The Elusive Elixir

by Gigi Pandian

  I told them how sorry I was for the loss of one of their own, and asked what had happened.

  “You are mistaken, mademoiselle,” the officer answered, then motioned to his colleague to continue onward. The boat stirred up a froth of dark water and disappeared down the Seine.

  I was mistaken? What did that mean? Did he differentiate between the branches of the police and not feel bad when a man from another division was killed? Or was I mistaken that Gilbert was dead? No, that wasn’t right. I’d seen enough death to know what I was looking at. Was it possible it wasn’t Gilbert? Could my mind be playing tricks on me?

  I jumped as a hand pressed against my elbow. I was standing too close to the Seine. The strong hand pulled me back.

  “Je suis desolé, mademoiselle,” he said. “I did not mean to frighten you. You seemed so distressed, I did not wish you to fall. Yet I have made things worse.”

  I studied the newcomer. His eyes were sharp and he spoke in polished French, but he wasn’t dressed with the effortlessly put-

  together fashion sense one imagined such a man to have. In spite of the warmth of the day, he wore layers of ragged clothing and carried a dirty backpack over his shoulders. Two newspapers, Le Monde Diplomatique and La Tribune Internationale, poked out of his torn coat pocket, and a beaten-up book of Victor Hugo’s poetry rested in the side pocket of the backpack.

  “No harm was done,” I said. “Thank you for your concern, monseiur.”

  “You knew poor Gilbert as well?”

  I hadn’t been imagining things. The body floating in the river was indeed the police officer who’d driven me from France.

  “Please,” he said, “There is a bench just here. You must sit.”

  “How did you know Gilbert?” I asked, letting him lead me to the bench.

  “I am in between residences.” He chuckled. “Being outdoors much of the time, I meet many people. Gilbert was one of the better ones. He often brought me a croissant when he took walks here.”

  “On his rounds as a police officer?”

  The man cocked his head and laughed again. “Gilbert? He was not police.”

  “Not the National Police. A gendarme.”

  He shook his head. “Gilbert was an actor.”

  “An actor?”

  Madame Leblanc’s nephew who had told me about Jasper Dubois’s murder all those years ago wasn’t a police officer at all.

  Everything I thought I knew was a lie.

  Forty-Three

  With this new piece of information, reality snapped into focus on a different plane. A slight shift in the lens I was using to examine all the facts gave everything a new perspective.

  Gendarme Gilbert wasn’t affiliated with the police.

  Had Madame Leblanc hired an actor to impersonate a police officer to scare a confession out of me? I thought that through. It was a weak plan. If she truly believed I was an immortal Zoe Faust, surely she wouldn’t think I’d so easily confess. There also hadn’t been time for her to coach an actor with so many facts. He did consult a notebook, though. Even if I granted he was a good improvisational actor, why had he been killed?

  “Are you all right, mademoiselle?” the homeless poetry connoisseur asked.

  “His death is a shock. I’ll be fine. I just need a moment.”

  I tugged at the ends of my hair and watched the ripples of the Seine. Gendarme Gilbert hadn’t been the only person acting.

  I hadn’t stopped to think about how implausible it was for Madame Leblanc to have such vivid memories of her childhood. Finding a dead body would leave an impression and be hard to forget. But the rest? She could very well be acting.

  That meant an unknown person had hired two actors—an old woman to impersonate someone who knew me in the 1940s, and a young man who could play a rookie police officer. Why? The only answer that made sense was to convince me that I should leave France.

  So not Lucien. He’d wanted me to stay so he could steal Dorian’s book, and it had inconvenienced him that he’d had to follow me to Portland. Who else was there? It had to be an alchemist.

  That only left one person: Ambrose’s son Percy.

  But why kill the actor? Was he a loose end? Was the woman who played Madame Leblanc next? Was there any way I could find the actress to warn her?

  “Monsieur, did you see where exactly the police found Gilbert’s body?” I spoke before realizing how odd the question must have sounded. “I mean, I’d hate to think about the indignity of him floating in the river for a long time. I hope he was found quickly.”

  “A woman walking her terrier saw him floating in the river right here, under the shadow of Notre Dame. I cannot imagine he was in the river long. Between the tourists and the locals, it would be impossible to miss him. Rest assured, mademoiselle. I will not be so philosophical as to assert he is now in a better place, but his dignity is intact and he will be adequately mourned by his friends.”

  “Under the shadow of Notre Dame,” I whispered. “Beneath the city.”

  I now had an idea what I was looking for. The actor’s body had washed up not only next to Notre Dame, the very place connected to alchemy and Dorian’s book, but beneath it.

  I looked around but didn’t see any obvious entry points. But although I didn’t know how to find it, I had an answer for how backward alchemists could have a space connected to Notre Dame without being observed as being part of it. The perfect place to hide a backward alchemy lab that needed to be close to Notre Dame. Not only a basement, but truly underground. A secret space where a backward alchemist could perform a transformation.

