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 same 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,
