The Body in the Vestibule ff-4

by Katherine Hall Page

  Her eyes started to close and she fought sleep desperately. She had plans, but Ben and Tom had to be well away first. Her eyes were closed. She tried to open them, except the lids weighed more than the Arc de Triomphe and refused to budge. She slept.

  A while later, she rolled over and blinked. Again it took a moment to orient herself. Perhaps it was the way the church seemed to occupy the whole room that startled her so often upon waking. She sat up slowly. She hadn't been inclined, or increasingly able, to make sudden movements these days. She looked at the clock on the facade of the church. She'd been asleep for almost an hour. Tom and Ben would be coming back soon. The afternoon shadows were beginning to lengthen. She'd have to be quick.

  Since this morning, there had been one overriding thought in her mind. She had to get a closer look at the clochard. Quickly, she slipped on her shoes and went to the window. The music had stopped and she had a dreadful thought.

  It was true. He was gone. She was furious at herself.

  “Great going, Faith," she muttered aloud. "Sleep your life away." She'd have to wait until tomorrow to see him. Why it was so important, she wasn't sure. She could see him perfectly well from the window, but she wanted to touch him to see if he was real or if her hand would pass through his body like some projected image. She tried to think how she could have done things differently last night. Stayed with the body and screamed her head off was the only alternative that seemed possible. After a while, someone would have responded. However, the idea that the body would disappear was one that quite naturally had not occurred to her, and she wasn't a screamer by nature.

  She was still tired. She crept back into bed. They were going to the opening of a show at Valentina's gallery, then out to dinner with the Leblancs and some of their friends. It was the last thing she felt like doing.

  “Hello, darling, did you have a good sleep?" Tom was kissing her awake. She wanted to snarl at him that she had slept all too well and would have to wait until the morning for further clochard investigation, but she didn't want him to know what she was planning. The Reverend Fairchild took a dim view of his wife's sleuthful proclivities.

  She managed to wrest a smile from somewhere and realized she did feel better. Oh sleep that knits . . .

  Two hours later, she was feeling even better, as who could not in the jovial atmosphere of Valentina's gallery. The exhibit was called "Lyon Aujourd'hui"—four artists' views of contemporary Lyon. Faith wandered contentedly through the brightly lighted rooms. The crowd spilled out onto the sidewalk, wineglasses in hand, catching up on the news. Everyone seemed to know everyone else. The rapidity with which the French language is spoken increases in proportion to the number of people speaking it, and Faith was aware only of a word or two in the conversational swirl around her. Tom was in the thick of it and seemed to have picked up several new hand gestures since their arrival, as well as a distinctive shrugging of the shoulders and pursing of the lips. She'd get him a beret before they left, even though they were not so universally worn anymore. He'd look wonderful wearing it with his vestments.

  Solange d'Ambert came over to Faith. She was wearing white linen Bermuda shorts and a gauzy chocolate brown blouse that complimented the tan she still had from le ski. She smelled of Hermes and smoke.

  “You must think we are terrible. No one is looking at the paintings, but a vernissage is really a social event and to show support for Valentina. She has been incredible to make such a success of this place."

  “This is exactly like a New York opening," Faith assured her. "Everyone comes back later to look at the paintings instead of the people. I certainly want to come back to see these again, especially the ones in this room."

  “Ah, Truphemus. You have very good taste, I think. He is one of our best and most famous painters. He paints us just as we are.”

  The painting Faith was standing in front of was the interior of a cafe, one lone patron seated at a table by the window, gazing out to vague suggestions of the street and buildings beyond. Looking at the painting was like looking through layers of netting; the colors were muted and outlines blurred, but the powerful image of loneliness was not obscured.

  Valentina Joliet joined them and linked her arm through Faith's. "My favorite painting in the show and, as you see, already sold. Let me show you his others. He is not here tonight, but if you like, you can meet him another time, here or at his studio.”

