Spectacle

by Jodie Lynn Zdrok

  Nathalie shook her head. “If we’re in our sixties and you’re still doing cabaret and I’m still dressing as an errand boy, we’re in trouble.”

  They shared a laugh, probably a heartier one than the joke deserved.

  It felt good.

  “Did Louis tell you he ran into me?”

  Simone nodded. “On your way to the hypnotist. What—what was that like?”

  When Nathalie explained that Simone was actually “with” Nathalie during her almost-hypnotized state, Simone got choked up.

  A tacit carefulness framed the healing moments between them, the way a timid pianist holds back during that first attempt to play Mozart or Chopin. Each sentence brought them closer.

  Eventually, each told the other all that had happened since their quarrel at the Musée Grévin—an argument which, despite lasting a few weeks, seemed as long as one of Papa’s sea excursions. The more they talked, the easier it became. At one point, Céleste awoke, and Simone sang her and Nathalie a nonsensical ditty about the tiger and the puppy that she’d learned for a new act at Le Chat Noir.

  Céleste propped herself up and giggled. “Can you teach me the words?”

  “And me,” Nathalie chimed in. “I’ll sing it to Stanley. I’m sure he’d be happy to hear about tigers and puppies.”

  Simone laughed. “For my sister and for my dearest friend’s cat? Absolutement.”

  As she taught them the song, guilt seized Nathalie like a cramp. Agnès’s slain body was being transported to Bayeux to be subsumed into the earth, and here they were, learning silly lyrics. Was that wrong?

  Maybe. Or maybe it was just a way to get through all of this and remember, for several fleeting moments anyway, what normal felt like.

  32

  She hadn’t written the morgue report the day Agnès was there. Christophe had sent word to M. Patenaude, and Kirouac covered for her that day. She still hadn’t read the article.

  Her hands had been heavy writing the subsequent morgue reports, and the trek to Le Petit Journal now seemed eternal. Perhaps because of her vigilance. Even with a policeman around, she found herself studying the face of any man she could get a good look at, wondering if he was the one who’d taken Agnès from her. And she kept reaching for a vial of catacomb dirt that wasn’t there.

  The day after her heartfelt conversation with Simone, she dropped off her column and searched the mail room for a small box. She found one with a cover. Exactly what she needed.

  When she went back outside, there was some commotion surrounding a carriage accident. Onlookers flooded the street, including the steam tram depot. Nathalie walked several blocks to a different one and confirmed with a professorlike man that the route went through Place Denfert-Rochereau.

  Thirty minutes later she disembarked, next to the Lion of Belfort monument, which she quite liked (mostly because it was a lion, but its symbol of French resistance in response to the German blockade was impressive, too). There was no queue outside the Catacombs entrance, and she hoped that meant no tourists, either.

  Not that she would notice, unless she happened to be within earshot of a group. Paris’s underground crypts, full of the bones of souls given up centuries ago, was the final resting place of six million. Papa said you could go from Paris to Germany if the tunnels were end-to-end in a straight line.

  One step onto the spiral-stepped descent into the Catacombs, one breath into the stale, damp air that hummed with death, and Nathalie retreated many years to the first time she’d visited the underground crypt.

  Papa had brought her. Both he and Maman resisted, despite her pleas for months on end. But once Juliette Lavigne bragged about having gone, Nathalie just had to go. (Juliette boasted about all her exotic “grown-up” experiences, and when she switched schools a year later, Nathalie was both relieved and sorry that her daring rival had left.) It wasn’t just envy that drew her. It was also, and even more so, the stories she read about or heard at school—spirits roaming and skeletons dancing and, according to Simone, who’d been there twice before Nathalie, curses falling on those who followed a particular route through the Catacombs.

  Nathalie simply had to see for herself.

  She pled in many ways and on many occasions. Finally, when she’d almost made a game of asking because she expected refusal, Papa conceded. For my birthday, Papa. I’m eight. I’m not a baby anymore. That one worked.

  To Nathalie’s surprise, Maman didn’t object, either.