  But where? Invisible to the city above were an assortment of catacomb passageways, bunkers that had been built during World War II, metro tunnels, shafts for water and sewage, and quarries that had been mined for limestone and gypsum for centuries, causing many a cave-in. Those cave-ins were much more common when I’d lived in Paris decades before, causing me to be wary of climbing beneath the surface of Paris.

  “I hope, mademoiselle, that you are not looking to venture beneath the city to avenge Gilbert’s death. People have died down there, after they’ve gotten lost and not been able to find their way out.”

  “I have a young friend,” I said. “Just a boy. I think he might be with the same people who did this to Gilbert.”

  “Even if this is true, your death would not help him.”

  “There are people who know the city’s underground well,” I said, thinking of how it was now a trendy thing for artists to stage art shows or dance parties underground.

  “You’ll never find them.”

  “Who?”

  “The Urban eXperimenters. That’s who you’re going to try to find, yes?”

  “That’s what they call themselves?”

  “One of the groups. And I’ve tried. Believe me, I’ve tried. They don’t like to reveal their identities. I once thought the underground might be a good place to stay during winter, but it is not what one would expect. I wish you good luck finding your young friend. But heed the words of an old man who has seen where such folly can lead. Following your heart is beautiful in the pages of a book, but in life, remember to think before you descend.”

  I thanked my new friend with a handshake while surreptitiously tucking a few Euros into his Victor Hugo book with the sleight-of-hand skills I’d learned from Dorian, then ran down the riverbank.

  He was right: I couldn’t find Brixton alone, but I now knew how to get the help I needed. I ducked into a quiet square filled with Honey Locust trees to make a phone call to my secret weapon: a fourteen-year-old.

  “Hi, Ms. Faust,” Brixton’s friend Veronica said.

  I’d never get used to the fact that people could see your name when you called them.

  “I need your help finding Brix,” I said.

  “Mr. Liu and Brix’s mom already asked me. I don’t k
now where he went. My dad even searched my room. Like he’d be hiding in the closet! Can you believe that? I really don’t know where he is.”

  “I think I do. But I need your help.”

  “You do?”

  “I need to get a message to the Cataphiles of Paris.”

  “Paris? Brixton is in Paris? How did he get to Paris? I mean, I knew he had a passport cuz he went to visit his stepdad somewhere a couple of years ago.”

  “Veron—”

  “But I always thought the two of us would go together, you know? Backpacking before college. He knows how much I wanted to go. The City of Lights. The—”

  “Veronica. Please listen. He’s not here on vacation.”

  “Here? You mean you’re in Paris, too?”

  “He’s in trouble.”

  A pause. “Really? It’s not just a crazy idea to get to Europe before Ethan?”

  “I promise I’ll explain everything as soon as I can. But first, I need your help.”

  “Okay. Um, what’s a Cataphile?”

  “People who like to explore underground. Sort of like what you, Brixton, and Ethan did when you explored Portland’s Shanghai Tunnels.”

  “That was different. There aren’t graveyards underneath Portland, Ms. Faust. That’s who you mean, right? The explorers who sneak into creepy old tombs underneath Paris to walk through old bones and things? I saw the creepiest photos online from an art show and pop-up kitchen set to candlelight in Paris.”

  “That’s them—”

  “Oh, you should totally do something like that in the Shanghai Tunnels, where it’s cool without being weird with all the skulls and things, you know? Is that what Brixton is in Paris for?”

  “Sort of. But because what these groups do is illegal, they don’t like to be found by people who aren’t part of their group.”

  “You want me to post a message to this online group?”

  “I know it’s a lot to ask,” I said, “but I think it’ll help me find Brixton. I don’t know how else to find them, but I thought if you tried you might—”

  “Sure.”

  “What?”

  “While we’ve been talking, I found them. Um, I’ve only had one year of French, though. Can you tell me whatever your message is en français?”

  Forty-Four

  An hour later, I sat at a crooked wooden table scarred with key carvings in the back room of a Left Bank café with Constantine and Emma, who insisted they would only use their first names. That was fine with me, since I wasn’t going to reveal more than my first name to them. Yet we huddled together like old friends, speaking in low voices as we constructed our plan.

  Veronica had posted a message that a boy had been kidnapped and taken to the tunnels, and that the police hadn’t followed up on the tip. Anyone who wanted to help me could meet outside a café near the entrance to the catacombs. I knew the tourist attraction wouldn’t be where we descended, but with urban explorers hiding their discoveries almost as well as alchemists, I couldn’t think of a better place for a group of people to meet.

  The eight others who’d shown up had departed as soon as they realized this wasn’t a piece of performance art. They had wanted to be part of a murder mystery-themed game like a similar one staged in a newly discovered section of the catacombs the previous month. Constantine and Emma were different. They were hardcore Cataphiles who’d taken Veronica’s note seriously and come prepared. They arrived in thigh-high rubber boots and carried small backpacks filled with maps, lights, and other items they didn’t reveal to me. I guessed they were brother and sister, for they both had tiny bodies, ginger hair, and a familiarity that I remembered from long ago.

  The first words out of Constantine’s mouth, after listening to my plea and extinguishing his cigarette, were, “You were right to contact us.”

  “Below ground,” Emma added, “we will be of far greater help than the police.”

