Ben's face brightened at the prospect of seeing the Leblanc children, but Faith could still hear him patiently pointing out to Tom, "But Daddy, I don't need to faire pee pee," all the way across the square.
She raced to the market and had a bouquet of blue delphinium, white roses, and pale pink ranunculus arranged. She liked this system: You pointed to the flowers you wanted, then greens were added and the final product wrapped in stiff, clear plastic trimmed with cascading curls of ribbon swiftly achieved with the flick of a scissor blade. The treatment made even the humblest daisy look like a treasure.
When she returned, Tom and Ben were not down from the apartment yet, as she had planned, and she started across to the church, where the clochard was still sitting in hopes of a franc or two from worshippers lingering inside after the mass. Madame Vincent was one of these and had apparently softened her attitude of the other evening. She dropped a coin in the clochard s bowl, then leaned over to exchange a few words with him before straightening up and crossing the square. She waved to Faith in passing and called out, "Tea tomorrow? I'll speak with you in the morning," before disappearing into the building.
Faith stopped directly in front of the clochard and said in the careful French she had been rehearsing since entering the church an hour earlier, "How are you? You did not seem to be feeling very well the other night in my hallway.”
She had no idea what to expect, but she wanted to see what he would say and also get a better look at his face, obscured as it was by the cap. She looked at his hands again. One held a cigarette and the other possessively clutched a liter of wine—Le Cep Vermeil, The Silver Vine— its low price and wide availability belying its elegant name.
She stared at his hands. Not even a trace of a scar, but there was a trace of a ring on his right ring finger—a very definite place that had escaped the sun. Her clochard, as Faith had come to think of him, hadn't been wearing a ring.
Nor did she recall that his nails had been bitten to the bloody quick as this one's were.
She repeated her question, since the man had made no reply and had, in fact, not moved at all.
This time, he answered. "Get away, putain," he hissed in a low voice without looking up. "Get away!”
Shaken, she hastily moved into the church and walked down the darkened nave to the small chapel of St. Expedit, patron of lost causes. It was always cool inside St. Nizier and at the moment the only sound was the soft shuffling of the priests as they went about their work. One passed close to her and when she turned to look at him, he nodded and smiled. He was carrying an armful of baguettes and wearing white Nikes under his robes. She stepped up into the chapel, dropped some francs in the box and lighted a candle. The sun shone through the stained-glass window, dappling the statue of the boyish-looking saint in greens, blues, and gold. Faith bowed her head and got down on her knees. The position was surprisingly comfortable, whether from an easing of the soul or of baby fatigue, she wasn't sure. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly.
It was certainly a different man. And that could only mean the other clochard was dead. There was no other reason to go to all the trouble of impersonating him. But this poor wreck outside hardly seemed capable of engineering such a switch, let alone committing a murder.
Murder. She'd said it finally—or rather thought it and knew it was what she had believed ever since hearing the body was gone. Someone had killed the clochard, put the body in the poubelle, then removed it before the police arrived. It would have to have been done quickly. A car waiting outside? But she had been at the window like Sister Anne in the tower and she hadn't heard a sound until the police pulled up. And why kill the clochard in the first place. Who was he? There had been no trace of violence and presumably the police had checked for obvious bloodstains in the trash. Given the man's nature, he might have been killed in a fight with another clochard who then panicked and dumped him in the bin, yet that left the charade of the last two days.
And what about the man outside? Who was he? She hadn't expected the frighteningly venomous response— it wasn't every day she was called a whore—but then, what had she expected? That he would tell her what was going on?
She got quickly to her feet. Ben and Tom would be waiting.
When she went back outside, the clochard was gone.
The Leblancs had come up with an old but perfectly reliable Citroen Deux Chevaux for the Fairchilds' use. It had a canvas roof that folded back, windows one pushed open and clicked into place on the exterior, and something akin to park benches as seats. It was bright red and they had all come to love it, especially Ben. Now they chugged their way up a steep hill to St. Didier-au-Mont-d'Or, where Paul's parents lived. They found the address after only a few wrong turns and pulled into the gravel-covered courtyard. It was a beautiful old stone house with a magnificent garden. Large hydrangea bushes on either side of the front door spilled their puffy flowers out into the sunshine and filled the air with their soft scent.
