The Paris Key (32 page)

“T
his is
craic
!” Killian exclaimed in a loud whisper.

Genevieve felt like whispering, too, as though they were entering a sacred space. It felt primordial, the pitch-black bowels of an ancient city that predated the Paris she had come to know.
L'empire de la mort
, the empire of the dead.

Tunnels led off in several directions. The air was stuffy, damp. Sepulchral.

“Which way?” Genevieve asked.

“Lady's choice. Where do ya fancy?”

She started down one passage. In about twenty feet they reached a dead end, retraced their steps, and tried a second. A big star had been scratched into the stone at the juncture: Killian and Genevieve both took note, not wanting to get lost. The dark passageways were disorienting, with no way to intuit in which direction one was walking.

Killian snapped a few photos, but so far they had seen nothing more interesting than dark, cramped stone tunnels. They had to squeeze past a crooked column made of chunks of concrete and stone, marked with a series of letters and numbers. Killian snapped more pictures.

“I've read about this: At one point buildings and roads started caving in on the tunnels, so workers braced them with columns. They left their information here, see? The codes tell which crew it was that completed the work.”

A few feet farther down was an indentation in the wall. And a door.

“A storage closet?” Genevieve suggested.

“Maybe. Who knows? Could be anything. A German bunker, maybe.” He tried the knob. It was locked.

Killian looked at Genevieve in challenge, a tiny half smile on his face.

“You suppose you could open it?”

“We're not supposed to be down here at all, you know. Philippe told me the catacombs were
interdits
, except for the tourist part. And now you want me to break into a locked room?”

“You're already a criminal, you know, practicing locksmithing without a license,” he said with a tsk. “Seriously, you're not curious? Besides, it's directly under Philippe's house, so it probably belongs to him. And he said you were welcome to look around, didn't he?”

“You're a bad influence,” said Genevieve. “You're like the kid my mom told me not to hang around with.”

But even as she said it, she knelt to look at the lock. Incredibly, it looked like a match to the one on the trapdoor: an ornate antique doorplate that didn't match the inner locking mechanism.

“What is it?” he asked.

“I think it's my uncle's work again.”

“There, now. Practically an invitation to open it.”

She unscrewed the plate and, once again, used the ancient key on her necklace to open the lock.

Killian started snapping pictures the moment the door swung open.

Inside was a small chamber with an iron-frame cot topped by a very sad looking mattress and a blanket. A pile of folded clothes sat atop these. There was a bottle of wine, and some sort of disgusting powdery substance that looked like it used to be bread. Tins of tuna fish and peaches and pâté, plus a can opener.

One entire wall held faint traces of a mural done in chalk: A Chagall-like painting of a man and woman floating among the stars, kissing.

Genevieve could hear Sylviane's voice:
“like the way love is supposed to feel.”

Killian let the camera fall on his chest and picked up a newspaper. “August 17, 1983. Front-page story of the day: the bombing of the Spanish embassy. I remember hearing about that . . . What do you suppose this place was? If it was a kids' hangout I'd expect to find old liquor bottles and signs of smoking, but this . . . ?”

“It looks like someone was hiding,” Genevieve said. Her voice was trembling.

“You okay, Genevieve?”

She nodded. “I just . . . just the willies, I guess.”

“Do you want to go? I'll walk you back to the entrance.”

“No, it's okay. I'm good for a few more minutes. Finish up with your photos.”

She wasn't ready to share with Killian what she was only beginning to put together in her own mind. Not yet.

Genevieve picked up a book sitting beside the stack of clothing. Hemingway's
A Farewell to Arms.
She opened the cover and saw the stamp, in a bold, blocky script:

DAVE MACKENZIE

Under Lock and Key, Serrurier,

Rue Saint-Paul, Village Saint-Paul

Her heart started to thud loudly in her chest, the sound filling her ears. In the sepulchral quiet of the underground, she was surprised Killian couldn't hear it. But his attention was elsewhere, on taking photos of the mural.

Could this be where Angela and Xabier used to meet? Her (married) mother was so in love with another man that she agreed to see him here, in this stinking hole in the ground? Sweet, dutiful Angela Martin?

So much for the City of Lights. Chagall mural or no, this was no one's idea of a romantic getaway.