  I’m not a perfect judge of character—as my misjudgment of Percy and Ivan reminded me—but in spite of their youthful arrogance, the thing that told me I could trust Emma and Constantine in this situation was their healthy skepticism of the authorities. They hadn’t once asked me why I didn’t try again to convince the police. Instead, they followed me to a private corner and quizzed me for details of Brixton’s disappearance so we could construct the best plan of attack.

  “This is our best way in,” Constantine said, using his index finger to circle a hand-drawn mark on a wrinkled photocopy of official blueprints.

  Emma clicked her tongue. “Non. That passageway is always muddy.”

  “But it gets us close to Notre Dame,” I said. “That’s what matters.”

  Emma’s pale cheeks turned scarlet.

  “Emma brings up a good point,” Constantine said, his eyes not leaving the map.

  “I’ll pay your laundry bill,” I said, not caring about the naked desperation in my voice. “I’ll pay whatever you want. You know the life of a child is at stake here. Please.”

  “You misunderstand,” he said.

  “The reason for the mud in that tunnel is the problem. I forgot there’s a blockage there, after another section collapsed. We might not get through.”

  “Can’t we climb down in a big tunnel you know isn’t blocked, and go from there?” I asked. This was taking too long. What had become of Brixton?

  “This attitude is why people have died down there,” Emma said derisively. “It is not as easy as looking at a map. There are not only side tunnels, but different levels and many underground landslides we don’t know about. There’s a whole world beneath Paris.”

  “She exaggerates,” Constantine said, “but not by much. Here.” He jabbed his finger onto another spot, not far from the first. At least I thought it was close by. I wouldn’t have been able to read the map without them.

  “Oui,” Emma said. “That will work.”

  Constantine gave a single curt nod. “Bon.”

  “Are you ready?” Emma asked me. Without waiting for a reply, she stood and tucked the tightly folded map underneath her shirt.

  I tossed coins onto the table and chased after them.

  When we reached the rusty metal grate that was to be our entrance, Emma handed me a hat with built-in flashlight and an extra set of gloves. I looked down at my own green ankle boots, gray cotton slacks, and black cardigan. Even with my guides, I was far from prepared for this. All that mattered was that I reach Brixton in time.

  Willing myself to forget about the people who’d died during tunnel cave-ins of previous centuries, I took a deep breath or five and climbed into the darkness below.

  We walked for what felt like an eternity, passing through limestone and gypsum corridors that had been mined in the Middle Ages, and passing near the more modern Metro, sewer, and water tunnels. In many of the tunnels, empty plastic water bottles and other trash was strewn about. I stepped on more than one long-dead glow stick from the parties that must have taken place here. The trash gave me hope, though. It meant we were traversing where others had recently come. We weren’t going to end up as a statistic, another stupid explorer who starved to death underneath Paris.

  At a crossroads, they stopped and consulted a map. After only a few seconds, they pointed to the left path.

  “Why that way?” I asked. “It’s going away from Notre Dame. It looked like we were almost there.”

  “You will not find them there,” Emma said.

  “But that’s where I think he’s been taken. That’s why we’re here.”

  Constantine exchanged a look with Emma before speaking. “Nobody goes there.”

  “Why not?”

  “Perhaps it would be best to call the police now,” Emma said softly.

  I put my hand on her grimy shoulder. “They can’t help,” I said. “I need to go.”

  “You don’t,” Emma
said, gripping my hand. “If this is where your young friend has been taken, you won’t find him.”

  “Why?”

  Emma didn’t answer.

  “Death,” Constantine said. “Only death awaits down that corridor.”

  A mixture of panic and hope welled inside me. That had to be the right way.

  “I’ll pay you for a map and headlamp,” I said, hoping they could hear the desperation in my voice. I didn’t care if they asked me for all the money I possessed. “I need to find him.”

  The two communicated wordlessly for a few moments. I think I held my breath for every second.

  “No money,” Emma said finally. “But you must be safe. Take these breadcrumbs.” She pressed a map and what looked like a bag of plastic sticks into my hands. No breadcrumbs in sight.

  “Glow sticks,” Constantine explained. “At every turn you take, break one and leave it there. You’ll be able to find your way back.”

  Breadcrumbs to find my way out of the dark forest.

  My solitary route took me through catacombs and crypts of bones as I continued the search for Brixton. It was a disheartening image that reminded me too much of the very real possibility that I could be too late to save his life.

  I remembered to leave a glow stick at each turn, though in these tunnels the curves were deceptive rather than clear cut. I hoped I’d used enough.

  The sound of a man’s voice speaking made me stop in my tracks. A moment later, I breathed in a familiar scent that blended metallic and sweet. I ran forward, slowing only as a sliver of light cast its glow in front of me. I forced myself to slow down and approach with caution.

  I found myself in an alchemy lab like no other I’d ever seen before. Instead of the complicated assortment of dozens of glass vessels, hundreds of ingredients, and countless books, a cozy armchair took up more space than the single table of alchemical apparatuses and ingredients. Candles illuminated the 50-square-meter space that looked more like a child’s playroom than a serious alchemy lab.