Read The Body In the Vestibule Online
Authors: Katherine Hall Page
The Body In the Vestibule (3 page)
Faith looked at her watch. She'd have to finish the letter later. It was time to get said child. She glanced in the tiny mirror over the bathroom sink and put on some lip gloss and blush. French mothers, at least in Lyon, never appeared in the streets in untidy clothes or without makeup. They didn't have the kind of style Faith saw in Paris or even elsewhere in Lyon, on rues Victor Hugo or Emile Zola, where skirts were very short, and agnés b. or Clementine supplied them, yet the mothers still had that seemingly unconscious ability of most French women to look goodâno matter how homely they were. She thought of her neighbors back in Aleford in their ubiquitous jogging suits, jeans, or, in the case of the older women, ensembles from Johnny Appleseed's. Informality was easier, but it didn't look as chic.
She raced down the stairs, paused almost at the bottom until the walls stopped spinning around, then opened a door and took Ben's stroller out. She'd been lugging this up and down the stairs with Ben and usually a full
panier
in tow until, happily, Madame d'Ambert pointed out that one of Faith's keys opened up what had formerly been living space for a concierge and was now a storage area for bicycles, etc. As she grabbed the stroller, she was struck as always that the good old days hadn't been so lovely for all concerned. The Belle Epoque in this case meant a low ceiling, a single interior round window, so dirty that little light passed through, and narrow rooms extending the length of the building. She locked the closet again and went out the door into the square, hoping Ben would consent to be pushed in his
poussette
and not demand to push it, as usual.
panier
in tow until, happily, Madame d'Ambert pointed out that one of Faith's keys opened up what had formerly been living space for a concierge and was now a storage area for bicycles, etc. As she grabbed the stroller, she was struck as always that the good old days hadn't been so lovely for all concerned. The Belle Epoque in this case meant a low ceiling, a single interior round window, so dirty that little light passed through, and narrow rooms extending the length of the building. She locked the closet again and went out the door into the square, hoping Ben would consent to be pushed in his
poussette
and not demand to push it, as usual.
It was close to noon and everything in Lyon had come
to a halt for the sacred hour, sometimes longer, for lunchâor almost everything.
to a halt for the sacred hour, sometimes longer, for lunchâor almost everything.
Faith and Tom had been amused to discover that St. Nizier and the small, narrow surrounding streets composed one of Lyon's red-light districts. At lunchtime, the prostitutes were out in full force, as men put aside work for the pleasures of the table, and perhaps the bed, as well. Every day to and from school, Faith passed the same three women who stood casually a half block down from the butcher's. One had a small, fluffy dog that Ben adored and it wasn't long before they had entered into conversation. The dog's name was Whiskey, she told them. Faith realized that as an outsider, and a transient one, as well, she had the freedom to break the conventions people like the d'Amberts, and even the Leblancs, followed whether they wanted to or not. So she was fast becoming close friends with her butcher and his wife and could stop and shoot the breeze with the ladies at the corner. Their names were Marilyn, Monique, and Marie. Marilyn appeared considerably younger than the other two and wore glasses, which she pulled off whenever a car slowed at the curb, then called discreetly,
“Tu viens mon minet?”
The little dog was hers.
“Tu viens mon minet?”
The little dog was hers.
Monique appeared to be about Faith's mother's age and had the largest bust Faith had ever seen. She favored tube tops in a variety of neon colors, miniskirts in black, and patent leather go-go bootsâa kind of universal outfit, as much at home over the years in Boston's Combat Zone or Paris's Pigalle as here.
Marie could have been twenty or forty. She smoked constantlyâhow constantly was a question that crossed Faith's mindâand had a mane of bright red hair to her waist. It was when Marie had told Faith one day last week to hurry upstairs, her husband had come home for lunch, that she'd begun to suspect Lyon was a village, too.
It was always difficult to get Ben to leave school, especially when he'd been playing with the riding toys in the big
room, and today was no exception. It ended the same way as usual, too. The teacher, Jeanne, watched Faith cajole, speak firmly, start to leave in the blind hope he would follow; then, with a smile, she stepped in and said firmly,
“Ã demain, Benjamin. Dit âau revoir.'”
