The Body in the Vestibule ff-4

by Katherine Hall Page

  “That would be lovely," Faith replied. "I always enjoy seeing all of you and our time here is going so quickly."

  “See you Friday then, if not before," and Madame Vincent was off in a puff of Shalimar.

  Faith would have to ask Solange if one of her brood could play with Ben. The problem was that children in France had such a long school day. There might not be anyone around at four and it would be no fun to have Ben there, a constant menace to the bibelots no matter how many Legos Faith brought to distract him.

  As she got her elaborate dinner ready, which was making her feel better, Faith kept trying Michel Ravier's home number. She had called the work number immediately and left a message. Then she had tried his home. No one answered, not even his mother, and Faith was forced to assume he was still in Marseille.

  Tom was thrilled with the dinner and in between delightedly crunching the little quail bones to extract every last morsel, he told her he was further ahead in his research than he thought and they could take a long weekend.

  “Where would you like to go? Paris? Provence? Beaujolais? Except we'll be going there soon for the Veaux's niece's wedding. How about leaving France? We could easily make it to Switzerland," he said.

  “I'd like to go somewhere we've never been before, either of us. Is there anyplace the Albigensians used to hang out that you'd like to see?" Faith felt it was important for a wife to occasionally take an interest in her husband's work. The problem was that having had a grandfather and father in the trade, it was hard to drum up much enthusiasm for prayerbook battles or the rewording of certain hymns. The Albigensians were something new to her, though, and she could listen intelligently without resorting to internal list making or dreaming up yet another creative use for phyllo dough.

  Tom's face shone. "Well, I'd love to go to Carcassonne. It was one of the centers of Albigensianism and, while I wouldn't say this to Paul, we can thank Viollet-le-Duc for saving it. Maybe he did restore it a bit too neatly, but it's supposed to be wonderful. Very romantic, too. The citadel and walls are illuminated at night. We could stay in the old city—and it's in the Southwest, so that means great food.”

  His enthusiasm was catching and the idea of getting out of Lyon very appealing.

  “When do we leave?"

  “We could get an early start on Saturday and I wouldn't have to be back until Tuesday morning, so it gives us almost three full days."

  “Great, and you can tell me all about who lived there on the way."

  “More like who died there. Poor, noble Raymond-Roger Trencavel—what chance did he have against all those Northerners? And believe me, it was no religious crusade; they wanted his land, pure and simple.”

  Once he got going, Tom could talk about the wrongs done to the Albigensians for hours, and Faith was getting sleepy. She stifled a yawn and got up from the table.

  “You're quite a lovely nobleman yourself. Now why don't we clean this up and go to bed."

  “The sooner the better, milady.”

  Absorbed in hearkening back to the strife of the Middle Ages, Faith had ahnost forgotten the present turmoil, but on the way to the garderie the next morning she was still startled by innocent events: a dog racing across her path as she walked down the street, a sudden squeal of brakes, or raised voices from a doorway. She was definitely getting too schizy, she told herself, and longed for Michel Ravier's return or their trip to Carcassonne—whichever came first. Ben was going to his beloved friend Leonard's house for lunch and an afternoon of blissful play. Leonard, at four, was a year older and Ben worshipped him. Leonard's mother, Chantal, lovingly referred to the young amis as the "two naughty boys" of the garderie and seemed more than able to cope with them, despite her diminutive size. There was no question that Chantal could have taken on tigers in the zoo or anywhere else—staring them down like Madeleine, her compatriot, and saying, "Pooh pooh.”

  This left Faith with a large block of time and she decided to get all their clothes in order for the trip, which meant the real thing—a visit to the lavomatique, the laundromat—and not a tub wash.