Sunday dinner in the country—straight out of a French movie, and after struggling to keep up with sisters, cousins, cousins' sisters, Faith gave up on pairing names with faces and let the infectious good humor of the day sweep over her. It was a relief. She resolutely switched her mind to automatic pilot, put a smile on her face, and decided to live in the moment. There was nothing she could do just now, anyway.
Ben was immediately claimed by the Leblanc children and their kin. When she went to check on him, he was happily seated in the driver's seat of a vintage pedal car, zooming around a smaller garden, complete with vine-covered playhouse. The older children were busy setting places at a picnic table under a tree and assured her she was completely unnecessary for Ben's well-being and happiness. Well, she had eyes, too. Not sure whether to be delighted or rebuffed, she returned to the adults, and it wasn't long before delight won out—easily.
It was just like all the other parties and dinners she had attended. People came to have a good time. There was a great bustling to and fro from the kitchen. The adults were also eating outside at a table set up under a grape arbor adjacent to the house. Faith tried to help and was firmly placed in a canvas lawn chair next to Paul's father, who told her in slow, very precise English that he was a great admirer of the United States and did she know Philip Roth. "We like his books here very much. I try to read them in English, but I have to look at the French sometimes to be sure. You must have the same problem when you read French.”
Faith gave what she hoped was a noncommittal reply, her reading in French being limited to the French editions of Elk and Vogue, with an occasional glance these days at Le Monde, and quickly asked about his family, which took them away from Moliere, Colette, and whomever to the table. He was continuing to list various relatives and telling stories as they sat down.
“You see that beautiful statue there?" Faith nodded as he pointed to an Italian marble garden statue of some female deity. "My grandfather brought it back from Tuscany and that naughty girl there"—he moved his arm from indicating the statue to a very pretty dark-haired woman bringing a bowl to the table—"that girl, ma fille, my own daughter," he continued in a slightly louder voice now that everyone was listening, "painted it bright blue when she was a child. You can still see traces of the color," he told Faith as the group exploded in laughter, as if hearing the story for the first time.
“And it looked much better, too," his daughter, Mi-chele, rejoined.
Paul's mother apologized for the picque-nique and Faith immediately insisted, truthfully, that it was all the food she loved the most. There was a large platter of oeufs en gelee—perfect three-minute eggs taken out of their shells and placed in a small mold, then covered with gelatin. These also had tiny shrimp set on top and a flower cut from a carrot slice and parsley, so the unmolded result both looked and tasted delicious. The eggs were surrounded by fresh tomatoes. Another platter held slices of cold veal that had been stuffed with pistachio nuts. Then there were several large bowls—saladiers—of tabouleh; potatoes
with herring and a vinagrette sauce; the tiny lentils from the town of Le Puy, the so-called caviar of Le Puy, mixed with bits of bacon, shallots, and a mustardy vinaigrette; a large green salad with several lettuces; and salade museau, something that appeared to be thin slices of some kind of ham in a light mayonnaise. It went down better with some English-speaking people if it wasn't translated, Paul told them. Pig's snouts did not sound as good as they tasted. In addition, there were all sorts of the famous Lyonnais sausages— rosettes, cervelas, sabodet—and plenty of bread—crusty baguettes and large round country loaves. The board groaned. It was a feast. Pitchers of Cote du Rhone and water were passed around and the noise got louder. Paul was sitting next to Faith.
“We are a bit crazy on the weekends. There's always this dinner at my mother's. She has the largest house and whoever is around comes."
“I like it," Faith responded. "And you certainly seem to be a close family."
“Oh, we are. We may hate each other, but we are close.”
She looked surprised.