And Ben kissed her, said good-bye, and left. Of course, it was one of life's perverse truths that children will always behave better for anyone else than a parent, but Faith was convinced Jeanne possessed some hidden powers. Mesmerism, or something she sprinkled in their milk.
room, and today was no exception. It ended the same way as usual, too. The teacher, Jeanne, watched Faith cajole, speak firmly, start to leave in the blind hope he would follow; then, with a smile, she stepped in and said firmly,
“Ã demain, Benjamin. Dit âau revoir.'”
And Ben kissed her, said good-bye, and left. Of course, it was one of life's perverse truths that children will always behave better for anyone else than a parent, but Faith was convinced Jeanne possessed some hidden powers. Mesmerism, or something she sprinkled in their milk.
The
garderie
was a godsend. Faith was afraid she might get a little boring about how wonderfully the French arranged their lives when she got back to Aleford, but the government-sponsored child care
was
truly wonderful. And the public transportation. And the health care. And the â¦
garderie
was a godsend. Faith was afraid she might get a little boring about how wonderfully the French arranged their lives when she got back to Aleford, but the government-sponsored child care
was
truly wonderful. And the public transportation. And the health care. And the â¦
Benjamin was in high spirits and raced out to the street with Faith in swift pursuit, awkwardly lugging his stroller. She called, “Stop” at the top of her voice, then switched to
“Arrêt,”
and he did. Miraculously, he also allowed himself to be strapped into the stroller. Ben's blond hair was losing its curls with each haircut, although hot weather and exercise produced the damp that restored them and his face was framed with tendrils. He gave her an angelic smile. It didn't fool her for a moment, but it was a nice moment.
“Arrêt,”
and he did. Miraculously, he also allowed himself to be strapped into the stroller. Ben's blond hair was losing its curls with each haircut, although hot weather and exercise produced the damp that restored them and his face was framed with tendrils. He gave her an angelic smile. It didn't fool her for a moment, but it was a nice moment.
They made their way slowly back to the apartment. Ben was fascinated by a barge on the river, crying, to Faith's delight,
“Bateau!
Mom!
Bateau!”
They crossed the street to the bridge to stand and watch it pass underneath. It was a houseboat, a
péniche
, with a small, bright green square of AstroTurf, complete with lawn chairs, on the deck. From the bridge they were standing on, they could look down the river to the other spans arching gracefully across the Saône. On one side, old Lyon sloped from the medieval cathedral of St. Jean and the Palais de Justice up the mountain to Fourvière, a nineteenth-century cathedral with Byzantine leanings that dominated the skyline. Then,
on the other side, the shops and apartments of Presqu'île crowded close to the quais, row upon row of brightly painted exteriorsârose, ocher, yellowâtheir balconies filled with pots of flowers. Once, Paul Leblanc had told her, Lyon was completely gray, matching the rains that fell for weeks in the winter. Louis Pradel, the mayor during the sixties and early seventies, had started the restoration back to the original colors. Paul was convinced this was when the city began to shed some of its reputation for bourgeois correctness and provincial snobbishness. He swore it began to rain less, too. Faith looked up at the brilliant sun. For whatever reason, the weather had been perfect so far.
“Bateau!
Mom!
Bateau!”
They crossed the street to the bridge to stand and watch it pass underneath. It was a houseboat, a
péniche
, with a small, bright green square of AstroTurf, complete with lawn chairs, on the deck. From the bridge they were standing on, they could look down the river to the other spans arching gracefully across the Saône. On one side, old Lyon sloped from the medieval cathedral of St. Jean and the Palais de Justice up the mountain to Fourvière, a nineteenth-century cathedral with Byzantine leanings that dominated the skyline. Then,
on the other side, the shops and apartments of Presqu'île crowded close to the quais, row upon row of brightly painted exteriorsârose, ocher, yellowâtheir balconies filled with pots of flowers. Once, Paul Leblanc had told her, Lyon was completely gray, matching the rains that fell for weeks in the winter. Louis Pradel, the mayor during the sixties and early seventies, had started the restoration back to the original colors. Paul was convinced this was when the city began to shed some of its reputation for bourgeois correctness and provincial snobbishness. He swore it began to rain less, too. Faith looked up at the brilliant sun. For whatever reason, the weather had been perfect so far.
