Things were going much too fast.
“Oh, no," Faith protested. "How could they be?"
“Well, they are both gone now," said Solange, "so it's best to put it out of your mind and enjoy being here."
“Which is exactly what I intend.”
The talk moved on to babies. Solange's sister had just had a sixth—obviously a prolific family. Faith was happy to hear all three women were convinced she would have a girl from the way she was carrying. It wasn't that she didn't adore Ben, but a girl would be a set. Like bookends or salt and pepper shakers or... Her mind was wandering and she reined it in to listen to the next conversational turn.
“They broke into the de Roulets last night. Jean-Fran-9ois is nervous about going away and says we must find someone to stay in the apartment this summer. And you, madame, aren't you worried here by yourself?"
“But I have Pippo, who I assure you can be very fierce." Faith looked at the fat little pug curled up on the Aubusson carpet and doubted it. Wave a hunk of filet mi-gnon at him and he'd help carry the furniture. "Besides, I am seldom away and I doubt anyone could get into the apartment."
“This is true," Valentina said. "They come in from the fire escapes or the balconies and Madame Vincent has neither so far up in the clouds here. I think she is quite safe. I worry for my pictures, you can imagine, yet so far they seem interested only in jewels. I will have to ask Michel if there are any changes in what they have been taking. Of course, the newspapers are allowed to say nothing."
“He's away. I have been trying to reach him," Faith said before thinking better of it, but having called his house virtually every hour on the hour, the mere mention of his name caused this reflex response.
“Michel is away?" Valentina asked.
“Is this Michel Ravier you are speaking of?" Solange asked.
“Yes," Faith answered, glad to take the conversation into other waters. "Do you know him also?”
Solange laughed and reached inside her pretty Long-champs bag for her cigarettes. "Everyone knows Michel and many wish they did better." After the laughter died down, she said to Faith, "He was at school with my husband and we have known him for many years."
“Sometimes I think all the men hi Lyon were at the Marists together," Faith commented.
“Ah, so you are acquainted with the Marists. Yes, it does seem that way. Jean-Francois was very disappointed when Christophe left the school. He wanted to go to this one on the Croix Rousse that is so popular these days. But since the Marists are taking girls, all the other children are with them and I pray they stay there for their father's sake. Amelie has been talking of Lycee du Pare; I am not listening."
“Children will do what they want," Madame Vincent said emphatically. "We wished for them so long, but now I think maybe it was a good thing. Pippo is far more obedient and life has been simpler.”
Faith looked at Valentina, wondering whether she, too, would attest to the benefits of the childless state, but she was looking very pensive and perhaps her flippant answer about Georges being enough was not the true key to her feelings.
“Well," said Solange, "I speak as an authority. Children are nice, especially when they are babies, but it is a frightening thought to have five teenagers. Perhaps if he had known, Jean-Francois would not have been so eager." She stood up and picked a crumb from her bright blue Sonia Rykiel outfit, looking very beautiful and very complacent. If anyone's children were going to frighten their mother, it wasn't going to be Solange's. Faith was reminded that she wanted to get the name of Solange's hairdresser.
“I like the way your hair is cut so much, Solange. Where do you have it done?"
“A wonderful man, Italian, of course—they are the best coiffeurs—named Giovanni. He works at the Quick Coupe hi the Place Sathonay, not far from here. Just at the foot of the Croix Rousse."
“I know where it is, behind Ben's school and near the covered market at Place Rambaud.”
Valentina laughed. "You know the markets of Lyon better than we do.”
Faith was thinking out loud. "I'd love to get my hair cut before we go to Carcassonne."
“Oh, Carcassonne. My husband and I went there often. It is so beautiful," rhapsodized Madame Vincent.
“When do you go?" Solange asked.
“Tomorrow morning," Faith answered. "Just until Monday."
“If you like, I can call Giovanni and see if he can take you early before you leave, or perhaps you would prefer to wait until you get back?”
