The Paris Key (17 page)

“G
enevieve?”

Genevieve emerged from the room and hurried down the little hall to see Philippe standing in the square of light at the top of the basement stairs.

“Yes, yes, I'm here,” she called as she climbed the stairs.

“What are you doing down there?”

“I'm sorry, I didn't mean to—”

“No, no, is okay. But this door has been locked many years. I am surprised . . . for a long time no one has gone there. I think there is nothing but trash there.”

Genevieve closed the door behind her. “There are a few bottles of wine—would you like me to bring them up, see if they're worth anything?”

For a moment Philippe remained silent, his gaze fixed on the old wood of the door. He had a faraway, unfocused look in his eyes that reminded Genevieve too much of her
tante
Pasquale. Philippe's mind seemed so sharp most of the time, but if he'd been old enough to fight when the city was liberated seventy years ago . . .

“That door hasn't been opened for a very long time. We used it during the war, but . . .” He shrugged. “We lost the key.”

Used it for what?
she wondered. Clearly the cellar had been used after that—the wine was dated 1959. But Philippe didn't volunteer any more information, and something in his eyes stopped her from asking.

“Do you want me to make sure you have a key that works?”

He stared at the door for another moment, then shrugged and smiled, back to his old self. “We decide later. Right now, you must stop working; it is time for
apero
.”

“Apero? Qu'est-ce que c'est?”
What is
apero
? she asked.

“It is . . . snack before dinner.”

Genevieve was still full from lunch. And she had indulged in a flaky, buttery croissant for breakfast this morning, feeling almost virtuous for not having a
pain au chocolat
. And now she was supposed to eat a snack before dinner? So much for her nebulous plan to lose weight while in Paris.

She followed Philippe into the kitchen. He started opening plastic bags he'd carried in with him, placing things in small bowls and plates. Cheese puffs, crackers, blanched almonds glistening with olive oil and studded with rosemary. He cut thin slices from a hard salami that had a tag stamped with the silhouette of a tusked boar.

“This is very good,
saucisson de sanglier
,” said Philippe. “Wild pig sausage. You see, they put the picture on so you know of what you are eating: rabbit, deer, duck.”

“I should tell my brother. He makes sausages like this—he could start the tradition in California.”

Philippe held out a shallow bowl of cheese puffs, his eyes lighting up. “You try these. So good!
C'est à mourir
.”

Americans were enthralled by the cheese and wine when they came to Paris; perhaps the French were swayed by fried cheese puffs.

He shook the bowl as though to entice her further. Genevieve took a cheese puff and crunched on it. Philippe watched her closely, thin white eyebrows arched in anticipation.

She made a yummy face and nodded. “Mmm.”

“What do I tell you? Delicious, are they not?” He brought three glasses to the counter, then poured a deep red wine into two of them. “The doctor, she tells me Bordeaux is good for the health. This is why I am so old, I think!”

“But still handsome.”

He laughed heartily, slapping the counter. Then he gathered up the wineglasses and headed to the dining room.

“Please, Genevieve, to bring the plates to the dining table, and two chairs from the kitchen so we sit down.”

“Of course,” she said as she gathered the plates, balancing two on her forearm as she'd done in her old waitressing days. “So, speaking of wine, would you like me to bring the old bottles up from the
cave
?”

“Later, maybe. Next time you go down. Probably they are no good, but it would be an interesting experiment to see.”

“Yes, I wondered about that,” Genevieve said, returning to the kitchen for the chairs, old metal with plastic-covered cushions. “So, you haven't been down there since the war?”

“Oh, of course.” He waved a hand in the air. “But not for a long time. I leave it to the rats. And, how do you say, to the
fantômes
?”

“A . . . ghost?”

“
Oui.
And the ghosts.”

“You think there are ghosts down there?”

“
Mais oui.
Always there are ghosts. Perhaps you are not old enough to know this. We carry the ghosts around with us.” He tapped his chest, over his heart. “We are the ones who cause the ghosts, you see? The memories of the past. That
cave
—we used it during the war. War causes many ghosts.”

“What did you use it for?”

He crunched on a cheese puff. Pondered. Took his time. “To hide the people.”

Genevieve's heart fluttered slightly even thinking of someone hiding down there. “I thought you said you weren't a hero. Hiding people in your basement sounds heroic to me.”

He shrugged, sipped his wine. Remained mute.

“There is a little trapdoor under a grate in the utility room,” Genevieve said. “It looks like it has one of my uncle's locks on it.”

“Yes, it had an old lock before that was too easy to open. Dave changed it for me. But you don't need to worry about that. There is nothing to open in the
cave
. But tell me, Genevieve, do you know about
les
souterrains
?”

“The catacombs? I've heard of them. There are thousands of bones, right? My uncle refused to take me to see them when I was here before. I guess he thought it would be too scary.”

“Not thousands of bones—
millions
. Paris is a very old city, with a lot of bones! The graveyards were emptied in the eighteenth century, and the bones moved to the
souterrains
.
L'empire de la mort
, the empire of the dead, they call it. But there are many kilometers of tunnels down below our feet, many more than just the rooms of bones. But most tunnels are closed to the public.
Interdits
, forbidden.”

“What were they used for?”

“First they were made by accident, by bringing out the stone. The limestone which you see now in all the old buildings of Paris—like this one! After, some were used to bring the water around the city, or to take the bad water away. . . .”

“Like sewers?”

