by Cathy Ace
As I moved slowly along, I had hoped that my eyes would become acclimatized to the darkness. Maybe they had, but it made no difference—I couldn’t see a damned thing! I was beginning to feel a bit hopeless, and to wonder if my bright ideas about where I was were just stupid, because I didn’t seem to be getting anywhere, other than farther forward. I couldn’t feel any change in the angle of the ground below my feet, and, for all I knew, I was walking along a tunnel that was miles long and wasn’t the cellars at the Palais at all!
I looked at my phone again. It was 10:52. My God, was that all the time I’d been at it? It felt like much longer. I sat down, with my back against the wall again, pulled out my packet of cigarettes, and lit one. I reflected on how strange it was that I was sitting God only knew where, smoking a cigarette as though I was relaxing. The red tip hissed as I sucked in the smoke, which hit my dry throat and made me cough. Well, it served me right, I supposed.
I could see the smoke as it left the glowing tip, before it disappeared into the darkness. I held my breath . . . was it me doing that, or was it being wafted toward my left, the direction from which I’d come? I sat and watched the smoke intently. I moved the cigarette from position to position.
Yes! The smoke was always moving toward my left! Yeah! I felt immediately revived. Air was definitely coming from the right. Maybe there was a way out not much farther along. I got up and held the cigarette in front of me, like a tiny little torch, and moved onward, using one hand to feel along the wall.
Suddenly I tripped over something, fell forward, and almost broke my ankle and my wrist at the same time. The cigarette fell from my hand. I reached down to hold my ankle, and my hand found something cold, smooth, and hard. It rolled as I touched it, and it sounded like . . . glass. Yes, it was a glass bottle. Yes! Another victory—you find bottles in a cellar, don’t you?
As soon as I felt the bottle I knew what I’d been smelling since I’d opened my eyes—the lingering aroma of wine that had been spilled a very long time ago—almost a metallic smell. I grabbed hold of the bottle and felt it all over: yes, wine. I was so thirsty I’d have given anything for a drink right about then, but what was I going to do about opening it? I knew I didn’t have a corkscrew in my bag, and I couldn’t convince myself that trying to break the bottle’s neck against the wall would result in anything but a bloody mess—with my blood being involved.
I pulled out my lighter again and held it up. Along the wall I’d been following stood floor to ceiling racks containing a lot of bottles—the racks weren’t full, and they looked as though they were in use because while the bottles were dusty, they certainly didn’t look as though they’d been there since the war. I took this as a good sign.
I realized I’d have to keep using the lighter because I couldn’t really follow my wall anymore, and didn’t dare lean into the bottles to support myself. I kept my eyes peeled and followed along the racks, hoping that their presence meant I was getting closer to the parts of the cellars that were more accessible from the Palais. Eventually, I came across a whole stack of bottles with gold foil tops.
Oh goody—champagne! Yes, I can guess what you’re thinking, but what I was thinking was that here, finally, was something I could drink because I could open it! I pulled out a bottle and removed the cork. It really did open with a sigh, not a pop, which I know champagne is supposed to do. I swigged from the bottle . . . and it was bliss. I’m going to say it was the best champagne I’d ever tasted, but, frankly, a bottle of water would have been just as welcome at that point. I stood for a moment, greedily slaking my thirst and enjoying the taste.
The bottle was heavy, so I sat myself down again and lit another cigarette. I felt almost festive. That lightness of spirit, or maybe it was lightness of head, set me to thinking . . . Five minutes probably wouldn’t make much difference in the whole scheme of things—what if I just gave myself a few moments to think about the whole thing . . . try to get the “big picture” sorted out in my mind?
I couldn’t make notes, and, frankly, I didn’t feel particularly able to organize my thoughts. I decided to try another technique that can sometimes be helpful for problem solving. I closed my eyes—not that there was any real need to do that, but it’s what you’re supposed to do—and I opened my mind to allow visual images to form, almost as though in a dream. It’s called “wakeful dreaming.” It wasn’t something I’d done often in the past for myself, but I’d helped others to do it.