Faith was filled with a great longing to have her hair done. She'd go this instant if she could. There was nothing quite like the feeling of all that pampering and the resultant new look.
“Could you call? I can be there when they open.”
Madame Vincent waved Solange to her telephone, which nestled behind a line of leather-covered, gold-embossed classics of French literature on a marble-topped chest. It was quickly done and Faith was signed up for a coupe and brosse at eight o'clock. She was amazed they opened so early.
“At Carcassonne, you must search out what is left of a bust of Lady Carcas," Valentina instructed Faith. "It is not so interesting artistically as historically. She was a Spaniard, a Saracen, who outsmarted the great Charlemagne himself. The town had been under siege for five years and the entire garrison dead of hunger. Lady Carcas made some dummies and arranged them on the ramparts, then went from one to another, shooting arrows at the enemy. Finally, she took the last remaining pig,, let it eat all the grain left, and threw it from the top of the tower. Of course when Charlemagne split the belly open and saw it was filled with grain, he gave in and left. Some say the town is called Carcassonne because when she sounded trumpets to call him back to reveal what she had done, satisfied with the glory of it, he didn't hear. But an equerry did and said to him, 'Sire, Carcas te sonne.' Personally, I doubt whether a woman like that would have called her enemy back, unless she could gloat over him in some way."
“What a wonderful story. I'll tell Tom and we'll be sure to pay homage to Lady Carcas," Faith said, thinking at the same time that the whole thing was very like something Valentina might do. She pictured her running along the battlements taking aim, much as she sized up prospects at her gallery.
“Now, cheries, this has been such a nice time with all these stories and so forth, but I must go. Next time, you come to me," Solange announced, and moved toward the door.
Faith stood up also. "It has been lovely. Thank you so much, Madame Vincent.”
Solange looked surprised. "But you do not have to leave yet, Faith. Amelie is so happy to play with Benjamin."
“Do stay," Madame Vincent said as it became apparent that Valentina was also leaving.
“Only for one more cup," Faith agreed, realizing how lonely Yvette Vincent must be up among the chimneys.
The others left and as Faith sipped her tea, Yvette reminisced about her husband and all the traveling they had done together. "But we never got to your country, mal-heureusement," she said.
“Perhaps you will come yourself," Faith said, getting up this time in earnest. It was almost six o'clock.
“My travels are finished. A short trip to my sister in Narbonne, occasionally. It is enough. And sometimes a few days in Paris. That is always necessary.”
Faith totally agreed.
At the door, madame kissed her on both cheeks with a heartiness that surprised Faith. As Faith returned the salutation on Yvette's velvety soft, wrinkled skin, she realized madame was whispering something to her.
“Go to Carcassonne with your lovely husband, cherie, then do not stay in Lyon long. It is not a place for everyone.”
As she went down the stairs to her apartment, Faith wasn't sure whether she had imagined the warning or not.
Like the body in the trash, it would disappear if mentioned aloud.
When he got to the bottom of the fire escape, he took off his gloves and shoved them in his pocket together with the black knit hat that had covered his hair. He knotted a red bandanna ca
sually about his neck before strolling out to the street. It was late and there weren't too many people out. He passed a young couple, entwined together, with their hands in the back pockets of each other's jeans. They didn 't even glance his way. Lovesick fools, he thought. What did they know of life? For an instant, he thought of emptying the shopping bag he was carrying with such apparent nonchalance in front of them. He could hardly stop himself from laughing out loud as he pictured their astonished faces when they saw what was wrapped in rags under the old clothes.
He was almost there. He crossed the avenue Marechal de Saxe to Place Quinet and placed the bag in the trash basket closest to the entrance to the playground. Then he slipped into the darkened doorway of the Lycee Edouard Herriot, on the opposite side of the square, and waited. It wasn't long before he saw a lone figure shuffle into sight and take the bag from the trash, adding it to others grasped in his hands. The clochard paused, reached into one of the bags, and took a long pull from a bottle he'd found there, then moved slowly off again.
