Шоколад / Chocolat

Her mouth has a humorous twist which reminds me of my mother. “I used to love chocolate,” she declared.

As I poured her, a tall glass of mocha and added a splash of kahlua to the froth she surveyed the bar stools with some suspicion.

“You don’t expect me to climb all the way up there, do you?”

I laughed.

“If I’d known you were coming I would have brought a ladder. Wait a moment.” Stepping into the kitchen I brought out Poitou’s old orange chair. “Try this.”

Armande plumped into the chair and took her glass in both hands.

She looked eager as a child, her eyes shining, her expression rapt.

“Mmmm.” It was more than appreciation. It was almost reverence. “Mmmmmm.”

She had closed her eyes as she tasted the drink. Her pleasure was almost frightening.

“This is the real thing, isn’t it?” She paused for a moment, bright eyes speculatively half-closed. “There’s cream and – cinnamon, I think – and what else? Tia Maria?”

“Close enough,” I said.

“What’s forbidden always tastes better anyway,” declared Armande, wiping froth from her mouth in satisfaction.

“But this”– she sipped again, greedily – “is better than anything I remember, even from childhood. I bet there are ten thousand calories in here. More.”

“Why should it be forbidden?” I was curious.

Small and round as a partridge, she seems as unlike her figure conscious daughter as can be.

“Oh, doctors.” Armande was dismissive. “You know what they’re like. They’ll say anything.

” She paused to drink again through her straw. “Oh, this is good. Good. Caro’s been trying to make me go into some kind of a home for years. Doesn’t like the idea of me living next door. Doesn’t like to be reminded where she comes from.” She gave a rich chuckle. “Says I’m sick. Can’t look after myself. Sends that miserable doctor of hers to tell me what I can eat and what I can’t. Anyone would think they wanted me to live for ever.”

I smiled.

“I’m sure Caroline cares very much about you,” I said.

Armande shot me a look of derision.

“Oh, you are?” She gave a vulgar cackle of laughter. “Don’t give me that, girl. You know perfectly well that my daughter doesn’t care for anyone but herself. I’m not a fool.” A pause as she narrowed her bright, challenging gaze at me. “It’s the boy I feel for,” she said.

“Boy?”

“Luc, his name is. My grandson. He’ll be fourteen in April. You may have seen him in the square.