When they got back to their block, Ben saw Marilyn and ran to her. As Faith drew near, she noticed the dog was cradled in Marilyn's arms, instead of at her feet as usual, and she had buried her face in its fur. Her stiff, slightly pink blond hair contrasted oddly with the puppy's fluffy brown fur. The other two women were nowhere in sight. Ben was trying to pet the puppy. Marilyn lifted her head toward them and Faith said, “Another time, Ben,” and pulled him away.
Marilyn did not look like
une fille de joie.
She was crying her eyes out.
une fille de joie.
She was crying her eyes out.
Faith and Tom had been to two French dinner parties, not counting the familial gatherings at the Leblancs, and on the basis of these experiences, Faith, never one to shy away from sweeping generalizations, declared that they were the easiest parties in the world to give. And naturally, she was giving one, too.
“You don't have to worry about the food,” she'd explained to Tom. “If you don't have the time or inclination to cook, you simply go to Chorliet the
traiteur,
pick up say some blinis and smoked salmon for the first course, maybe a nice duck with green peppercorns for the next or veal stuffed with sweetbreads, a few hundred of those yummy puffed-up soufflé potatoes, salad, cheese. Then off to Tourtillier for some incredible
gateaux
. Light a candle or two,
pour a great deal of wine, and you're in business. Plus, you never have to worry about people not going with other people or a lack of conversation. Even if they don't like each other, the French will always talk. Then, of course, they look so nice and come prepared to have a good time.”
traiteur,
pick up say some blinis and smoked salmon for the first course, maybe a nice duck with green peppercorns for the next or veal stuffed with sweetbreads, a few hundred of those yummy puffed-up soufflé potatoes, salad, cheese. Then off to Tourtillier for some incredible
gateaux
. Light a candle or two,
pour a great deal of wine, and you're in business. Plus, you never have to worry about people not going with other people or a lack of conversation. Even if they don't like each other, the French will always talk. Then, of course, they look so nice and come prepared to have a good time.”
“I think your sample is a bit small and contaminated by bias, but I agree with you. There is that tendency in Aleford to view a dinner invitation with fear and loathing.”
Faith laughed. “That's because of two things. One is the weather. In the winterâroughly October to Mayâonce you're in your own warm house, you don't want to go anywhere. The rest of the year, you don't want to go inside, because you'd miss those few fleeting moments of heat.”
“And what's the other?”
“That if you go, you'll have to invite your host and hostess back to your house someday, and since I'm not back in business yet, this means cooking your own mess o'porridge.”
“So
that's
what I had at the Forbeses' when I first arrived in Aleford! You can't imagine what I had to eat before I met you, darling.”
that's
what I had at the Forbeses' when I first arrived in Aleford! You can't imagine what I had to eat before I met you, darling.”
“Poor thing, but let's not give ourselves nightmares.”
As minister's spouse, Faith had herself consumed enough portions of mystery meats and chicken drenched with every Campbell soup sauce known to woman to want to push these memories back into her dark unconscious.
Tom was getting in the mood. “I think a party is a great idea. Who should we invite? And what'll we do about chairs? We can't ask people to stand around balancing plates for hours. Speaking of which, what will we do about plates? We only have four.”
“All this is true, but the people in the building can bring their own chairs and maybe one or two extra. We'll ask the Leblancs for some more plates and accoutrements. Ghislaine keeps telling me to let her know if we need anything.
It may not be the usual kind of dinner party, but we're Americans. We can be as eccentric as we please.”
It may not be the usual kind of dinner party, but we're Americans. We can be as eccentric as we please.”
They settled on the Leblancs, d'Amberts, Joliets, Madame Vincent, the Veaux, and the Duclos, one of the couples from the university who had invited them last week. The Duclos couldn't make it, nor could the Picots, the other couple. Faith figured she'd be doing another party soon. She might have to invest in some plates. It left a guest list of eleven, and by putting in the leaves she'd found in one of the closets, they could all sit around the table.
