“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 Securite 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 cafe 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 cafe, 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.”
Faith put her hand on Marie's arm to stop her. She was so thin, it felt as if the coat was still on a hanger. "Please, I'm sure we should go to the police. I know someone who would keep it completely confidential." Somehow she felt confident promising for Ravier.
“A flic like that does not exist and would not believe someone like me in any case. Now I have done what I have to. Take care of yourself.”
Faith tried to thank her, but Marie dashed out the door. After counting to one hundred, Faith followed and was in time to see her farther down the street, teetering on her high heels, her long red teased hah- blowing about her head. She went into a hotel near the river, definitely not a Michelin four star.
On the way to get Ben, she tried to figure out what she was feeling. Oddly enough, she wasn't scared. It was too bizarre. No, what she was feeling wasn't fright—at least not yet. What she was feeling was vindication. There had been a clochard in the poubelle—a very dead clochard. And the man collecting alms by the church was a fake. Marie—and presumably Marilyn and Monique—knew she wasn't out of her mind.
But then, so did someone else—or more than one.
Tom called to say he would be late so Faith fed Ben first, the French way. Papa came home, said good night to the children, then tile adults sat down to a civilized meal. While heartily applauding the idea in theory, Faith didn't always put it into practice. It meant Ben and Tom didn't see each other much and also two meal preparations, unless she wanted Ben to subsist on bread, cheese, and fruit.
Ben was sitting in his bed drowsily looking at books when Faith heard the first key turn in the lock and went down the hall to greet her husband. She realized she had been longing for his steady presence all day and opened the door just as he did. His arms were filled with nosegays of lilies of the valley—muguet des bois.
“It's the first of May!" he told her. "I almost forgot, but Paul reminded me, and at lunch the Boy Scouts came into the university cafeteria selling these. You're supposed to give them to the woman you love, my love." He set the Sowers on a card table someone had loaned them, which had become a repository for all sorts of things from mail to Ben's toys, and drew Faith close. The delicate smell of the flowers and the comfort of his embrace brought tears to Faith's eyes. "I am really getting sentimental in my old age," she thought, having crossed, to her, that g
reat divide into the unknown thirties.
Tom was still talking. "You should have seen the kids. They looked so cute in their uniforms, carrying these huge baskets of flowers. I love the way the French say scouts, 'scoots.' Anyway, better late than never, and even if we didn't say it this morning, 'rabbit, rabbit.' “
Saying rabbit rabbit upon awakening on the first of each month for good luck was an old New England custom to which Tom adhered religiously. Faith had never been able to ferret out a reason for it and it was prominent on her ever-expanding list of endearing regional incomprehensi-bles.
While they were eating, Faith went through what was beginning to be an alarmingly familiar debate with herself about what to tell Tom. She ended up shelving the whole thing out of the happy mood of the moment, as well as weariness and indecision. Tomorrow morning, she'd write a note arranging a rendezvous with Marie and she would try harder to persuade her that the safest thing for all concerned would be to go to Michel Ravier and tell him what was going on. Marie's panic had convinced Faith the woman believed the danger was real—from the underworld, le milieu as it was called, or some other source. But Faith was an American citizen, after all, and she couldn't imagine whoever they were would think she knew enough to endanger them—which she didn't. She would tell Marie that she would not have to go to Inspector Ravier with Faith, only provide her with a bit more information. Faith would keep her out of it, never mentioning her name at all.
That night, she had trouble sleeping again. Her body was suddenly becoming uncooperative and she found it difficult to get comfortable. As she'd told Ghislaine, baby number two had been remarkably considerate so far and Faith's occasional heartburn was probably due to her rich diet. However, the fact that her T-shirts were getting tighter across the chest was not. She'd have to pick up some new ones, she thought drowsily, cheered by the idea of shopping. Maybe some of those striped ones from agnes b. or the white ones that looked like men's Hanes undershirts, also a current rage, but with CLEMENTINE PASSION written on the front—or another designer's name.
The rain was still coming down. She could hear the sound on the roof tiles and the cars made a swishing noise as they drove by. This tune in France had taken a totally unexpected character, not unlike the mood swings she found herself experiencing during her pregnancy. It was like being on a seesaw. Give a wonderful dinner party—you're up. Shortly after, find a dead body—swack, your feet hit the ground. Go to a convivial family Sunday in the country. Come back and have a prostitute jump into your car, subsequently warning you to get out of town. Up and down, up and down. She fell asleep vaguely conscious that her toes were poised to push off.
The next morning, the rain was continuing. Looking out, it seemed there was no space between the drops, just one solid wetness descending upon the city like a boulder. It was hard to believe Marie would be out in this. Faith was also dismayed about the rain because it was the day of the garderie mothers' tour of the hotel de ville, the city hall—a fabulous seventeenth-century building facing Place des Terreaux. Most of it was not open to the general public, and since Faith's arrival, everyone had told her how lucky she was to go.
After breakfast, she wrote a note to Marie telling her it was urgent that they meet and suggesting noon inside the front door of the hotel de ville. There was a large entry hall, which served as a location for various commercial or art exhibitions and also as a pass-through from Place de la Comedie to Place des Terreaux. They could figure out where to go from there or she might agree it was an inconspicuous place to talk. The tour was bound to be over by then and she did not have to pick Ben up until 12:30.
Feeling more relaxed now that she had a plan of action, Faith took Ben downstairs. He was in a particularly sunny mood, in contrast to the day. "Will you play with me at school?" he asked.
“Not today, lovey, but we'll play when you get home."
“Forever?"