He laughed. "It would be impossible to be with this many people without some friction, and from time to time we won't see someone for a while. Eventually, he or she comes back. No one is ever turned away, no matter what.”
Faith wondered if this was a universal French custom. It certainly wasn't something she'd observed often in the States. But families there tended to be more spread out and that had to account for some of it. She was on the point of asking him more when he told her how much he had enjoyed the dinner party at her apartment.
“Even though we are both at the university, I seldom see Georges, and Valentina never, unless she has an opening. Georges and I were at school together in the dark ages. With the Marists on the Fourviere Colline. Before they were admitting girls and getting soft. Believe me, we were taught."
“How did Georges like that? He doesn't strike me as someone who would take to strict discipline easily."
“Oh, he hated it, of course. We all hated and loved it, but perhaps he did not love it so much. He was already quite political and thought the whole business very facho, you know, fascistic. It was the sixties, remember, and he went on to play a big role in Paris as a student in the events of May in '68. Used to live in those blue cotton overalls workmen and farmers wear. Sometimes I think his life since then has been a bit disappointing to him. All the real excitement of youth is over, even though he still gets out there whenever there's a need—SOS Racism, the group fighting discrimination, the Barbie trial demonstrations. I admire him for sticking to his guns."
“And Valentina? Is she also political?"
“Oh no, Valentina only wants to make money. She has been amazingly successful—partly because of her connections in Italy. She has become known as a source for contemporary French art and much of her business is selling to Italian customers. Her brothers handle things in Rome. She has also discovered some Italian artists and represents them in France. It's a bit of a dilemma for poor Georges. She gave him a fancy new car last year, a BMW, and the way he sneaks into the parking lot with it, you'd have thought it was stolen. However, I notice he keeps it immaculate. I've even seen him flick dust off it with his handkerchief—and he has an alarm system. Ah, how easily we are seduced.”
It was but the leap of an instant to Inspector Ravier.
“You seemed to know their friend Inspector Ravier. Was he also at the Marists?"
“But of course, we all were. A very serious, dark little boy, Michel. Perhaps it was living with his grandparents. Still, the hot-blooded Gascogne is there, too. Never had trouble attracting women."
“Is he married, then?"
“No. We tease him and you can be sure my wife has married him off innumerable times, yet nothing ever happened. He has girlfriends, bien sur, but Michel is too set in his profession for a wife and family. I can't imagine him in this way."
“Inspector Maigret has a wife."
“Ah yes, Madame Maigret, a rare woman. Perhaps that is what Michel seeks. But in any case, Michel is not Maigret. And he is a reader of history and politics, not the roman policier.”
New plates appeared for the cheese, brought to the long table on round, flat baskets. Tom had tried to get up to help clear but had been pulled back to his place. None of the other men offered.
Faith eyed the chevres—blues, St. Marcellins, morbi-ers, all sorts of triple cremes, temptingly set upon fans of deep green grape leaves—and realized it was true, you could always eat cheese. Madame Leblanc placed a large earthenware bowl before her. "This is a Lyonnais specialty, cervelle de canut—we take a fresh fromage blanc and add salt, pepper, a little white wine, a soupcon of oil and vinegar, some chives, and, of course, garlic. Please try some.”
Faith knew what fromage blanc was—a superior cottage cheese that was served with heavy cream and sugar. She was doing a quick translation. Cervelle de canut. Could she be right? She looked over to Tom, who was watching her with evident enjoyment. "The brain of a silk worker?" she said aloud. The table burst into laughter.
Paul said, "Again, it doesn't work to translate these things; just enjoy it."
“I intend to," she answered, and did. It was delicious.
Dessert was fruit, two enormous cherry tartes someone had brought and a plate piled high with those delicate beig-nets called pets-de-nonne, nun's farts, provided by Paul and Ghislaine for the fun of the name as much as the enjoyment of the pastry. Then they all took their coffee out into the garden and collapsed into the lawn chairs. It had been a ban repas. Monsieur Leblanc was soon asleep, with a large handkerchief knotted at each corner covering his balding head. Faith felt her own eyelids drooping. The sun was warm and the buzz of conversation soporific. She made no attempt to try to understand what they were saying and let the words simply drift around her.