  Faith allowed herself to be steered and listened to Valentina's subtle sales pitch, which flowed effortlessly and sounded unrehearsed despite, Faith was sure, its constant repetition. All the while, Valentina's dark eyes darted about the room, canvassing the crowd, and seemed to take in even those behind her.

  When they entered the next room, Faith noticed some other people who also seemed to be interested in the paintings. They were studying the works of art with care and making only an occasional comment to one another. They were teenagers and tres serieux. Christophe d'Ambert was one, and he broke away from his friends to come over to greet them.

  “Bonsoir, Madame Fairsheeld, it is an excellent show, no?" He leaned forward and swept his lips over both sides of her face, then repeated the gesture with Valentina. "You are to be congratulated, Madame Joliet. May I introduce my friends?"

  “Of course. I'm glad you could come," Valentina replied as two girls and a boy approached at a wave from Christophe. Like Christophe, the other boy, Benoit something, was wearing a Chevignon jacket, neatly pressed American jeans, and a crisp shirt. One girl wore a short black dress with white polka dots and bright red tights. She had a black fedora adorned with all sorts of pins—advertising logos, characters from popular bandes dessinees, comic strips, which in France are considered an art form. The other girl had shiny straight blond hair, cut shorter than the boys', and wore a man's dinner jacket from the thirties over a lacy white bustier. She completed the outfit with a short ballerina skirt, black pipe-stem pants and gold leather tennis shoes. They were wonderful to look at, these adoles-centes—all of them so beautiful—and Faith was drawn to them immediately. She also registered the fact that like Christophe, their peres, and meres, too, these days, must be bringing home beaucoup the bacon, one of Tom's favorite Franglais phrases. All those shopping trips to .the branche, or as the teenagers say in Verlan—a kind of reverse language like the old pig latin—chebran stores with names in English: Graffiti, Casual, Imperial Classic. The two girls, Dominique and Berthille, nodded gravely at being introduced, then the whole group drifted back to the pictures— the sole reason they were here, unlike their elders.

  Valentina lowered her voice as they passed behind Christophe and the others. "I was like that at their age, too. Adults were so shallow and only my friends and I could understand the meaning of life and art.”

  As they passed though the door, they almost collided with someone. Madame Joliet gave a small cry of delight or surprise.

  “Mon ami, I am so happy you could come. This is my wonderful new neighbor from America who is here for a month, is it not? Madame Fairsheeld, Michel Ravier. He is the one I mentioned last night, the inspecteur divisionnaire of our police judiciaire—I think in English you say chief inspector of crimes.”

  Inspector Ravier was of medium height for a Frenchman but would have been termed somewhat short in the States. He had dark, slightly thinning hair, the rather distinctive nose of many of his forefathers, and a dazzling smile. Oddly enough, everything combined to produce one of the sexiest-looking men Faith had seen in a long time. Sadly, he did not kiss her hand, this custom being apparently passe, and she had to be content with a decorous handshake.

  “Your name is familiar to me, Madame Fairsheeld." He seemed amused.

  Faith blushed. The room was terribly warm. She tried to think of a witty reply, or any reply at all. Valentina beat her to it and her laugh was loud enough to arrest the con- versations of those closest to them. "Bien sur! You must have heard about the corpse she found in our poubelle—a corpse that walks!”

  Faith's fond
ness for Valentina began to ebb slightly.

  “Oh, cherie, it is wrong to tease you. We have all had the unpleasant experience of coming upon the clochards engaged in all manner of dirty activities in our hall." Faith was a bit mollified.

  Georges Joliet interrupted them. "Valentina," he said excitedly, "someone wants to buy the Fusaro. You are needed."

  “Excuse me," Valentina said, and followed her husband into the other room, her bright yellow silk dress cutting a swath through the gallery.

  “Georges is like a child about all this. When his wife sells a painting, it is like found money to him, and there is no question he is living in a way he never dreamed because of it. Valentina is a very good businesswoman. Now"— Inspector Ravier cupped Faith's elbow in the palm of his hand and gently moved her away from the others to a secluded corner by the door to Valentina's storeroom— "tell me about this body in the vestibule.”

