The Body in the Vestibule

“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.

“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