The Body in the Vestibule

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 great 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,