurs, 'in a.s.suming that your interest in this painting is more than simply academic?'

I feel the heat rise to my cheeks.

'How did you know?'

He smiles kindly. 'Call it a hunch.'

At the door, I find him reaching for my hand. He shakes it warmly, wis.h.i.+ng me luck. It isn't until I reach the street that I open the sc.r.a.p of paper he pushed secretly into my fingers: Mademoiselles at Ptisserie Clermont, Ahlers, 1910 SOLD: 01/08/1983.

Monsieur G. du Frere, Bordeaux 33000

Chapter Eight.