Benoit's part was over. He ran down rue Bossuet toward the river as fast as he could, his heart pumping and every nerve stretched. It felt glorious. He continued to sprint toward the pedestrian bridge arching and swaying in the night breeze before him. He wanted to get home. He was starving.
Seven
The Cafe des Federations was as crowded as usual and the Fairchilds were obliged to share a table with a happy group of wine merchants from Beaune. The men were teasing Monsieur Fulchiron, the patron, about his Morgon, only a Beaujolais. He was retorting that all that mustard from Dijon had seared their palates. During the course of her meal, Faith learned more about the growing conditions in various parts of Burgundy and the relative merits of the resulting vintages than she'd ever thought possible. The Burgundians' criticisms did not impede their consumption, and Frangoise, the pretty blond waitress who had told Tom and Faith she had been there forever—in which case she must have started at age four—was kept busy replacing empty pots, the old, thick-bottomed wine bottles that were standard in Lyon's bouchons. The meal ended with a large slab of tarte aux pommes, thick slices of juicy apples piled onto a shortbread crust.
“It's heaven," Faith said to Tom with a sigh. "Literally. I'm sure this is what it will be—good bread, cheese, lots of happy people, and no frozen foods."
“At the moment, I agree with you," he responded, and called for the check. They said good-bye to their amis for life from Beaune as business cards and invitations to stay were pressed upon them, marveling once more at all those silly people who insist the French aren't friendly.
Back at the apartment, Tom had finished packing for the weekend quickly and was in bed reading. "But you're not packing for two," Faith pointed out. Although packing for Ben was easy. You took everything. The problem was finding space in the bag for one's own modest requirements.
She looked at Tom. He'd fallen asleep over the Miche-lin guide. She gently took the green bible from his hands, turned out the light, and kissed him. He mumbled something she interpreted as an endearment and was down for the count.
Faith, however, was wide awake. After she finished packing, she went into the kitchen and made herself a tisane—camomile. At home, she now drank Sleepy Tune tea, which was much the same but, with a bear in a night shirt on the box, lacked some of the eclat of the French brew.
She sat down at the dining room table and looked out the long windows across the narrow side street into the school opposite. It was completely dark. The windows were arranged in rows as tidily as the desks within. Tomorrow the scene would be filled with the children and teachers she had become used to watching every day except Sunday. It was like a play and she had their routines down pat. When they would stop for gouter—a snack—when they would go outside to the blacktop next to the car park by the river, which served as their playground, and when they would finally get to go home. If she looked out the front windows of the apartment, she saw different productions—weddings, funerals at the church, an occasional manifestation in the street, with marchers protesting the latest indignity toward the Algerian-French community or demanding a stop to the importation of foreign cabbages or some such things. She would like to be able to sit by the windows for an entire year and watch the events and changes each month brought. She took a sip of the hot tea. Of course, one change had already taken place. The dochard was gone.
She took another sip.
Who could have murdered him?
She had been assuming that it had to have been someone associated with le milieu, because of the way Marie had worded her warning, but the three women stood on the corner and observed everyone in the neighborhood. It could just as well have been locals. Faith sketched out a possible scenario. The clochard is lured into the vestibule by the promise of a drink or whatever, killed for some reason as yet unknown to her, and placed in the dumpster for safekeeping while whoever goes to get transport or waits until it's late enough to take the body out to the river undetected and throw it in. Clochards were pulled out of the Saone and Rhone with some frequency, and the police wouldn't bother with an autopsy. Which, it suddenly occurred to her, they may not have done with Marie, either. Knowing her profession, they probably assumed it a suicide and decided to save a few francs. The policemen, Martin and Pollet, had mentioned an autopsy, but she didn't put much stock in what they said. Just placate Madame Lunatique any way possible. She wished for the thousandth time that Ravier were back. She'd tried again when she'd returned from the tea party. And she could try again now.
Faith went to the phone and, after dialing, listened to ring after ring with a growing feeling of helplessness. But, she thought, she could write a letter and leave it at his apartment on the way to Carcassonne, after she got her hair cut. This way, if he came back before she did, he could start things moving. She especially had to tell him what she suspected in case an autopsy had not been performed.
