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Authors: Katherine Hall Page

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A few eyebrows went up, but no one said anything, although Faith could see Michèle's mouth was twitching. It
was obvious that Cécile was very upset about her daughter's behavior. Faith's stomach gave another lurch. She'd been hoping for a daughter of her own. Yet it was true—she'd heard girls were tougher in their teens. Maybe there was a good convent school near Aleford.
It was growing late and, a few at a time, the women slipped out of the kitchen into the garden to fetch a child or remind a husband of tomorrow's busy schedule, until only Faith, Ghislaine, and Michèle were left.
“Do you think Cécile is overreacting about her daughter, or is Dominique really difficult?” Faith asked Ghislaine.
“I see the girl at Christmas and Easter, perhaps a Sunday here or there in between when her father has been feeling the need to flex some parental muscles and make her come, so it's hard for me to say what she is like. She was always very bright and did well in school. If she messes up her
bac
, then there will be some cause for alarm. Actually, you saw her the other night. She was at Valentina's gallery with Christophe d'Ambert and some other friends. She was wearing gold—what do you call them?—sneakers.”
“But she looked great in them, a very pretty girl.”
“I agree; however, Cécile would prefer her in a long navy pleated skirt and flower-print blouse from Cacharel—a slightly different uniform. Now I would love Stéphanie to dress a little more like Dominique. My own daughter, and not interested in what she puts on her back. Pierre is the opposite—not only a certain
marque
but it has to be from the right shop.”
“Oh, boys are much worse than girls about these things,” Michele agreed. “Patrice is barely eight and if his Floriane Bermudas or shirt are from the warehouse and not some place in the Brotteaux, he is ashamed. Of course, I don't pay any attention to him,” she added proudly.
The clock in the hall struck and Faith looked about in surprise. She'd had no idea it was so late and realized, too, that her mind had moved far away from the dark preoccupations
of an hour or so ago. Now her main concern was to get the address of the Floriane outlet from Michele.
Ben cried when they left and everyone tried to comfort him, which only made it worse, because they were so nice and that was why he didn't want to leave in the first place. The lure of riding in the Deux Chevaux soon worked its magic, he cheered up, and they finally got him in the car. Such is the fickleness of youth.
“Did you have a good time, darling?” Tom asked as they drove down the hill toward the city, beginning to sparkle as lights went on against the twilight.
“Wonderful. The longer I'm here, the more I love it.”
“Me, too. You know we should get together with our families more. Go down to Mother and Dad's, see my brothers and sister.”
“But Sundays are your busy day.”
“Well, a Saturday then. Big families are nice,” he added, looking pointedly at Faith's abdomen. He had obviously been struck by the togetherness of the Leblanc clan, as she had, too; but manufacturing their own seemed a bit drastic.
She shot him a look. “We'll go down to Norwell as soon as we get back. I'll talk to your mother. This isn't touch-football season, is it?”
The Fairchilds, scattered among various towns south of Boston, were a game-playing family—outdoors if the weather was good, and sometimes if it wasn't—and indoor board games for torrential downpours or blizzards. They had tried in vain to enlist Faith on whatever the team of the moment was. She was glad of her condition for an excuse this time. She liked his family—in small doses. Maybe if they spoke French …
By the time they reached the apartment, it was dark and Ben had fallen asleep in his car seat.
“Why don't you carry him up and I'll park the car.” Faith offered.
“Good idea. With luck, he won't wake up until morning.”
They pulled in front of the building. Tom got out and Faith moved into the driver's seat. She drove slowly down the block, looking for a space, and was lucky enough to grab one not too far away. As she was about to get out, she was startled by someone opening the passenger-side door. It was Marie, the
fille de joie,
and she swiftly got in.
“Drive to Perrache, the train station, you know it?” she ordered Faith.
“I'm happy to take you if you need a ride,” Faith started to say, slightly piqued at the abruptness of the request.
“I don't need a ride. Just drive in that direction—
vite!”
