The next morning, the rain was continuing. Looking out, it seemed there was no space between the drops, just one solid wetness descending upon the city like a boulder. It was hard to believe Marie would be out in this. Faith was also dismayed about the rain because it was the day of the garderie mothers' tour of the hotel de ville, the city hall—a fabulous seventeenth-century building facing Place des Terreaux. Most of it was not open to the general public, and since Faith's arrival, everyone had told her how lucky she was to go.
After breakfast, she wrote a note to Marie telling her it was urgent that they meet and suggesting noon inside the front door of the hotel de ville. There was a large entry hall, which served as a location for various commercial or art exhibitions and also as a pass-through from Place de la Comedie to Place des Terreaux. They could figure out where to go from there or she might agree it was an inconspicuous place to talk. The tour was bound to be over by then and she did not have to pick Ben up until 12:30.
Feeling more relaxed now that she had a plan of action, Faith took Ben downstairs. He was in a particularly sunny mood, in contrast to the day. "Will you play with me at school?" he asked.
“Not today, lovey, but we'll play when you get home."
“Forever?"
“As close as we can get," she assured him, wondering when and where he had picked up this concept. Children were a constant source of amazement to Faith. They seemed to bring themselves up as much as be brought. Perhaps she needn't feel so guilty about not continuously playing all those imported educational games with Ben or starting phonics in the playpen as some mothers she knew did.
Contrary to her expectations, yet in accord with her hopes, the girls were out in full force. Marilyn had a minuscule shiny plastic hooded white raincoat that matched the one the dog wore. Marie and Monique wore short somber black trench coats and carried umbrellas. All three looked morose and unwelcoming. It would have to be an homme in dire need to approach the three, who today looked like caricatures of Macbeth's three weird sisters, Faith thought.
But then again, it just could have been her. Nobody was saying Bonjour, not even to Ben. Definitely not a glad-to-meet-you crowd.
Faith walked over to them, anyway, commented on the weather, then said to Marie, "Have you lost this? We found it near here yesterday." She handed a small change purse to Marie. When Marie gave it back, saying, "No, madame," Faith swiftly pressed the note she had palmed into the young woman's hand. "Perhaps it belongs to one of you?" Faith asked. They also denied ownership, which was, of course, no surprise, since Faith had taken it from her own drawer a few minutes earlier.
“Too bad," said Faith as she gave a slight shrug. Tom was not the only one adopting French gestures. "It's a pretty one. Well, we must be off to school and the hotel de ville—a tour for the mothers." She glanced with what she hoped was nonchalance at Marie.
“How nice for you, madame," she said in an affectless voice, appearing to speak for them all.
Faith trudged off into the rain and hoped Marie would come, although given the woman's fear it was unlikely. If she didn't show up, Faith would get in touch with Ravier herself and tell him—what exactly? That the clochard was a fake, the real one probably murdered, and that she had received a warning from a prostitute? These were the facts, but they were pretty murky—at least to Faith—and she hated to be kept in the dark.
The hotel de ville was as splendid on the inside as the outside. The mothers reverently climbed the grand escalier d'honneur to the second floor, dwarfed by the statues and paintings on the walls, ceiling, and balustrade, then gasped audibly upon entering the grande salle des fetes—twenty-six meters long and twelve and a half meters wide, the guide told the awestruck group. Faith looked around her. It seemed so incongruous for them to be there in their twentieth-century garb, albeit neat and in the mode—a single strand of pearls at virtually every neck—when the huge, ornate gold-framed mirrors, gilded intricate parquet, and deep rose silk draperies called out for ball gowns, diamonds, powdered wigs, and perhaps intrigue. Intrigue! There was enough of that. She wondered again whether Marie would be downstairs after the tour. The group trailed obediently after the enthusiastic guide, who almost wept when describing the fire of 1674 that had destroyed so much of the building, including irreplaceable allegorical murals by Blanchet, which she then proceeded to describe in such intricate detail that Faith gave a passing thought to a belief in reincarnation.
They entered a room overlooking the Place de la Comedie and the Rhone. Faith walked over to the long window at the rear and stood next to a door. The woodwork was darker in this chamber and she listened as the guide once again flung herself into an impassioned recital of the building's history. This, it appeared, had been used during the revolution for trials. Lyon had been a Royalist city and paid dearly. The guide walked over to Faith and with somewhat ghoulish relish flung open the door to reveal a large closet with another smaller door in the wall. It was locked, she told them in a slightly muted whisper, and concealed a stairway to a tunnel that led straight to the river. Often after the Jacobins found the defendant guilty, as they invariably did, justice was meted out swiftly and efficiently—the body disposed of down this series of chutes. Faith gave a shudder and moved away as the guide went on to bewail the destruction to property done by the revolutionaries—"les statues, les peintures, les meubles," she intoned. There was no question whose side she was on.
It was just past noon and the guide quickly wrapped things up, reminding the mothers what a signal honor had been accorded them. They filed past her, murmuring thanks and pressing a small token into her hand, which she did not refuse. It was still raining and Faith hastened back from the open courtyard, where the tour had ended, into the entrance hall. There was no sign of Marie. Faith stood by the door, then decided it would be better to pretend to look at the exhibit, which had something to do with hydroelectrics.
At twenty after, she began to get anxious. Had Marie come and left, not seeing her there at the dot of twelve? She doubted this. Most of the French she knew were notoriously late and expected the same from others. She was forced to admit that the prostitute was too frightened to risk a meeting—and maybe she was right.
At 12:30, Faith was late herself and rushed across the Place des Terreaux, past the Bartholdi fountain, and toward the garderie. She gathered Ben up, and after lunch, they both took naps. She was exhausted.
They spent the afternoon indoors, playing Legos to Ben's heart's content. He made little cars and Faith made houses—or, rather, garages, as far as Ben was concerned. She was trying very hard to avoid stereotypes, but Ben had consistently picked anything with wheels since birth and she had reluctantly become convinced that there was a vehicle gene.
By the following day, the rain was a mere drizzle and a faint glow indicated the sun was struggling to burn through. Tom took Ben to school and Faith headed for the market. She was hungry and decided to prepare a special dinner that evening.
One of the first things she saw was an array of small paper boxes rilled with fraise des bois, wild strawberries, sitting on the old lady's card table. The boxes were lined with strawberry leaves and the red fruit glistened against their dark green. Faith scooped up two containers. She took their presence, with its promise of all the lush summer fruit to come, as a good sign, and Lord knows, that's what she was in the market for. As she thought this, fragments of a collect came almost to her lips: O Lord . . . , who hast safely brought us to the beginning of this day; Defend us in the same . .. and grant that we fall into no sin, neither run into any kind of danger. . .