Thursday, Faith was busy getting ready. She bought a roll of gift wrap that looked like malachite to cover the table, paper napkins, candles, and inexpensive holders, all at Monoprix, her favorite store in Lyon. It was even better than an old-fashioned five-and-ten, because it had great clothes for Ben, turned out to be the most reasonably priced place for sexy underwear for herselfâshe'd tried to seduce Tom into the brief briefs Frenchmen wore, but he was stolidly clinging to his boxer shortsâ
and
sold food upstairs, but not
marché
or Chorliet food. She rarely bought anything from the shelves of canned cassoulet and a
frigo
section complete with frozen
pommes frites
, the original French fries, yet she liked knowing it was there.
and
sold food upstairs, but not
marché
or Chorliet food. She rarely bought anything from the shelves of canned cassoulet and a
frigo
section complete with frozen
pommes frites
, the original French fries, yet she liked knowing it was there.
She returned to the apartment with a full basket, which she set down while she opened the mailbox in the vestibule. She heard someone come in behind her, and looked up, expecting the pharmacist's wife from the shop located on the street floor of the building.
Madame Boiron was, curiously enough, an Anglophile, unlike most of the French Faith had met, who seemed to regard their hereditary enemies as ready to pull the same kind of fast one Wellington had at Waterloo. Then there was that distressing tendency the British had of referring to their friends Jacques and Marie across the water as “frogs.” That the embers still smoldered and the water was wide was dramatically illustrated one morning in the
marché
when
Faith heard a large, pink English lady say loudly to her companion, “Mind your purse, Daphne.” Shoppers around her froze for a moment, then moved conspicuously away. It was a wonder the Channel tunnel had ever been approved.
marché
when
Faith heard a large, pink English lady say loudly to her companion, “Mind your purse, Daphne.” Shoppers around her froze for a moment, then moved conspicuously away. It was a wonder the Channel tunnel had ever been approved.
But it was not Madame Boiron calling, “Good morning, Mrs. Fairsheeld” in her beautifully accented English, hastening over for a practice chat. It was Christophe, the eldest d'Ambert, who nodded his head and said,
“Bonjour, madame. Ãa va?”
Christophe was at
lycée
, high school, and probably returning home for lunch, although usually students this age filled the bars and small bistros near their schools during the hour or more break.
“Bonjour, madame. Ãa va?”
Christophe was at
lycée
, high school, and probably returning home for lunch, although usually students this age filled the bars and small bistros near their schools during the hour or more break.
“Yes, thank you. And you?” Faith answered, still chary of her accent. Christophe spoke excellent English, due, he had told her, to his parents' desire for reducing the numbers in the apartment whenever possible. Faith knew that, in fact, his parents were doing what all the other parents of their class did, which was to send their children off at a tender age to another country to perfect their language skills during the
vacances.
vacances.
Christophe picked up her basket and gave a small courtly wave of the hand. “After you, please.” Like the other French teenagers she'd observed, he seemed impossibly grown-up. Maybe it was that impossible exam,
le bac
, the
baccalauréat,
looming up at the end of their schooling that made them so somber. They sat at small sidewalk tables, chain-smoking Gauloises, or American cigarettes when they could afford them, and drinking cup after cup of
cafe noir.
But then she would also see them chasing each other over the playground equipment at Place Lyautey, eating cakes like happy preschoolers.
le bac
, the
baccalauréat,
looming up at the end of their schooling that made them so somber. They sat at small sidewalk tables, chain-smoking Gauloises, or American cigarettes when they could afford them, and drinking cup after cup of
cafe noir.
But then she would also see them chasing each other over the playground equipment at Place Lyautey, eating cakes like happy preschoolers.