Faith started to pull out onto rue du Brest when, as quickly as she had jumped in, Marie cried, “Stop!” and got out of the car. Thoroughly confused, Faith backed into the space again and tried to see where Marie had gone. There were several people passing on the sidewalk, but the girl had vanished.
She walked slowly back to the apartment and up the stairs. Obviously, Marie had wanted to tell her something. And obviously, something, or more likely someone, had frightened her away. Faith would have to try to speak with her alone tomorrow, which wouldn't be easy. The three graces seemed to be on the same timers. They were either all on the corner or all otherwise occupied.
She opened the apartment door, determined to tell Tom during the course of the evening some of what had been happening. False
clochards,
prostitutes jumping in and out of her car like “Pop Goes the Weasel”—it was getting too strange.
Ben was indeed asleep and even though they had insisted they wouldn't want another thing to eat that day, nine o'clock found the Fairchilds sitting at the table with
some tomatoes, radishes and butter, cheese, and yesterday's very crusty bread between them.
“Tom,” Faith started hesitantly, “you know I can't get the business with the
clochard
out of my head and there is one explanation we haven't explored.”
“What's that?” he asked through a mouthful of Camembert. He'd heard the European Community was proposing to limit the bacteria levels in cheese and had told Faith it was their sworn duty to eat as much real Camembert as possible before it was a distant memory.
“What if the man outside the church is in disguise—impersonating the dead
clochard?”
“You've been reading too many mysteries, honey. We went to church this morning. It was definitely the same guy as far as I could tell. Didn't you think so?”
“The
clochard
I found had a scratch on the back of his hand. This one doesn't.”
Tom looked surprised. “Are you positive? Was it a deep scratch?”
“Of course, the light was poor, but it did look pretty deep.”
“It couldn't have been a thread of some sort from the trash, red string from a sausage casing?”
She looked at her husband. He believed her, yet his desperate search for possible alternatives showed he really didn't want to. For if he did, it would mean the end of their idyllic sojourn.
She couldn't do it to him.
Faith gave Tom what she hoped was a reassuring smile, passed him some more Camembert, and said, “There could have been a thread or something like that in there.”
Not yet. Not until she was absolutely positive.
They were greeted by the sound of a steady rain when they awoke on Monday morning.
Tom looked out the window gloomily. “You know it can rain for weeks like this in Lyon.”
Faith had noted the abundance of umbrella shops and figured there had to be a reason.
“Solange d'Ambert told me it rains more in the winter and early spring. They call it suicide weather—
le temps de suicide.
So I'm sure this will pass. It's the wrong time of year.”
“I prefer the other expression Paul taught me years ago. Rain like
une vache qui pisse.

Faith had never taken the opportunity to observe a cow engaged in this particular activity, and in any case, it
was overly suggestive of her own frequent journeys to the w.c. these days.
She felt depressed. The inclemency made it that much harder to get in touch with Marie. She didn't imagine the girls got enough business during weather like this to make it worth while to stand in the freezing rain.
She stared out the window at the passersby huddled under umbrellas and hurrying down the street. The
faux clochard,
as she had come to call him, was not braving the downpour.
As she was helping Ben get dressed, the plans, which had been floating about her head since the night before, crystalized. First, she'd look for Marie at the corner on the way back from taking Ben to school. If the girl was by some chance alone, they could arrange a time and place to meet. If the others were there, she could ask Marie to help her find a particular address, necessitating stepping inside someplace for shelter while they looked at the street map of Lyon. It was all she had been able to come up with, apart from simply hiring her for an hour in order to find out why she'd made her hasty entry and exit the night before. But Lyon was not unlike Aleford, she suspected, and Faith had no doubt she'd see headlines involving minister's wife and solicitation before the day was out. Probably “hallucinatory minister's wife,” if anyone consulted Sergeants Martin and Pollet.
Once outside, she discovered the rain was indeed as cold and drenching as it had looked from inside. She had her sturdy Burberry and an umbrella big enough for several Mary Poppinses, but Faith still felt wet to the bone. The whole city looked gray and the water in the gutters swirled about, churning up a mixture of filthy refuse. No one was at the corner. In fact, there was almost no one anywhere.
