On Fire

by Thomas Anderson

“Psssst.”

  The curtains are drawn and the room is dimly lit only by the table lamp in the middle of the room.

  “Psssst.”

  Kim and Zak are awake and propped on the headboard of the scuffled but still made bed, checking the news on their devices. They both look up at Rashida, who sits amid a pile of blankets on the floor. Somewhere within them lie Megan and Kina, both still sleeping heavily. It is slumber partyesque.

  “Can we go and get something to eat?” she whispers.

  “Sure,” says Kim, looking fresh, her long hair loosely braided to one side.

  “Good!”

  The compact Rashida stands up, shedding her blanket, totally dressed. She grabs her shoes and starts putting them on.

  They smell fresh coffee in the lobby on their way out, stop at a boulangerie nearby and then another store for coffee and juice. Sitting on a park bench, warmed by the passing sun going in and out behind the clouds, they watch people rush by at mid-morning.

  “You know guys, I would really like to see Notre Dame,” Rashida says.

  “What about Megan?” asks Kim, chewing on a roll.

  “She’s seen everything before. I doubt that she cares. Besides, there is such a thing as too much information. It would be nice be able to enjoy it on my own terms. Can we do it quickly, in case that’s all that I get to see?”

  Kim laughs and pokes Zak.

  “Well, I know we need to get out of here, but maybe we can fit this in while the girls are still sleeping. What do you think, Zac?”

  “A quick trip? Maybe. You know, I saw some bikes for sharing about a block from here.”

  “Ah, the bike share expert!” Kims says, pointing at him.

  Having finished eating and with his coffee in his hand, Zak stands up.

  “Let’s do it! I think we go over there.”

  The three make their way down the street and around the corner to where bicycles line the curb. Zak selects three, pays for them, and soon is leading them down the streets of the Latin Quarter to the Seine and the Isle de Cite. The impressive view of the South side of the Cathedral with its rose window on the South transept stretches before them as they cross the Petit Pont. They cycle into the large square before Notre Dame’s West façade.

  As usual there are tourists all about the square. Zak leads, winding his way among the tourists and past the big, fenced Christmas Tree. He turns into the shaded street that runs along the North of the church, the one way going East, the Rue Du Cloitre, being careful to take the bike lane rather than the sidewalk. The walk is filled up with tourists waiting in line by a wrought iron fence that guards this side of the church. Many sit on a low wall at the base of the fence.

  Zak, Kim and Rashida ride to the opposite end of the street. Here they find a bike stand to lock up their bikes before they get in line. It is early and they wait. They watch the activity, the comings and goings of people visiting the restaurant on the corner across the street, the Aux Tours De Notre Dame, tables and chairs and diners overflowing the entrance, spreading down the sidewalk beneath the restaurant’s red awnings. The diners watch back.

  The line to enter the Church advances, they pay, and are permitted through the gates, climbing the steps of a small winding staircase of stone. A single band of steel serves as railing to aide them up the four hundred steps to the bell towers’ view of Paris. With seven million visitors a year the marble steps are worn smooth and concave. The central axis around which the steps ascend has turned brown with the groping hands of countless millions.

  Kim steps through the open gate at the top of the stairs and onto one of the small balconies that circle the bell towers. She sees Rashida, who had quickly run ahead of them, at the corner, taking a picture. Kim breathes hard from the climb.

  “Whatever you’re doing, it’s working,” Kim calls out to Rashida.

  Zak is right behind Kim.

  Tourists are all around, especially behind them. The balconies are steel cages, ringed in to guard against jumpers.

  Without Megan, Rashida turns to her brochure.

  “Okay. Started in the tenth century. Damaged by the Revolution. The gargoyles were restored in the nineteenth century. They’re fantastic. So imaginative!”

  “The gargoyles are ugly,” states Kim without qualification.

  Rashida laughs.

  “They’re supposed to be. The gargoyles here on the balconies are supposed to be demons guarding the Cathedral.”

  There are large gargoyles at every corner. One looks like an Egyptian bird, another like a Pelican.

  “But there are many other gargoyles all over the structure. Their mouths are spouts that take water away from the wall of the building to prevent erosion. Thus, the term gargoyle from gargle,” Zak weighs in.

  “The engineer,” Kim says.

  “It says here,” she is referring to the brochures, “that some are Chimera, from Greek mythology, a figure with a lion’s head, a goat’s body and a snake’s tail. They breath fire.”

  “Like only something from the imagination can,” says Kim.

  The balconies of the two bell towers are connected by a bridge that runs across the facade of the cathedral. It too is caged with lattice works of steel rods that run up and above the sides of the stone balustrades, as well as overhead.

  “That’s the Archangel Gabriel blowing his horn,” points out Rashida, as they cross from one tower to the other.

  Near them the roof of the cathedral comes to a peak, and perched precariously on the it is a large life sized statue of winged Gabriel facing to the West. They stop to take pictures of the slender spire on the transept, the statues of the apostles poised in stair step fashion coming down either side of the high pitched roof. A clock with its own overhanging pitched roof faces them on the South transept.

  They walk the airy bridge to the North tower, where tourists ask to have their pictures taken, creating a jam in the tightly confined space. Rashida, Zak and Kim join in. Photographed together, their arms are over each other’s shoulders. The three wander between the towers taking pictures of the Paris skyline, the roofs of the church, and the cathedral’s massive flying buttresses.

  “You ready?’ Zak asks.

  “Yep,” replies Kim, giving Zak an unexpected kiss, and then turning to Rashida. “We’ll see you down there.”

  “Okay,” she says. “By the way, thanks for this guys.”

  Rashida gives each of them a hug.

  Zak and Kim pick their way down the stone steps, happy to make it back into the sunlight and outside the cathedral on the Rue du Cloitre.

  “I’ll wait for Rashida. Why don’t you go ahead and get your bike,” suggests Zak.

  Kim walks back to the bike stand. As she nears the entrance to the North transept, a nondescript grey van with no markings pulls abruptly out from the curb in front of the Aux Tours De Notre Dame, crosses the street, and comes to a fast break squealing stop just in front of her.

  Instinctively, Kim steps back. A masked man emerges from the side door of the van, while two more come out the van’s rear doors. She is pinned between the van, the fence, and the men on the sidewalk. They descend on her. One clamps a hand over her mouth. In the next instant, she feels the prick of a needle and quickly loses consciousness.

  Zak, back at the tour gate, steps to the street on hearing the van’s noisy stop. Seeing Kim and the men surrounding her, he sprints toward them. This draws the attention of tourists in the vicinity and they stare at him as he runs up to the van, only to see it accelerate hard away.

  Zak stands in the middle of the street, bent, hands on thighs, breathing hard, as he watches the vehicle make a left near the apse of the Cathedral onto Rue Massillon.

  Heartbroken, he watches as Kim disappears.

  Chapter 59