Genevieve felt sick at the thought of it.
How could she
?

“Hey,” Killian's voice interrupted her thoughts. “I think we should get you out of here. I apologize, Genevieve. My enthusiasm for this sort of thing overcomes my good sense. I forget that not everyone shares my love of the decrepit.”

“No, I . . . it's fascinating. But, yes, maybe I'm feeling a little claustrophobic.”

“C'mon, then. I'll escort you back to the land of the living.”

Angela, 1983

“I
t's me,” Angela manages, though her mouth is so dry she barely gets the words out. “Xabi?”

The arm around her neck is hot, scalding.

“Angel! I could have hurt you!” He releases her, falls back against the wall. His arm wraps around his stomach, as though holding himself in pain. “What are you doing here?”

She realizes she is crying. She feels dizzy, displaced. Is it the drugs, or is it being down here, in this cold, stinking warren to which her lover has run for safety, like an animal.

“I can't believe you are here, my angel. Are you all right? Sit, sit down,
mi alma
.” My soul. He calls her his soul.

He leads her to the small cot, which squeaks loudly in protest when she half sits, half reclines on the pillow. He crouches before her, concern etched on his strong, handsome features. She studies him: He has grime and soot everywhere; it has settled into the tiny wrinkles at the corners of his eyes. He is wearing the same clothes he had on when last she saw him: the pale blue chambray shirt is torn, with large sections charred. She realizes he has not been treated in a hospital; instead he must have come directly down here after dropping her off at the emergency room.

His arm is still wrapped around his middle.

“Are you hurt?” she says. “You need a doctor.”

He shakes his head. “This is not possible. I am okay.”

She looks at him a long time and starts crying again. But this time she can hear herself whimpering, a strangely muffled keening sound that surges from her core.

“No, no,
mi alma
, please, don't cry,” he whispers, leaning forward to wrap an arm around her. She can smell him; he hasn't showered. But it doesn't matter. The mere touch of him helps her settle; her flesh longs for his caress, for connection.

“Don't cry, Angel,” he continues, his voice crooning, soft. “You are okay; you will be well. Does it hurt?”

“No, no, it's not that,” she says into the shoulder of his shirt, her voice muffled. “What happened, Xabi? Did you really . . . ? People were hurt. Killed. Why did you do it?”

He releases her, sits back on a tiny footstool. He moves cautiously, as though worried about hurting her—or himself. He continues to stroke her head, pushing the hair out of her eyes, studying the place where his hand touched her head as though memorizing the sight, the sensation.

“Xabi?” she repeats, now wanting answers. Needing answers.

How could he?

He remains silent. He avoids her eyes, instead focusing his gaze on her mouth, her neck, the bandages on her arm.

Angela watches him watch her. Anger surges, along with nausea. The stench of this place washes over her; the scent of stale air and unwashed human and dampness. She barely is able to turn and lean over the side of the cot before she starts to retch, losing her breakfast right on the floor.

Par for the course, she thinks from some far-off, distant place. But she says, “Sorry, oh lord, I'm so sorry, so sorry,” as Xabi clucks and tells her it is not a problem, he will take care of it, she should be in bed, taking care of herself, getting well—and forgetting all about him.

His voice, his velvet voice, comes from someplace distant, as though she is at the bottom of a coffee can and he is bustling about the kitchen, like the time they had
apero
at Philippe's house, before going out to the cabaret, that magical night with Dave and Pasquale, Philippe and Delphine—three couples in love and health and Paris and music so joyous it would never end.

•   •   •

W
hen Angela awakens she is in Philippe's house. Alone.

How did he get her up here? Xabi is injured; she is sure of that. And she is no waif of a woman; she has always been strong, substantial.

He needs medical attention. Why hadn't he gone to Thibeaux? Or Pablo or Cyril or Michelle or Mario? One of the people sympathetic to his cause?

His “cause.” The word sank, heavy and laden, into her heart. Xabi had been part of this, of hurting innocent people. Of instilling terror in minds and souls. How could he?