Faith hurriedly deposited Ben at the
garderie,
where he quickly joined an eager group at the window who were watching an enormous garbage truck empty the bins with
appropriate gear-stripping sounds. Heartrending, Faith thought, as she passed the truck out in the rain once more, her course set for hot tea and crawling back into bed. She got as far as the vestibule when she made the fatal mistake of turning around to gaze at the leaden Eglise St. Nizier opposite her.
Clochards,
like others, would be seeking warm food and shelter on a day like today. It was the perfect time to check out the kitchen
de soupe,
or whatever it was called, on rue Millet. She braced herself and walked back out into the storm.
Rue Millet turned out to be a short street between the pedestrian street rue de la République and the Rhône. It wasn't hard to find the shelter. Most of the buildings were old warehouses. The shelter was the only noncommercial building in evidence. There was also a sign. She opened the door and found herself in an open courtyard that would be a pleasant place to linger on a sunny day. It had benches and several large containers filled with pansies, their bright blooms beaten flat by the rainfall today. Crossing swiftly, she entered a passageway on the other side and followed the sounds and appetizing smells to a large reception area. She could see a low-ceilinged refectory beyond it. A young man, tall and thin, with a long ponytail turned from a bulletin board where he had been stapling a notice and asked if he could help.
Although Faith was in desperate need of something hot to drink, this was not her top priority, even with soup close at hand. On the way, she'd decided the best thing to do was tell a relatively straightforward and honest story.
“I wonder if you might—” she started in French.
“Are you English, American?” he interrupted in English.
So much for all the time she'd been spending practicing rolling her
R
's, Faith thought, slightly chagrined.
“Yes, I'm American. My name is Faith Fairchild and—”
Again he interrupted her, this time with considerably more enthusiasm. “Ah, America. I love the États-Unis. Jack Kerouac, John Gregory Dunne. Big Sur. And Route Sixty-six. It's my dream—to follow it. Where are you from?”
“Originally, New York City, but I—” She was ready for the next interruption.
“New York! The Large Apple. I dream of it. But why are you here, mademoiselle? Are you lost? This is an agency that helps some of those in Lyon who have had bad times and need a meal, a bed. You—”
It was her turn. She cut him off. “I know what this is. I'm not lost. You see I am married to a minister and we are very interested in the ways other countries are dealing with the problems of the homeless and I thought perhaps someone here could tell me something.”
He became positively radiant, so radiant that she knew she would feel guilty and end up sending him a Christmas card every year or some such thing. It was too late to bear a child for him.
“I am Lucien Thibidaut and at your service. Perhaps we can start with a
petit tour
and then you may ask away your questions.”
It was what she had hoped. He led her straight into the room where volunteers were busy setting steaming bowls of stew and baskets of bread in front of the individuals seated at the long tables. Some appeared not to notice, while others virtually dove into the food. There was a vast range in cleanliness, age, and attire; yet everyone had a shopping bag or two close at hand. These contained whatever they possessed, or had collected. One's whole life in a paper sack from Galleries Lafayette. A
clochard
without a bag would look naked. She tried to pay attention to Lucien's monologue while scrutinizing each face and hands. No luck.
“Is there another room? Another place where people
can eat?” It was possible either of the
clochards
might be somewhere else.
Lucien appeared surprised, as well he might. The room they were standing in was enormous and the tables were by no means full.
“No, this is sufficient,” he answered.
“I'm sorry,” Faith apologized, “I meant sleep. Is there a place for beds?”
The glow returned. “But of course, let me show you. We have separate facilities for men and women, with beds and showers. Also a small separate apartment for mothers with children, equipped with a playroom. It is surprising and sad to note the increase in their numbers.”
Faith followed him up the stairs and walked politely beside him as he showed her the sleeping quarters—clean, comfortable-looking—and completely empty.
Neither man was there.
It was unlikely either would be in the family quarters, but she obediently followed her guide and made appropriate noises of approval, which were genuine. It was an excellent arrangement.
