The Paris Key (31 page)

Angela, 1983

S
everal long days pass before Angela is released from the hospital. The gendarmes have questioned her repeatedly; she tells them nothing. Not a thing about Xabier or Thibeaux or Pablo or the others. She is silent, tearful, the innocent American tourist.

What they did was wrong, horrific. And yet she cannot bring herself to turn them in.

Dave comes to sit with her; he is frightened for her welfare—she is young and healthy; she will heal. But, unlike the police, Dave is not fooled by the “innocent bystander” mien she has adopted. He peppers her with questions about Xabi.
“Last name? Do you know where he lives? He is Basque, isn't that so? Has he been involved in the troubles? Who are his friends? Angela, you must tell me before someone else gets hurt.”

She is nauseated, cannot think. Her mind is muddled—by the drugs or the concussion?

What baby?

When she is allowed to go home she is tucked into the little bed in Catharine's room, and Catharine is relegated to the couch so Angela can have privacy. Pasquale flutters about, trying to make her comfortable, but the only thing that eases the headache and the horrifying burning sensation is drugs. She sleeps.

Her dreams are hypercolored, psychedelic. In them she is calling out for Xabi. Yelling at the young guards in front of the Spanish embassy. They can't hear her. Pointing at the blue Renault. Running but not getting anywhere; her legs won't carry her.

She awakens, screaming.
“Xabi, no!”

Philippe and Delphine bring flowers and a few items Angela left at their house—her notebook, a sweater. They are so sorry for her troubles. They thank her for all her help packing, but Delphine has lost her interest in the project and wishes to join her sister in the countryside. She is disturbed by the incidents—bombings are too much, too reminiscent of another time. They are leaving Paris for a few weeks, going to the South of France.

Before Philippe leaves, he asks Angela: Does she know anything more about Xabi? Where might he be hiding?

When she shakes her head, begins to cry, they tell her to rest. The most important thing right now is to get well.

The D'Artavels, too, have been questioned by the police about Xabi. Because Philippe was known to support the Algerian cause, he is looked at with particular suspicion. This is another reason they are leaving Paris, Dave tells Angela, accusation in his eyes.

A few more days, and the pain subsides to a muted, incessant throbbing.

Angela keeps thinking about the little room they found in the catacombs under Philippe and Delphine's house. She would never be able to find her way back through the tunnels without Xabi to guide her, except . . . what about that grate in their
cave
, with the trapdoor beneath?

At her suggestion, Philippe had Dave put a lock on it. Does Dave have an extra key? Even without one, Dave would know how to pop it open, probably in a few seconds. She had witnessed this how many times? He could open just about any lock, would buy old padlocks and door sets at thrift stores and the swap meet, practice constantly, just for fun.

But if she asks for Dave's help, he will tell the authorities. Of course he would. She would have done the same in his place.

She would do so now, if it weren't for the fact that she loves Xabi so desperately. How could someone on the outside understand? The gentleness in his voice, the warmth in his hands, the secrets in his eyes. His haunted heart.

“I am already a ghost.”

When Pasquale goes out to the market, Angela takes a flashlight and rifles through Dave's shop until she finds his Victorian ring of skeleton keys, the ones that he told her opened most locks in old Parisian homes.

She slips out, woozy but revived by the fresh air. She takes a cab to Philippe and Delphine's house. Tries the skeleton keys on the front door—it opens with the third try.

She lets herself in and moves without hesitation to the door that leads to the basement. Descends slowly and carefully down the steep stone stairs, stopping twice to rest. She breathes deeply, fighting vertigo and nausea.

Down the hall, into the utility room. She removes the grate and once again uses one of Dave's skeleton keys to unlock the little trapdoor.

Lets herself down the rusty ladder. It is awkward, painful with only one arm, with her head aching and spinning. But she makes it. The catacombs are freezing, dank, and dark; the flashlight does not illuminate nearly enough. She shivers.

At the door to the secret room, she hesitates. Listens, ear to the damp wood.

“Xabi?” Angela says finally, knocking softly. “Xabi, are you there? It's . . . Angel.”

As though this is a courtesy call, as if she is welcoming him to the neighborhood. She feels like laughing—the idea is so absurd. Her thoughts are a jumble; she has to focus to keep her mind on the task in front of her.

No answer. She is wrong, then.

Has he fled Paris? Is he already abroad, on the run? Hiding out with relatives in the Basque country? Or . . . had he been seriously injured? Could he have already . . . ?

Angela tries two more skeleton keys before she finds the one that opens the lock. She pushes the door in slowly.

The beam of her flashlight sweeps the little chamber: There are more blankets on the old cot. Bottles of wine, packages of food, gauze, rubbing alcohol, and ointment. Newspapers.

She feels an arm snake around her neck, cutting off her breath.