She got some writing paper, an envelope, and a pen and sat down again. What to say? The most important things were her discovery that the man posing as the cloch-ard was a fake—her discovery of the corpse had apparently made it necessary—and that Marie had been killed. She started to write. The whole thing sounded incredible, but she kept going. After she mentioned finding the hair at the hotel de ville—she enclosed the strands—and wrote, "I'm very much concerned that an autopsy was not done, or perhaps just a cursory examination made. Even if they did do one and found water in her lungs, she could have been drugged before being pushed down the tunnel—to make it look like drowning." She was on her third sheet of paper.
What else? Her suspicion that the man playing the clochard was a relative of the d'Ambert's? No, best keep to the two main points and she'd tell him more when they could speak in person—not an unpleasant prospect. She gave him the name of the hotel where they would be staying in Carcassonne—the Hotel du Donjon, which the guidebook had praised for cassoulet and comfort, despite the suggestions to the contrary implied by the name—and signed the letter "Sincerely, Faith." The standard French closure for friends, embrassons, seemed a bit too—well, what? Intimate? Maybe honest? She smiled at herself, sealed the envelope, and put it in her purse.
Tumbling into bed, she drifted off to sleep with images of Carcassonne drifting through her mind: bright pennons flapping in the breeze, the sound of trumpets, rough cobblestones, and high fortress walls overlooking the plain where the enemy was fleeing in disarray.
At eight o'clock sharp, Faith was leaning back in a chair, luxuriating in the sensation of the warm spray of water on her hair as Giovanni rinsed out the shampoo he had vigorously massaged into her scalp. He squirted some conditioner on and it felt cold, then more of those magic fingers and her hair was rinsed again. He put a towel around her head and motioned her to another chair. It wasn't a particularly elegant shop, and Giovanni and his receptionist seemed to be the only people working today, but it did sport an espresso machine. She sipped some as he combed her wet hair and stared at her in the mirror wi
th intense concentration. She set the cup down and he went to work. More hair than she thought she had on her head fell to the floor as he snipped away. She had a moment of panic, then remembered how Solange looked—and also that hair grew back, eventually. So far, Giovanni had not said a single word to her after asking whether she wanted coffee. Now, he stood back, apparently satisfied with his labors, and reached for the blow-dryer. She followed his every move in the mirror so she could try to duplicate the style later. There was no question. It looked great. She thanked Giovanni profusely and went to the door.
“Madame Fairsheeld?" It was the receptionist, whose black dress had a high neck but barely covered her thighs. She wore a long strand of oversized pearls and had neatly coiffed bright orange hah- with one white streak down the side. There was something feline about the whole effect.
“Yes?" Faith replied.
“Your husband has called with a message. He is going to get gas and will pick you up in front of the art museum at Place des Terreaux, since it is so hard to park here.”
Faith thanked her. That made sense. They should have arranged it in the beginning. She hoped Ben was cooperating; the prospect of a long car trip in his beloved Deux Chevaux probably had him hastening Tom along. Normally, getting the three-year-old to dress himself was prac- tice for sainthood. He'd get one sock on, then sit and hold the other, gazing at something, anything, nothing in total concentration. "Your sock, Ben," she'd remind him gently, or not so gently if they were in a hurry. He'd look at the odd bit of clothing in his hand as if seeing it for the first time. "Sock?" It was Tom's turn today, Faith thought happily as she left the salon.
Out on the sidewalk, she walked quickly toward the museum, aware that the sun was shining down on her own shiny coif. She passed a window and admired the way her hair moved when she tipped her head. Ah, vanity, vanity, thy name is ... She hoped Tom liked it. Husbands tended not to like any changes in their wives' appearance. "But I liked you the way you were!" In addition, Tom fell under the Rapunzel rubric and would have Faith's tresses falling in golden waves to the floor if it were left to him.
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