Frankie in Paris

by Shauna McGuiness

  On our floor, I quickly tramped down the hall to our room—then realized that I didn’t have a key. Since I was going to be with Lulu, I left it on the table in our room because I thought I wouldn’t need it. She chuckled behind me, sounding like a wicked witch. A really little one.

  I stepped aside, but I still didn’t dare look in her direction.

  Speed-walking to the bathroom, I slammed the door. Wanting to mask the sound of my oncoming anxiety attack (the one from earlier in the evening was still looming), I turned the shower on, full-blast. I did it the way that everyone else does, because my brain hurt from the exertion of pulling that tiny weight up from plunging to the ground—probably saving some poor unsuspecting tourist from being beaned with Lulu’s small change. With my back against the door, I slid to the ground and waited for sobs to surface.

  They didn’t.

  I took a breath, scrunched my eyes, and waited for a few more seconds to see if they still might decide to come out. No attack. Maybe I was sort of normal, after all.

  Deciding to take a shower, anyway, I let the scalding water cascade down my nose. I wanted to burn this incredibly degrading day away, forever.

  I felt a lot better when I climbed out than I had when I climbed in—but still didn’t want to speak to my grandmother. How will I handle the rest of our trip? On one hand, I didn’t want her to get arrested for being the reckless, impulsive person that she was. Having me around had already saved her.

  On the other hand, I could not stand being around her for the time being. I just couldn’t.

  My nerves felt as though they were the taught strings of a guitar—more like a violin—and Lulu was holding the bow and not being very careful with it. The song that she was playing had a bunch of wrong notes, and the tempo was all over the place, on the verge of breaking one or more of the strings.

  So I was in a bit of a quandary. I didn’t know how I would get from the bathroom—wearing a towel—to my suitcase, without having to speak to the villain on the other side of the door.

  Tucking my dirty clothes under my arm, and wrapping the towel tight with one hand, I used the other to turn the doorknob. Using my doorknob-turning hand to shield my face from the other room occupant—I was a movie star, Lulu the Paparazzi—I made my way to my the teal suitcase.

  My pajamas were missing, until I found them tucked under my pillow. I grabbed them, switched my “shield arm,” cruised back to the bathroom and re-slammed the door.

  This all happened in roughly twenty seconds.

  Breathing heavily as I dressed, I knew this was pretty absurd behavior, but I was in survival mode at that point.

  “Francesca? Er, I mean, Francis? Frank?” She pounded on the bathroom door. I didn’t answer, just paused for a quick second, then continued dressing—and heavy breathing.

  When I thought the coast was clear, I exited the bathroom and hurried to my bed. Jumping under the covers, I pulled them over my head and turned toward the wall. Lulu was mumbling from the other bed.

  My headset was on the floor where I had left it, and I put the headphones over my ears. Loud punk music made me more homesick than ever. I could see Rich’s face, then my mother's, in my mind.

  I just wanted to go home. If I never see Paris-freaking-France again, as long as I lived, it would suit me just fine.

  Then I was out.

  12

  Hanging with the Dead

  My eyes popped open.

  The first thing I saw was the stain on the ceiling. It wasn’t George Washington any longer. It was… well, I think it was… it was Lulu, dammit! It was Lulu’s profile: poufy hair, round face—no doubt about it. I just couldn’t get away from her!

  If I was quiet enough, I might be able to escape her for the morning. I turned my head slowly to look at her sleeping form, trying not to make any noise. But, there wasn’t any sleeping form! The bathroom door was wide open, and no one was inside. She was the one who had escaped!

  I quickly dressed and combed my silent-film-era hair. The newly shortened length wouldn’t obediently stay down on my head, so I had to wet it. Water was splashing everywhere in my haste to dampen my locks.

  Once my hair was presentable, I slicked on my lipstick and powdered my face.

  Where the heck is my grandmother?

  I only had a few clean outfits left to wear. Selecting some black pants and a white, sleeveless blouse, I carefully tied my passport under my shirt.

