by kc dyer
#ChunnelBound #StPancrasPlease
37
MARCH 26
TO: Ramona Keene, Suite 2B
RE: commercial and supplemental space currently occupied by
Two Old Queens Books & Tea Shoppe,
Second Avenue, East Village, New York
Consider this written formal notice from landlord of above noted property. Should current lessor Mervin Keene-Knocker not disburse to the undersigned the agreed-upon increase in rent on or before the first day of May, as a sub-lessor of supplemental space attached to above-noted commercial space, you are ordered to depart the premises known as Suite 2B, conjugate to the above-listed property.
Your compliance with this directive on or before the first day of May will prevent any legal measure, including action of eviction, being taken against you. You are hereby notified of your right to avoid eviction by completion of assigned payments on said date.
Respectfully,
Angelina Sweetmeat, LLB
Cohen, Avenatti, and Sweetmeat
Legal Counsel to Mr. Francis Venal, Property Owner
Action being the best answer to fear, after reading this horrifying missive, I log off the internet and concentrate on writing my latest ExLibris report. This takes me a full hour. But even after padding it with a list of activities I hadn’t even begun to research in person, giving it a cheery, adventuresome tone, and sending it off, I still feel haunted by the lawyer’s threat. It speaks to the level of my anxiety that as the Eurostar hurtles through the tunnel deep under the English Channel, I don’t give a single thought to the massive body of water that is literally right over my head.
Over my head, and just waiting for a single pressure crack in the structure to come flooding in, trapping me inside and drowning every passenger before rescue can even be attempted.
Okay, so maybe one thought. Or two.
Still, my uneasiness in the Chunnel can’t compete with the anxiety over everything happening at home. Why would Frank Venal have his lawyer e-mail me? Is his plan to frighten me into paralysis, the way Rhianna stares down a mouse before snapping it up?
“Ramona Keene is no mouse,” I mutter, slamming the lid of my laptop closed. I don’t actually mean to say this out loud, but the woman sitting across the aisle gives me a startled side-eye. After a minute, she folds up her magazine and relocates further down the car.
This shunning convinces me to focus the rest of my nervous energy on Paris, which must be a good idea, because after I sort out my plans, I even manage to fall asleep.
As the train pulls into the Gare du Nord—the North Station, according to the translator on my phone—I’m ready. I’ve written a plan to conquer Paris in my notebook, and before my phone dies, I manage to file the lawyer’s hideous e-mail in a folder labeled “Asswipe”—the spot I generally stash Jonah’s missives.
Whatever it takes, I’m not going to let Frank Venal ruin my life.
In spite of not enough sleep and this underlying worry, my first goal is accomplished with almost ridiculous ease. A bank of ticket machines line the train platform, with the delightful bonus of having instructions available in English. I manage to book an express train that will get me all the way to Brindisi, Italy, in a mere twenty-six hours. This is amazing. Brindisi is one of the Fogg checkpoints, located near the spike heel of the Italian boot, and I had scheduled two full days to make the trip from Paris.
Even better, the train doesn’t leave for three hours, which gives me the rest of the morning to glimpse the City of Light.
Slinging my daypack around my neck, I hoist my suitcase and aim myself toward the nearest subway sign. But just as I’m about to trundle down the first set of stairs, I spot a luggage storage company. My mind flashes back to the trouble I had hauling all my stuff through the London Underground.
The store owner scoffs at the very sight of my suitcase, and tries to sell me one with wheels. That’s never going to happen, so I redirect him to the all-in-one travel adapters, since I had to return Sylvia’s. Five minutes later, suitcase safely stored with my new travel adapter inside, I head out the door with only my camera around my neck, ten euro tucked into my daypack, and a free tourist map of the city in one hand. I get to see Paris without having to ferry all my stuff, and I’ll be able to charge up my equipment on the train to Italy. Win-win!