  Laundromats were as scarce as peanut butter in Lyon, neither having captured the French imagination, unlike microwave popcorn, nor did they promise an elevation in a quality of life that placed pate de foie gras well within the reach of the average citizen. After consulting the telephone directory and asking friends in vain, Faith had finally spied behind a storefront a telltale row of washers and dryers on rue Chapeaux, not far from the Place des Jacobins. The laundromat was usually deserted except for some of the prostitutes who frequented the area and squeezed in a load of wash between clients. The first time Faith had ventured in, she had not brought nearly enough one-franc pieces—it took almost a laundry bagful to pay for the washer and dryer—and after unsuccessfully asking at the bar/tabac next door, solicited help from some of the girls, who were only too happy to oblige. It seemed to be her lot in Lyon to frequent the same neighborhoods as her otherwise-employed sisters. She had also made the mistake of trying to obtain some monnaie, change, from a man passing by. At first, he could not believe the low price she was offering, then once the mistake was explained, he did not know whether to be angry or amused. He chose the latter and Faith had the distinct impression he would be dining out on the story for months—the belle Americaine who wanted monnaie to keep her clothes clean but would do nothing for the favor. There were also a number of clochards in the area and Faith could see they had plenty of change, yet she was loath to approach one.

  The faux clochard had disappeared from the front of the Eglise St. Nizier and apparently no one else wanted to take his place too soon. Remembering the violence of his temper, she didn't blame them. But then, that had been the real one, she reminded herself.

  As she sorted her clothes into the washers and added detergent, she was lulled by the familiarity of the routine and settled down to watch the garments spin about through the glass doors. She was feeling better—if not exactly ready to whip her weight in those tigers, at least able to go a few rounds with their cubs.

  She opened an ancient Tauchnitz edition of Trollope's The Small House at Allington. Her quest for English books at the bouquinistes on the Quai de Pecherie near the apartment had turned up an astonishing number of books by Stephen King, Pearl Buck's The Good Earth, ancient Fodor's to everywhere, and this. She was up to chapter three and the radical contrast with her life at present—or any other present—was entertaining. She was soon engrossed until the lines "Let her who is forty call herself forty; but if she can be young in spirit at forty, let her show that she is so" leaped from the page. Faith didn't intend to call herself forty for at least two decades, and when appearances did force the matter, her youthful spirit with some help from Canyon Ranch would show it without any advice from Mr. Trollope. Somewhat disgruntled with the intimations, she shut the book and decided to take a walk. The doors on the washers locked until the cycle ended and it had another thirty minutes to run. She could get a coffee.

  It was a beautiful day, warm and filled with what Faith thought of as a Mediterranean light—clear, sharp, and bright—catching the strong colors of the stone buildings. Everybody in Lyon is always looking at something, she observed as she walked along. Shop windows, something in the street, and often you suddenly become aware that everybody is staring in the same direction. You stare, too, and it is a car being towed, garbage collected, a minor car accident, a helicopter—but it all has the feel of an event because everybody watches.

  And the light: She was constantly amazed at the beauty it imparted to the city, masking its flaws and, especially in the late afternoon, bathing vastly disparate neighborhoods in the same long, soft glow.

  She passed the large Beaux-Arts Prisunic department store building and a few clochards who were leaning up against its walls, sunning themselves like cats, their faces turned upward. One was asleep. An old lady sat with her knitting. It seemed to be some sort of scarf. Faith saw her at this spot frequently. She always seemed to be at the s
ame stage and she always had a different color yarn. In front of the group a young man was drawing an elaborate chalk portrait of the Last Supper on the pavement. His casquette, seeded with a few coins, was placed next to his chalks. He had written, "I am hungry. I am German. I want to go home" in several languages on a small card. Faith dropped some coins in the cap.

  She bought a newspaper and settled down at a table facing the rue de la Republique. It wasn't long before people-watching became more engrossing than the news. She was surprised to see Christophe walk by. It was early for lunch and he should have been in school, she supposed. He walked directly over to one of the dochards by Prisunic and soon the two were in deep conversation.

  She finished her coffee and went over to them, intending to ask Christophe if he or one of his siblings could stay with Ben the next day. Her arrival sent a look of panic into the clochard's eyes, and surprisingly, Christophe's. His "Madame Fairsheeld, how are you?" lacked a certain warmth.