“Exactly. Sewers and other things—who knows? But there are hundreds of kilometers of tunnels. We were lucky for this because we use them in the
résistance
, to get around the city secretly. But also the Nazis found parts of the tunnels and used them as bomb shelters, and to move around also. You can see there are still things written in German on the walls, even some old Nazi toilets down there!”

“I had no idea.”

“But people get lost, you know; if you don't know your way around you can get lost or hurt yourself.” He held up a shaky finger and wagged it slightly, as though in warning. “People have disappeared, never to be seen again. Many in the
résistance
, they knew the tunnels well. But still . . . sometimes they are in a tunnel right next to the soldiers but they don't know! One day, I was not there,
merci à Dieu
, but their paths crossed!
Imagine!
Just imagine what surprise they feel!”

“What happened?”

His laughter faded. He shrugged, ate another cheese puff. “Two of our friends were killed; we were lucky it was not more. But the soldiers turned and ran away. It was because of the surprise the Nazis feel,
ils avaient peur
. They have . . . they are afraid. Afraid of the ghosts.”

“Ghosts again?”

“Not one. Many, many ghosts in the tunnels, I think. The tourists, they are scared to think the catacombs are full of the bones, millions of bones. Maybe there are ghosts there, too, but the ghosts I am thinking of are more recent.”

A shadow passed over his eyes. On such a smiley countenance it was startling to see sudden sadness descend. It reminded her of Dave whenever she spoke about her mother.

The melancholy mood didn't last long. The doorbell sounded, a series of graceful chimes.

Philippe pushed himself up with his cane with surprising speed.

“Would you like me to get it?” Genevieve asked.

“No, no, don't be ridiculous. I am still the man of the house. You sit; you have been working hard all day.”

Genevieve opened her mouth to protest—her day hadn't been particularly grueling, after all—but then realized there was no point in going up against one so determined as Philippe D'Artavel. So she did as she was told, sipping her wine and studying her surroundings.

One edge of the little basement door was visible from her seat at the table. She gazed at it and wondered. Could there be actual ghosts down there in the catacombs, forever roaming the tunnels beneath the streets of Paris? If the bones of millions were stored in the ossuary, surely the law of averages would suggest that there would be at least one or two confused spirits, wouldn't there?

Not that Genevieve believed in that sort of thing.

But . . . there were ghosts, and then there were ghosts. Philippe was probably right: It was the living who kept the ghosts alive, carrying them around, whether as protective talismans, or as prisms through which to view their lives, or as a stone around their necks set to drag them into the depths.

Genevieve feared she kept her mother's ghost alive, kept it strapped to her back like a proverbial monkey.

“Look who is here!” Philippe said as he tottered back to the kitchen. “Look who drops on to us!”

Down the hall behind him came the Irishman, Killian O'Mara.

“Hi,” said Genevieve as she stood to greet him. She didn't buy for a second Philippe's “surprise” that Killian had stopped by uninvited; witness the third wineglass on the table.

“Good to see you again, Genevieve.” Killian's voice was deep and warm. He gave her the Parisian double kiss, one on each cheek. She felt the slight abrasiveness of his whiskers on her cheeks, caught the scent of him: soap and an ever-so-slight musk. A manly scent that didn't come from a bottle. “Oooh, cheese puffs!”

“Très délicieux,”
said Philippe as he shoved the bowl toward Killian and poured a glass of wine.

“This house is incredible, Philippe,” Killian said, looking overhead to the beams and intricate moldings. “When was it built, do you know?”

“It was my grandparents' house, and then my father's. And it was old even before that! The main part of it is eighteenth century, but old houses are like castles: many start small and then get bigger with the years; each generation builds more. So there is no one year they are built. The
cave
, for example, it is very old, as
l'Américaine
discovers today.”

Killian turned to Genevieve, eyebrows raised. “The
cave
?”

“It's more than just a wine cellar. There are several rooms down there.”

He was clearly intrigued, and Genevieve remembered the kind of photographs he took. They chatted for a while: about what kind of work Killian was doing in Paris, and how Genevieve should approach the authorities about getting a business license (the theme of French bureaucracy being a favorite trigger for unsolicited advice, apparently), and then Philippe told them about his daughters and grandchildren.

He teared up when he spoke about his wife, Delphine, who had passed away more than twenty years ago.

“But it is like yesterday,” he said. “She was . . . a wonderful woman. She made me laugh! I miss her every day. Soon I will go to be with her.”

Killian met Genevieve's gaze across the table. It was hard to know how to respond to something like that: People here seemed to have a matter-of-fact, straightforward attitude toward death, but it was difficult to conceive of Philippe no longer existing on this earthly plane. He seemed so very alive, so vibrant, and Genevieve was sure the world would be a sadder place without him. Just as it was without Dave.

“Philippe,” Killian said finally, changing the subject. “You might be the man to ask: Any idea how I can get into the secret underground tunnels,
les souterrains
?”

“There are tours,” said Philippe with a nod. “Tours of the bones every day, but I think maybe you have to make the reservation.”

“No, I've seen that, actually. It was fascinating. But I was more interested in the other tunnels, the ones that aren't open to the public. Folks seem quite secretive about them.”

Philippe pushed his chin out, shrugged. “They are
interdits
.”

“We were just talking about the tunnels,” said Genevieve. “I hadn't realized they were used by the resistance when they were fighting against the Germans—and also by the Nazis themselves. Philippe says there are underground bunkers.”