Turns out that Paris has not only a subway—called the Metro—but also commuter trains, trams, and a complicated bus system. In light of the traffic clogging the streets outside the station, I don’t even glance at anything above ground. It’s been shocking to learn that London—and now Paris—both have subway systems even more complex than the one I ride every day in New York. Of course, the other thing they have in common is that each is far too much city for a traveler to cram into a single day.
But a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do.
Thundering down the steps into the nearest Metro station, I have to acknowledge that this whole crazy undertaking is not travel. Not really. It’s an assignment, no different from the ones I faced down and conquered in school. And like in school, success is only going to happen if I stay focused. The beauty and romance of Paris I know from all the books I’ve read need to stay right there—inside the covers. As much as I want to, there’s no time to visit the charred towers of Notre-Dame Cathedral, where Quasimodo roamed and pined for Esmeralda. I have to give a pass to the Arc de Triomphe on the Champs-Élysées, where my other favorite Hugo characters fought and died in their Les Miz-ery. Even the Père Lachaise Cemetery, resting place of Jim Morrison, one of Merv’s musical heroes, is off the table. I have three hours to do one job: take a perfect shot of the Eiffel Tower.
* * *
—
A shade under thirty minutes later, I step onto the Tour Eiffel Metro platform. For the first time since I filed away the Evil Landlord’s message, I’m feeling confident. Even if I dawdle over the picture taking, I’ve got plenty of time to get back to the Gare du Nord. Once I hop on board, the train is going to have me all the way through Italy and on the cusp of leaving Europe three full days ahead of the timeline I planned on the Guernsey Isle. A tiny glow of accomplishment ignites deep inside me. I’m going to ace this test. By end of day tomorrow, I’ll be saying goodbye to my second continent. And in less than a month, I’m going to count that money into Frank Venal’s hand myself. Maybe in dollar bills, just to show him.
Clutching my camera, I grin triumphantly at the staff member manning the Metro gate. “Vive le France!” I say, cheerily feeding my tiny ticket into the slot.
“Merci,” he mutters back. “Tu parles comme une vache espagnol.”
Which I assume is a compliment, since I’m pretty sure he’s detected my excellent Hispanic accent.
On the street, I only need to turn around once before I spot the tower, a little further along the riverbank. The sight of it stops me in my tracks. So much of this trip has been on ocean waves and under the ground in trains, it feels surreal to see the solid iron structure, almost close enough to touch. It stretches up, lacy and grand, high above the Paris skyline. I’m not sure how it would rank if transplanted onto the streets of Manhattan, but here, there are no skyscrapers to detract from its majesty.
I take special care crossing the street until I see the vehicles have all miraculously migrated back to the right side of the road. Another win! I do have to dodge an electric scooter careening by, but since it turns out I’m standing on a section of pavement marked for bikes, it’s my own fault.
Just like the streets outside the Gare du Nord, this area teems with traffic. A nearby patisserie scents the air with traces of cinnamon and sweet almond paste. Cars and motorcycles clog the streets, while bicycles and scooters—most of them motorized—buzz past like giant mosquitos, jockeying for position with pedestrians along the sidewalks. Rising above it all, the silhouette
of the Eiffel Tower feels as familiar to me as if I had grown up beneath its sturdy iron legs.
A light drizzle begins to fall, but in spite of the grey day, my heart soars. This monument is so different from my beloved Empire State Building. But halfway around the world here in France, it’s doing the same job: giving we insignificant humans a chance to touch the sky.
“Bonjour, mademoiselle! Comment ça va?”
A young man materializes at my elbow, holding up a tattered card offering guided tour services.
“No thanks,” I say firmly, but he glues himself to my side, still chattering away. He’s short, with sallow skin, but it’s his dirty fingernails that seal the deal. There’s no way this guy is legit.
“I don’t speak French—and anyway, I’m not interested,” I say.
At this, he reverts to broken English, babbling something about showing me a secret apartment hidden in the tower. I know when I’m being had.
“Non, merci,” I repeat, and then march over beside one of the armed guards standing near the Metro entrance.