  Faith was intrigued. From the tone of the boy's voice as she approached, this did not seem like the acolyte at the feet of the master. It seemed like business, but what possible business could Christophe have with a clochard? The man appeared younger than most and, if cleaned up, quite presentable. He was not as far gone as some and although his hair was in tangles, his face covered with some kind of rash, and his clothes filthy, there was the look of earlier prosperity about him. He was wearing a camel's hair coat cut like a bathrobe, even though the weather was very warm. Possibly, there wasn't much underneath. The coat had been a good one and she wondered how he had come by it. He sat without moving and kept his eyes on the ground. Beyond the initial greeting, Christophe had said nothing and was plainly waiting for Faith to leave. Instead, she asked the man where he was from. She wondered whether he was French or, like the sidewalk artist, from someplace else. This openly irritated Christophe.

  “It is not advisable to speak to these people, especially for someone not from France. The clochards can sometimes be quite crude and even violent."

  “But your mother has told me they are harmless," Faith protested.

  “Oh, my mother," Christophe answered, the words speaking for themselves. Faith realized she had to get back to her clothes and reached for a coin. As she put it in the still immobilized clochard's outstretched hand, she noticed he wore a ring on his right hand. It was a heavy silver one, and when he put the coin into a small box by his side, she saw that it was a signet ring with a crest—three small birds against a background of diamondlike shapes. It might have been stolen, but he would have been more apt to sell it than wear it. The mighty fallen or the black sheep of a noble family? The whole thing was odd. She said good-bye to Christophe, noted the relief in his eyes, and went back to the laundromat.

  She transferred her wash to the dryer. What was the relationship between Christophe and the clochard? And the ring. If slipped off, it would leave a mark.

  And the nails on both hands had been bitten until bloody—just like the nails of the faux clochard.

  She struggled up the stairs with her clean wash and was glad they were going out for dinner. She'd made reservations at Cafe des Federations—a bouchon, that Lyonnais institution not exactly a bistro and not a restaurant, either. A bouchon—literally a cork—where Tom would drink deeply of Monsieur Fulchiron's Morgon and they would eat quennelles in Nantua sauce—those delicate, lighter-than-air fish dumplings floating in lobster sauce—or maybe andouillette, the Rolls-Royce of chitterlings.

  Feeling virtuous, she put away the wash and went back down the stairs to get Ben. It was still sunny and beautiful and she decided to walk to the Croix Rousse plateau, where Leonard lived. The exercise would be good for her. She knew she must be gaining too much weight, and even if Baby Fairchild was getting unheard-of nutrients, Faith had better keep herself in shape.

  The tour of the traboules and montees of the Croix Rousse was something she had meant to do since she'd arrived, but she hadn't had the time. She took her guidebook and set out. As she crossed the Place des Terreaux, the spray cascading from the horses at the Bartholdi fountain fell in a mist on her face. The afternoon had grown warmer and it felt lovely.

  Faith began to make her way slowly up the incline, passing through the traboules, to emerge blinking into the daylight of the courtyards that were bordered by a series of long staircases crawling up the hill. Sometimes the steep stairs were set in long zigzags against the crumbling walls of the old buildings, which seemed ill suited to shore up the colline. Other staircases ran straight up to the next level in hundreds of small steps. Several times, she had to stop to catch her breath. It was like a labyrinth and she hadn't thought to bring any string. The Royalists had used these pathways and, more recently, the Resistance during the Second World War. It was said a man could live in the traboules indefinitely, always keeping one step ahead of his pursuers—able to duck into the apartment window of a sympathizer, then to emerge from another into a further series of stairways and tunnels on the other side. As she followed the route suggested by the guide, the images of these desperate men and women became increasingly vivid in Faith's imagination. She began to worry about getting lost. Suddenly, she thought she heard the cries and running footsteps of those long-ago fugitives.

  There were cries, and she froze against the wall for a moment, before smiling in relief as a group of schoolchildren came racing around the corner. She emerged into the daylight at Place Colbert, noted an interesting-looking fro-magerie, and sternly reminded herself she was there to get Ben, not Brie.

