Divah

by Susannah Appelbaum

  She looked up. Strange stains coagulated along the pipes’ undersides, beyond which was pitch blackness. Rats, cockroaches—anything could be hiding up there.

  Johnny was already far ahead, and Itzy struggled to catch up, crawling under the low-hanging junction through an oily puddle. This was beginning to feel like less of a good idea than it had under the awning on Seventy-Seventh Street. What a strange afternoon—Luc’s unlikely appearance at the photography store, and that gruesome horse and carriage afterward.

  And the kiss.

  Itzy somehow couldn’t forget that kiss. If she closed her eyes, she could still feel it—effervescent—like little bubbles on her lips. And his smell. If it were a perfume, she’d sleep drenched in it.

  The End of Days. Itzy thought of Luc brandishing that strange card from the train. What was it that had him so worried?

  The Divah, she thought. Luc’s Demon Queen would surely feel right at home in the Palace of Secrets.

  “Hurry up! You don’t want to wake whatever lurks in these old passages.”

  Itzy startled. Johnny was right in front of her, grinning.

  “I thought the king of Prussia checked out,” she said, looking over his shoulder. Something was moving on ahead, weaving in and out of the shadows. “Isn’t that Pippa’s dog?” Itzy pointed.

  20

  “Where?” Johnny spun around.

  “Just there—see?” Itzy pointed again, but it was no use. The thing had moved off into the darkness.

  “I don’t see anything. You sure it wasn’t a rat?”

  “Only if the Carlyle’s rats wear jeweled collars,” Itzy said. “It was Paris—I’m sure. What’s it doing down here?” Itzy felt a sudden rush of nervousness. “Where Paris is, Pippa can’t be far.”

  “Pippa, down here?” Johnny snorted. “When Hell freezes over.”

  “It’s only a matter of time before they notice the dog missing—and send out the search party.”

  “Better make a move then.” He held out his hand, head cocked.

  Itzy peered into the shadows. There was no sign of the animal, nothing at all. Johnny squeezed her hand encouragingly and she followed behind him. Soon they came to a small dented grating that had been unscrewed and lay propped before them.

  Johnny went through silently and turned to help Itzy. They emerged from the dark pipeworks into a room of white. The walls and floors were industrial tile, circular drains scattered about the floor. A blast of steam hissed at them. Itzy’s eyes ached in the brightness, but soon she could make out enormous steel washing machines, industrial dryers, and presses.

  “Over there.” Johnny pointed. “Beside the laundry chute.”

  Itzy saw a boxy door.

  “The cargo lift. It’s how they move the mountains of laundry around the hotel. That’s how Marilyn did it—from there, it was smooth sailing up to the Presidential Suite. They say no one knew these tunnels like Marilyn.”

  A door opened and Itzy and Johnny crouched down behind a rolling canvas cart filled with towels. A burst of laughter filled the room like confetti—and was gone.

  “This way,” Johnny mouthed.

  They ran the last bit—opening the far door onto a room filled with the staff’s lockers. Johnny skidded to a halt and turned, pushing a tuft of hair from his face. Itzy liked the gleam in his eyes.

  “Well?” he said, his cheeks flushed from the run.

  “Well, what?” Itzy laughed.

  “Welcome to the Carlyle.”

  “Why, thank you. It was a most interesting adventure.”

  “We’re not done yet, Miss Nash.”

  “We’re not?”

  “I saved the best for last.”

  “Did you?”

  “Are you hungry?”

  “Actually, yes. Famished!”

  “The kitchens are right there. Come—” Johnny froze.

  “What is it?” Itzy asked. And then she heard it—tight, clipped tones. A familiar voice. It was the concierge, Wold.

  “Quick!” Johnny turned, panic sweeping across his features.

  Itzy looked around the room. There was a small, tidy desk that held a telephone and pad of paper; a chair was pushed underneath. Beyond, Itzy could just see a whitewashed door, but it was closed and there was no time.

  Johnny swung his locker open.

  “In there?” Itzy was appalled. It was small. It was dark.

  “I’ll lose my job,” Johnny pleaded.

