by Jeremy Bates
Then, suddenly: “Oh, Will, look!” Danièle pointed out my window.
Far in the distance, visible between a break in the buildings, the iron lady rose into the sky, lit up in a twinkling light show.
“You must come to the Trocadéro with me,” she added. “We will go early in the morning, before the tourists come. It feels like you have the Eiffel Tower all to yourself. What do you think?”
“Sure.”
I caught Pascal watching us via the rearview mirror. His eyes met mine, then he looked away.
Rob swiveled his chair around again, opened the mini fridge, and grabbed a second beer. “Anyone?” he said.
Mine was still half full. “No, thanks.”
“I will,” Danièle said cheerfully, and she caught the one he tossed her.
Tabs popped again. Carbonation hissed. Cans foamed over.
“I take it you saw the video?” Rob said to me.
I nodded.
“What do you think?”
“It’s something.”
“What do you think got her?”
I had considered this a fair bit since I decided to come on the excursion. My revised conclusion was not as ominous as the one I had initially jumped to. I said, “I think she snapped.”
“Went crazy?”
I nodded. “If you assume she was lost down there for days without food or water, she would have been weak and dehydrated. She would have been exhausted, mentally and physically. So she snapped.”
“Why’d she start running?”
I shrugged. “When you go crazy, you go crazy. Maybe she was hearing voices and stuff in her head.”
“And the scream?”
“She dropped the camera. She no longer had light to see by. She was lost in absolute blackness. That was the last straw.”
“You know, Will,” Danièle said, touching my knee, “that is a good deduction. Maybe you are right. See—you had nothing to be scared of to begin with.”
Pascal chortled from up front.
“I was never scared,” I said. “I was concerned—for you.”
“Is that not the same thing?”
“What do you think?” I asked Rob.
“Sounds like you were scared, boss.”
I ignored that. “I mean, what do you think happened to her?”
“What you said makes sense,” he agreed. Then, with a campfire grin, he added, “But on the other hand, maybe there is something down there. A mop-wielding Toxic Avenger mutant that stripped her, fucked her, ate her, then tossed her bones to one of those rooms with all the other bones.”
Danièle rolled her eyes at this. Rob winked at us and chugged his beer. The van tooled on through the night with Dylan singing in his campy, folky voice.
Later, somewhere in the southern suburb of Port D’Orléans, Pascal pulled up to the curb twenty feet shy of a dark street corner and killed the engine.
Danièle said, “We are here.”
Chapter 7
On the sidewalk outside the campervan Pascal and Danièle pulled on hip waders. Rob was on his butt, swapping his shoes for a pair of Wellingtons.
“I didn’t know I needed any of this stuff,” I said, feeling suddenly foolish standing there in a black pullover, black jeans, and powder-blue Converse All-Stars.
“There is water in some places,” Danièle told me. “But do not worry, you will be fine. Most important is a helmet.”
“I don’t have that either.”
“Pascal and I have extras. You and Rob choose.”
Rob opened the large navy canvas bag before him, which reminded me of my equipment bag when I played prep football. He withdrew two safety helmets, one red and one white, both with LED headlamps strapped to them. “Red or white, boss?” he said.
“Either.”
He tossed me the red one. I caught it and turned it in my hands. It was well-used and scuffed. On the back was a fading sticker of a grim reaper flicking off the world with his bony middle finger. Along the brim, written in black marker, was: CHESS. “Who’s Chess?” I asked.
“That is Pascal,” Danièle said. “It is his catacombs name.”
I would rather have used Danièle’s spare helmet than Pascal’s—I didn’t want to feel indebted to the guy—but if I asked Rob to trade I’d probably have to explain the reason for my request. “Catacombs name?” I said.
“Every cataphile has an aboveground name and a catacombs name.”
“Dorks!” Rob said as he plunked on his helmet and rapped it with his knuckles to check its integrity.
“Why the aliases?” I asked.