  Chantal greeted her at the apartment door and said the boys had had a wonderful time playing cowboys. Judging from the state of the kitchen, which was also Leonard's playroom, they had been riding the range hard. Faith collected Ben, stifled his cries of protest with a firm "If you cannot leave nicely, you cannot come back," which—amazingly—worked, and thanked Chantal, arranging for Leonard to come to them on Tuesday.

  She put Ben into his stroller—Chantal had used it to take him from the garderie—and pushed him to the metro. It was one thing for Faith to do the circuit of the traboules and montees, but she shuddered to think of Ben on all those stairs. They arrived home quickly and Faith was folding the poussette up to put in the closet when Jean-Francois d'Am-bert came down the stairs, carrying his briefcase.

  “Bonjour, Faith." He kissed her soundly on both cheeks. "Let me do that for you." He flourished a massive key ring that suggested either a life of crime or extensive holdings. He saw her glance.

  “It's ridiculous, isn't it, but I need them all—for the apartment, our small maison secondaire in the country, my office, the cave for the wine, of course, and voila, this little, so very convenient placard." He opened the closet door and carefully placed the stroller inside.

  “Bouf, it stinks. They really must do a better job of keeping this place clean. I will speak to the regie tomorrow."

  “The regie?" Faith asked.

  “Yes, the—how do you say?—agents.”

  She was quickly thinking of some way to extend the conversation, for as soon as he had taken his keys from his pocket, she'd noticed his hand and wanted a longer look.

  “Will you be going to the country this weekend?" she asked, moving closer to him with what she hoped was unobtrusive scrutiny.

  “No, it's too far for just a weekend trip and nothing is prepared. We will wait until the children are out of school. Now, you must forgive me, I am late for an appointment.”

  It was all right. She had seen enough. The heavy silver ring he wore on his left hand was not a wedding band. It was the twin of the one the clochard she'd seen talking with Christophe had been wearing. Three small birds couchant against a field of diamonds. What did it mean? And whom was Jean-Francois going to meet? A business appointment so late in the day?

  “Merci, madame, I would love another cup," Faith said the following afternoon as Madame Vincent profferred the elegant Sevres, or perhaps Limoges, pot of steaming tea. The day had been another warm and sunny
one. The rainy spell was broken. But it was not too warm for the tea and it seemed exactly right to be sitting on one of Yvette Vincent's velvet and gilt chairs, drinking cup after cup in companionable conversation. Solange and Valentina, obviously old friends, were making madame laugh hilariously with their gossip.

  “Tiens! I shouldn't laugh. You two are terrible. And what do you say of this poor old woman when her back is turned?"

  “That she makes the best macaroons in Lyon," answered Solange, taking another from the cake stand.

  “A recipe of my grandmother. A tyrant in the kitchen, she was. 'The eggs must be lighter, Yvette,' she'd say, 'keep beating.'“

  Faith thought she saw an opening in the conversation.

  “Speaking of ancestors, is that ring Jean-Francois wears from his family?" It was clumsy, but it would have to do.

  “Ring?" For a moment, Solange looked puzzled. "Oh yes, of course. It is not his marriage ring. That"—she paused to roll her eyes at Valentina—"I can never get him to wear. But the ring of his family he does wear sometimes. It was his father's. All the men of the family have the same.”

  So the clochard was a d'Ambert. A d'Ambert probably not on the A list of Lyon society and a d'Ambert certainly not frequenting these d'Amberts' Sunday dinners, Faith suspected. Curiouser and curiouser. The clochard with the ring, posing as the dead clochard, connected to the d'Ambert family. The pieces of the puzzle were all on the table, but there was still a lot of sky to fit together.

  “Your face looks so odd, Faith. You have wrinkles in your forehead. What is troubling you?" asked Valentina.

  “Nothing really, though I suppose I am bothered by some of the things that have happened this week. You know—the clochard and that poor girl's suicide.”

  Madame Vincent looked at her sharply. "I have heard of your clochard. Do you think the two had anything to do with one another?”