  The room seemed dark, so I looked out and up the window and saw clouds. Not an inch of blue within our patch of visible sky. Maybe this meant a cooler temperature. Wouldn’t that be fantastic? I was planning to pay a visit to Jim Morrison and figured that some light hiking might be required.

  I wanted to get a move on, before my chaperon returned—so that I could ditch her altogether. Call it preservation of sanity. Or rather, preservation of whatever sanity I had remaining.

  It took forever to lace up my Docs. My fingers felt thick and clumsy as I hurried to lace them to the top, so I used TK to twist them into place.

  ***

  Pierced Eyebrow was behind the front desk. I thought that maybe I should actually find out his name one of these days.

  I waved my fingers in his direction, but didn’t slow down. Lulu was in the little dining room having her morning croissant—I would bet on it—but I didn’t want to risk peeking inside. I almost made it out the front door when I realized that I didn’t have a map with me and returned to the desk.

  “Bonjour,” I smiled at my would-be date.

  “Bonjour!” He flashed his bright white teeth and leaned in toward me.

  “Uhm. Comment vous appelez-vous?”

  “My name is François. Eet eez like Francis, in your country.”

  I laughed out loud.

  “Qu’est-ce que c’est?”

  “My name is Francis.”

  He laughed too.

  “What a terrific name, non?” I nodded my head.

  “Can I have a map, please? I am going to Le Cimetière du Père-Lachaise today.” The one that Henri had given to me was in our room, but I didn’t want to risk bumping into Public Enemy Number One.

  “Too bad I am working, or I would join you on your adventure.” As he handed it to me, a chunk of blonde hair fell over one eye, and his gaze was suddenly a little too intense for my taste. He sure was cute. FrenchLips.

  “Well, I better get going… ”

  “Stay dry out zere. Eet eez supposed to rain today. Beeg storm is coming.” Somehow he even managed to make his advice sound sultry. I had to yank on the map a little before he let go.

  “Oh, okay.” As I was backing away from the counter, I wondered what kind of shoes he was wearing. Using my arms to lift my body up over the top of the desk, I looked down at his feet. François stepped back in surprise.

  Oxblood Docs. The boy had good taste in boots. We shared more than just a name, it seemed.

  Waving maniacally, I did a pirouette and ran out the door with my map.

  ***

  This was my first ride on the Metro, all by myself. Sitting on a bench underground, I waited for the next train to come by. My map showed that it wasn’t a very long ride, with three stops that I could choose from: the Philippe Auguste station, the Gambetta station, or the Père-Lachaise station. That probably meant that it was one big cemetery. I hoped that I wouldn’t get lost.

  I chose the stop that was actually called “Père-Lachaise” —a good sign, I thought. It was the side entrance to the cemetery.

  Sitting alone in the car, I felt less exhilarated than I had anticipated. Worlds more vulnerable, though. My purse was slung across my body, but I held it tight in my lap, finding some comfort in being able to feel the muslin pouch hidden underneath my clothing.

  Through the windows, I could see the advertisement posters whizzing by on the tunnel walls. It was so quiet without Lulu next to me...

  At one point, the doors slid open, and in walked the mime, which I had been dreading for my entire trip.
Only he didn’t look at all depraved. Wearing the foreseen black and white striped shirt and black leggings, he gave off an aura of complete benevolence. He did have a twirly black moustache, but he also had a spare tire around his middle.

  Careful not to smudge his white face makeup, he tied a red handkerchief around his neck.

  The street performer across from me—without speaking, of course—got up when he reached his journey’s end. Off to entertain, without one attempt to abduct or abuse me!

  It was like an omen. My solo day was off to an excellent start. When my destination came into view, I stood up and exited with a confident smile.

  I hadn’t missed where I was supposed to be. No one had sung drunken children’s songs. No one had fallen on top of anyone else. No one had been detained by security guards. What a blissfully boring trip this was turning out to be—mime and all!

