Katherine Page - The Body in the Vestibule

They made their way slowly back to the apartment. Ben was fascinated by a barge on the river, crying, to Faith's delight, "Bateau! Mom! Bateau!" They crossed the street to the bridge to stand and watch it pass underneath. It was a houseboat, a peniche, with a small, bright green square of AstroTurf, complete with lawn chairs, on the deck. From the bridge they were standing on, they could look down the river to the other spans arching gracefully across the Saone. On one side, old Lyon sloped from the medieval cathedral of St. Jean and the Palais de Justice up the mountain to Fourviere, a nineteeth-century basilica with Byzantine leanings that dominated the skyline. Then, on the other side, the shops and apartments of Presqu'ile crowded close to the quais, row upon row of brightly painted exteriors—rose, ocher, yellow—their balconies filled with pots of flowers. Once, Paul Leblanc had told her, Lyon was completely gray, matching the rains that fell for weeks in the winter. Louis Pradel, the mayor during the sixties and early seventies, had started the restoration back to the original colors. Paul was convinced this was when the city began to shed some of its reputation for bourgeois correctness and provincial snobbishness. He swore it began to rain less, too. Faith looked up at the brilliant sun. For whatever reason, the weather had been perfect so far.

When they got back to their block, Ben saw Marilyn and ran to her. As Faith drew near, she noticed the dog was cradled in Marilyn's arms, instead of at her feet as usual, and she had buried her face in its fur. Her stiff, slightly pink blond hair contrasted oddly with the puppy's fluffy brown fur. The other two women were nowhere in sight. Ben was trying to pet the puppy. Marilyn lifted her head toward them and Faith said, "Another time, Ben," and pulled him away.

Marilyn did not look like une fille de joie. She was crying her eyes out.

Two

Faith and Tom had been to two French dinner parties, not counting the familial gatherings at the Leblancs, and on the basis of these experiences, Faith, never one to shy away from sweeping generalizations, declared that they were the easiest parties in the world to give. And naturally, she was giving one, too.

“You don't have to worry about the food," she'd explained to Tom. "If you don't have the time or inclination to cook, you simply go to Chorliet the traiteur, pick up say some blinis and smoked salmon for the first course, maybe a nice duck with green peppercorns for the next or veal stuffed with sweetbreads, a few hundred of those yummy puffed-up souffle potatoes, salad, cheese. Then off to Tour-tillier for some incredible gateaux. Light a candle or two, pour a great deal of wine, and you're in business. Plus, you never have to worry about people not going with other people or a lack of conversation. Even if they don't like each other, the French will always talk. Then, of course, they look so nice and come prepared to have a good time."

“I think your sample is a bit small and contaminated by bias, but I agree with you. There is that tendency in Aleford to view a dinner invitation with fear and loathing.”

Faith laughed. "That's because of two things. One is the weather. In the winter—roughly October to May—once you're in your own warm house, you don't want to go anywhere. The rest of the year, you don't want to go inside, because you'd miss those few fleeting moments of heat."

“And what's the other?"

“That if you go, you'll have to invite your host and hostess back to your house someday, and since I'm not back in business yet, this means cooking your own mess o'porridge."

“So that's what I had at the Fortieses' when I first arrived in Aleford! You can't imagine what I had to eat before I met you, darling."

“Poor thing, but let's not give ourselves nightmares.”

As minister's spouse, Faith had herself consumed enough portions of mystery meats and chicken drenched 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. C a 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.