Immediately, my so-called guide melts back into the crowd. I can’t suppress a grin. Game goes to Romy, I think as I aim my viewfinder up at the tower. My New York grifter-avoidance instincts come through every time.
For all the Eiffel Tower’s familiarity, as I get closer, a few unexpected details begin to appear. The mechanisms that shoot up the legs look less like elevators and more like funicular railroad cars. They glide up and down so smoothly, I could happily stare at them all day. But time is moving on. Even with my good zoom lens, I can’t quite manage to get the whole tower into a single shot, so I hustle over onto a nearby bridge crossing the Seine.
The river is wide and brown, and fairly fast-flowing beneath me. As I prop one elbow on the stone railing, a sturdy riverboat motors below the bridge. Beneath the glass roof, only a handful of tourists take up seats. I try not to think about how much I’d like to be one of them, leaning back and taking in the sights of this compelling city at my leisure. Instead, I resolutely turn away, and framing the tower in the most dramatic fashion I can manage, I take a few dozen shots, just to be sure.
Under the awning of a nearby tourist booth, I scroll through the photos. A few minutes with the black-and-white filters on my computer, and I’m sure the result will rank in popularity with the best shots of the Empire State on my Insta feed.
Feeling completely satisfied with the day’s work, I swing my camera over my shoulder, turn, and step straight into the path of an electric scooter.
* * *
—
The collision is gentle enough that I’m not even knocked over, but the girl driving the scooter somehow tumbles to the ground.
“I’m so sorry,” I say, bending to help her to her feet. “Are you alright?”
The girl, who appears to be about my age or slightly younger, brushes herself off shakily. “Oui, oui. I believe so.” In spite of the rain, she’s wearing only a flippy little black skirt and a cropped t-shirt, but at least none of her exposed skin appears injured. No blood. Not even a scraped knee. I reach for the handlebars and stand the scooter upright.
“I think your scooter’s okay,” I say, but her expression is doubtful.
“J’ai un petit peu mal à la tête,” she says, touching one side of her head.
“I’m so sorry,” I repeat. “Do you need a doctor? Is there anything I can do?”
“I sink—I sink I am A-OK,” she says in a charming accent. “But now, I am late to meet my boyfriend.”
Maybe you shouldn’t have been driving so carelessly, I most definitely do not say.
As she steps onto her scooter, the handle wobbles wildly.
“Are sure you’re good to drive?” I ask instead.
She turns her round, damp eyes to me. Her eyeliner is smudged a little in one corner, which somehow makes me feel worse. “I think maybe I should walk. Is not far.”
She stumbles a little as she starts away, and the scooter nearly topples.
Choking down a little sob, she reaches for my arm. “Could you—do you mind to walk with me? My flat is only around the corner. Near the Metro.”
Guilt surges through me. This girl is injured because I thoughtlessly stepped in front of her scooter. That she was driving too fast shouldn’t matter. The least I can do is walk with her for a few moments.
“No problem,” I say. “I’m heading for the Metro, anyway.”
“Oh, merci,” she replies breathily, and links one arm through mine. “There is a—a how you say?—a quick way?”
“A shortcut?”
“Oui! A shortcut. Through La Petite Ceinture, down this way.”
* * *
—
In my own defense, when they rob you in New York, it’s not complicated. At home, theft generally involves knocking you down, grabbing your handbag and whatever else you’ve dropped, and bolting. I’ve only been mugged once, and since it was for my lunch money in fourth grade, I’m not even sure it really counts. Maybe that’s why it isn’t until we walk down a crumbling old ramp, past a gate that’s had the wire center cut out, and around a sharp corner, my spidey senses go off. And by then, of course, it’s too late.
The ramp stops abruptly above a quiet, surprisingly green stretch of clearly abandoned rail line. The stale, petrol-laden air of the street is replaced with the faint scent of moss, earthy and moist. Every surface is covered in tags and graffiti and the tracks below stretch out toward the mouth of a tunnel that is almost completely overhung with ivy.