The first thing I had to do was to concentrate on each of the people involved in this in turn. I had to allow each person to “gather about them” things that my mind somehow related to them. It sounds odd, but it’s one of those techniques that allows the mind to do what it wants to do, rather than having your consciousness imposing order upon things. It encourages subliminal connections to be made. It’s pretty much the same process as when we are dreaming, when our brains take the opportunity to sort through things that have made an impression upon us and file them away.
First I saw Tamsin. She was wailing, waggling smoking sticks, and wearing dozens of huge necklaces, all of which were dripping with blood; she was standing in a pile of clothing that was heaped about her, then she threw a big bunch of keys at me and shouted “You’ll never find it! They’re all the same.”
Next I saw Beni looking handsome and well groomed as usual, except that he was wearing a toga, rather than his normal clothes; he smiled as he held open his car door for me; when I got into the car I could see that ancient scrolls were strewn all over the floor, along with loaves of bread and broken glass. He leaned toward me and, very close to my ear, he whispered, “They’ll never find us here,” then he kissed me.
I tried to drag my mind from Beni and focus instead on Chuck. He was suddenly very blond-haired, and he was goose-stepping down the front steps of the Palais, followed by a troop of young men all doing the same thing. He carried a long orange wand that dripped blood, and a basket full of guns; he was laughing and whispering something, in German, that nonetheless echoed aloud, as though he had shouted.
I saw Gerard crying like a baby and floating in a swimming pool full of flowers that now sat at the foot of the Palais steps; the pool was overflowing, its waters washing away the gardens that lay beyond; he held a small, dark-haired girl in his arms, and he was stroking her hair.
Madelaine came to mind. She was alive, and singing Edith Piaf songs in a smoke-filled bar, dressed as Mata Hari. She held a miniature version of the photograph of herself that had been stolen from her apartment, but in it she was dead.
Alistair popped up, laughing and looking rosily healthy. He carried a giant birthday cake in one hand and a giant snail in the other; the snail was without its shell, but alive and slimy. “Which one do you want, Cait?” he was asking me, pushing them both toward me. I could feel myself backing away from him, then the snail started to eat the birthday cake.
There was Moreau was sitting in a tiny version of his office, standing behind a tiny version of his desk and shouting at me that I had to leave Nice—now; he was red in the face, a mass of emotion and anger. Bertrand was beside him, laughing at me and speaking gibberish.
Next, I unexpectedly saw Bud standing in his flak jacket, which was covered with blood, and pointing at a street sign that said “Beautiful Beaches of South Surrey”—it was riddled with bullet holes. He was screaming something at me—I could see his mouth moving, but he was making no sound.
Marty, the Andersons’ tubby black lab, bounded toward me, covered in sand and soaking wet; his tail was wagging, and he had something in his mouth . . . it was a gun, but it was made out of orange plastic, like a toy. Jan joined him, again, covered in sand and dripping wet. She was holding Marty’s leash and calling for him to find Bud.
Finally, there was me. In the picture of myself—I’d knocked off about forty pounds, but that’s allowed—I was clearing Tamsin’s kitchen of plates and food and bottles and glasses and knives and forks and spoons . . . stuffing everything directly into the garb
age chute. Then I jumped into it myself and wound up on a pile of moldering scraps and black plastic bags in a small dirty room that smelled of old wine, but I knew I was fine because I had two sets of keys and five lipsticks in my pocket and all I had to do was find the key that opened the door.
I let all of this float about in my head, as it would have done if I was asleep. I didn’t force it, I didn’t even try to make sense of it. Parts of the images fell away, and parts of the images became sharpened . . . then it all clicked into place. It all made sense. It was amazing.
I had a moment of total clarity, and I knew exactly who had stolen the necklace, and when, and how, and why . . . and how they’d killed Alistair, and Madelaine. I couldn’t believe I’d been so stupid!
I also realized that I was in great danger, and I could suddenly hear my heart pulsing in my ears. If I was right, I had to get out of the cellars and call Moreau, fast—because, otherwise, someone else might die soon, and it could well be me!
