Tom must not have reached the vestibule. They knocked again. Faith opened the window and stepped out onto the small balcony. She was intending to tell them he was coming when she saw the door open. Several more lights went on at the neighbors'.
She stepped back and closed the window, then went into the living room to wait. After a few minutes, she decided to make some tea. She was freezing and maybe if she did something, she wouldn't keep seeing the clochard's face in front of her everywhere she looked.
The water had just come to a boil when she heard the keys in the locks and dashed down the hall to open the door. Tom stepped in first, followed by two policemen, gardiens de la paix in the city, she'd learned, not gendarmes, but they all wore those hats that made them look like children's book illustrations.
Tom appeared—what? Worried, embarrassed, tired— he was panting slightly and the gardiens, although trim, were winded. They were both tall, with dark hair. Then-cheeks were flushed and so smooth, it wasn't clear whether they'd both recently shaved or hadn't started to grow beards yet. The greatest difference between them was that there was a thin film of sweat on one's forehead, causing the dark hair that grazed it to curl slightly.
Faith stood contemplating the group for a moment, then asked, "What is it? What's happening?" No one seemed to be rushing forward to tell her anything.
“Why don't we sit down, sweetheart," Tom said, and led her to one of the chairs left in the living room after the party. The police glanced around in some surprise at the lack of furniture and remained standing.
“Faith, honey," Tom said gently, "There wasn't anything except trash in either of the poubelles." "What!"
“This is not to say you didn't see the clochard," Tom started to explain, but then the younger of the two policemen interrupted.
“If I may, Monsieur Fairsheeld? I have some English, madame," he explained, and pulled a chair next to hers and sat down, but not before glancing over his shoulder toward his partner. Madame was in a fetching white chemise de nuit insufficiently covered by a robe of the same material, her blond hair was delightfully disarranged, and her blue eyes, perhaps even larger than usual at the odd events of the evening, were striking. Madame Fairsheeld had been in bed no doubt and would soon return—it was a prospect with much appeal.
He pulled his chair a bit closer. "First permit me to introduce myself. I am Sergeant Louis Martin and this is Sergeant Didier Pollet." He paused for emphasis. "Madame, what we believe has occurred is of course deeply upsetting. Occasionally, one of these men of the street—we call them clochards—will wander into a building and sleep there. Yes, even in the dustbins," he added as she seemed to protest. "Your presence most certainly awakened him, but he was afraid you would berate him, or worse, so he pretended to be asleep and as soon as you left, phhtt"—he made one of those French noises impossible to reproduce, accompanied by appropriate gestures with his hands—"out the door. So when we arrive, we find nothing."
“But I felt his pulse! He didn't have one! And his face! I know he was dead!”
Both police looked troubled. This Americaine—so lovely, so young, and perhaps so crazy.
“Besides, how could he have gotten into or out of the hallway without a key?" Faith's voice was triumphant.
“Ah." Louis Martin looked slightly chagrined. "To be perfectly honest, you can get into most of these old Lyon-nais apartment buildings with the same kind of key. Some, especially, have the knack—you give a little turn and press hard, then voila.”
Faith reached for the keys on the table. "You mean I could get into any of the apartments around here with this key?" She held up the largest one, an ornate, ancient key four to five inches long that looked like the one the man in the iron mask would have greeted with whoops of joy.
“But yes. However, only the front doors, madame. Not the apartments themselves."
“What a relief," Faith replied, fully aware that her sarcasm was being totally wasted.
“So you see, he came here to sleep. We did, in fact, find some empty bottles, so he was perhaps not even aware where he was. They also explain his very slow pulse. Then, like Princesse Charmante, you awaken him and he leaves." Sergeant Martin stood up, shared a congratulatory look with Didier at his petite blague, and prepared to leave.
“Tom, what do you think?" Faith was not going down without a fight—even if that fight was going to be with her husband.
In the vain hope of avoiding further discussion and possibly getting some more sleep, Tom chose to be circumspect. "I don't really know what happened. All I know is that there was no one in either one of the poubelles. We searched through the garbage and the only carcasses were the lobsters we consumed this evening—or I should say, last." He was very, very tired.
It was hopeless. Faith knew what she had seen and no one, not even her own husband, believed her. She would have cried in frustration, except it would simply have added to the already-damning picture of instability that had been created—the word for crazy in French is fou, and she felt like an utter one. She hoped Tom hadn't told them she was pregnant. There were enough stereotypes floating around.
But, of course, he had.
They stood by the door, an uneasy parting. What does one say, particularly after the inevitable little black notebooks had come out and information back to childhood solemnly recorded? Tom thanked them for coming. Not at all, not at all. Anytime, and enjoy your stay in France. Didier was from Burgundy, he revealed in a rush of sudden intimacy. He hoped they would visit the vineyards, although perhaps madame was not drinking wine. He directed his eyes significantly below, but not too far below, her waist. ...
That was enough. Faith said, "Au revoir. Merci," and firmly shut the door—yet not before she heard their voices as they circled down the stairs, wondering whether it was a custom for American women to dispose of their garbage at such an hour. Certainly, one has heard about their fetish for showers and baths, but it was strange, non?
It was very strange, indeed.
Faith woke up in a fog the next morning. It was a moment before she comprehended that she was in Lyon and not her bed in Aleford, a bed fast acquiring a certain allure. She groped for Tom, but his side of the bed was empty. She sat up. Her head ached and her whole body felt heavy and cumbersome, more like the ninth month than the fourth. The events of the night before crowded her consciousness and the fog didn't get any clearer.
She got out of bed and walked slowly to the window overlooking Place St. Nizier. She could hear Tom and Ben- jamin in the kitchen. As she got closer to the window, she suddenly realized she had been hearing something else, too. Music. Loud.
It was the clochard. Same place. Same pets. Same cas-quette.
Faith ran to the kitchen.
“Tom, come to the window! The clochard is back!”
Tom came to the doorway and gathered his wife in his arms.
“I know, darling, he was there when I got up."
“But I know what I saw! I'm not going crazy! He was dead!”
Tom clearly didn't know what to say, but Ben did.
“Who is dead, Mommy? Can Ben see?" He pulled vigorously on her nightgown. They'd explained that she was growing a brother or sister for him and he was hopeful the whole idea had been scrapped by a providential grim reaper.