  The sound of the concierge’s voice was louder now. The sharp click of his polished shoes rounded the corner. Itzy jammed herself into the locker just in time. The metal door clanged shut.

  Itzy squeezed her eyes shut and tried to concentrate on her breathing. The muffled tones of Wold and Johnny sounded far away.

  Itzy didn’t like the dark because the dark took things.

  The dark took her mother, all those years ago.

  They had been at the cottage for the summer, her parents’ retreat. There had been guests, Itzy remembered, but she was young—three or four. After a large, boisterous dinner, Itzy had fallen asleep in her mother’s lap by the great stone hearth. Later, Anaïs must have moved her to the small couch, for she was tucked in up to her chin under a heavy, scratchy blanket. One of the guests had lingered, and their lilting conversation punctuated her sleep. Her parents were eager for the man to go, but he kept pouring himself more wine.

  The next thing she knew, it was later, much later—and pitch black. The fire had burned itself out. At first, Itzy was disoriented, waking alone in the cold living room. Where was her mother? She listened. The cottage was old, very old, and its wood floors held gaps wide enough to lose a marble. Itzy heard the familiar creaking of the floor in the kitchen, but there was something else. A shuffling sound, as though someone were walking on a lame leg. A footfall, and a heavy dragging. A pause. The room smelled strange, bitter and burned.

  Anaïs was there suddenly, but Itzy sensed that something was wrong. There was an old wooden ash bin to one side of the large hearth that was used to store matches and firewood. Itzy’s mother pulled it out, and—kissing her once—closed her inside. Itzy did not cry out, because she felt something searching for her. Snarling, sniffing. Dragging itself upon the old floors, burrowing in the ashes of the hearth.

  Time passed, and Itzy slept.

  It was the last time she’d slept in the dark.

  21

  “Coast is clear,” Johnny’s face filled the slash of light as the locker door opened.

  Itzy scowled, blinded. She had balled up Johnny’s uniform jacket she had found hanging and used it as a pillow against the locker’s partition.

  “I see you made yourself comfortable,” he joked. He held his hand to her and helped her from the opening. “That was weird. Wold doesn’t come sniffing around here normally—this VIP has him really on edge. Let me make it up to you.”

  “If it’s all the same to you, I think I’ll end the tour here,” Itzy said. She noticed her hands were shaking.

  “You can’t!” Johnny looked genuinely upset. “I’ve saved the best for last.”

  “Johnny, I’m tired. Maybe some other time.”

  “You gotta eat, don’t you?” he begged.

  “I guess.”

  “Then come. No more surprises.” He crossed the room to the small door behind the desk and opened it, gesturing grandly. A set of stairs curved up to a short landing, and then turned, angling back on itself.

  Itzy shrugged, curious. The stairs were narrow, but lit from above, and Itzy heard the tinkling of a piano in the distance.

  “Go on,” Johnny smiled.

  Itzy listened. A snare drum rasped and she heard the low buzz of polite conversation. A sprinkling of applause, and then silence.

  She mounted the steps.

  The room was small and stacked with crates, but someone had cleared the center and a picnic of sorts awaited. As Itzy looked around, the music started up again, this time louder. A woman began singing, soft and low.

>   “Where are we?” she asked.

  “Bemelmans Bar!” Johnny grinned. “Well, as close as I can get you. This is the stockroom. You like jazz?”

  Itzy nodded as he pushed past her and stood in front of the makeshift table, set with the Carlyle’s familiar china. He pulled out a crate draped in a tablecloth.

  “Best seat in the house,” he gestured.

  “You did this?” Itzy asked, amazed.

  “With a little help from the guys in the kitchen,” Johnny nodded.

  “You went through all this trouble for me?”

  “Don’t you like it?” Johnny asked.

  “It’s lovely,” she said, and he beamed.

  Itzy sat, and he pushed her crate in closer to the table. He leaned over and reached for the silver dome that hid her plate, and Itzy suddenly remembered the earwigs.

  “Ta-da!”

  Itzy peered at her plate tentatively, but it held a towering club sandwich. Little delicate pots of mayonnaise and mustard were off to one side, an impossibly small pickle glistened in the low light.