Danièle shrugged. “In the catacombs, the above world does not exist. We do not speak of it. You are free of your old life, free to reinvent yourself any way you like. With that new identity comes a new name.”
I had to admit, after all the shit I’d been through over the couple years, this sounded rather appealing. “So what’s your catacombs name?” I asked.
“In English it translates to Stork Girl.”
Rob howled.
“What?” Danièle demanded, planting her fists on her hips.
“Danny, that’s the stupidest name I’ve ever heard.”
“You are the stupidest person I have ever met,” she declared. “And, if you must know, I did not make up the name. Pascal did.”
Rob said something in French to Pascal. Pascal said something back, pantomiming a big head.
“He thinks when I wear a helmet,” Danièle explained to me, “it makes my head look big. This makes my neck appear small and long, like a Stork’s.”
“I like Stork Girl,” I said.
“Thank you, Will.”
And I did. It was cute. Definitely a better moniker than Chess. I imagined Pascal came up with that one on his own too. It was pretentious while masking the pretentiousness. Sort of like saying, “I’m a master manipulator, a strategist, a genius in my own right, checkmate asshole” while at the same time, if asked about its meaning, allowing him to humbly confess he was just a simple guy who enjoyed a game of chess.
“So what’s my dork name?” Rob asked.
“Rosbif,” Danièle said immediately. “And you, Will, I do not know yours. I will think about it.”
A middle-aged man turned the corner at the end of the street and approached us. He was walking a brown dachshund on a leash. Pascal clipped a ragged utility belt around his waist from which dangled a 6D Maglite flashlight and Leatherman hand tools. He retrieved the last two helmets from the bag, handed one to Danièle, then tossed the bag back inside the campervan and locked the door.
Everyone stepped aside so the man and his dog could pass. I expected him to stop and ask us what we were doing. He only nodded politely and continued on his way, tugging the sausage dog along to keep up.
“He doesn’t find us strange?” I said when he was out of earshot. “We look like sewer workers or something.”
Danièle shrugged. “He is aware of what we are doing. Many people dressed like us come and go this way.”
I spotted a covered manhole in the center of the road. “Is that the entrance?”
“No, it is this way. Follow me.”
She started away, her helmet tucked under one arm. I shrugged my backpack over my shoulder and followed. We crossed a vacant lot and came to a crumbling dry-stone fence. It was as high as my chest and thick. I gave Danièle a boost, then heaved myself up, so I was sitting on the capstone next to her. We shoved off together, landed on spongy dead leaves, and scrambled down the slope of a steep, forested ravine. When we burst free of the vegetation, we were standing among a pair of abandoned railway tracks.
“Where are we?” I asked, turning in a circle, seeing only shadowed foliage surrounding us on all sides. The earth was carpeted with more dead leaves and lichen. Everything smelled lush and fresh.
“The Petite Ceinture,” Danièle said. “It was a railway track that used to circle Paris, sort of like a defense, yes? The trains moved the soldiers from one point to the next quickly.
It has not been used for a very long time.”
I flicked on my headlamp.
“No, not yet,” Danièle said. “We do not want to attract attention.”
I frowned. “Who’s going to see us here?”
“Not yet,” she repeated.
I turned off the light just as Rob and Pascal joined us. Rob was cupping his left eye with his hand, cursing inventively. “Pissing branch,” he complained.
Danièle smiled. “You must be more careful, Rosbif.”
“Fuck off, Stork the Dork.”
Still smiling triumphantly, as if she had been the one to poke Rob in the eye, Danièle headed off along the tracks. The rest of us fell into line behind her, single file. The rusted rails and rotted wooden ties were nearly overgrown with weeds. I began playing a game in which I was only allowed to step on the ties. If I missed one, and my foot touched the crushed stone that formed the track ballast, I had to start my count from the beginning. On my third go I was up to one hundred sixteen when Danièle stopped suddenly. I bumped into her from behind and saw several flashlight beams maybe a hundred feet in the distance.