“T
his is amazing,” said Killian. He had been photographing Philippe's house, taking dozens of shots while Genevieve finished up with the locks on the main floor, but now they both stood in the basement, at the bottom of the stairs.

“How long's it been since Philippe was down here?”

“Decades, I think,” Genevieve answered. “He's been living over at his daughter's house, and even before . . . I get the sense that he and his wife only used part of the house.”

“A place like this, in this section of Paris . . . ? It would bring in a bloody fortune. Is that why he's havin' you fix it up, then, to sell it?”

“I'm not sure what he wants to do with it, to tell you the truth. He seems undecided. He said something about his daughter getting a new job, and that maybe they'd have the money to fix it up. As you noticed, the plaster is falling and the plumbing's ancient. Who knows what shape the structure's in, underneath it all.”

“Are we perfectly safe down here, d'ya think?”

Genevieve smiled. “Let's put it this way: If this house were in California, I don't think I'd spend much time down here, waiting for an earthquake. But the earth doesn't shake much around here, does it?”

“Don't think so,” he said, but his words were muffled as he held a series of cameras up to his face, focused on various corners of the old cellar, and snapped away.

Out from the old leather bag came half a dozen different cameras: a Polaroid, a disposable, something that looked like an antique box camera. Several sported tape or pieces of cardboard attached to them.

At her obvious interest, he said, “A camera is really just a dark chamber with light-sensitive paper. I've been thinking of building my own. Have you heard of Mendel Grossman, who snuck a homemade contraption into the Jewish ghettoes and took photos of them, right before they were emptied out by the Nazis? A camera can be a revolutionary device.”

“Nothing very revolutionary down here.”

“Oh, I don't know. . . . What about the door you told me about, the one you're afraid to open?”

“I'm not
afraid
to open it. Philippe said not to bother.”

“I would think you'd be annoyed by such a thing. Locksmith creed and all that.”

“How do you know about the locksmith's creed?”

He chuckled, pointed the camera straight at her, and took a shot before she had a chance to turn away.

“So, really?” he continued. “You're not even going to try to open the trapdoor? Where is it?”

She brought him into the utility room and showed him the ornate grate. He passed the beam of his light past the grill and illuminated the little door beyond.

Killian looked up at her, eyebrows raised. “Now, that's interesting, isn't it? Shall I lift the grate so we can take a closer look?”

Genevieve hesitated. There was something about that door and that lock . . . far too much like something she would stumble across in one of her dreams.

“Have you ever heard the tale of ‘Fitcher's Bird'?” Genevieve asked.

“Sounds familiar, but I don't really remember.”

“It's related to Bluebeard—all about damsels who marry a rich man who gives them everything they ask for, with one catch.”

“There's always a catch.”

“Right? When he goes away, they mustn't open one particular door. All the others are okay, but this one is off-limits. So of course they're overcome by curiosity, open the door, and find all his former wives chopped to bits.”

“You think you're going to find a bunch of Philippe's former wives chopped up behind the door?”

“No, of course not. It's probably a waste pipe, or maybe an empty closet.”

“That would be a disappointment.”

“That's what usually happens, I remember my uncle telling me. You work for hours at opening some mysterious little door . . . and then you have the triumphant moment when you defeat the lock, and then it turns out to be an empty nook, or worse.”

“Worse?”

“He told me once he found the remains of an animal. It wasn't pretty.”

“But you don't think that, this time. I can tell. You're dying to open it.”

“When I asked Philippe about it, he started talking about the catacombs. He worked with the resistance, and they used the catacombs to get around. I can't seem to get the whole story from him; it usually devolves into warnings about ghosts.”

Killian looked at her, a gleam in his eye. “Seriously? Well then, of course we have to open it.”

“‘We'?”

He smiled. “I'm your moral support. I'm here to document the discovery, run for
pain au chocolat
, hand you your tools—whatever you want. I'm at your command. Shall I?”

After another moment's hesitation, she nodded.

He lifted the metal grate and leaned it against the wall.

Genevieve crouched and gazed at the door.

“It's an antique lock. I think my uncle put it on—it looks like one of his favorite lockplates. I recognize the maker and the scrollwork.”

“And . . . ?”

“That means I don't want to hurt it, since it's antique; and it might be hard to defeat, since my uncle put it on. He was the best.”

“And now you're set to be the best, carry on in his footsteps.”

“That's a little optimistic, isn't it? I don't even have my work per – mit yet.”

“If you really want it, you'll get it. I have faith in you. I recognize a stubborn nature when I see one.”

Killian lay down on his stomach so he could inspect the door. Finally he sat up and brushed the cobwebs off his hands. “We could try removing the hinges.”

Genevieve gaped at him, aghast.

He gave her a lopsided smile. “Let me guess: A locksmith wouldn't do such a thing.”

“I should say not. That could damage the door, and the lock. And besides, it would be admitting defeat.”