But despite the calm of the afternoon, her mind was filled with all those questions that would not go away. She'd been focused on the food and ambience, yet it was impossible to block out the events of the morning any longer.
She had to tell Tom it was not the same clochard and what that implied, but she knew it would upset him—to put it mildly. She didn't doubt he would believe her this time when she told him about the scratch, but where did they go from there? He was accomplishing so much at the university and was sure he would be able to finish his thesis with the notes he was taking. As she glanced over at nun good-humoredly arguing with Paul's relations about the merits of the French political system versus that of the United States, she hated to be the one to rain on his parade. But they never kept things from each other—well, he didn't and she hardly ever did. Was this one of those times?
If so, then what should she do? The obvious answer was to call Michel Ravier and tell him, but would he believe her? After all, he wasn't married to her. Of course, it would be nice to see him again. . ..
Then there was another choice.
Forget the whole thing and enjoy herself. It was no doubt something involving the clochard community, a kind of underclass, and as such had little effect on other people. This certainly seemed the path of least resistance. But she knew her feet weren't going to be following it. Murder was murder, no matter whether you had a home address or not.
Monsieur Leblanc was snoring gently. Others were strolling about the garden and she could hear the children's shouts from the tennis court. She got up and went into the house in search of Ghislaine. Faith suddenly felt the need of conversation.
Inside the house, she followed the direction of the laughter she heard and emerged from the long hall to step down into the large sunny kitchen, where it appeared most of the women had gathered. Some were still cleaning up; others sat with coffee and cigarettes around the table. The kitchen was what some Aleford ladies of her acquaintance were striving desperately to replicate hi Pierre Deux, Ethan Allen, or whatever they could afford—Country French. Here pewter chargers, pitchers, and faience plates from Gien were displayed on the shelves of antique cupboards. Carved mahogany chests for lin
ens and cutlery, a towering armoire for staple goods, and mismatched chairs with rush seats lined the walls. There were worn rust-colored tiles on the floor and more decorative ones on the wall behind the stove. This cuisine was the real thing.
“Faith!" Ghislaine called from a small pantry where the sink was located. "We thought you were taking a petite sieste with my father-in-law. No, that doesn't sound right, although I'm sure Henri would not mind." Everyone laughed. "We should have come to get you. Come sit with us," she finished. "I'll join you in a moment.”
Faith went into the pantry and picked up a dish towel, over Ghislaine's protestations, and started to dry the silverware.
“I did think I might nod off," Faith said, "all the lovely food and the sunshine, but somehow sleep evaded me.”
Ghislaine paused in her work and looked at Faith searchingly.
“You do not seem to be the same cheerful fille we knew when you first came. Is it still this business with the cloch-ard? It's not the baby, is it?”
Tom and Faith had told them at dinner Saturday night about the whole strange experience. The Leblancs had expressed concern for the unpleasantness and hoped it would not spoil the visit. Faith was so busy reassuring them it wouldn't that she had almost convinced herself. But this was Sunday now and there was no reassurance anymore.
“Oh, the baby is a dream so far. Much easier than the first time. It's not that," Faith hastened to say. "But you're right, I am upset about the clochard. It doesn't seem so simple as it did at first and I am wondering what to do.”
Ghislaine looked puzzled. "You mean something else has happened?"
“Yes, in a way," Faith replied. She wasn't sure she ought to involve Ghislaine when she hadn't even told Tom yet, but certainly Ghislaine knew more about Lyon and its inhabitants.
“About these clochards. Where do they go to get help, or for food? Surely there must be some who cannot support themselves on the street." Faith had decided that the key to it all must be with the clochards and their way of life, something she knew very little about. "In the United States, we have shelters where they can go for food and a place to sleep, though they are still inadequate for the numbers.”
The Body in the Vestibule ff-4 Page 7