Very Late Sunday night
WHILE IT HAD DAWNED ON me that my quick escape was imperative, knowing I was in danger didn’t help me get out of it. I took a final big swig of champagne (oops . . . it was half empty!) and set the bottle down. I picked up a full one, acknowledging that you never know when you might need a bottle of champagne, ignited the lighter once more and decided that I had to try to move ahead more quickly. But I was now concerned that I might, literally, run into someone who meant me harm. Before I moved, I listened carefully. It was so quiet that I could actually hear the bubbles effervescing in the champagne bottle at my feet.
Moving toward what I hoped was a way out felt even more painfully slow than before. I was buoyed by the fact that the wall was continuously lined with racks, because I felt that, maybe, I was getting closer to the tunnel that would eventually take me back to the Palais. My thumb was getting very hot keeping the lighter going, so I had to keep switching hands, and the little flame reflected off the bottles in the racks as I moved along. Here and there were spaces, then I came to a wide gap in the racks and . . . yes! A door!
My heart raced as I moved the lighter around looking for some sort of handle. It was an old wooden door with a heavy metal latch. I tried it, but it was stuck. I could see rust. I tried knocking the latch upward with the cork end of the champagne bottle that I had stuffed into my handbag—they’re pretty sturdy things, champagne bottles, and, after a few knocks, the latch opened easily. The excitement rose in my stomach. I pushed the heavy door, daring to let the lighter flame die for a moment. Was this my way out? Or did a rusted latch mean it was a door that hadn’t been used for some time?
The air did not rush toward me, nor was there any change in the light, so my heart sank a little. I re-lit the lighter and saw I was in a tiny room—it couldn’t have been more than five feet square—lined with bricks, rather than the large stones from which the tunnels had been constructed. It was clear that it wasn’t going to provide me with an exit, so I let the door close and moved on. There were no more racks in this stretch of the cellar. I soon found another door and used the same method to open the latch, only to be confronted with yet another little cell . . . of course . . . that was what these little rooms were—cells! Maybe they’d been built into the tunnels during the war. I hated the idea, but I could see that it would make sense for the Gestapo to have somewhere “convenient” to imprison those they wanted to question . . . and who knew what else. After opening a third door I was beginning to find the whole thing very depressing, and wondered about the wisdom of continuing to look for a way out within rooms that more than likely offered none.
Something drew me to the fourth room . . . a smell that I recognized . . . and it was not stale wine. I opened the door easily, without the aid of the champagne bottle, and looked inside. This room was different: the smell was of decay, and the floor was covered with bunches and bunches of dead flowers. That was the smell. A bunch of roses, fresh white ones tied with a big white bow, lay against the far wall of the cell, nestled among a collection of crucifixes. I confirmed that the latch would allow me to open the door from the inside, and pushed the door all the way open so that it sat back on its hinges. I made sure it wouldn’t swing closed by using the bottle of champagne as a door-stop. I knelt to pick up a large card that sat beside the white roses.
A trembling hand had written, “À ma soeur—aimée pour toujours, G.” The only “sister” I could think of who would be loved always was Gerard’s. “G.” The bouquet couldn’t have been more than a few days old. Behind it, and behind all the crucifixes, was a large hole in the brick wall. I replaced the card and pushed my lighter into the hole, then my arm, my shoulder, and my head. Something was glowing in the flame . . . I could see something white, and something ragged. My brain tried to make sense of it. Leg bones and ragged cloth. I realized with a start that I was looking at human remains, and I bumped my head hard as I recoiled. Bugger!
I rubbed my head. It didn’t help.
I had to be sure, so I looked into the hole again, being careful not to knock my head. This time I craned my neck around to try to see more. I saw the bones of a foot, of two feet . . . then of three, four, five. So there was clearly more than one body bricked up in there. I wondered whose bodies they were, and my mind flew to Gerard’s story about the women who had disappeared from the Palais—his sister among them. That had to be it. This was where the missing women had been hidden. I wondered about the other cells: had they also been used to hide the remains of those killed by the Gestapo and the SS?
Suddenly, Gerard’s attachment to the gardens became more understandable: the bricks that had been chipped away had not been removed as the result of recent effort—the hole had been there for some time. He must have known about it for years. The gardens were his memorial to his sister, and to all those other women. No wonder he’d been so set against the building of the swimming pool: Alistair’s plan would have despoiled his sister’s grave.