  Walking up the stairs, I could feel that the weather had become drastically different from what we had been experiencing since our arrival. Once I reached the top, I could see that François’ prediction had been correct. The clouds were hanging low enough to make mist materialize on my arms. Many people were prepared with raincoats and umbrellas. But most were like me: dressed for a hot July day.

  I delighted in the goose bumps popping up all over the exposed areas of my body. What a wonderful relief the cool air was after the last few humid days. There probably wouldn’t be any ice in our hotel room that afternoon.

  ***

  A tall grey concrete wall stretched along the sidewalk. It had a square opening, with ornate carvings all around the sides and tops of it. On either side were carved torches, and I could see gravesites through the doorway.

  Jim Morrison, lead singer for The Doors, was in there somewhere.

  Slowly advancing through the entrance to Père Lachaise Cemetery, I felt a powerful breeze lift the hair off of my forehead. Shivering, I continued through the entrance.

  There wasn’t another soul in sight. I chuckled under my breath because I was pretty sure that there were plenty of souls around me—just none that I could see. Badumpbump.

  The sun was completely covered by clouds, making the place gloomy and somber. The stones and tombs were all in various shades of white, grey, and black. Crucifixes peppered the length of visible monuments. I could have been standing on the set of some black and white gothic music video.

  There weren’t just headstones; in fact there were very few plain headstones, at all. Like a macabre art show, beautiful little buildings of all shapes and sizes lined stone streets, as far as the eye could see.

  Many of the graves had sculptures of angels, women, or other beautiful things. Some were carved in marble, and most had pieces missing, from wear and age. The majority of the statues were made from some type of metal, like bronze, maybe. It felt like a voodoo cemetery in New Orleans.

  There were poles with green street signs on top. But they were all in French—duh—and I didn’t know where I was supposed to be going, anyway. The streets looked just like the ones outside, as if I were traveling in some alternate world: The World of the Dead. This time the impending storm wasn't to blame for my shivering.

  How on earth am I going to find Jim Morrison? The place was so huge. In all directions, there were stone formations. Had I expected him to be at the front, as a greeter and usher? Had I thought there would be blinking lights and a neon arrow above his final resting place?

  I guess I had expected something like that.

  Tiny pinpricks of cold water landed along my bare arms. It felt wonderful, invigorating. I optimistically began my pursuit of my buddy Jim.

  Purposefully, I started down one of the streets, praying that I might stumble upon the resident whom I was seeking. All around me were bizarre memorials to those who had moved on to the other side.

  Staring, open-mouthed, my feet became cemented at the foot of a sculpture of a toddler. It was life-size and looked as though the child was sleeping. He or she was wrapped in a stone blanket, with one small foot uncovered. Its head lay on a hard, cold pillow, but the bed was shaped suspiciously like a coffin. A cold arm was bent at the elbow and resting on its chest, just below round cheeks and a little round chin. If that isn’t creepy, then I don’t know what is.

  Keep moving, sister! I didn’t want to visit with this dead child any longer.

  A headstone, larger and taller than I, had green moss growing up the sides of it. A black bird, probably a crow, used the top as a perch, its beady eyes following my tentative travel.

  Lightly jogging around a corner, I found myself face to face with the bust of a man. I didn’t recognize his name, but he looked a lot like an old-fashioned judge to me. He was covered in patina, leaving him a paranormal, bright sea-foam green. Wearing an antiquated vest and jacket, with a large cravat around his neck, he reminded me of singing busts at a haunted house. I half expected him to begin serenading me and didn’t wait around to see if he would.

  Trees formed a green-grey canopy above, but I could tell that it wouldn’t keep the rain out for long. Large, pregnant drops had begun to gather around the edges of leaves.

  I might have more luck if I leave the cobblestone streets and move between the gravesites. Stepping up onto the grass, I squeezed between two of the house-like mausoleums. I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was starring in a vampire film. Out in the open, away from the overhanging foliage, rain was falling freely. It spattered across my face and onto my shoulders.

  I almost stumbled upon another disturbing statue. It was also a life-size piece, but this time it was a grown man. He looked like he was dressed in his Sunday best.