  So they went into the Catacombs on her eighth birthday, just her and Papa. She was proud, practically skipping through the entrance.

  The darkness in the Catacombs was heavier, blacker, than any she’d ever known. Candles affixed to the walls offered little pockets of light on some of the paths, but Papa had a kerosene lamp and led the way, with confidence, down some of the smaller, unlit paths. She followed him from several meters behind.

  Stacked-up bones lined the walls. Skulls. Limbs. Ribs. Hips. All swirling in different shapes and patterns. She took a fistful of dirt from the floor near a skull display and put it in her pocket. You weren’t supposed to do that, according to whichever adult made up “don’t touch this” and “don’t touch that” rules in Paris. She made sure Papa didn’t see.

  Every centimeter from floor to ceiling. More bones than she could ever count, room after room. A hotel for the dead.

  The morbidity enthralled her.

  At first.

  After a while she drew in closer and closer yet; then she got so close she stepped on Papa’s heels. He stumbled and the lamp swung around, flashing light on a group of intact skeletons, lined up like an audience before a show. Then Papa regained his footing and the skeletons disappeared into the blackness.

  “Ma bichette, hold on to me.”

  Tentatively she reached for his palm and felt relief the moment her tiny fingers wrapped around his strong, calloused hand.

  Then she heard voices in the crypt’s pathways. They spoke another language—Spanish, maybe?—and were probably tourists.

  What if they’re ghosts?

  Nathalie’s imagination wouldn’t and couldn’t rest after that. Millions of skeletons had been piled here. How could it not be haunted?

  Even with Papa’s sure hand clasping hers, she didn’t trust these Catacombs. There had to be ghosts everywhere. Everywhere! They’d sense her fear and drag her away from Papa into one of the dark, twisting paths where no one ever came out and—

  She stopped walking as if someone had tied her shoes to the floor.

  Papa turned to her. “What is it?”

  “I want to go.”

  “Are you scared?”

  “No, but I—I think we’re lost. I don’t want to get lost in here.” She didn’t want Papa to think she was too young to be here.

  “You don’t have to worry about that!” He gave her hand a squeeze. “I know the paths in here. I promise we won’t get lost.”

  Papa would keep her safe. He always kept her safe. Besides, he wasn’t afraid, so why should she be?

  She put her free hand in her pocket and let the coarse dirt sift through her fingers. After a few seconds a feeling overtook her, coldness followed by intense warmth followed by the sense that she stood outside her own body.

  Then something had happened to her mind.

  She could see, as clearly as if it were happening in front of her, a young woman getting strangled. Then an old man getting struck with a rock to the head. Then a man shot. Then a little boy getting an arrow to the chest and a little girl getting pushed into a well, one after another, image after image …

  Nathalie shook off the memory and inhaled the cool, still air of the Catacombs.

  Had that been her imagination as an eight-year-old? Or the first inkling of her power? Or a supernatural punishment for taking the dirt?

  At the time, she’d screamed and cried for Papa to take her out. Then she’d spun a tale to her classmates, Simone, and herself about how brave she’d been at the Catacombs. It made her feel gu
ilty, however, so she’d begged Papa to take her again in several months, just to prove to herself that she could be there without fear. That time she didn’t imagine seeing people dying or spirits pulling her away, and she hadn’t ever since.

  Would she today?

  As she reached the bottom of the stairs, she heard the burly policeman on the steps above and voices ahead, in the tunnels. Italian, it sounded like, with a tour guide. Nathalie crossed paths with them at the stone portal that led to the tombs, stepping to the side so they could exit. While they passed her, she stared at the inscription etched onto the portal.

  Arrête! C’est ici l’empire de la mort.

  A warning to stop that seemed more like an invitation to explore. Who wouldn’t be curious about the “empire of the dead”?

  She walked several minutes down the main, candlelit pathway, looking left and right. No one else was here.

  It was quiet. Too quiet.

  Deathly quiet.

