Katherine Page - The Body in the Vestibule

Christophe picked up her basket and gave a small courtly wave of the hand. "After you, please." Like the other French teenagers she'd observed, he seemed impossibly grown-up. Maybe it was that impossible exam, le bac, the baccalaureat, looming up at the end of their schooling that made them so somber. They sat at small sidewalk tables, chain-smoking Gauloises, or American cigarettes when they could afford them, and drinking cup after cup of cafe noir. But then she would also see them chasing each other over the playground equipment at Place Lyautey, eating cakes like happy preschoolers.

Christophe, however, at eighteen did seem to have taken a final giant step across the line between childhood and early adulthood. Somehow she couldn't picture him climbing a jungle gym. He was very good-looking—thick dark blond hair that waved conveniently back from his brow, deep blue eyes. He wore his 501 jeans with shirts and cashmere sweaters from Faconnable, a fashionable men's store whose prices left Faith gasping. She'd seen sale signs in store windows advertising, PRIX CHOC! and she'd told Tom that "Price Shock" was a more apt description for the physical condition you felt when looking at the tags. She'd ventured into one children's clothing store and realized an outfit for Ben was more than her new winter coat had cost last year. And this from a woman who walked fearlessly into Barney's, New York.

She knew Monsieur d'Ambert was a lawyer—his offices were on the floor above the pharmacy—and he must be doing very well, indeed. To be sure, all those clothes could be passed down to the younger d'Amberts, but still. Faith thanked Christophe for his help and said good-bye. He leaned over and casually kissed her on either cheek. All this kissing was becoming such a reflex with Faith that she was sure she'd find it hard to stop in Aleford and would stun the community by kissing everyone from the beggar at Shop and Save to Charley Maclsaac, the chief of police. Maybe even Millicent. And maybe not.

Faith turned to open the door and had the distinct impression that Christophe was lingering on the stairs. When she looked over her shoulder, he was gazing with appreciation at what Tom called her "bon cul," accentuated today by a short checked skirt. Christophe did not appear at all embarrassed, nodded, and clattered down the stairs to his dejeuner. Faith was amused—and pleased. But teenage boys, even one who had obviously been shaving for years, did not attract her. Except, of course, in the purely aesthetic sense, she told herself.

She unloaded the panier and decided to finish her letter to Hope. She'd mail it on her way to get Ben.

Municipal workers were planting begonias in symmetrical circles around the lamppost in the middle of the square. She felt a little sad she wouldn't be here gazing down on them when they came into full bloom and covered the bare earth.

The clochard had been joined by two others. One was the man Ben called the "party man," after watching Faith, Tom, and others in the building repeatedly chase him from his refuge behind the poubelles in the vestibule with cries of "Va-t'en, parti, parti!" The other was younger, dressed in a long woolen coat tied around the waist with string. He had long hair that might be blond when washed but was a curious gray color and matted close to his head. The three were companionably sharing a bottle of wine and calling out to passersby to join them. The radio was blessedly silent.

Faith had almost finished the letter when she heard the sound of crashing glass and loud shouts through the open window. The younger man was running across the square toward the river, the clochard of St. Nizier in pursuit. He stopped and menacingly waved the broken bottle by the neck at the departing figure, shouting "Ta gueule, salaud!" followed by a gesture that made the meaning clear in any language. Then he stumbled unsteadily back to the church, still shouting. The "party man" was creeping slowly away, his back pressed against the stone fa9ade of the church, holding his bright yellow Prisunic shopping bag close to his chest with both hands. His eyes were filled with fear. The clochard whirled around, saw him, and in one swift motion slashed his cheek with the bottle. Blood poured down his face and he collapsed on the ground.

A group of people had gathered outside the pharmacy, avoiding the normally crowded walk outside the church. No one moved for an instant, then as the clochard viciously began to kick the fallen man, who feebly tried to protect his head with the bag, several people ran across the square to stop him. Faith, like the crowd, had also stood motionless, stunned by the swift change from conviviality to violence. But when he started to kick the helpless figure, she yelled from the window, "Arretez! Arretez! Je telephonerai la police!" The clochard looked confusedly toward the sky and appeared not to know where the voice was coming from. He dropped the neck of the bottle and returned to his spot by the door to the church. Two men grabbed him. There was a wail of sirens, yet he did not appear to notice, nor did he offer any resistance. Three police cars screeched to a stop. Several gardiens de la paix jumped out, pulled notebooks from their pockets, spoke to a few people, then dispersed the crowd and took both clochards and the animals away.

Five minutes later, all that was left was the broken glass, spilled wine, and a large boodstain on the empty sidewalk.

Faith realized she was shaking. It was time to get Ben and she had to force herself to walk past the church.

The next morning, the clochard was back, looking slightly cleaner. Same animals, same radio, same casquette.

“Ah, Tom, you have put your linger exactly on the problem. What will happen to us poor French in 1992 when all Europe will be homogenized into one community? We will be flooded with Spanish and Italian wines and, quelle hor-reur, perhaps English cheeses." Everyone laughed at Georges Joliet's gloomy prognostications, then proceeded to all talk at once. It remained for Madame Vincent's softer, yet more pronounced voice to rise above the rest as, slightly flushed from the white Cotes du Rhone, she declared, "France will always be France. It has nothing to do with wine or cheese, but who we are. Whether you live in Paris, Lyon, the countryside— 'la France profonde,' we French share something that politics and economics cannot destroy. It is our destiny to be French." The rest cheered. It was a wonderful party.

The room was filled with a glow produced by the warmth of the food, the people crowded around the table, and the candles Faith had placed wherever she could find room. Everyone had brought flowers and she'd had to put the last bunch—beautiful arum lilies—in the teakettle and prop them up on the mantel. They looked perfectly at home.

They'd started with champagne and feuilletes sales — assorted small crunchy bits of puff pastry wrapped around an olive, flavored with cheese, or forming the base for a bite-sized pizza—the French answer to cocktail peanuts. At the table, she'd served the first asparagus of the season from the Luberon in Provence, delicate pale green stalks, steamed with a lemony mousseline sauce. Then bouillabaisse. She'd toyed with the idea of trying to create a real American meal—chicken and dumplings, baked country ham, but she had neither the ingredients nor the batteries de cuisine. With only one rather small frying pan, it would have taken a long time to fry chicken for eleven. She did have a big pot, though, and having walked past the seafood, artfully displayed on crushed ice day after day in the market, she'd longed for the chance to cook as many varieties as possible—which meant bouillabaisse. The only departure from her usual recipe—more a fish stew than a soup—was to remove the meat from the lobster and shrimp shells before serving. There wasn't enough elbow room at the table for the guests to do the dissections themselves, nor space for a bowl for the shells. There was room for a platter of slightly toasted bread liberally spread with rouille—the garlic and saffron mayonnaise, which is so delectable when dipped in the jus.