Transcription
Shola, chapter 4
Friday, February 14th. St. Valentine's Day, or Valentine's Day. The dog man's name is Gom. He helped me with the delivery yesterday, and he was my first customer this morning. He had his dog, Charlie, with him, and he greeted me with a shy politeness that was almost courtly. "It looks wonderful," he said, looking around. "You must have been up all night doing this."
I laughed. "It's quite a transformation," said Gom. "You know, I'm not sure why, but I just assumed it was going to be another bakery."
"What, and ruin poor Mile Patu'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."
Gom bent to straighten Charlie's collar, but I saw his eyes twinkle. "I see you've met," he said. "Yes," I gave him my recipe for bedtime tea. "Sun, 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."
Gom looked a little startled. "Really, Madame?"
"I call me Vion, and I insist." I pushed the box into his hands. "You'll like them; they're your favorite kind."
He smiled at that. "How do you know?" he inquired, tucking the box carefully into his coat pocket.
"Oh, I can just tell," I told him mischievously. "I know everyone's favorite, trust me, this is yours."
The sign wasn't finished until about noon. George Claron came to hang it himself, then profusely apologized at his lateness. The scarlet shutters looked beautiful against the new whitewash, and Naris, grumbling half-heartedly 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 school children, I had few visitors. This is always the case when a new shop opens in such a small village. There is a strict code of behavior 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 brought three identical boxes in to deliver without asking what was inside, but I knew. Then, for hours, no one. 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 come in.
Behind the studied unconcern, however, I sensed a kind of seething, a whispering of speculation, a twitching of curtains, a gathering of resolve. When at last they came, it was together—seven or eight women, Caroline Claron, wife of the sign maker, among 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 Gine, 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 Jolene, a sharp-featured woman who works at the local school. She glanced briefly at the square-faced woman in the window. "That's Josephine Muscat." There was a kind of pity and contempt in her voice as she pronounced the name. "I doubt she'll come in."
As if she had heard, Josephine rened slightly, I noticed, and lowered her head against the breast of her coat. One hand was drawn up against her stomach in an odd, protective gesture. I could see her mouth, perpetually downturned, moving slightly in the rhythms of prayer or cursing.
I served the ladies: a white box, gold ribbon, two paper cornets, a rose, a pink Valentine bow. Amid exclamations and laughter outside, Josephine muttered and rocked, dug her ungainly fists into her stomach. Then, just as I was serving the last customer, she raised her head in a kind of defiance and walked in.
This last order was a large and rather uncomplicated one. Madame wanted just such a selection in a round box with ribbons and flowers and golden hearts and a calling card left blank. At this, the ladies turned up their eyes in roguish ecstasy, so that I almost missed the moment. The large hands are surprisingly nimble, rough, quick hands, rened with housework. One stays lodged in the pit of her stomach; the other flutters briefly at her side like a gunslinger's swift draw, and the little silver packet with the rose marked 10 francs has gone from the shelf and into the pocket of her coat.
"Nice work," I pretended not to notice until the ladies had left the shop with their parcels. Josephine left in front of the counter, and she pretended to examine the display, turned over a couple of boxes with nervous, careful fingers. I closed my eyes; the thoughts she sent me were complex, troubling. A rapid series of images flickered through my mind: smoke, a handful of gleaming trinkets, a bloodied knuckle. Behind it all, a jittering undercurrent of worry.
"Madame Muscat, may I help you?" My voice was soft and pleasant. "Or would you just like to look around?"
She muttered something inaudible, turned as if to leave. "I think I may have something you'll like." I reached under the counter and brought out a silver packet, similar to the one I'd seen her take, though this one was larger. A white ribbon secured the package, sewn with tiny yellow flowers. She looked at me, her wide, unhappy mouth drooping with a kind of panic. I pushed the packet across the counter toward her. "On the house, Josephine," I told her gently. "It's all right; they're your favorites."
Josephine Muscat turned and fled.