He had told her more about his life: His father had been imprisoned for decades. He grew up steeped in his mother's bitterness toward Franco and her disappointment when his ouster did not change things much; his mother died of a broken heart, he said, having lost not only her husband but her eldest son to the brutality of the state. He told her again and again about cradling his brother's bleeding form in his arms, of watching the light in his eyes fade, of the moment when Rémy had gone from beloved, overprotective older brother to . . . corpse.

Xabi told Angela she could never understand what it was like, to grow up that way. Perhaps he was right. Her complaints are trifling in comparison: a rural background, the lack of excitement, the tedium of life on the farm.

Images of home sweep over her. Of Jim and Nick, smiling and steady. The day-in, day-out caring for the animals. The scent of the morning damp, dew on the long grass wetting her legs as she makes her way out to the chicken coop, fresh eggs and buckwheat pancakes for breakfast, the aroma of real maple syrup heating atop the stove. Nick's serious face while he listens to Jim's unfailingly patient voice explaining the intelligent and stubborn nature of goats, how to approach them for milk.

Jim looking up at her, thanking her for breakfast, the trust and love unsaid between them and yet there in his expression. Always there. Constant. Warm. Safe.

And she had run away from that. How could she?

Suddenly she is awash in the knowledge that she wants (needs!) to go home. To Jim. He is a good man, reliable, dependable. He deserves better. So much better.

And to the warm embrace and sticky hands of her son. Her son, her dear Tricky Nicky. How she yearns for the slight metallic scent of his little-boy sweat, for the easygoing happiness in his big eyes.

Angela begins to laugh. She must look like a madwoman, she thinks, lying on a divan in a semiabandoned mansion, bandaged, strewn with cobwebs and underground grime, her laughter the only sound breaking the dusty silence.

But the laughter soon dissolves, overtaken by tears. Angela is racked with sobs, and another wave of nausea.

For the first time it dawns on her: It is morning sickness.

•   •   •

T
he next day, Angela returns to the room. Their tiny room in
les souterrains
. It is empty.

But he has left a letter:

Mi alma
, my Angel,

Do you remember how I told you an American like you cannot understand? I think you heard that as an insult, but I do not mean this. I mean that if you are not grown up in a situation like mine, you cannot know what it feels like. This is why I think sometimes a radical solution is our only hope. At some point, it becomes the only form of self-defense.

I know you cannot understand. But I hope you can remember me as a man who loved you and cherished you beyond reason. A man who will love you for a thousand lifetimes, who adores you for exactly who you are. If things were different, I would have spent my life trying to make you happy. I would happily have died for you.

Please do not try to find me. It is too dangerous for everyone.

Believe this, please, Angela:
Maite zaitut
. I love you.
Te amo
.
Je t'aime
. And promise me: You will survive, you will be strong. You will be happy.

Yours, forever, Xabi

•   •   •

A
ngela goes to Pablo's restaurant and finds Michelle.

“He tried to stop it.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Xabier tried to stop what was happening. But Thibeaux . . .” She blew out a stream of smoke, shook her head. “I don't know exactly what happened, but I know they fought. Thibeaux's in bad shape; he was hurt in the blast because of Xabi's interference. Believe me, Xabi won't be showing his face around here anymore.”

So that's why Xabi didn't go to his friends for help,
Angela thought.
They are no longer his friends.

Pablo shows up, sees her. His eyes flicker down to her bandaged arm.

“Don't you think you've caused enough problems? Why are you here?”

“Xabi's hurt,” she says. “He needs help.”

“You know where he is?”

She catches her breath, shakes her head.

“If you know where he is, you tell us, we'll help him.”

But if Michelle is telling the truth . . . they think of him as a traitor now. They are ruthless enough to explode a bomb at the Spanish embassy. What would stop them from hurting Xabi?

Angela shakes her head and surprises herself with how easily the lies come: “He called me, when I was in the hospital. He told me he had been hurt, but he had a friend in the countryside who was going to pick him up and help him.”

“Where in the countryside?”

“Somewhere in Provence. Or
 . . .
Perpignan, I think?” she says, naming a town near the Spanish border. “I don't know any details.”

Pablo bristles with suspicion and anger. When he speaks, his voice is low and threatening.

“You should run back to America, lady, where everything is happy.”

She runs.

Back to America. Back to her husband. Back to her son.