Christophe, however, at eighteen did seem to have taken a final giant step across the line between childhood and early adulthood. Somehow she couldn't picture him climbing a jungle gym. He was very good-lookingâthick dark blond hair that waved conveniently back from his
brow, deep blue eyes. He wore his 501 jeans with shirts and cashmere sweaters from Façonnable, a fashionable men's store whose prices left Faith gasping. She'd seen sale signs in store windows advertising,
PRIX CHOC!
and she'd told Tom that “Price Shock” was a more apt description for the physical condition you felt when looking at the tags. She'd ventured into one children's clothing store and realized an outfit for Ben was more than her new winter coat had cost last year. And this from a woman who walked fearlessly into Barney's, New York.
brow, deep blue eyes. He wore his 501 jeans with shirts and cashmere sweaters from Façonnable, a fashionable men's store whose prices left Faith gasping. She'd seen sale signs in store windows advertising,
PRIX CHOC!
and she'd told Tom that “Price Shock” was a more apt description for the physical condition you felt when looking at the tags. She'd ventured into one children's clothing store and realized an outfit for Ben was more than her new winter coat had cost last year. And this from a woman who walked fearlessly into Barney's, New York.
She knew Monsieur d'Ambert was a lawyerâhis offices were on the floor above the pharmacyâand he must be doing very well, indeed. To be sure, all those clothes could be passed down to the younger d'Amberts, but still. Faith thanked Christophe for his help and said good-bye. He leaned over and casually kissed her on either cheek. All this kissing was becoming such a reflex with Faith that she was sure she'd find it hard to stop in Aleford and would stun the community by kissing everyone from the beggar at Shop and Save to Charley MacIsaac, the chief of police. Maybe even Millicent. And maybe not.
Faith turned to open the door and had the distinct impression that Christophe was lingering on the stairs. When she looked over her shoulder, he was gazing with appreciation at what Tom called her
“bon cul,”
accentuated today by a short checked skirt. Christophe did not appear at all embarrassed, nodded, and clattered down the stairs to his
déjeuner
. Faith was amusedâand pleased. But teenage boys, even one who had obviously been shaving for years, did not attract her. Except, of course, in the purely aesthetic sense, she told herself.
“bon cul,”
accentuated today by a short checked skirt. Christophe did not appear at all embarrassed, nodded, and clattered down the stairs to his
déjeuner
. Faith was amusedâand pleased. But teenage boys, even one who had obviously been shaving for years, did not attract her. Except, of course, in the purely aesthetic sense, she told herself.
She unloaded the
panier
and decided to finish her letter to Hope. She'd mail it on her way to get Ben.
panier
and decided to finish her letter to Hope. She'd mail it on her way to get Ben.
Municipal workers were planting begonias in symmetrical circles around the lamppost in the middle of the square. She felt a little sad she wouldn't be here gazing
down on them when they came into full bloom and covered the bare earth.
down on them when they came into full bloom and covered the bare earth.
The
clochard
had been joined by two others. One was the man Ben called the “party man,” after watching Faith, Tom, and others in the building repeatedly chase him from his refuge behind the
poubelles
in the vestibule with cries of
“Va-t'en, parti, parti!”
The other was younger, dressed in a long woolen coat tied around the waist with string. He had long hair that might be blond when washed but was a curious gray color and matted close to his head. The three were companionably sharing a bottle of wine and calling out to passersby to join them. The radio was blessedly silent.
clochard
had been joined by two others. One was the man Ben called the “party man,” after watching Faith, Tom, and others in the building repeatedly chase him from his refuge behind the
poubelles
in the vestibule with cries of
“Va-t'en, parti, parti!”
The other was younger, dressed in a long woolen coat tied around the waist with string. He had long hair that might be blond when washed but was a curious gray color and matted close to his head. The three were companionably sharing a bottle of wine and calling out to passersby to join them. The radio was blessedly silent.