“Seems to me like not even trying is admitting defeat from the start.”

Who was she kidding? She couldn't say no to opening a door like this; she would dream about it the rest of her life. Better by far to be disappointed by some prosaic assemblage of ancient plumbing hidden behind the door.

She opened her uncle's bag and took out a leather sack full of keys. Then she stretched out on the floor, belly down, and tried the first one in the lock.

“This might take a while,” she said.

“How many keys d'ya have there?”

“More than a hundred.”

He let out a silent whistle. “And you think one of them might work?”

“It's worth a try. My uncle loved old locks and old keys. This”—she held up the old iron key ring full of skeleton keys—“purportedly belonged to a thief back in the Victorian era.”

“Really? That's
craic
.” He came over, checked them out. When he leaned over her, she could smell him, feel his warmth in the cool damp of the basement.

“Crack, again?” Genevieve said, trying to ignore his closeness.

“Fun, interesting. Out of the ordinary.” He smiled down at her, holding her gaze a beat too long. When he spoke again, his voice was very low. “Like you.”

Genevieve could feel she was blushing as she focused on the lock. “Unfortunately, the thief's key ring doesn't seem to be doing the trick this time. Like I said, this may take a while. You should probably go take your pictures.”

She didn't look up while she tried key after unsuccessful key. She could hear the soft clicks and purrs of Killian's cameras, and she wondered what those dark eyes were finding: interesting cracks in the stone walls, a corner full of cottony spiderwebs, a discarded children's rocking chair?

Finally she looked up to see that he was taking pictures of her while she worked.

“I don't take good pictures.”

“No worries,
I'll
be taking them.”

“I mean I'm not very photogenic. I don't like having my picture taken.”

“Well now, those are two different things. Sometimes they go together, most times not. People think they don't look good in pictures because it's not the way they see themselves. But if the photographer is gifted, he or she sees beyond the surface.”

“And you fancy yourself that good, do you?”

He grinned. “Ah, sure, yeah,” he said in an exaggerated Irish accent. His cheekiness made her smile despite herself. “Have you ever seen yourself when you're focusing on a lock?”

“No, I . . . never really thought about it, I guess.”

“You just wait 'til you see the photos. The ones from the Love Locks Bridge turned out brilliant—I'll show you next time you come by.”

“Hey, that reminds me: My uncle was writing a book about antique locks and keys before he died. I was thinking of trying to finish it for him. Would you be willing to take photos of some of the pieces?”

“I'm not sure I'd be the best photographer for a project like that, but I'll take a look at it, at least. I'd be honored.”

“Great, thanks.” Genevieve hadn't decided upon finishing the book until right that moment. But now, as she lay on a cold stone basement floor, trying key after key in the lock, sensing her uncle doing just this as he installed the lock . . . perhaps Philippe was right: She had carried Dave's ghost with her down into this basement. He was with her in the keys, the lock, the process. Her new friends were right to call her the American locksmith. She would fight the bureaucracy, use her stubbornness, and then take up her uncle's mantle.

“What happens if you can't find a key to fit the lock?”

“I'll pick it. But I figured this was worth a try since I'll bet my uncle put this lock on. And if I can find a key that fits, I can give it to Philippe so he can open it again—which would be much easier than me making a new one.”

“Ah.”

“The only thing is . . .” She leaned over as far as she could, using the flashlight to try to peer inside the keyhole of the lock. “This is a very strange lock. It looks like a standard antique Yale on the outside, but inside . . .”

“What is it?”

Genevieve made out edges and grooves that made no sense. And then she realized: The exterior lock plate was a decoy.

She unscrewed it, removed the plate, and revealed the ancient mechanism within.

“What is that?” Killian asked.

“I don't know what my uncle was up to, but it looks like . . .” Genevieve was struck by a crazy notion. She slipped her necklace over her head and fitted her rusty Syrian key—the one she had worn for almost twenty years—into the lock.

Genevieve hesitated.

“Go on, then,” said Killian in a quiet voice. “You're not seriously afraid, are you?”

She looked up. Met his gaze. Told the truth. “Yes.”

He gave her a little smile, understanding shining in his eyes. “I'll be right by your side. If this is where the bodies are buried, I'll help you escape.”

She gave a nervous laugh.
Why had her uncle sent her mother this key?
Was it merely a coincidence, or did it mean something? And why would he have disguised the lock with the wrong external plate?

She turned the key. The bolt was difficult to slide but finally gave way with a loud snick.

Genevieve blew out a long breath, then pulled open the door. She and Killian pointed their flashlights down into the hole.

A rusty ladder was bolted to one wall, leading down about six feet, then meeting up with a tunnel.

“Let me go first,” said Killian, already launching himself through the hatch.

Genevieve put on her headlamp, slipped her necklace back on, and followed.