Still, later, when Anouk was playing in Les Marauds and I had closed shop for the day, I found myself strolling down the Avenue des Francs Bourgeois in the direction of the Café de la Republique. It is a small, dingy place, soaped windows with an unchanging specialite du jour scrawled across, and a scruffy awning which reduces the available light still further. Inside, a couple of silent slot machines flank the round tables at which – the few customers sit, moodily discussing matters of no importance over interminable demis and cafes-creme. There is the bland oily smell of microwaved food, and a pall of greasy cigarette smoke hangs over the room, even though no-one seems to be smoking. I noticed one of Caroline Clairmont's handlettered yellow cards in a prominent position by the open door. A black crucifix hangs above it.
I looked in, hesitated, and entered.
Muscat was at the bar. He eyed me as I walked in, his mouth stretching. Almost imperceptibly I saw his eyes flick to my legs, my breasts – whap-whap, lighting up like the dials on a slot-machine. He laid a hand on the pump, flexing one heavy forearm. `What can I give you?’
'Cafe-cognac, please.’
The coffee came in a small brown cup with two wrapped sugar lumps. I took it to a table by the window. A couple of old men – one with the Legion d'honneur clipped to one frayed lapel – eyed me with suspicion.
`D'you want some company?’ smirked Muscat from behind the bar. `It's just that you look a little – lonely, sitting there on your own.’
`No, thank you,' I told him politely. `In fact, I thought I might see Josephine today. Is she here?’
Muscat looked at me sourly, his good humour gone. `Oh yes, your bosom friend.’
His voice was dry. `Well, you missed her. She just went upstairs to lie down. One of her sick headaches.’
He began to polish a glass with peculiar ferocity. `Spends all afternoon shopping, then has to lie down in the bloody evening while I do the work.’
`Is she all right?’
He looked at me. `Course she is.’
His voice was sharp. `Why shouldn't she be? If Her Bloody Ladyship could just get up off her fat arse once in a while we might even be able to keep this business afloat.’
He dug his dishcloth wrapped fist into the glass, grunting with the effort.
`I mean.’ He made an expressive gesture, `I mean, just look at this place.’
He glanced at me as if about to say something else, then his gaze slid past me to the door. I gathered he was addressing someone just out of my field of vision. `Don't you people listen? I'm closed!' I heard a man's voice say something indistinct in reply. Muscat gave his wide, cheerless grin. `Can't you idiots read?’
Behind the bar he indicated the yellow twin of the card I had seen at the door. `Get lost, go on!' I stood up to see what was happening. There were five people standing uncertainly at the cafe entrance, two men and three women. All five were strangers to me, unremarkable but for their air of indefinable otherness; the patched trousers, the workboots, the faded T-shirts which proclaimed them outsiders. I should know that look. I had it once. The man who had spoken had red hair and a green bandanna to keep it out of his face. His eyes were cautious, his tone carefully neutral.
`We're not selling anything,' he explained. `We just want to get a couple of beers and some coffee. We're not going to be any trouble.’
Muscat looked at him in contempt. `I said, we're closed.’
One of the women, a drab, thin girl with a pierced eyebrow, tugged at the redhead's sleeve. `It's no good, Roux. We better-'
`Wait a minute.’ Roux shook her off impatiently. `I don't understand. The lady who was here a moment ago your wife she was going to-'
`Screw my wife!' exclaimed Muscat shrilly. `My wife couldn't find her arse with both hands and a pocket torch! It's my name above the door, and I – say – we're – closed!' He had taken three steps from behind the bar, and now he stood barring the doorway, hands on hips, like an overweight gunslinger in a spaghetti western. I could see the yellowy gleam of his knuckles at his belt, hear the whistle of his breath. His face was congested with rage.
`Right.’ Roux's face was expressionless. He flicked a hostile, deliberate glance at the few customers scattered about the room. `Closed.’
Another glance around the room. For a moment our eyes met. `Closed to us,' he said quietly.
`Not as stupid as you look, are you?’ said Muscat with sour glee. `We had enough of your lot last time. This time, we're not standing for it!' `OK.’
Roux turned to go. Muscat saw him off, strutting stiff-legged, like a dog scenting a fight.
I walked past him without a word, leaving my coffee half-finished on the table. I hope he wasn't expecting a tip.
I caught up with the river-gypsies halfway down the Avenue des Francs Bourgeois: It had begun to drizzle again, and the five of them looked drab and sullen. I could see their boats now, down in Les Marauds, a dozen of them – two dozen – a flotilla of green-yellow-blue-whitered, some flying flags of damp washing, others painted with Arabian nights and magic carpets and unicorn variations reflected in the dull green water.
`I'm sorry that happened,' I told them. `They're not an especially welcoming lot in Lansquenet-sous-Tannes.’
Roux gave me a flat, measuring look.
`My name is Vianne,' I told him. `I have the chocolaterie just opposite the church. La Celeste Praline.’
He watched me, waiting. I recognized myself in his carefully expressionless face. I wanted to tell him – to tell all of them – that I knew their rage and humiliation, that I'd known it too, that they weren't alone. But I also knew their pride, the useless defiance which remains after everything else has been scoured away. The last thing they wanted, I knew, was sympathy.
`Why don't you drop in tomorrow?’
I asked lightly. `I don't do beer, but I think you might enjoy my coffee.’
He looked at me sharply, as if he suspected me of mocking him. – `Please come,' I insisted. `Have coffee and a slice of cake on the house. All of you.’
The thin girl looked at her friends and shrugged. Roux returned the gesture. `Maybe.’
The voice was non-committal.
`We got a busy schedule,' chirped the girl pertly.
I smiled. `Find a window,' I suggested.
Again that measuring, suspicious look. `Maybe.’
I watched them go down into Les Marauds as Anouk came running up the hill towards me, the tails of her red raincoat flapping like the wings of an exotic bird. `Maman, Maman! Look, the boats!' We admired them for a while, the flat barges, the tall: houseboats with the corrugated roofs, the stovepipe chimneys, the frescoes, the multicoloured flags, slogans, painted devices to ward against accident and shipwreck, the small barques, fishing lines, pots for crayfish hoisted up against.the tidemark for the night, tattered umbrellas sheltering decks, the beginnings of campfires in steel drums on the riverside. There was a smell of burning wood and petrol and frying fish, a distant sound of music from across the water as a saxophone began its eerily human melodious wail. Halfway across the Tannes I could just make out the figure of a redheaded man standing alone on the deck of a plain black houseboat. As I watched he lifted his arm. I waved back. It was almost dark when we made our way home. Back in Les Marauds a drummer had joined the saxophone, and the sounds of his drumming slapped flatly off the water. I passed the Cafe de la Republique without looking in.
I had barely reached the top of the hill when I felt a presence at my elbow. I turned and saw Josephine Muscat, coatless now but with a scarf around her head and half, covering her face. In the semi-darkness she looked pallid, nocturnal.
`Run home, Anouk. Wait for me there.’
Anouk gave me a curious glance, then turned and ran off obediently up the hill, her coat-tails flapping wildly.