“As close as we can get," she assured him, wondering when and where he had picked up this concept. Children were a constant source of amazement to Faith. They seemed to bring themselves up as much as be brought. Perhaps she needn't feel so guilty about not continuously playing all those imported educational games with Ben or starting phonics in the playpen as some mothers she knew did.
Contrary to her expectations, yet in accord with her hopes, the girls were out in full force. Marilyn had a minuscule shiny plastic hooded white raincoat that matched the one the dog wore. Marie and Monique wore short somber black trench coats and carried umbrellas. All three looked morose and unwelcoming. It would have to be an homme in dire need to approach the three, who today looked like caricatures of Macbeth's three weird sisters, Faith thought.
But then again, it just could have been her. Nobody was saying Bonjour, not even to Ben. Definitely not a glad-to-meet-you crowd.
Faith walked over to them, anyway, commented on the weather, then said to Marie, "Have you lost this? We found it near here yesterday." She handed a small change purse to Marie. When Marie gave it back, saying, "No, madame," Faith swiftly pressed the note she had palmed into the young woman's hand. "Perhaps it belongs to one of you?" Faith asked. They also denied ownership, which was, of course, no surprise, since Faith had taken it from her own drawer a few minutes earlier.
“Too bad," said Faith as she gave a slight shrug. Tom was not the only one adopting French gestures. "It's a pretty one. Well, we must be off to school and the hotel de ville—a tour for the mothers." She glanced with what she hoped was nonchalance at Marie.
“How nice for you, madame," she said in an affectless voice, appearing to speak for them all.
Faith trudged off into the rain and hoped Marie would come, although given the woman's fear it was unlikely. If she didn't show up, Faith would get in touch with Ravier herself and tell him—what exactly? That the clochard was a fake, the real one probably murdered, and that she had received a warning from a prostitute? These were the facts, but they were pretty murky—at least to Faith—and she hated to be kept in the dark.
The hotel de ville was as splendid on the inside as the outside. The mothers reverently climbed the grand escalier d'honneur to the second floor, dwarfed by the statues and paintings on the walls, ceiling, and balustrade, then gasped audibly upon entering the grande salle des fetes—twenty-six meters long and twelve and a half meters wide, the guide told the awestruck group. Faith looked around her. It seemed so incongruous for them to be there in their twentieth-century garb, albeit neat and in the mode—a single strand of pearls at virtually every neck—when the huge, ornate gold-framed mirrors, gilded intricate parquet, and deep rose silk draperies called out for ball gowns, diamonds, powdered wigs, and perhaps intrigue. Intrigue! There was enough of that. She wondered again whether Marie would be downstairs after the tour. The group trailed obediently after the enthusiastic guide, who almost wept when describing the fire of 1674 that had destroyed so much of the building, including irreplaceable allegorical murals by Blanchet, which she then proceeded to describe in such intricate detail that Faith gave a passing thought to a belief in reincarnation.
They entered a room overlooking the Place de la Comedie and the Rhone. Faith walked over to the long window at the rear and stood next to a door. The woodwork was darker in this chamber and she listened as the guide once again flung herself into an impassioned recital of the building's history. This, it appeared, had been used during the revolution for trials. Lyon had been a Royalist city and paid dearly. The guide walked over to Faith and with somewhat ghoulish relish flung open the door to reveal a large closet with another smaller door in the wall. It was locked, she told them in a slightly muted whisper, and concealed a stairway to a tunnel that led straight to the river. Often after the Jacobins found the defendant guilty, as they invariably did, justice was meted out swiftly and efficiently—the body disposed of down this series of chutes. Faith gave a shudder and moved away as the guide went on to bewail the destruction to property done by the revolutionaries—"les statues, les peintures, les meubl
es," she intoned. There was no question whose side she was on.
It was just past noon and the guide quickly wrapped things up, reminding the mothers what a signal honor had been accorded them. They filed past her, murmuring thanks and pressing a small token into her hand, which she did not refuse. It was still raining and Faith hastened back from the open courtyard, where the tour had ended, into the entrance hall. There was no sign of Marie. Faith stood by the door, then decided it would be better to pretend to look at the exhibit, which had something to do with hydroelectrics.
At twenty after, she began to get anxious. Had Marie come and left, not seeing her there at the dot of twelve? She doubted this. Most of the French she knew were notoriously late and expected the same from others. She was forced to admit that the prostitute was too frightened to risk a meeting—and maybe she was right.
At 12:30, Faith was late herself and rushed across the Place des Terreaux, past the Bartholdi fountain, and toward the garderie. She gathered Ben up, and after lunch, they both took naps. She was exhausted.
They spent the afternoon indoors, playing Legos to Ben's heart's content. He made little cars and Faith made houses—or, rather, garages, as far as Ben was concerned. She was trying very hard to avoid stereotypes, but Ben had consistently picked anything with wheels since birth and she had reluctantly become convinced that there was a vehicle gene.
By the following day, the rain was a mere drizzle and a faint glow indicated the sun was struggling to burn through. Tom took Ben to school and Faith headed for the market. She was hungry and decided to prepare a special dinner that evening.
One of the first things she saw was an array of small paper boxes rilled with fraise des bois, wild strawberries, sitting on the old lady's card table. The boxes were lined with strawberry leaves and the red fruit glistened against their dark green. Faith scooped up two containers. She took their presence, with its promise of all the lush summer fruit to come, as a good sign, and Lord knows, that's what she was in the market for. As she thought this, fragments of a collect came almost to her lips: O Lord . . . , who hast safely brought us to the beginning of this day; Defend us in the same . .. and grant that we fall into no sin, neither run into any kind of danger. . .
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