Waiting around the corner is a handsome young Frenchman, perhaps two inches shorter than I am, with a charming smile and one hand ominously in his pocket.
“Elle est américaine,” the suddenly not-at-all-injured girl says. Her grip on my arm swiftly turns to iron, and she clutches me so close that I can smell the minty essence of her shampoo.
“Rad,” he says mockingly, before leaning over and kissing his villainous girlfriend passionately on the lips. This is PDA of the worst sort, since she retains her grip on me, making me an unwilling party to the whole thing. When they break apart, his hand is on my camera.
“I’ll take this, mademoiselle,” he says. “And your handbag too, s’il vous plaît.”
Ignoring this directive, I try shaking my arm free. The girl doesn’t release me, but nevertheless, I’m sure I can feel a fractional loosening of her grip.
“You don’t scare me,” I say, bending my knees a little and glaring at him. “I’m from New York, bitch.” Clenching every muscle, I wrench my arm back, but as I do, the girl suddenly releases me, and I stagger sideways and tumble off the ramp to the tracks below.
chapter seventeen
IMAGE: Eiffel Tower
IG: Romy_K [Paris, France, March 27]
#SpringtimeInParis #PetiteCeinture #Connards
47
The only good thing about the next few moments is that I somehow land not on metal rail lines or crossbeams, but on chipped wood. Also? Perhaps because I wasn’t expecting to fall, I land like a limp rag. My camera strap catches painfully around my elbow as I fall, wrenching it from the young Frenchman’s grasp. The camera bounces once with a sickening crunch against the cement ledge, before landing beside me on the ground.
“Merde,” spits the girl. Her pale face, framed in long dark hair, appears over the edge.
A fierce, hot anger shoots through me. “You assholes,” I gasp, scrambling to my feet. The back of my shirt is crawling with splinters from landing on the woodchips. “You’ve broken my camera!”
The girl’s face is replaced by her boyfriend’s. “What’s this?” he snarls, waving my daypack at me. “Ten stinking euro?”
“My camera’s worth a lot more than that,” I shout.
“Not anymore,” he smirks, and vanishes.
Something comes fluttering off the ledge, and I dodge o
ut of the way until I see it’s only my daypack. Before I even scoop it up, I know it’s empty. They’ve taken the money, but have generously left me the free map of Paris.
And my broken Canon.
A sudden angry exchange erupts on the ledge above me. I can’t understand a word, but feel a certain bitter satisfaction to hear them yelling at each other. As the sound of their argument fades away, I scoop up my camera, and glass tinkles out of the lens. The weird, grey-green light down here is too poor to tell if it’s repairable or not. With a sigh, I drop it into the daypack, and only then spot the luggage tag tucked inside. At least most of my valuables are still safely under lock and key. So it is with this single tiny feeling of relief that I turn and trudge across the woodchips to find a way back up.
There isn’t one.
No ramp. No steps. Nothing but a solid, if slightly pockmarked, brick wall.
Peering upward, my best guess is the stone ramp I’d been standing on once led down to another structure—perhaps wood?—which has long since rotted away.
“Hey!” I yell, but the voices above me, and the people they belong to, are long gone.
“Hey,” I yell again, louder this time. “You can’t leave me down here!”
As it turns out, they can. And they have.
After a moment or two—or maybe even five—of self-pity, I take myself in hand. I’m stuck along what is clearly some kind of abandoned rail line, without any visible exit. This section is open to the air, but at least twenty feet below street level. Against the far wall, the corpse of an electric scooter, like the one Thieving French Girl crashed into me, lies stripped and abandoned.
My only remaining assets are a daypack empty of everything except a freebie map, and a broken camera. No money. No phone. No way of getting back to the Gare du Nord. To the train that will leave without me in ninety minutes.
I run my hands over the wall, but even if I knew how to scale the thing, there’s nothing to give me any kind of purchase. Climbing out is not an option.