  Faith was tingling. There was the possibility that someone—and someone official—would actually give some credence to her story. Then there was that delicious closeness. The French, the French.

  “I know it sounds as if I imagined the whole thing—”

  He cut her off. "Please, no apologies. I would like to hear what happened last night just as you experienced it.”

  Faith obeyed. "I was having trouble sleeping and the trash smeJJed bad. We had had a dinner party where I served bouillabaisse. I realized it was this smell that was keeping me awake, so I decided to take it down to the dustbins, which, you understand, I would never ordinarily do at such an hour." She hoped he would relay this tidbit back to the guys at the station, or whatever it was called in France, and dispel the notion of a nation of anal retentives. Lunacy was bad enough.

  “But of course, la bouillabaisse. The remains are plus fort," he murmured close to her ear.

  “When I opened the top, there he was—the clochard." Faith instinctively made a face of disgust and unconsciously took a step closer to the inspector.

  “He appeared dead, but I felt I had to check in case the poor man could possibly be resuscitated." She made the face again, moved closer, then stepped back as she realized what she was doing. At this rate, by the tune her grisly tale was over, she'd be in his lap. She knew she was blushing again. It had to be her condition, she reflected. Ordinarily, Faith's blush came in a compact.

  “I went around to the side of the container and found his hand. There was definitely no pulse. He was absolutely still. You can tell when someone is dead."

  “Yes, this is a good way to describe it—the stillness of death. You have seen many corpses then?" He looked into her eyes. His were very brown, with little flecks of gold. She took a deep breath.

  “Not so very many." She didn't think it was the moment to reveal her previous involvements with several mortal remains.

  “Please, finish your story. I find it very interesting."

  “After I checked for the pulse, I closed the lid and returned to my apartment to call the police. Then, as you must have heard, by the time they arrived, he was gone.”

  Inspector Ravier ran his finger over his chin. He did not need a shave.

  “It is strange. Very strange. If, as you say, he was dead. How did someone get him out and dispose of him so quickly?"

  “Exactly. And who is that out in Place St. Nizier?" "Pardon?"

  “The clochard was back at his place this morning. You haven't heard yet?”

  The brown eyes changed expression ever so slightly. But Faith knew what it meant.

  “No, he replied cautiously, "I have not heard that part of the story."

  “That's what makes it so strange." Faith knew she had lost an ally, and what splendid comrades in arms they would have made. She sighed.

  He responded immediately, "But, madame—Faith, if you will permit—do not be dispirited. I am sure there is an explanation and you must not allow this unpleasantness to spoil your stay in Lyon."

  “It won't. That would be impossible," she answered, and was aware it was true.

  “Now, here is my card. You see, 'Michel Ravier,' c'est moi, and you must call whenever you like." He took out a small silver pen; not for the inspector the Bic-type stylos of Sergeants Pollet and Martin. "On the back, I give you my home telephone.”

  He handed her the card and she thanked him. They moved out of their corner and stood in front of a small charcoal sketch, also by Truphemus, of the Place Bellecour. Faith made an appreciative murmur.

  “So you like Jacques's work. We will go have lunch at the restaurant Henry, which is decorated with murals by Truphemus. And the food is not at all bad, a very nice homard breton—they do a salade with the meat from the lobster's tails and claws, since you seem to favor it." His smile almost made up for the implication. "Of course, Monsieur can come, too, if he likes.”

  Monsieur was walking toward them and introduced himself. When he heard Michel's profession, an anxious look crossed his face. Faith hastened to direct the conversation. She'd had enough for one night.

  “Are you a native Lyonnais, Inspector Ravier?" she asked. It was her stock-in-trade, guaranteed to evoke from the individual paeans of praise if he was from Lyon or a passionate defense of his own region if he wasn't. Inspector Ravier wasn't.

  “I am not Lyonnais, no," he said with pride, "and you must call me Michel. Although I was here in my school years living with my grandparents, we are from the Gas-cogne. Tell me, do you like foie gras?" He obviously considered the question answered. "You must take some time to go. I can tell you where to find the best you have ever tasted and the countryside is also magnifique.”