They returned to the reception area and Faith asked some more questions about who sponsored the shelter, how it was administered, and how many were served. It really was a model shelter and she felt less guilty as she took a card and promised to return with her husband. She knew Tom would want to see it.
Then a last try: “We are living in Place St. Nizier. Not far, of course, and we seem to have a resident
clochard
at the church.”
“Oh yes, Bernard. Quite a character. I think he was in the army, then became alcoholic, couldn't work. It is a familiar story. When he is not drunk, he can be very sensitive. People tell him their problems. And he is quite intelligent. Doesn't miss much. But when he is drunk, it's another story.”
“Yes, I know. I saw him attack another
clochard
last week.”
Lucien shook his head and sighed audibly. “We are here to help them—find work, take care of their
Sécurité Sociale,
get them to the doctor, but so many like Bernard do not want to change. We have not seen him for some days. He must be on the road again. They all do this from time to time.”
“Does he have a brother or relative who is also on the streets? I saw someone who looked very much like him.”
“No, not that I have heard. Certainly he never came here. But after a time, many of them do come to look like each other—the reddened face, the unwashed hair. If I told you the ages of some of the people in there, you would not believe it.”
Faith said good-bye, thanked him, and over his protests gave him a donation. She wanted to do it—and it made her feel a little better about using him. She crossed back through the courtyard, thinking how much the world needed Luciens, and pulled open the door to the street. She gasped and stepped back.
It was the “party man.” The rain had loosened his bandage, which hung off the side of his face, revealing the ugly wound. He still clutched his shopping bag and he stank. His vacant eyes swept her face and he appeared not even to register that there was another person standing there. He stumbled by and she stepped thankfully into the street. There was no point in trying to question him as to anyone's whereabouts. He didn't even know his own.
Despite this encounter, she felt slightly elated. She hadn't located either
clochard,
but then, had that really been her object? Wasn't it to find out who wasn't there? And the
clochard
she'd found in the trash bin hadn't been seen at the shelter for some days. It could mean, as Lucien suggested, that it was ho for the open road, yet Faith believed otherwise.
It was too early to get Ben, but there wasn't time to put her original cup of tea and nap plan into effect, so Faith decided to walk to the café in her neighborhood and order a big cup of steaming chocolate. If there were any croissants left from the breakfast crowd, she'd have one of those, too. She was starving. As she was about to enter the café, someone darted out from the alley next to it and grabbed her arm, pulling her back into the narrow passage.
It was Marie, of course. Faith was relieved but hungry.
“In here, quickly.” Here was the back entrance to one of the buildings on rue Chavanne. It had space for the inevitable
poubelles,
the two women, and not much else. Marie banged the door shut.
“This is the only way I can talk to you and I pray no one saw us,” Marie said as she lighted a cigarette.
It was no time to protest secondary smoke, and as the pungent Gaulois fumes enveloped them, Faith asked, “What is this all about? What's wrong?”
“I don't have much time, so be quiet and listen. The others are too frightened to tell you and you mustn't mention what I say to anyone, not even your husband.”
“All right,” Faith agreed. Marie was definitely agitated. She was smoking in quick, jerky motions, inhaling deeply and forcefully exhaling, almost at the same time. Her raincoat had fallen open, revealing her work clothes, tight black jeans and a neon chartreuse halter. She must be freezing.
“What you found in the trash was what you thought. So now it is not safe for you to be in Lyon. These people would think nothing of putting you there, too. For them, it is just part of business.” She spoke so quickly, it took Faith a moment to translate. And when she did, she could scarcely believe it. She said the first thing that came into her mind.
“What people?”
Marie looked at her in annoyance. “Just leave Lyon, okay? Go back to the U.S.”
“But what excuse can I make to my husband? We're supposed to be here for two more weeks.”
“Tell him you want to be near your mother or your doctor. You will think of something. Men always listen to their wives when they are
enceinte,
you know, even if they didn't before. Now, I will leave first and
don't
speak to me when you see me.”
BOOK: The Body In the Vestibule
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