Faith had almost finished the letter when she heard the sound of crashing glass and loud shouts through the open window. The younger man was running across the square toward the river, the
clochard
of St. Nizier in pursuit. He stopped and menacingly waved the broken bottle by the neck at the departing figure, shouting
“Ta gueule, salaud!”
followed by a gesture that made the meaning clear in any language. Then he stumbled unsteadily back to the church, still shouting. The “party man” was creeping slowly away, his back pressed against the stone façade of the church, holding his bright yellow Prisunic shopping bag close to his chest with both hands. His eyes were filled with fear. The
clochard
whirled around, saw him, and in one swift motion slashed his cheek with the bottle. Blood poured down his face and he collapsed on the ground.
clochard
of St. Nizier in pursuit. He stopped and menacingly waved the broken bottle by the neck at the departing figure, shouting
“Ta gueule, salaud!”
followed by a gesture that made the meaning clear in any language. Then he stumbled unsteadily back to the church, still shouting. The “party man” was creeping slowly away, his back pressed against the stone façade of the church, holding his bright yellow Prisunic shopping bag close to his chest with both hands. His eyes were filled with fear. The
clochard
whirled around, saw him, and in one swift motion slashed his cheek with the bottle. Blood poured down his face and he collapsed on the ground.
A group of people had gathered outside the pharmacy, avoiding the normally crowded walk outside the church. No one moved for an instant, then as the
clochard
viciously began to kick the fallen man, who feebly tried to protect his head with the bag, several people ran across the square to stop him. Faith, like the crowd, had also stood motionless, stunned by the swift change from conviviality to violence. But when he started to kick the helpless figure, she yelled
from the window
, “Arrêtez! Arrêtez! Je telephonerai la police!”
The
clochard
looked confusedly toward the sky and appeared not to know where the voice was coming from. He dropped the neck of the bottle and returned to his spot by the door to the church. Two men grabbed him. There was a wail of sirens, yet he did not appear to notice, nor did he offer any resistance. Three police cars screeched to a stop. Several
gardiens de la paix
jumped out, pulled notebooks from their pockets, spoke to a few people, then dispersed the crowd and took both
clochards
and the animals away.
clochard
viciously began to kick the fallen man, who feebly tried to protect his head with the bag, several people ran across the square to stop him. Faith, like the crowd, had also stood motionless, stunned by the swift change from conviviality to violence. But when he started to kick the helpless figure, she yelled
from the window
, “Arrêtez! Arrêtez! Je telephonerai la police!”
The
clochard
looked confusedly toward the sky and appeared not to know where the voice was coming from. He dropped the neck of the bottle and returned to his spot by the door to the church. Two men grabbed him. There was a wail of sirens, yet he did not appear to notice, nor did he offer any resistance. Three police cars screeched to a stop. Several
gardiens de la paix
jumped out, pulled notebooks from their pockets, spoke to a few people, then dispersed the crowd and took both
clochards
and the animals away.
Five minutes later, all that was left was the broken glass, spilled wine, and a large boodstain on the empty sidewalk.
Faith realized she was shaking. It was time to get Ben and she had to force herself to walk past the church.
The next morning, the
clochard
was back, looking slightly cleaner. Same animals, same radio, same
casquette.
clochard
was back, looking slightly cleaner. Same animals, same radio, same
casquette.
Â
“Ah, Tom, you have put your finger exactly on the problem. What will happen to us poor French in 1992 when all Europe will be homogenized into one community? We will be flooded with Spanish and Italian wines and,
quelle horreur,
perhaps English cheeses.” Everyone laughed at Georges Joliet's gloomy prognostications, then proceeded to all talk at once. It remained for Madame Vincent's softer, yet more pronounced voice to rise above the rest as, slightly flushed from the white Côtes du Rhône, she declared, “France will always be France. It has nothing to do with wine or cheese, but who we are. Whether you live in Paris, Lyon, the countrysideâ
âla France profonde,'
we French share something that politics and economics cannot destroy. It is our destiny to be French.” The rest cheered. It was a wonderful party.
quelle horreur,
perhaps English cheeses.” Everyone laughed at Georges Joliet's gloomy prognostications, then proceeded to all talk at once. It remained for Madame Vincent's softer, yet more pronounced voice to rise above the rest as, slightly flushed from the white Côtes du Rhône, she declared, “France will always be France. It has nothing to do with wine or cheese, but who we are. Whether you live in Paris, Lyon, the countrysideâ
âla France profonde,'
we French share something that politics and economics cannot destroy. It is our destiny to be French.” The rest cheered. It was a wonderful party.
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