The Body in the Vestibule

sensation of the moment. They have nothing to fight for. They do not care. It is total anomie. They cannot make love without thinking of SIDA. They believe a nuclear war will occur. And look at us with all our potential Chernobyls and Three Mile Islands waiting to happen. We are in the last stages of the degeneracy of the capitalist state. They are the offspring of our failure.”

Clotilde took up the chant. 'They drift with nothing to do, nothing to believe in. At least we had a cause to cling to and it kept us alive. We have tried to live the rest of our life according to those ideals. That was why we came here to the Cevennes. We believe this is the real France, rural areas as yet unspoiled. We could be self- sufficient and live simply. It was very hard at first and many have left, but here, away from everything, we could bring up our children without the omnipresence of the world military-industrial complex and the corruption of a materialistic society.”

Faith looked around. She didn't see evidence of any children. Perhaps there hadn't been any little pattering feet.

“You did not have children?' she asked.

“But of course we have children. Two—to replace ourselves. More would have been selfish. They are called Honore and Verite. Actually, Verite is legally called Valerie, because Verite is not on the list.'

“List?'

“Yes, in France you must name your child an accepted French name. We wanted to name her 'truth,' but had to register her as Valerie. We have always called her Verite and I am happy to say she prefers it herself.”

So, no little Moonflowers, Ringos, or Vladimir Ilyiches as a legacy of the times of turmoil in France. Faith often wondered how many of these had changed to Susan, William, or other common monikers upon entering junior high, that great leveler where blending in takes precedence over such mundane things as individual beliefs.

“Where are your children now?' Faith wondered aloud. Surely it was too early for them to be upstairs tucked in their wee trundle beds. Although these children would be older.

“Our daughter is studying to be a lawyer and is in Marseille. She is hoping to change the system from within. We have some interesting discussions about it. And our son works in a garage in Narbonne.”

This didn't sound very revolutionary—within or without—or an occupation that would give rise to interesting conversations, but Faith refrained from comment.

Honore's mother explained, 'We believe each child must be what he or she wants to be. We only hope we have taught them to be honest and hard-working, and perhaps a bit of our philosophy of brotherhood, sisterhood, and peace. Honore was never a student and he didn't want to stay on the farm. He loves to work with engines, so this was a good job for him. And he comes home often to help us.' Too bad he hadn't made a trip home recently to tinker with Old Faithful out in front of the house, Faith thought ruefully.

They had gotten far afield of Christophe, yet Faith didn't mind. She was pleasantly full and getting sleepy.

Clotilde and Frederic's life intrigued her. Did not beckon— not at all—but definitely intrigued.

“Don't you get lonely here, and how did your children get to school?'

“We are not so remote as you may imagine. We go to the market each week to sell what we grow and make. There we see our friends and also we all help each other when it is time to shear the sheep or repair a barn. It seems we are always going to parties, too. True, there are few of us here, but we know each other well. In the summer, we take guests and we've met many friends that way. One couple from England comes every year for two weeks in August to walk across the causses, the plateaus, and go into the ovens, caves—Aven Armand, a wonderful one, is not too far. It is a shame you cannot stay longer.'

“She doesn't want to sightsee, Frederic! She only wants to get back to her husband and small boy.”

Frederic was a bit chagrined.

“I hope to come back with them someday and then we will see all these places,' Faith hastened to assure him. He seemed so proud of the region. 'Did you grow up here?”

This time, they did laugh out loud.

“Frederic grew up in the eighth arrondissement in Paris and his only hikes were in the Pare Monceau. I fared a little better. I grew up in a suburb of Paris, but my grandparents had a house in Brittany and the best part of my childhood was going there.

“You asked about our children. We taught them here. You can do this by mail. The government sent the lessons and we followed them with some revisions and additions of our own.' Faith could well imagine. 'Then when they were old enough for lycee, they went to live with Frederic's parents. It was quite a different life, but it did not spoil them and they were happy to come back here for all the va-cances.' Her pride was evident.

Faith knew the area around the Pare Monceau well— the beautiful homes, nurses keeping a close eye on their privileged charges in the carefully manicured park with the ubiquitous KEEP OFF THE GRASS signs. If Frederic appeared there in his present state, he'd be told to move on.

The contrast was enormous and her head was aching with all that had happened that day. Fatigue was causing things to blur. This much was clear: She had escaped, made her way across the rugged Cevennes landscape to the door of the local chapter of the Scott and Helen Nearing fan club, and now she wanted to find a bed, collapse, wake up, and go home.

She must have murmured the request out loud, for in a few minutes, she was in Baby Bear's bed, burrowing down under an avalanche of quilts and wrapped in a thick flannel nightgown that might have belonged to Clotilde's grandmother. First, there had been the unavoidable trip to the outhouse, fortunately attached to the main house by a small covered porch and complete with all the necessaries. It was clean and free of the usual heavy lime odor. She'd been amused to notice the stack of reading material—old copies of Liberation and Rolling Stone magazine.

The quilts were so warm. Faith was so warm. And so to sleep.

·*J0 Clotilde roused Faith the next morning. It was still dark and the air was cool, but Faith jumped from the bed with alacrity and threw on her clothes. Tom! Ben! In a few hours, they would be together. The baby stirred. It was as if he or she understood. The movement was so slight, like the nicker of a feather, Faith had almost missed it. She was thrilled.

Clotilde had left the oil lamp and Faith pulled the covers back over the bed before leaving the room. While tucking her in the night before, Clotilde had told Faith the building had originally housed silkworms. All day long, women would sit and unwind silk from the softened cocoons spun by worms, satiated by the leaves of the abundant mulberry trees that grew on the terraces. Years after all this had come to an end, the young Parisians had been able to buy the decrepit structure and surrounding acres for very little, slowly converting it into a home. The last thing Faith had remembered before falling asleep in her own cocoon was complimenting Clotilde on her, and her husband's, excellent English. Clotilde had thanked her. 'We were both studying languages at the university before May of '68 and have enjoyed teaching several to our children.' Then she added mischievously, 'But, Faith, we are what we French call the 'children of '68.' Frederic and I are not married. There is no need and it goes against all we believe.”

Faith wasn't surprised. Pure was pure. Now in the dim new day, she hastened down to her new friends and hoped their neighbor with the truck wouldn't forget to pick them up.

He was already there, the twin of Faith's lettuce man at le marche St. Antoine. Genial, red-faced, a dusty old beret pulled down over his ears, but not sufficient to hide the bristling tufts of hair shooting out from them. It was hard to believe that some manufacturer was turning out the standard blue cotton overalls large enough for his girth. He held a cigarette in his nicotine-stained fingers and was talking nonstop as Clotilde and Frederic scurried about the kitchen packing their cheeses for market. It was all Faith could do to stop herself from throwing her arms around him and kissing his unshaven cheek.

It was he who kissed hers, striding over to her with outstretched arms, 'Madame, madame. Soon your ordeal will be over! We will go directly to the gendarmerie in Mey-rueis.' He had obviously been filled in.

“Merci, monsieur,' Faith replied wholeheartedly, and then offered to help with the packing.

“No, no, cherie. Eat something quickly and we will soon be going. It is almost dawn.' Clotilde set a steaming bowl of cafe au lait on the table next to a loaf of bread, a jar of what looked like