The Body in the Vestibule

with every Campbell soup sauce known to woman to want to push these memories back into her dark unconscious.

Tom was getting in the mood. 'I think a party is a great idea. Who should we invite? And what'll we do about chairs? We can't ask people to stand around balancing plates for hours. Speaking of which, what will we do about plates? We only have four.'

“All this is true, but the people in the building can bring their own chairs and maybe one or two extra. We'll ask the Leblancs for some more plates and accoutrements. Ghislaine keeps telling me to let her know if we need any- thing. It may not be the usual kind of dinner party, but we're Americans. We can be as eccentric as we please.”

They settled on the Leblancs, d'Amberts, Joliets, Madame Vincent, the Veaux, and the Duclos, one of the couples from the university who had invited them last week. The Duclos couldn't make it, nor could the Picots, the other couple. Faith figured she'd be doing another party soon. She might have to invest in some plates. It left a guest list of eleven, and by putting in the leaves she'd found in one of the closets, they could all sit around the table.

Thursday, Faith was busy getting ready. She bought a roll of gift wrap that looked like malachite to cover the table, paper napkins, candles, and inexpensive holders, all at Monoprix, her favorite store in Lyon. It was even better than an old-fashioned five-and-ten, because it had great clothes for Ben, turned out to be the most reasonably priced place for sexy underwear for herself—she'd tried to seduce Tom into the brief briefs Frenchmen wore, but he was stolidly clinging to his boxer shorts—and sold food upstairs, but not marche or Chorliet food. She rarely bought anything from the shelves of canned cassoulet and afrigo section complete with frozen pommes frites, the original French fries, yet she liked knowing it was there.

She returned to the apartment with a full basket, which she set down while she opened the mailbox in the vestibule. She heard someone come in behind her, and looked up, expecting the pharmacist's wife from the shop located on the street floor of the building.

Madame Boiron was, curiously enough, an Anglophile, unlike most of the French Faith had met, who seemed to regard their hereditary enemies as ready to pull the same kind of fast one Wellington had at Waterloo. Then there was that distressing tendency the British had of referring to their friends Jacques and Marie across the water as 'frogs.' That the embers still smoldered and the water was wide was dramatically illustrated one morning in the marche when Faith heard a large, pink English lady say loudly to her companion, 'Mind your purse, Daphne.' Shoppers around her froze for a moment, then moved conspicuously away. It was a wonder the Channel tunnel had ever been approved.

But it was not Madame Boiron calling, 'Good morning, Mrs. Fairsheeld' in her beautifully accented English, hastening over for a practice chat. It was Christophe, the eldest d'Ambert, who nodded his head and said, 'Bonjour, madame. Ca va?' Christophe was at lycee, high school, and probably returning home for lunch, although usually students this age filled the bars and small bistros near their schools during the hour or more break.

“Yes, thank you. And you?' Faith answered, still chary of her accent. Christophe spoke excellent English, due, he had told her, to his parents' desire for reducing the numbers in the apartment whenever possible. Faith knew that, in fact, his parents were doing what all the other parents of their class did, which was to send their children off at a tender age to another country to perfect their language skills during the vacances.

Christophe picked up her basket and gave a small courtly wave of the hand. 'After you, please.' Like the other French teenagers she'd observed, he seemed impossibly grown-up. Maybe it was that impossible exam, le bac, the baccalaureat, looming up at the end of their schooling that made them so somber. They sat at small sidewalk tables, chain-smoking Gauloises, or American cigarettes when they could afford them, and drinking cup after cup of cafe noir. But then she would also see them chasing each other over the playground equipment at Place Lyautey, eating cakes like happy preschoolers.

Christophe, however, at eighteen did seem to have taken a final giant step across the line between childhood and early adulthood. Somehow she couldn't picture him climbing a jungle gym. He was very good-looking—thick dark blond hair that waved conveniently back from his brow, deep blue eyes. He wore his 501 jeans with shirts and cashmere sweaters from Faconnable, a fashionable men's store whose prices left Faith gasping. She'd seen sale signs in store windows advertising, PRIX CHOC! and she'd told Tom that 'Price Shock' was a more apt description for the physical condition you felt when looking at the tags. She'd ventured into one children's clothing store and realized an outfit for Ben was more than her new winter coat had cost last year. And this from a woman who walked fearlessly into Barney's, New York.

She knew Monsieur d'Ambert was a lawyer—his offices were on the floor above the pharmacy—and he must be doing very well, indeed. To be sure, all those clothes could be passed down to the younger d'Amberts, but still. Faith thanked Christophe for his help and said good-bye. He leaned over and casually kissed her on either cheek. All this kissing was becoming such a reflex with Faith that she was sure she'd find it hard to stop in Aleford and would stun the community by kissing everyone from the beggar at Shop and Save to Charley Maclsaac, the chief of police. Maybe even Millicent. And maybe not.

Faith turned to open the door and had the distinct impression that Christophe was lingering on the stairs. When she looked over her shoulder, he was gazing with appreciation at what Tom called her 'bon cul,' accentuated today by a short checked skirt. Christophe did not appear at all embarrassed, nodded, and clattered down the stairs to his dejeuner. Faith was amused—and pleased. But teenage boys, even one who had obviously been shaving for years, did not attract her. Except, of course, in the purely aesthetic sense, she told herself.

She unloaded the panier and decided to finish her letter to Hope. She'd mail it on her way to get Ben.

Municipal workers were planting begonias in symmetrical circles around the lamppost in the middle of the square. She felt a little sad she wouldn't be here gazing down on them when they came into full bloom and covered the bare earth.

The clochard had been joined by two others. One was the man Ben called the 'party man,' after watching Faith, Tom, and others in the building repeatedly chase him from his refuge behind the poubelles in the vestibule with cries of 'Va-t'en, parti, parti!' The other was younger, dressed in a long woolen coat tied around the waist with string. He had long hair that might be blond when washed but was a curious gray color and matted close to his head. The three were companionably sharing a bottle of wine and calling out to passersby to join them. The radio was blessedly silent.

Faith had almost finished the letter when she heard the sound of crashing glass and loud shouts through the open window. The younger man was running across the square toward the river, the clochard of St. Nizier in pursuit. He stopped and menacingly waved the broken bottle by the neck at the departing figure, shouting 'Ta gueule, salaud!' followed by a gesture that made the meaning clear in any language. Then he stumbled unsteadily back to the church, still shouting. The 'party man' was creeping slowly away, his back pressed against the stone fa9ade of the church, holding his bright yellow Prisunic shopping bag close to his chest with both hands. His eyes were filled with fear. The clochard whirled around, saw him, and in one swift motion slashed his cheek with the bottle. Blood poured down his face and he collapsed on the ground.

A group of people had gathered outside the pharmacy, avoiding the normally crowded walk outside the church. No one moved for an instant, then as the clochard viciously began to kick the fallen man, who feebly tried to protect his head with the bag, several people ran across the square to stop him. Faith, like the crowd, had also stood motionless, stunned by the swift change from conviviality to violence. But when he started to kick the helpless figure, she yelled from the window, 'Arretez! Arretez! Je telephonerai la police!' The clochard looked confusedly toward the sky and appeared not to know where the voice was coming from. He dropped the neck of the bottle and returned to his spot by the door to the church. Two men grabbed him. There was a wail of sirens, yet he did not appear to notice, nor did he offer any resistance. Three police cars screeched to a stop. Several gardiens de la paix