Pascal brushed past me and conversed with Danièle in serious tones.
“Who are they?” I asked.
“Other cataphiles,” Danièle said.
“Oh.” I had thought they were the police. “So what’s the problem?”
“There is no problem. Most cataphiles are friendly, but some…” She shrugged. “What you are on the surface, you are underground.”
“So a tool’s a tool,” Rob said. “Who gives a shit? What are they going to do? Looks like there’s only three of them.”
Danièle said, “I think we should let them enter the catacombs first, then we will follow afterward.”
Rob snorted disapproval. “And what if they don’t move for an hour? We’re on a schedule, right?”
Danièle looked at Pascal. He nodded.
“Okay,” she said. “We will go. But Rosbif, Will, do not speak English.”
“Why not?” I asked.
“Even friendly cataphiles, they do not like foreigners coming and going. The catacombs is their world. They want it to remain secret, as much as it can. If they hear you speak English, they will know you are a foreigner.”
“And?” I said.
“And nothing. But it is better to be safe.”
“Do not be scared,” Pascal told me.
I leveled my gaze at him. He turned promptly, and we continued toward the cataphiles, four abreast. Rob had been right. I counted three flashlight beams, three guys. They stood at the mouth of what appeared to be a train tunnel, speaking loudly and laughing.
When they noticed us they went quiet.
Pascal said, “Salut!” and began conversing with one of them.
They were all dressed in boots, blue coveralls, and white gloves. Their ages ranged from twenty-five to forty, give or take. Two oxygen tanks, fins, and an assortment of other diving gear rested beside them.
The guy Pascal was speaking to was the oldest. He had beady eyes and a hangdog face with the loose jowls of an aristocratic banker. Greasy black hair, parted down the center, gave him a Dickensian air. His voice was gruff, atonal, sort of pissed off.
The other two complimented each other only in that they were opposites. One was short, Rob’s height, but much skinnier. He had a bad case of acne, and he seemed nervous, staring fixedly at a spot on the ground in front of him. His buddy, on the other hand, cleared six feet. I couldn’t tell if he was as tall as me because he wore his hair in a volcano of dreadlocks, but he would have been a good thirty or forty pounds heavier. Judging by his barrel chest and knotty neck and broad shoulders, he subsisted on a diet of eggs, meat, and protein shakes. His face had that young Arnie look, all thick slabs and bony protrusions. His coveralls were stained with clay, no doubt from previous descents into the catacombs.
He was ogling Danièle in a way I didn’t like. He sensed my eyes on him, turned toward me, and said something.
When I didn’t reply, he scoffed and reached for my helmet.
I batted his hand away. “Fuck off.”
Surprise flashed on his face. Then a toothy, Neanderthal smile.
Pascal and the old guy stopped talking. Everyone’s attention turned to Dreadlocks and me.
“You American, huh?” he said, stepping toward me. His size made it feel as though he was crowding my personal space. “You go catacombs?”
Either he was as dumb as he looked, or that was a rhetorical question. I waited for him to continue.
“You take many photographs, huh?”
“I don’t have a camera.”
“You going to paint your name? Paint a pretty picture?”
“Why would I paint a picture?”
“That’s what you touristes do. You come here, you paint pictures.”
“Not today.”
He licked his lips. He had either exhausted his English, or he was thinking of something else to say. He nodded at Danièle. “She your girlfriend, huh?”
“Why do you care?”
He sneered at her. “You touriste too?”
She fired off a string of French. He chuckled, though not in a friendly manner, and replied. Their back and forth devolved into a heated argument.
For a moment I was absurdly proud of Danièle for standing her ground.
Pascal was keeping his distance. Rob was grinning amusedly, maybe even manically. His hands were balled into tight fists. I had the feeling he was about to throw himself at the big guy.
I stepped between him and Dreadlocks and said to Danièle, “Let’s go.”