  She turned to look at her policeman. He was standing way down by the portal, leaning on the white walking stick with both hands. He nodded. If her eyes weren’t fooling her, he was grinning, too. It was the first time he or any of the policemen acknowledged her. She gave him a subtle wave before turning her back to him once again.

  Nathalie peered down the next lit path to her left. This one was as good as any.

  She stepped into the alley, tucking her hair into her cap. Neat columns of vertebrae, separated halfway to the stone ceiling by a line of skulls, lined the walls. She reached inside her bag for the little box she’d found at Le Petit Journal. After removing the lid, she kneeled near the wall and scooped up some dirt. She poured it into the box.

  And waited.

  And waited some more.

  Nothing. No hallucinations, no ghosts, no voices, no anything. Whatever had happened when she was eight was either imagined or connected to her power. It wasn’t some kind of catacomb soil curse.

  She put the lid on, checking it to make certain it was secure, and put it in her bag.

  A scream.

  This is it. It IS the dirt. Leave it here.

  But the scream wasn’t a ghost or a vision, it was real. It was a man’s yell.

  Another scream, cut short.

  She ran to the main alley. A slim man in a hat stood over the policeman, holding the walking stick. Except it was a long blade now, not a cane. A hidden weapon all along.

  The man looked up at Nathalie.

  He had no face.

  The man bolted toward her.

  She turned back down the tunnel she’d been in, sprinting until she reached a three-way fork. Unlit to the left and right, lit if she kept going straight. She looked over her shoulder; he hadn’t turned the corner yet.

  Disappear.

  She hooked right onto an unlit path. After a few yards she stopped and whipped around, taking soft steps backward down the path. It had to open up at some point, and she’d be facing him if he followed her.

  Soon she backed around a curve and the fork was out of view. Footsteps thundered and came to a sudden halt; he must be at the fork.

  He’s the one who followed me before. Same hat, same body shape.

  What about his face?

  Trembling, she retreated deeper into the darkness, winding around another curve. Farther and farther back she went until her hand struck something cold. Bones? No. Metal.

  A gate. A closed one.

  She crouched down, biting her tongue to keep from screaming, coated in a layer of sweat. She waited for seconds or minutes or hours or days.

  No, minutes. Just minutes.

  Maybe he was gone. Maybe he gave up.

  A speck of flame appeared on the far wall near the curve. Nathalie balled up her fists, watching the flame dance across the wall until the man came into view holding a candle.

  “Why, hello there.”

  33

  He wasn’t faceless after all.

  Yet it was easy to think so from afar. His face was swathed in a white scarf, wrapped like a mummy. Slits for his eyes, nose, and mouth, nothing more.

  A disguise.

  He’s the Dark Artist.

  Nathalie stood up and slid to the right, pressing herself against a wall of bones. She reached behind her and felt a skull. She tried to wrestle it loose.

  It didn’t budge.

  “No need for a weapon, my dear Scribe. You won’t be able to get one of those things loose anyway. Packed tighter than firewood.” His voice was smooth, almost indulgent. “I’m not going to hurt you. I have some questions, though.” He set the candle into a sconce, casting a flicker of light on his hand.

  White gloves.

  Nathalie shivered, her eyes darting to the space beyond him.

  Can I make it past him?

  His eyes trained on her. “No, you won’t escape. And even if you did, you wouldn’t be able to hide. I’d hear you.”

  She glared at him. This couldn’t be real. This couldn’t be him. This man had to be an imposter, playing a joke, a cruel and terrifying hoax. The policeman wasn’t dead. Just knocked out. It was all part of the ruse by some disgusting man who wanted to chase her and threaten her and wear gloves to give her a fright and—

  “Are you the Dark Artist?” Fear shot the words out of Nathalie’s throat in a high-pitched, angry tone.

  The man tipped his hat and bowed slightly. “C’est moi.”

  Nathalie’s intestines turned to liquid. She began to quiver uncontrollably, then channeled that into a yell as loud as her voice would go. “You killed my friend!”

  The words echoed out of the chamber, along the bones, and into the darkness.

