The Body in the Vestibule

clochards—will wander into a building and sleep there. Yes, even in the dustbins,' he added as she seemed to protest. 'Your presence most certainly awakened him, but he was afraid you would berate him, or worse, so he pretended to be asleep and as soon as you left, phhtt'—he made one of those French noises impossible to reproduce, accompanied by appropriate gestures with his hands—'out the door. So when we arrive, we find nothing.'

“But I felt his pulse! He didn't have one! And his face! I know he was dead!”

Both police looked troubled. This Americaine—so lovely, so young, and perhaps so crazy.

“Besides, how could he have gotten into or out of the hallway without a key?' Faith's voice was triumphant.

“Ah.' Louis Martin looked slightly chagrined. 'To be perfectly honest, you can get into most of these old Lyon-nais apartment buildings with the same kind of key. Some, especially, have the knack—you give a little turn and press hard, then voila.”

Faith reached for the keys on the table. 'You mean I could get into any of the apartments around here with this key?' She held up the largest one, an ornate, ancient key four to five inches long that looked like the one the man in the iron mask would have greeted with whoops of joy.

“But yes. However, only the front doors, madame. Not the apartments themselves.'

“What a relief,' Faith replied, fully aware that her sarcasm was being totally wasted.

“So you see, he came here to sleep. We did, in fact, find some empty bottles, so he was perhaps not even aware where he was. They also explain his very slow pulse. Then, like Princesse Charmante, you awaken him and he leaves.' Sergeant Martin stood up, shared a congratulatory look with Didier at his petite blague, and prepared to leave.

“Tom, what do you think?' Faith was not going down without a fight—even if that fight was going to be with her husband.

In the vain hope of avoiding further discussion and possibly getting some more sleep, Tom chose to be circumspect. 'I don't really know what happened. All I know is that there was no one in either one of the poubelles. We searched through the garbage and the only carcasses were the lobsters we consumed this evening—or I should say, last.' He was very, very tired.

It was hopeless. Faith knew what she had seen and no one, not even her own husband, believed her. She would have cried in frustration, except it would simply have added to the already-damning picture of instability that had been created—the word for crazy in French is fou, and she felt like an utter one. She hoped Tom hadn't told them she was pregnant. There were enough stereotypes floating around.

But, of course, he had.

They stood by the door, an uneasy parting. What does one say, particularly after the inevitable little black notebooks had come out and information back to childhood solemnly recorded? Tom thanked them for coming. Not at all, not at all. Anytime, and enjoy your stay in France. Didier was from Burgundy, he revealed in a rush of sudden intimacy. He hoped they would visit the vineyards, although perhaps madame was not drinking wine. He directed his eyes significantly below, but not too far below, her waist. ...

That was enough. Faith said, 'Au revoir. Merci,' and firmly shut the door—yet not before she heard their voices as they circled down the stairs, wondering whether it was a custom for American women to dispose of their garbage at such an hour. Certainly, one has heard about their fetish for showers and baths, but it was strange, non?

It was very strange, indeed.

Faith woke up in a fog the next morning. It was a moment before she comprehended that she was in Lyon and not her bed in Aleford, a bed fast acquiring a certain allure. She groped for Tom, but his side of the bed was empty. She sat up. Her head ached and her whole body felt heavy and cumbersome, more like the ninth month than the fourth. The events of the night before crowded her consciousness and the fog didn't get any clearer.

She got out of bed and walked slowly to the window overlooking Place St. Nizier. She could hear Tom and Ben- jamin in the kitchen. As she got closer to the window, she suddenly realized she had been hearing something else, too. Music. Loud.

It was the clochard. Same place. Same pets. Same cas- quette.

Faith ran to the kitchen.

“Tom, come to the window! The clochard is back!”

Tom came to the doorway and gathered his wife in his arms.

“I know, darling, he was there when I got up.'

“But I know what I saw! I'm not going crazy! He was dead!”

Tom clearly didn't know what to say, but Ben did.

“Who is dead, Mommy? Can Ben see?' He pulled vigorously on her nightgown. They'd explained that she was growing a brother or sister for him and he was hopeful the whole idea had been scrapped by a providential grim reaper.

“No one is dead, lovey. No one you know. Mommy was just saying something to Daddy.”

Faith and Tom exchanged looks that spoke whole encyclopedias. It was difficult at times to remember that Ben understood everything they said these days. And there'd be two of them eventually. Until Ben had been born, Faith had never fully realized that when you had a child, the child was there for good. God evened things up to some extent by arranging for children—small ones, anyway—to go to sleep earlier.

“Why don't we all go to the market together and after lunch we can take the funicular up to the top of Fourviere?' The last thing Faith felt like doing was going out. Every cell in her body was sensibly advising her to get back into bed and sleep for a very long time. Unfortunately, neither husband nor son heard them.

“Great idea, honey. It's a beautiful day. Let's see how fast you can get dressed, Ben.'

“Superfast. I'm Super Ben. Watch how fast,' and he sped down the hall to the closet where they kept their clothes. By the time Faith caught up with him, he was pulling garments off the shelves and there was a pile on the floor.

“Ben!' she shouted angrily. He stopped, startled, then started to cry.

“I'm losing it, Tom,' Faith said. 'You get him dressed and let's get out of here.”

The stairwell of the apartment was always dim and it seemed to Faith as they descended half an hour later that it was dimmer than usual. The garbage she had spilled had been cleaned up, but the odor offish remained. She stopped and looked at the two poubelles. Tom took her arm and pulled her toward the door. The sun was streaming in from outside.

“You don't believe me, do you?' It was said, what had continued to nag at her since the police had departed.

“I believe you saw him, but how can I believe he was dead when he's sitting over there collecting a fortune in monnaie and blasting us all with his horrible music? And you must admit he seems an unusual choice for the miracle of Resurrection, even though the Lord does work in mysterious ways.”

Faith sighed. At the moment, she wasn't sure she believed herself. She remembered Ben's pregnancy as often a kind of out-of-body experience—not merely trouble concentrating but a real sense of floating away in all directions. She hadn't felt like that with this one. Maybe it was hitting her all at once. It was the only logical explanation. She sighed again.

The man had been dead. There had been no pulse.

For once, the market failed to entrance her, and she quickly bought smoked sausages and choucroute sold by one of the butchers with a market truck. Fait & la maison, homemade, he swore. Melons were beginning to come from Spain. They'd have that first—Tom's with a little port poured in the middle. She still had salad and cheese from the party, so all they needed was bread. Ben and Tom walked along behind her, munching what Ben called 'air cookies,' small sponge cakes sold from a patisserie truck by a lady Faith had never seen without a smile. She couldn't decide whether the smell of the choucroute was making her hungry or nauseated.

“Let's get a coffee,' she proposed. There was a cafe she liked near the market. Early in the morning, the