  His outfit reminded me of the old-timey tuxedo that my stepfather had worn at his and my mother’s wedding, eleven years prior. They had had sort of period theme; Mom wore a purple velvet dress with a hoop skirt, and Dad had on a dove-grey tuxedo with tails. My dad had even had a top hat. So did the dead man: his hat lay upside down at his side—someone had filled it with real roses. They were velvety red and had a Technicolor glow in the darkness of the coming storm. The statue was patinated, just like the judge’s head. Although he was covered in a verdant sheen, he looked so lifelike that I thought he might sit up at any moment and follow me around.

  The name etched on his tombstone said that he was Victor Noir. I would welcome Victor on my tour of Le Cimetière du Père-Lachaise if only he could tell me where the elusive Mr. Morrison was buried. Out of the corner of my eye, I thought I saw movement from his final resting place.

  “Never mind, Monsieur Noir, you just stay right where you are!”

  I wondered why there weren't any other people around. Well, Dingdong, that is probably because they all have more sense than you do, to go wandering around a creepy graveyard during the only dark, wet day in July.

  My feet squished into the wet earth. I couldn’t tell if I had been going north, south, or on my way to China. Hopelessly lost, I wasn't even sure if I could find my way back out of the place.

  Trudging uphill, I came to a clearing with a long wall and a monument standing alongside it.

  My heart began to pump with a power that I was sure the occupants of the chain of eclectic graves could hear. This bank of statues was horrifying. They looked like the broken, skeletal frames of three people—with mouths open and turned down. Their eyes were missing, and in their place were large, dark empty cavities. Even lacking orbs, you could tell that they were terrified, tortured, and desperate.

  It was a monument in honor of Holocaust victims from World War II. One of the people was looking heavenward, seemingly askance. In front of him was another pathetic creature; this one was holding the third being up, as he had seemingly collapsed. They were frozen like this. Forever.

  Someone sobbed, and I crouched in a defensive position; then I realized that the sound had come from me. In my mind’s eye, I could see these three victims slowly stand, after years of remaining in their carved positions. They turned to look at me with their hollow sockets, and began to s
tep from their pedestal, with bony legs and feet, their ribcages prominent and knobby.

  In my hysteria, I couldn't tell if it was imagined—or if my telekinesis was somehow bringing the statues to life. Drawing my arms up over my chest, I began to run. I no longer cared if I ever found whom I had come for. I just wanted out. Not a practiced runner, my breath soon became ragged, and a terrible stitch developed in my side.

  I stumbled between the bounty of stones and mausoleums, some beautiful and some disturbing, such as the two average tombstones with arms reaching out of the top of each, so that they could hold hands for eternity. Ick!

  I collapsed on a smooth coffin-shaped block. It was one in a group of many, but it called to me. I discovered that I was crying. Tears mingled with the droplets falling from overhead. I steadied myself with a shaky hand, grasping the cool marble on either side of me.

  My blouse was so soaked with precipitation that it was completely transparent. There I was, stuck in one of the most famous cemeteries on the planet, competing in my own private wet T-shirt contest.

  Sobs turned into a lunatic's giggles. Looking down at the top of my seat, I saw a face: not an actual face, but a likeness of a woman etched into the top of the mound of stone. It was Edith Piaf.

  I am sitting on top of Edith Piaf!

  I stood self-consciously and apologized. “I’m so sorry, Madame Piaf. I’m lost and I just don’t know what to do.” Now I was talking to Edith Piaf. I am really going bonkers. “I’ve just realized that I have managed to get myself into more trouble than Lulu has accumulated during our whole entire time in Paris.”

  The portrait was beautiful. She looked so young, with smooth, white skin. Her eyes were luminous, and her lips were shaped in a bow.

  On top of her grave was a statuette of crucified Christ. Someone had left a green apple for her, in addition to an array of flowers.

  “I have always been a fan of your music. I could even hear you singing in my head when I first arrived in Paris.” My voice was barely a whisper. It was almost inaudible beneath the percussive rain.