I sighed. How terribly, terribly sad. I stood alone, in the dark, surrounded by death and decay, and couldn’t help but feel my own mortality. Would I ever escape this place? Or would I end up—I jumped. In the absolute silence I had heard something.
What was it?
It was the sound of someone walking along the tunnel in hard-soled shoes. I moved quickly to the door and listened. The sounds were coming from the direction in which I’d been heading. I could see a yellow light reflecting off the tunnel’s walls.
I had to act quickly. I pulled the champagne door-stop away and closed the door as quietly as I could. Before it closed completely I heard a voice say, “I wonder how far in they took her? It can’t have been too far, she was too big to carry for long . . .” I knew I’d never heard that person speak before. I closed the door and allowed the latch to fall silently.
I guessed that the young man with the incredibly posh English accent was referring to me. I felt wounded. I rationalized that maybe, for once, my weight had helped me—if I’d been lighter I might have ended up much farther away from the exit, which I now assumed was quite close by.
I couldn’t hear anything except my own breathing, which seemed to echo in the tiny room. I hoped they couldn’t hear it through the door. Through a tiny crack between the door and the uneven stone floor, I watched their light pass by. It seemed they were continuing on in the direction from which I had come. I wondered how long I should wait before daring to open the door. I counted ten steamboats, then moved the latch as slowly and quietly as I could. Gradually, I opened the door. Once it was open a little I stopped and listened. Nothing. That could be good or bad. I opened it farther and stuck out my head. Still no light, no sounds. I could feel air moving. I hoped they’d left a door open, somewhere.
I told myself that I wouldn’t know for sure if I didn’t move, but I felt loathe to leave that little space. Finally, I stepped into the corridor. No more racks leaned against the wall, so I could move faster by just running my hands along the flat of the wall itself. I took the chance
of using the lighter, and it was only moments before I saw the most wonderful, beautiful sight ahead . . . a half open door, and electric light beyond. Yes! Yes!
I stuffed the lighter back into my bag and ran on tiptoe to the door. I peeped through a small panel of wrought ironwork to see what was on the other side: a well-lit staircase. Fantastic! I managed to squeeze through the door without having to push it open farther. I checked to see if I could lock or bolt it behind me, to keep whoever it was trapped inside the tunnels—but it clearly needed a key, and a big one at that.
Ahead of me was the staircase—wide, shallow, stone steps swinging off to the right. Bare lightbulbs were strung along the ceiling, which arched above me. I began to climb as quickly and as quietly as I could. It wasn’t long before I was breathing heavily. I tried to keep the heaving silent—after all, I didn’t know what was ahead of me, except more steps, because I couldn’t see around the sweep of the arc. I kept going, telling myself that my life depended on it, and got into a bit of a rhythm. The stairs seemed to go on forever, but, finally, another door appeared above me—a twin of the one below. It was closed. I approached it as stealthily as I could, gulping in air as quietly as possible. I got to the final step and peered through the metal grill. Nothing. Everything beyond was in darkness, but I could have sworn that I could hear someone snoring in the distance. I told myself I was imagining it.
I put my hand on the lever handle, and pushed. Please let it be unlocked . . . please let it be unlocked . . . The mantra kept pace with my breathing. Finally the lever was fully depressed and I pushed the door gently. Nothing happened. Oh no! It’s locked! I couldn’t accept that, so I pushed down a little harder on the lever and more forcefully against the door. I lurched forward, and the door creaked open.
I was out, but where was I?
I looked around me—everything was dark, and I really could hear snoring. Suddenly I knew exactly where I was. I was in the basement of the Palais, looking along the corridor where the rental apartments were located—where Gerard lived. I was so close to being safe. I pushed the door closed behind me, released the handle, and ran along the corridor as quietly as possible. I had no idea how long it would take the people in the tunnel to discover that I wasn’t there any longer—hopefully quite some time, since they didn’t seem to know how far away I might have been left. I knew they could be back at any moment, so I couldn’t hang about.