Dreadlocks gripped my shoulder and spun me around. I stepped on one of his boots and shoved him in the chest, removing my foot so I didn’t break his ankle as he dropped, arms pin-wheeling, to the ground.
Sitting on his ass, he appeared momentarily dazed. Then his eyes stormed over. Roaring, he lunged at me, thrusting his meaty hands in my face. Everyone in both parties got into it, yelling and pulling us apart.
Danièle tugged me free. I was panting, not yet done. Dreadlocks continued to hurl curses, towering above his two buddies, who were doing their best to hold him back. Blood smeared his hammered forehead.
“Will, enough!” Danièle said. “Stop it!”
It took most of my self-restraint, but I reluctantly turned my back to the fight. I snatched my helmet, which had fallen off my head, and drew the heel of my hand across my lips, which were numb from a blow the fucker had landed.
Pascal was already walking away into the tunnel.
Both Danièle and Rob placed a hand on my back, urging me to follow.
I went.
Darkness folded around us like great black wings. Ahead Pascal turned on his headlamp. Rob and Danièle and I did the same.
“What a fucking knob jockey,” Rob said as Dreadlocks’ taunts faded behind us. “Him and his asshat friends too.”
Danièle looked at me. “Why did you speak English?” she demanded. “We told you not to say anything.”
“He tried to grab my helmet,” I said. “What was I supposed to do?”
“You should have ignored him.”
“What was he saying to you?”
She didn’t answer.
“Talking smack,” Rob offered helpfully.
“Yes,” Danièle said, “but Will did not have to push him.”
“He grabbed me,” I reminded her.
“You cannot do that anymore,” she said, and in the bright LED lights of our helmets I saw she wasn’t angry, only concerned. “If something happens when we are deep underground…”
She didn’t have to finish. I understood.
“They had scuba gear,” I said, wanting to change topics. “What was that about?”
“There are some spots, some shafts, in the catacombs that have filled completely with water. They likely want to see whether they lead anywhere.”
We walked on, our headlamps shooting zigzags of light around the cavernous arch. G
usty trails of graffiti covered the walls, curving onto the bricks overhead. The ground was chunked with rocks that glowed pale gray, the color of Paris, the buildings.
A few minutes later Pascal called a halt. He swung his Maglite to the left. Where the graffiti-covered wall met the earth was a hole—or, more accurately, a chiseled craggy break in the rock, no more than two feet wide. Spreading away from it was what I assumed to be cataphile refuse: empty beer cans, juice cartons, candy wrappers, white paste from carbine lanterns. A junked foam chair sat off on its lonesome. I wrinkled my nose; the stench of urine was strong.
“This is the entrance?” I said. I had been thinking it would have been more clandestine. This screamed: “Come on in, we’re open!”
Danièle nodded. “Some cataphiles, they are such slobs.”
“Don’t the police—the catacops—know about this?”
“Of course. This is the main entrance nowadays.”
Rob said, “So why don’t they seal the thing up?”
“They have before,” she continued, “but cataphiles open it again. Also, it is not an easy situation for them. They are scared they may trap inexperienced cataphiles inside. But, you know, I think it would be a good thing if they somehow closed it for good. Because then the people who make the trouble, the vandals and drug-users and tibia-collectors, they will get bored and find other things to do.”
“Yeah,” Rob said in an uh-duh way, “but wouldn’t that screw you too?”
“Me?” Danièle seemed insulted. “I am not an amateur. Pascal and I know ten other entrances.”
The ever-silent Pascal got to his knees and ventured first into the hole.
“He doesn’t say much, does he?” I remarked when he was no longer in sight.
“His English is not so good,” Danièle said.
“Fuck me,” Rob said, peering into the fissure. “I can’t see shit.”
“It is okay, Rosbif,” Danièle told him. “You are so small, you will have no problem fitting in there.”
“Bite me,” he said, then lowered himself into the opening. When only his legs were visible, poking out of the rock mouth like a half-eaten meal, he let rip a fart. His laughter floated back as he crawled forward.