  All this talk was making Faith hungry. She wondered where they were going for dinner. It was almost nine o'clock, but that was still early for Saturday-night supper.

  Paul and Ghislaine swooped down upon them. "There you are. We have been looking for you everywhere. You will excuse us, Michel?" This was all accomplished with such ease and much kissing of cheeks that one would have assumed it an honor to be so interrupted.

  “Please remember," Inspector Ravier said in a low voice as he followed suit and kissed Faith carefully first on one side of her face, then the other, "call me if you are troubled.”

  As she left and made her adieus to the Joliets and others, the idiotic adage "Don't trouble trouble till trouble troubles you" repeated itself over and over in her head, like Ben's current maddening practice with certain words and phrases, until she wasn't sure what she wanted.

  Whether it was because of her fatigue, the baby, or their dinner at Leon de Lyon, Faith fell asleep shortly after crawling into bed. First, she took a moment to savor the meal over again in her mind. It had progressed from one mouth-watering course to another—terrine de foie gras layered on top of an artichoke heart with a light hazelnut oil dressing and followed by rouget, filets of red mullet hi a buttery cream sauce that enhanced their rich, fresh flavor, so fresh they seemed to have been scooped from the nets in the bay off the rocky shores of Cassis minutes before cooking; then cheeses from Richard; and a plate of desserts of the season—not a biteful of which she skipped.

  She slept soundly, dreamlessly, awakening to the peal of church bells. Mass. Her annoyance at falling asleep the day before vanished. Of course, she would see the clochard at mass!

  The Fairchilds had adopted St. Nizier as their neighborhood church, despite their own religious affiliation. Or, as Faith said, "God is God." They'd taken Ben last Sunday and he had been so intrigued by the service movingly led by the brothers in their dramatic white robes and deep purple stoles and the interior of the church that he had sat still as a church mouse throughout the mass. Faith had not had to take out any of the books or small toys she'd brought for his distraction. The only rough moment had come early when he'd tried to blow out some votive candles on his way in.

  The boulangeries were all closed on Sunday, so there was no fresh bread. They really were getting spoiled, Faith told Tom. She'd bought a large brioche the day before and it had kept nicely. All three of
them dipped wedges of it in their bowls of coffee and hot chocolate for Ben, then hastened to wash their drippy chins for church.

  The clochard was there, receiving alms and doing quite nicely. Madame Boiron had told Faith that he often came to the pharmacy to exchange his coins for bills and she was too frightened of him to refuse. On a good day, she said, he could make three hundred francs or more, around sixty dollars—not bad for nontaxable nonwork.

  As they approached the door of the church, there were several people in front of them and Faith had a good chance to look at the clochard as they waited. There was no question. Same clothes, same filthy casquette, pulled over his eyes. Same matted beard on his red, somewhat bloated face.

  She reached into her purse for some change and leaned closer to him, placing a five-franc piece in the bowl he was pushing toward her. She looked at his hand, then quickly at the other one resting on his knee. Filthy hands, the dirt ground into the folds of the skin. She stood up and walked into the church behind Tom and Benjamin.

  Filthy hands—but unscathed. There wasn't even the suggestion of a scratch on the back of either one. No one healed that miraculously, even when sitting all day hi the shadow of the Lord's temple.

  She wasn't crazy.

  It wasn't the same clochard.

  Four

  At the end of the mass, Faith guided Tom and Ben rapidly down the aisle and out into Place St. Nizier.

  “What's your hurry?" Tom asked. "We're not due at Paul's mother's for an hour."

  “I know, but we're certain to get lost and I want to get some flowers in the market to give her, and they'll be closing soon. Why don't you take Ben upstairs and get him ready while I cherchez les fleurs, and we'll meet here in twenty minutes?"

  “I want to go with Mommy," Ben complained.

  “Not now, sweetie, go with Daddy and faire pi pi, then pick out a toy to show Stephanie and Pierre.”