  “I’m impressed,” Itzy said.

  “We aim to please,” Johnny smiled, sitting down opposite her. Leaning forward, he lit a small votive candle, and its flames danced behind the glass.

  They ate in silence, both quite hungry, serenaded by the jazz quartet in the next room.

  The female singer launched into something soft and slow, and Itzy listened to her gravelly voice.

  “So how do you know Luc?” Itzy hoped her voice was casual.

  “Mr. Beauvais?” Johnny shrugged. “He’s a big tipper.”

  “Luc stays at the hotel?” Itzy asked, surprised.

  “Luc lives at the hotel. He’s a resident. Tower Suite.” He popped a french fry into his mouth. “How do you know him?” Johnny asked, eyes intent.

  “He picked me up at the station.” Itzy shrugged. And then he kissed me. “How about I take your picture now?” Itzy asked, changing the subject.

  “Aw, you don’t want to do that.” Johnny flashed a genuine smile. “Have you seen Bemelmans yet?”

  Itzy shook her head. “You know, you don’t strike me as much of a jazz fanatic,” Itzy decided.

  “Itzy, nothing is as it seems.”

  “So I’ve heard.”

  “The bar’s covered in murals. Painted by Ludwig Bemelmans. The guy had a thing for bunnies. It’s really something.”

  “Bunnies?”

  “Yup. The entire place—the walls, the lampshades—you name it. Covered in bunnies. Bunnies picnicking, bunnies ice-skating, bunnies frolicking in Central Park.”

  “I’m not really a bunny person.” Itzy shrugged.

  “Right. I forgot. Not much of an animal lover.”

  Itzy raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”

  “Picking on poor little Paris like that.” He smiled.

  Itzy considered this. “That dog had it in for me from the minute it stepped into the lobby.”

  “That thing’s got a brain the size of a pea.”

  Itzy nodded, but wasn’t sure. The dog had seemed terrified of her duffel bag.

  “So, you’re here for the summer?”

  “Yes.” Itzy rolled her eyes. “My aunt pulled a vanishing act—sent a governess. Can you believe it? I’m seventeen!”

  “Weird about your aunt.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “No one ever saw her leave.”

  22

  “Sit tight—there’s just one thing missing.” Johnny stood, brushing himself off. They were both streaked with coal dust.

  “What do you mean?”

  “It’s not a meal without dessert.”

  “No—I mean, what do you mean no one saw Aunt Maude leave?”

  “Oh.” He shrugged. “Usually she’s got us running around in circles with all those steamer trunks of hers. Guess this time she’s finally traveling light.”

  A round of polite applause rose from the bar, and the band settled into another number.

  “Back in a jiff.” He touched his forehead in a mock-salute.

  Itzy smiled, but she was distracted. Her ankle throbbed, and she stretched, wincing. The music had grown discordant, jarring, in the way that some jazz could. A trumpet screeched. Itzy stood—the music put her on edge.

  She had seen her aunt’s steamer trunks stacked in the closet of the Blue Room, she remembered, before slamming the door on that thing from her bag.

  She checked her camera thoughtfully. She only had a couple shots left. Idly, she tensed the advance lever with her thumb; she could feel the film tightening from the pressure as she did. A dying art, Maurice had said. Consider yourself warned.

  Looking up from the Leica, Itzy froze. The light from the stairs framed the stockroom door in a warm amber hue. In it was a tiny silhouette of a dog, its long shadow stretching out, writhing on the floor like a snake. Silently, Itzy took a picture.

  “Paris!” Itzy called in her best Pippa voice.

  The little dog cocked its head.

  “That’s right—come on,” Itzy coaxed, but as she stepped forward on her sore ankle, pain radiated up her leg.

  “Ow!” she gasped.

  In a flash, Paris shot off into the dark, and, swearing under her breath, Itzy found herself following.

  At the bottom of the narrow stairs, Itzy skidded to a halt. Off in the direction of the kitchens, Itzy heard Johnny, joking in familiar tones with a few of the staff. But Paris had disappeared through the door to the laundry.