  “You killed my friend,” she said again, her voice barely audible. “My sweet friend who loved life and brought some of that to everyone she met.”

  “She was rather impressive,” he said, “for the short time I knew her. At least you had a nice lunch together beforehand.”

  That feeling she’d had when she’d entered the arcade. Of being watched.

  Nathalie wanted to kill him. Cut him to pieces with a shard of bone.

  “It was her idea, not mine.”

  “Her idea? Agnès didn’t ask to be killed. You’re mad.”

  The candlelight flickered across his shrouded face. “No, I’m rather sane. Next topic. I have a question for you. Two, actually.”

  “I have about fifty for you.”

  “Very amusing, Nathalie.”

  Her name sounded horrible coming from him. She wished it had choked him before coming out.

  He cleared his throat. “Something happens when my exhibits are on display and you touch the viewing pane. You go into some sort of trance and say the name of the victim.”

  She frowned, ready to deny it, but the Dark Artist cut her off. “I was there for Odette, remember? Now tell me: What exactly takes place?”

  Nathalie wiped her sweaty palms on her trousers and straightened up. “Why—why should I tell you anything?”

  With demonstrative nonchalance, the Dark Artist reached into his overcoat pocket and unsheathed a knife.

  The same knife she’d seen in her visions.

  “I thought you weren’t going to hurt me.”

  “I might change my mind.” He gripped the knife firmly and took a step toward her. “Answer the questions.”

  Distract him by talking.

  She kept her eyes on the knife while answering. “Yes, I have an ability.”

  “And the details?” The Dark Artist shifted his weight.

  Nathalie felt dizzy, more disconnected from reality than ever before. “I—I see parts of the murder scene. Through … your eyes, it seems.”

  “Too bad you can’t include those details in your morgue report, eh?” His lips parted the scarf, grinning. “So you don’t see me, you see as me. Perfect. I obscured my face before stepping into the Catacombs, just in case. Although that abhorrent policeman was a problem.” He shook his head.

  “Is he dead?”

  “I
’m asking the questions,” he sneered, holding up the knife. “Now. You seem a touch too young, so forgive me if I seem perplexed, but are you one of us?”

  Us?

  “Well, based on that expression, I suppose it’s fair to say we’re both perplexed.” The Dark Artist laughed. “And here I thought you knew. Or guessed.”

  She clenched her jaw.

  “Insightfuls,” he said in a stage whisper.

  What? She pressed her back and hands even more firmly into the wall of skulls.

  The Dark Artist chuckled. “I have extraordinary hearing, courtesy of one Dr. Henard. My parents were deaf, so I had to have ears for three as a youth. Exquisitely circular, isn’t it?”

  Nathalie didn’t respond.

  “It was especially useful today,” he continued. “I heard you ask that man at the depot if the tram went to Place Denfort-Rochereau. From a block away.” He twirled the blade handle with eerie gracefulness. “I’ve had my ear on you for some time and have tried to get you alone. I almost succeeded one time, and if it weren’t for my clumsy lack of subtlety, I might have caught up to you before you hopped on that carriage ride.”

  She stifled a gasp. I knew it.

  “After that I had to be much more careful,” he continued. “You didn’t notice me on most occasions—although you came close in the arcade—but what difference does it make now? It hasn’t been easy. Those damn policemen and those damn public spaces with all those damn Parisians.”

  Her fingers crawled backward to reach for the skull once more.

  “Once more,” he said. “Are you one of us?”

  The muscles in her legs twitched, ready to spring. “My parents were Henard patients. My father has a magical ability. My mother doesn’t; she—she had a transfusion but nothing ever emerged. So I … inherited it somehow.”

  The Dark Artist cocked his swaddled head. “You’re a natural?”

  “I suppose so.” I’m much taller than him. One strike to the head and I can get past him.

  “What must your blood be like.” A declaration, a thought out loud. Not a question.

  Nathalie had bats in her ribcage, bursting to get out. She grabbed the skull, her fingers looping through the sockets.