“Read me your favourite poem,” she says.
From the kitchen, as I pour chocolate into two tall glasses, as I stir the cream and kahlua, as I make enough noise with pots and bottles to give the illusion of privacy, I hear his voice raised, stilted at first, then gaining rhythm and confidence. I cannot make out the words, but from a distance it sounds like prayer or invective. I notice that when he reads, the boy does not stutter.
Armande and her grandsons secret meeting in the chocolate shop. So beautiful! Brought a tear to my eyes!