  Itzy threw open the door and blinked in the bright room. Several women in white uniforms were stationed by the industrial steam presses, and they stopped their work to look at Itzy.

  “Did you see a dog?” Itzy asked, but they stared at her blankly. “Perro?” she asked in her grade-school Spanish. One of the women nodded and pointed, and Itzy dashed off again. “Gracias,” she shouted over her shoulder.

  At the end of the tiled room, Itzy stared at the entrance to the pipeworks. The grating was still open, the air smelled like rot.

  “Stupid dog,” Itzy swore.

  The pipeworks were no less intimidating on the second viewing, and Itzy tried not to look at the dark recesses set in the brick walls. The heat was stifling.

  “Paris,” she called weakly, and then when there was no answer, again, louder.

  Sighing, she steeled herself and crawled forward on all fours.

  Itzy called for the dog several more times but it soon felt futile—Johnny would be wondering where she’d gone. She angled herself around so she was staring back at the grating—a small rectangle of light. She had come farther than she thought.

  Something scampered along the pipes above her head and Itzy cringed. Whatever it was had upset years of filth, which drifted down upon her. Squinting, Itzy began crawling back when she heard a familiar barking.

  Itzy scrambled forward toward the barking, but then heard a muffled thud.

  “Paris?” she whispered, eyes wide.

  The silence was followed by a sickly wet crunching.

  Itzy’s mind reeled. She was suddenly acutely aware of the dark. Forget Paris, she thought. She never should have come after that ridiculous dog. She crept forward, panting. She focused on the distant grate, afraid to blink, hitting her head more than once on the low-hanging pipes, white stars drifting in front of her eyes. Still, she never looked away from the small rectangle of light, hurrying her pace with each second as it loomed larger.

  And then, simply, it was gone.

  Something had stepped in front of the grate—something big. Something—judging from the crisp outline of matted hair and thick, disfigured legs—completely terrifying.

  Somehow, Itzy managed to keep her head. With shaking hands, she felt desperately for her camera and took a picture. It was only when she felt something warm close around her ankle that she started screaming.

  23

  Itzy kicked with all her might and rolled, arms wrapped protectively around her camera. She crawled the rest of
the way until she met a wall and sat, crouched against it, trying to catch her breath. She realized she was in one of the recesses, and, peering around the corner, she could again see the rectangle of light from the grate.

  Whatever she had seen was gone. But where?

  Panic rose in her throat and she felt lightheaded. Steadying herself against the damp wall, she fought to control her mounting terror. She pictured the sunlight at the cottage in Brittany, its pale yellow. She saw, in crisp Technicolor, the detail of her father’s garden, the warm hearth of the living room, the smell of ashes. She heard the sound of the lone guest who had stayed late into the night after that last, final dinner.

  Itzy felt around blindly.

  Her hand fell on something small, furry, and lifeless. She recoiled—it couldn’t be Paris, she told herself. It was too cold. Too stiff.

  Searching the other way, Itzy crawled farther into the recess, using the brickface as a guide. But her stomach sank as the wall soon met with another, and she realized she had reached a dead end. The recess was merely a few feet deep, but at least she could stand. Desperately, she felt along this new wall, fingernails digging into the mortar, pulling, scratching, searching for any opening.

  Something was carved here; she was sure of it. Words in stone, like a grave. Blindly, she ran her hands over them. They weren’t words; they were letters, she realized. A matching pair.

  Relief poured over her. Marilyn had been here. These were her tunnels, after all.

  A narrow opening let off onto some wooden stairs, leading up. But as she felt her way along them—crawling in desperation on her hands and knees—she heard something from below. A shuffling sound, as if someone were walking on a lame leg—a footfall and a heavy dragging. A pause.

  The same noises she had heard as a child in the ash bin.

  24

  It took several moments for Itzy to realize she was above-ground, for although there was a window, it was dark out. The headlight of a car traced its way across the ceiling. She was in a small room, sparsely decorated, with a lone cot. A black satchel was the only other thing in the bedroom, the kind favored by medical men. It was on the floor.