The other mail was a letter from her mother—a brief, succinct report of the weather in Manhattan and their activities of the last week, closing with the lines, "I do hope you are taking care of yourself, darling Faith, and getting plenty of rest. You know how you tend to overdo." With that understatement ringing in her ears, Faith started up the stairs.
After lunch, which was consumed down to the last crispy, artery-blocking bite of grattons, those delectable fried pieces of pork, duck, or goose skin not to be mentioned in the same breath as pork rinds, Faith's fatigue became apparent to both husband and son.
“Ben, why don't we let Mommy have a little nap and we'll go up the funicular by ourselves?”
Faith started to make a feeble protest. She loved the view from the top of Fourviere. It wasn't just the panoramic view of all of Lyon. On a clear day, you could see all the surrounding mountains, the Monts d'Or, such a lovely name, and occasionally as far as Mont Blanc to the east. But at least mountains stayed put and she could see them another day.
Faith stretched out on the bed. Ben had patted her brow. "Poor Mommy," he said before running gleefully down the hall and out the door with Daddy. Was the glorious Oedipal phase over so soon, Faith wondered drowsily, wherein she had been loved so primitively, so totally?
Her eyes started to close and she fought sleep desperately. She had plans, but Ben and Tom had to be well away first. Her eyes were closed. She tried to open them, except the lids weighed more than the Arc de Triomphe and refused to budge. She slept.
A while later, she rolled over and blinked. Again it took a moment to orient herself. Perhaps it was the way the church seemed to occupy the whole room that startled her so often upon waking. She sat up slowly. She hadn't been inclined, or increasingly able, to make sudden movements these days. She looked at the clock on the facade of the church. She'd been asleep for almost an hour. Tom and Ben would be coming back soon. The afternoon shadows were beginning to lengthen. She'd have to be quick.
Since this morning, there had been one overriding thought in her mind. She had to get a closer look at the clochard. Quickly, she slipped on her shoes and went to the window. The music had stopped and she had a dreadful thought.
It was true. He was gone. She was furious at herself.
“Great going, Faith," she muttered aloud. "Sleep your life away." She'd have to wait until tomorrow to see him. Why it was so important, she wasn't sure. She could see him perfectly well from the window, but she wanted to touch him to see if he was real or if her hand would pass through his body like some projected image. She tried to think how she could have done things differently last night. Stayed with the body and screamed her head off was the only alternative that seemed possible. After a while, someone would have responded. However, the idea that the body would disappear was one that quite naturally had not occurred to her, and she wasn't a screamer by nature.
She was still tired. She crept back into bed. They were going to the opening of a show at Valentina's gallery, then out to dinner with the Leblancs and some of their friends. It was the last thing she felt like doing.
“Hello, darling, did you have a good sleep?" Tom was kissing her awake. She wanted to snarl at him that she had slept all too well and would have to wait until the morning for further clochard investigation, but she didn't want him to know what she was planning. The Reverend Fairchild took a dim view of his wife's sleuthful proclivities.
She managed to wrest a smile from somewhere and realized she did feel better. Oh sleep that knits . . .
Two hours later, she was feeling even better, as who could not in the jovial atmosphere of Valentina's gallery. The exhibit was called "Lyon Aujourd'hui"—four artists' views of contemporary Lyon. Faith wandered contentedly through the brightly lighted rooms. The crowd spilled out onto the sidewalk, wineglasses in hand, catching up on the news. Everyone seemed to know everyone else. The rapidity with which the French language is spoken increases in proportion to the number of people speaking it, and Faith was aware only of a word or two in the conversational swirl around her. Tom was in the thick of it and seemed to have picked up several new hand gestures since their arrival, as well as a distinctive shrugging of the shoulders and pursing of the lips. She'd get him a beret before they left, even though they were not so universally worn anymore. He'd look wonderful wearing it with his vestments.
Solange d'Ambert came over to Faith. She was wearing white linen Bermuda shorts and a gauzy chocolate brown blouse that complimented the tan she still had from le ski. She smelled of Hermes and smoke.
“You must think we are terrible. No one is looking at the paintings, but a vernissage is really a social event and to show support for Valentina. She has been incredible to make such a success of this place."
“This is exactly like a New York opening," Faith assured her. "Everyone comes back later to look at the paintings instead of the people. I certainly want to come back to see these again, especially the ones in this room."
“Ah, Truphemus. You have very good taste, I think. He is one of our best and most famous painters. He paints us just as we are.”
The painting Faith was standing in front of was the interior of a cafe, one lone patron seated at a table by the window, gazing out to vague suggestions of the street and buildings beyond. Looking at the painting was like looking through layers of netting; the colors were muted and outlines blurred, but the powerful image of loneliness was not obscured.
Valentina Joliet joined them and linked her arm through Faith's. "My favorite painting in the show and, as you see, already sold. Let me show you his others. He is not here tonight, but if you like, you can meet him another time, here or at his studio.”
Faith allowed herself to be steered and listened to Valentina's subtle sales pitch, which flowed effortlessly and sounded unrehearsed despite, Faith was sure, its constant repetition. All the while, Valentina's dark eyes darted about the room, canvassing the crowd, and seemed to take in even those behind her.
When they entered the next room, Faith noticed some other people who also seemed to be interested in the paintings. They were studying the works of art with care and making only an occasional comment to one another. They were teenagers and tres serieux. Christophe d'Ambert was one, and he broke away from his friends to come over to greet them.
“Bonsoir, Madame Fairsheeld, it is an excellent show, no?" He leaned forward and swept his lips over both sides of her face, then repeated the gesture with Valentina. "You are to be congratulated, Madame Joliet. May I introduce my friends?"
“Of course. I'm glad you could come," Valentina replied as two girls and a boy approached at a wave from Christophe. Like Christophe, the other boy, Benoit something, was wearing a Chevignon jacket, neatly pressed American jeans, and a crisp shirt. One girl wore a short black dress with white polka dots and bright red tights. She had a black fedora adorned with all sorts of pins—advertising logos, characters from popular bandes dessinees, comic strips, which in France are considered an art form. The other girl had shiny straight blond hair, cut shorter than the boys', and wore a man's dinner jacket from the thirties over a lacy white bustier. She completed the outfit with a short ballerina skirt, black pipe-stem pants and gold leather tennis shoes. They were wonderful to look at, these adoles-centes—all of them so beautiful—and Faith was drawn to them immediately. She also registered the fact that like Christophe, their peres, and meres, too, these days, must be bringing home beaucoup the bacon, one of Tom's favorite Franglais phrases. All those shopping trips to .the branche, or as the teenagers say in Verlan—a kind of reverse language like the old pig latin—chebran stores with names in English: Graffiti, Casual, Imperial Classic. The two girls, Dominique and Berthille, nodded gravely at being introduced, then the whole group drifted back to the pictures— the sole reason they were here, unlike their elders.