The Body in the Vestibule

Tom came over and put his arms around her. 'Tired, sweetheart?'

“A little, but it's such a nice party.”

It was Madame Vincent who decided that nice as it was, it was time to go, and her departure started a general exodus. The d'Amberts and Joliets took their chairs. The Leblancs insisted on taking home their hastily rinsed plates, glasses, and cutlery over Faith's protestations. 'We have a machine a laver, cherie.' There were many kisses and Tom went down with the Veaux and Leblancs to unlock the door to let them out.

By the time he came back, Faith had cleaned up what remained, bundled it into several garbage bags, and was ready for bed.

Tom joined her and they spent a happy half hour or so discussing the party—the food, the people.

“I'm not too sure about Jean-Francois. Seems a little too sure of himself and tres conservative.'

“Well, you could say that about Madame Vincent, too,' Tom said.

“Different packaging and more to my taste. Besides, he seems a little too willing to let Solange carry all the domestic burdens. Did you notice when anything about the kids came up, he laughed and said it was her department? I'll bet Jean-Francois never changed a diaper in his life.”

Tom held his nose. 'Lucky man. It's not the part of fatherhood one rejoices in, Faith. Or the spitup on my cassock, either.”

Ben the infant had had an uncanny ability to recognize newly washed and ironed or expensive, fragile clothes and preferred these as targets for his projectile vomiting—the baby-book name for the phenomenon—which always suggested to Faith and Tom that NASA was monitoring the stage. In Ben's case, the agency might have been surprised by the data. He never seemed to be in the mood when his parents were in jeans and old shirts—and his range and accuracy were amazing. Faith figured with this second baby, it would now be close to the turn of the century before she could safely wear white or silk again in the presence of said offspring. After spitup came sticky fingers, then muddy sneakers, climbing into your lap—on and on until college.

“Imagine having five children,' Faith said, yawning. 'Think of the dry-cleaning bills. And how could you talk to that many people in a day?'

“Maybe you don't, and how about not talking ourselves for a while, ma poule?' Tom liked these culinary French endearments. Calling your wife a 'hen' or a 'little cabbage' in English could kill the moment.

Faith, very much alive, wrapped her arms around Tom's neck. 'But of course, Monsieur Fairsheeld.”

Despite the relaxing nature of the night's final events and her fatigue, Faith couldn't sleep.

It wasn't Tom's slight snoring, although she had rolled him over twice to stop it and did so again with success.

It wasn't Ben. She'd already slipped out of bed once to check him. He'd kicked off the blanket, but the night was warm and he didn't really need it. Still, she tucked it firmly back around him. It felt like the maternal thing to do.

It wasn't that she needed to pee, though this month had seen a drastic increase in her number of trips to the w.c., revealing aspects of Lyon few visitors, fortunately, were forced to encounter.

She punched her pillow into a more comfortable shape, pulled the covers up around her shoulders, and listened to the darkness—an old trick for putting herself to sleep. It was completely quiet. She closed her eyes and prepared to drift off.

Maybe she should go to the bathroom one more time and then when she did get to sleep, she wouldn't be awakened. It was a good idea.

She got up, went down the hall, and afterward decided since she was so near the kitchen, she might as well have a little piece of the pain aux noix, walnut bread, she'd gotten to go with the fresh chevre. Maybe she'd have a little of the cheese, too. She cut a slice of bread and spread it with the soft white cheese. As she sank her teeth into it, she realized the kitchen smelled like the lobsterman Sonny Prescott's bait shack back home up in Maine. It was the bouillabaisse debris. She wrinkled her nose and went back to the bedroom. The smell followed her, but she finished her bread and climbed back into bed, determined to sleep.

Pillow plumped, covers up, eyes closed.

And her brain promptly resumed its feverish activity. She would have been in France two weeks on Monday. It seemed both that she had been here forever and not long at all. They'd met so many people, eaten so much good food, and things happened every day. Not like Aleford, where one dawn blended effortlessly into the next and suddenly it was Sunday again, time for church. She patted her stomach. Whoever was waiting there was going to be going to work with Mommy. Lyon had put the final seal on her decision to go back into catering. Infants were delightful to cuddle and watch for varying amounts of time, but as companions they tended to pall rapidly, and this time Faith had no intention of remaining parsonage-bound. She was beginning to get sleepy. Coming to Lyon had been such a good idea. Think of the wonderful diet this little person was getting. He or she would have a head start in the gourmet department. There would be no cries of 'Do I have to eat this?' but instead, 'Mom, what great spinach souffle.' It was a soothing image. Ben had been developing a scary preference for macaroni and cheese lately.

Outside, a car horn sounded. Combative even in the middle of the night, she thought. Combative. That reminded her of the clochard. She tried to erase the image from her mind. He was nothing but an old drunk in need of help, like the man he had attacked. There must be organizations working with the clochards. Paul would know. He knew everything about Lyon. Le Tout Lyon, no, that was the group that put out the Who's Who list-—everyone who mattered, supposedly. Paul had told her he did not care to be in it. Faith bet the d'Amberts were, though. Marilyn, Marie, and Monique were probably not. Maybe that's why Marilyn had been crying. She would never be a member of Le Tout Lyon, or Tout Paris, for that matter. But really, why had she been crying? Faith turned over on her other side to try to get more comfortable. As soon as she did, the odor from the kitchen assailed her again. Degueulasse, disgusting. It would stink to high heaven by morning. She should have had Tom take it down when he went to let everyone out. He was breathing quietly now, deeply asleep.

Suddenly, she knew she'd never get to sleep if she didn't get rid of the smell. It might be three o'clock in the morning, but she had to take out the trash.

She put on her bathrobe and dropped the keys into the pocket, then slipped on a pair of espadrilles. She didn't want to make any noise going down the stairs and possibly awaken someone. Footsteps on the stone sounded like a cannon barrage. She took the two plastic sacks, bright blue and tied shut with an orange plastic cord—even in matters of debris, the French were chic—and let herself out. Peering over the edge of the railing, she wished she could just drop them. If the poubelle had been open, she might seriously have considered it, but there was nothing to do but go down—and then back up again: 121 steps. She and Ben had counted them. She pushed the switch in the stairwell. The lights were on timers and you had to be pretty nimble going from floor to floor or the dim light from the naked bulb would go out before you reached the next one. Whether this originated from ecological or economical motives, Faith did not know, but she suspected the latter in a country that regarded nuclear power as the best thing since sliced pain. She spun her way rapidly down the spiral stairs, praying the bags would not break and send their contents flying all over.

She was close to the bottom now. As far as she was concerned, she had no fear of heights, but when she was with Ben, it was another matter—she held on to his hand like Super Glue when they made the ascent or descent. She'd been plagued with visions of his climbing over the railing to see the bottom—he had begged to do that the first day—and then plummeting to the stone floor below. She gulped. She was at the bottom.

She pushed the light switch hastily as the one above her went out and then went back up a few stairs to reach the top of the large dumpster, which, with its twin, was wheeled in and out of the building every other day with great rapidity by men in bright coveralls—the Departement de Proprete, literally, the Department of Cleanliness. The container was so large, it was difficult to stand next to it and reach the lid. You couldn't even see into it unless you were on the stairs. Faith had noted that both Solange and Madame Vincent used her method. She'd never seen anyone else put out trash.

She put the bags down, then leaned over and flung the lid back.

Someone had been getting rid of some old clothes, she noted. Anything reusable was left to the side of the