Despite this encounter, she felt slightly elated. She hadn't located either clochard, but then, had that really been her object? Wasn't it to find out who wasn't there? And the clochard she'd found in the trash bin hadn't been seen at the shelter for some days. It could mean, as Lucien suggested, that it was ho for the open road, yet Faith believed otherwise.
It was too early to get Ben, but there wasn't time to put her original cup of tea and nap plan into effect, so Faith decided to walk to the cafe in her neighborhood and order a big cup of steaming chocolate. If there were any croissants left from the breakfast crowd, she'd have one of those, too. She was starving. As she was about to enter the cafe, someone darted out from the alley next to it and grabbed her arm, pulling her back into the narrow passage.
It was Marie, of course. Faith was relieved but hungry.
“In here, quickly." Here was the back entrance to one of the buildings on rue Chavanne. It had space for the inevitable poubelles, the two women, and not much else. Marie banged the door shut.
“This is the only way I can talk to you and I pray no one saw us," Marie said as she lighted a cigarette.
It was no time to protest secondary smoke, and as the pungent Gaulois fumes enveloped them, Faith asked, "What is this all about? What's wrong?"
“I don't have much time, so be quiet and listen. The others are too frightened to tell you and you mustn't mention what I say to anyone, not even your husband."
“All right," Faith agreed. Marie was definitely agitated. She was smoking in quick, jerky motions, inhaling deeply and forcefully exhaling, almost at the same time. Her raincoat had fallen open, revealing her work clothes, tight black jeans and a neon chartreuse halter. She must be freezing.
“What you found in the trash was what you thought. So now it is not safe for you to be in Lyon. These people would think nothing of putting you there, too. For them, it is just part of business." She spoke so quickly, it took Faith a moment to translate. And when she did, she could scarcely believe it. She said the first thing that came into her mind.
“What people?”
Marie looked at her in annoyance. "Just leave Lyon, okay? Go back to the U.S."
“But what excuse can I make to my husband? We're supposed to be here for two more weeks."
“Tell him you want to be near your mother or your doctor. You will think of something. Men always listen to their wives when they are enceinte, you know, even if they didn't before. Now, I will leave first and don't speak to me when you see me.”
Faith put her hand on Marie's arm to stop her. She was so thin, it felt as if the coat was still on a hanger. "Please, I'm sure we should go to the police. I know someone who would keep it completely confidential." Somehow she felt confident promising for Ravier.
“A flic like that does not exist and would not believe someone like me in any case. Now I have done what I have to. Take care of yourself.”
Faith tried to thank her, but Marie dashed out the door. After counting to one hundred, Faith followed and was in time to see her farther down the street, teetering on her high heels, her long red teased hah- blowing about her head. She went into a hotel near the river, definitely not a Michelin four star.
On the way to get Ben, she tried to figure out what she was feeling. Oddly enough, she wasn't scared. It was too bizarre. No, what she was feeling wasn't fright—at least not yet. What she was feeling was vindication. There had been a clochard in the poubelle—a very dead clochard. And the man collecting alms by the church was a fake. Marie—and presumably Marilyn and Monique—knew she wasn't out of her mind.
But then, so did someone else—or more than one.
Tom called to say he would be late so Faith fed Ben first, the French way. Papa came home, said good night to the children, then tile adults sat down to a civilized meal. While heartily applauding the idea in theory, Faith didn't always put it into practice. It meant Ben and Tom didn't see each other much and also two meal preparations, unless she wanted Ben to subsist on bread, cheese, and fruit.
Ben was sitting in his bed drowsily looking at books when Faith heard the first key turn in the lock and went down the hall to greet her husband. She realized she had been longing for his steady presence all day and opened the door just as he did. His arms were filled with nosegays of lilies of the valley—muguet des bois.
“It's the first of May!" he told her. "I almost forgot, but Paul reminded me, and at lunch the Boy Scouts came into the university cafeteria selling these. You're supposed to give them to the woman you love, my love." He set the Sowers on a card table someone had loaned them, which had become a repository for all sorts of things from mail to Ben's toys, and drew Faith close. The delicate smell of the flowers and the comfort of his embrace brought tears to Faith's eyes. "I am really getting sentimental in my old age," she thought, having crossed, to her, that great divide into the unknown thirties.
Tom was still talking. "You should have seen the kids. They looked so cute in their uniforms, carrying these huge baskets of flowers. I love the way the French say scouts, 'scoots.' Anyway, better late than never, and even if we didn't say it this morning, 'rabbit, rabbit.' “
Saying rabbit rabbit upon awakening on the first of each month for good luck was an old New England custom to which Tom adhered religiously. Faith had never been able to ferret out a reason for it and it was prominent on her ever-expanding list of endearing regional incomprehensi-bles.
While they were eating, Faith went through what was beginning to be an alarmingly familiar debate with herself about what to tell Tom. She ended up shelving the whole thing out of the happy mood of the moment, as well as weariness and indecision. Tomorrow morning, she'd write a note arranging a rendezvous with Marie and she would try harder to persuade her that the safest thing for all concerned would be to go to Michel Ravier and tell him what was going on. Marie's panic had convinced Faith the woman believed the danger was real—from the underworld, le milieu as it was called, or some other source. But Faith was an American citizen, after all, and she couldn't imagine whoever they were would think she knew enough to endanger them—which she didn't. She would tell Marie that she would not have to go to Inspector Ravier with Faith, only provide her with a bit more information. Faith would keep her out of it, never mentioning her name at all.
That night, she had trouble sleeping again. Her body was suddenly becoming uncooperative and she found it difficult to get comfortable. As she'd told Ghislaine, baby number two had been remarkably considerate so far and Faith's occasional heartburn was probably due to her rich diet. However, the fact that her T-shirts were getting tighter across the chest was not. She'd have to pick up some new ones, she thought drowsily, cheered by the idea of shopping. Maybe some of those striped ones from agnes b. or the white ones that looked like men's Hanes undershirts, also a current rage, but with CLEMENTINE PASSION written on the front—or another designer's name.
The rain was still coming down. She could hear the sound on the roof tiles and the cars made a swishing noise as they drove by. This tune in France had taken a totally unexpected character, not unlike the mood swings she found herself experiencing during her pregnancy. It was like being on a seesaw. Give a wonderful dinner party—you're up. Shortly after, find a dead body—swack, your feet hit the ground. Go to a convivial family Sunday in the country. Come back and have a prostitute jump into your car, subsequently warning you to get out of town. Up and down, up and down. She fell asleep vaguely conscious that her toes were poised to push off.