Ghislaine appeared relieved. Apparently, Madame Fairchild—who was, to be sure, a minister's wife—was simply concerned about these poor unfortunates, nothing more.
“Of course, we have them here, as well. The Armee du Salut, Secours Catholique, Emmaus, and the Restaurants du Coeur. But most prefer the street and the trash bins, as you have seen only too clearly."
“Then there must be one of these shelters close to us." Faith was thinking out loud.
“Oh yes, there's a Soupe Populaire in rue Millet Although Paul would scold me for calling it that, even though everyone does. Soupes Populaires existed in the twenties and after the war for poverty-stricken and jobless people, not clochards.”
A soup kitchen was a soup kitchen as far as Faith was concerned and she was sure she could find out more there about the two clochards—if indeed the man sitting outside St. Nizier now was a clochard. It wasn't certain, but it seemed logical that whoever they were, they would go to the nearest place for free food.
The dishes were all dried and they joined the other women around the table, who seemed in no hurry to get back to their respective mates. Faith settled in comfortably and listened to the gossip, talk of offspring, and speculation on hemlines with a familiar feeling—the company of women.
One femme was busy stitching together small triangles of bright calico, and seeing Faith's glance, she said, "Le patchwork. Just like you American women do. It is quite the rage here. We are all busy making—what is your word?— quilts." Faith did not want to disillusion the woman, but her own forays into quilt making had consisted of getting others to do it for her, especially in the case of a quilt top she'd purchased at a house auction in Maine, which had led to a treasure hunt and more. "Oh yes, it's very popular where I live, also," she said. Her friend and neighbor Fix Miller, whose car sported a bumper sticker that read I'M A QUILTER AND MY HOUSE is IN PIECES, kept telling Faith that if she could do a running stitch, she could quilt. But it was the number of running stitches one had to do, Faith reminded her. She was glad to meet a French quilt maker and it would be something to write to Fix about. Perhaps the two women could start to exchange patterns and eventually their children would meet and marry, and all because of a few scraps of cloth. Life could be like that, Faith believed.
“How is Dominique?" Michele asked a woman across the table. "Is she worried about the bac?" She turned to Faith in explanation. "The baccalaureat is a very difficult, perhaps even ridiculous, exam French teenagers must take to get their diplomas.”
The woman sighed and put her cup down. "Who can tell? Whenever we ask her, she just says not to nag so much and everything is fine. That is her answer for everything. 'Where are you going?' 'Where were you?' It is as if she has a secret life. And the way she dresses—like the circus!”
Everyone laughed and Michele reassured her, "They are all like her, these adolescentes, secretive and so very serious. Not like us. We were perfect.”
A slight feeling of nausea came over Faith, which she knew had nothing to do with either food or fetus. It arrived whenever she contemplated "Ben, the Teenage Years." And now, foolishly, she had signed up for a sequel.
Ghislaine was talking. "We are never satisfied. I get worried because Stephanie seems too good. The only thing she ever criticizes is my accent when I speak English to Faith!”
Faith loved Ghislaine's delightfully accented English and much preferred it to Stephanie's more correct British version, learned at school. She doubted that her own at- tempts at speaking French carried the same charm as Ghis-laine's phrases: "You have learned me so much," she had told Faith and Tom Saturday night.
She continued to extol her daughter's virtues with a mixture of pride and concern. "She still talks to us, is polite, and does what we ask. It's not natural. When I think of what my poor mother endured!"
“Yes, I know all this," said Dominique's mother. "And"—she looked skeptically at Ghislaine—"Stephanie is only thirteen, yes? Wait, cherie, a few more years. It's so hard to understand. Martin and I are good parents. We are not wardens who insist Dominique stay by our side or even that she go to rallyes, where she might be with some nice children."
“Rallyes! Those ancient elephants!" Michele exclaimed. "Cecile, think how bored you were when Tante Louise made you go, and besides, what seventeen-year-old girl wants to meet 'nice children'? She wants to meet the opposite, then maybe later she will settle down and marry someone you wanted her to meet in the first place."
“What are these 'rallyes'?" Faith asked, images of antique cars racing incongruously to mind.
“They are very correct little gatherings arranged by a particular sector of Lyonnais parents for more years than anyone remembers, so little Marie or little Louis will meet a suitable mate. In the winter, there are dances and in the warmer months, tennis or pool parties. I hesitate to say parties, because all this is sans alcohol and under the eyes of the parents. There used to be more of them, and of course nice boys like my Paul were always invited, but I'm happy to say we met normally—on the metro," Ghislaine explained.
“I know rallyes are old-fashioned," Cecile said, "yet at least our parents knew where we were.”
A few eyebrows went up, but no one said anything, although Faith could see Michele's mouth was twitching. It was obvious that Cecile 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 Michele were left.
“Do you think Cecile 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, Cecile would prefer her in a long navy pleated skirt and flower-print blouse from Ca-charel—a slightly different uniform. Now I would love Stephanie 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 preoccu- pations 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. Bi
g 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.
Five
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 hi 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 Republique and the Rhone. 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 th
e 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 Etats-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 hi Lyon who have had bad tunes 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.
The Body in the Vestibule ff-4 Page 8
