Once outside, she discovered the rain was indeed as cold and drenching as it had looked from inside. She had her sturdy Burberry and an umbrella big enough for several Mary Poppinses, but Faith still felt wet to the bone. The whole city looked gray and the water in the gutters swirled about, churning up a mixture of filthy refuse. No one was at the corner. In fact, there was almost no one anywhere.
Faith hurriedly deposited Ben at the garderie, where he quickly joined an eager group at the window who were watching an enormous garbage truck empty the bins with appropriate gear-stripping sounds. Heartrending, Faith thought, as she passed the truck out in the rain once more, her course set for hot tea and crawling back into bed. She got as far as the vestibule when she made the fatal mistake of turning around to gaze at the leaden Eglise St. Nizier opposite her. Clochards, like others, would be seeking warm food and shelter on a day like today. It was the perfect time to check out the kitchen de soupe, or whatever it was called, on rue Millet. She braced herself and walked back out into the storm.
Rue Millet turned out to be a short street between the pedestrian street rue de la Republique and the Rhone. It wasn't hard to find the shelter. Most of the buildings were old warehouses. The shelter was the only noncommercial building in evidence. There was also a sign. She opened the door and found herself in an open courtyard that would be a pleasant place to linger on a sunny day. It had benches and several large containers filled with pansies, their bright blooms beaten flat by the rainfall today. Crossing swiftly, she entered a passageway on the other side and followed the sounds and appetizing smells to a large reception area. She could see a low-ceilinged refectory beyond it. A young man, tall and thin, with a long ponytail turned from a bulletin board where he had been stapling a notice and asked if he could help.
Although Faith was in desperate need of something hot to drink, this was not her top priority, even with soup close at hand. On the way, she'd decided the best thing to do was tell a relatively straightforward and honest story.
“I wonder if you might—" she started in French.
“Are you English, American?" he interrupted in English.
So much for all the time she'd been spending practicing rolling her R's, Faith thought, slightly chagrined.
“Yes, I'm American. My name is Faith Fairchild and—”
Again he interrupted her, this time with considerably more enthusiasm. "Ah, America. I love the Etats-Unis. Jack Kerouac, John Gregory Dunne. Big Sur. And Route Sixty-six. It's my dream—to follow it. Where are you from?"
“Originally, New York City, but I—" She was ready for the next interruption.
“New York! The Large Apple. I dream of it. But why are you here, mademoiselle? Are you lost? This is an agency that helps some of those hi Lyon who have had bad tunes and need a meal, a bed. You—”
It was her turn. She cut him off. "I know what this is. I'm not lost. You see I am married to a minister and we are very interested in the ways other countries are dealing with the problems of the homeless and I thought perhaps someone here could tell me something.”
He became positively radiant, so radiant that she knew she would feel guilty and end up sending him a Christmas card every year or some such thing. It was too late to bear a child for him.
“I am Lucien Thibidaut and at your service. Perhaps we can start with a petit tour and then you may ask away your questions.”
It was what she had hoped. He led her straight into the room where volunteers were busy setting steaming bowls of stew and baskets of bread in front of the individuals seated at the long tables. Some appeared not to notice, while others virtually dove into the food. There was a vast range in cleanliness, age, and attire; yet everyone had a shopping bag or two close at hand. These contained whatever they possessed, or had collected. One's whole life in a paper sack from Galleries Lafayette. A clochard without a bag would look naked. She tried to pay attention to Lucien's monologue while scrutinizing each face and hands. No luck.
“Is there another room? Another place where people can eat?" It was possible either of the clochards might be somewhere else.
Lucien appeared surprised, as well he might. The room they were standing in was enormous and the tables were by no means full.
“No, this is sufficient," he answered.
“I'm sorry," Faith apologized, "I meant sleep. Is there a place for beds?”
The glow returned. "But of course, let me show you. We have separate facilities for men and women, with beds and showers. Also a small separate apartment for mothers with children, equipped with a playroom. It is surprising and sad to note the increase in their numbers.”
Faith followed him up the stairs and walked politely beside him as he showed her the sleeping quarters—clean, comfortable-looking—and completely empty.
Neither man was there.
It was unlikely either would be in the family quarters, but she obediently followed her guide and made appropriate noises of approval, which were genuine. It was an excellent arrangement.
They returned to the reception area and Faith asked some more questions about who sponsored the shelter, how it was administered, and how many were served. It really was a model shelter and she felt less guilty as she took a card and promised to return with her husband. She knew Tom would want to see it.
Then a last try: "We are living in Place St. Nizier. Not far, of course, and we seem to have a resident clochard at the church."
“Oh yes, Bernard. Quite a character. I think he was in the army, then became alcoholic, couldn't work. It is a familiar story. When he is not drunk, he can be very sensitive. People tell him their problems. And he is quite intelligent. Doesn't miss much. But when he is drunk, it's another story."
“Yes, I know. I saw him attack another clochard last week.”
Lucien shook his head and sighed audibly. "We are here to help them—find work, take care of their Securite Sociale, get them to the doctor, but so many like Bernard do not want to change. We have not seen him for some days. He must be on the road again. They all do this from time to time."
“Does he have a brother or relative who is also on the streets? I saw someone who looked very much like him."
“No, not that I have heard. Certainly he never came here. But after a time, many of them do come to look like each other—the reddened face, the unwashed hair. If I told you the ages of some of the people in there, you would not believe it.”
Faith said good-bye, thanked him, and over his protests gave him a donation. She wanted to do it—and it made her feel a little better about using him. She crossed back through the courtyard, thinking how much the world needed Luciens, and pulled open the door to the street. She gasped and stepped back.
It was the "party man." The rain had loosened his bandage, which hung off the side of his face, revealing the ugly wound. He still clutched his shopping bag and he stank. His vacant eyes swept her face and he appeared not even to register that there was another person standing there. He stumbled by and she stepped thankfully into the street. There was no point in trying to question him as to anyone's whereabouts. He didn't even know his own.