There’s no reply.
“Hello? Josh? Hello?”
“My mom is calling me. Shit. They’re about to serve dessert or something.”
“No!”
“Do you still love me?” His panic rises again. “You didn’t say it when you answered.”
I pull out a handful of tissues from a box. “Of course I do!”
“I can’t believe I have to hang up right now.”
“Don’t go. I love you.”
“I’ll call you back as soon as I can.” And the line goes dead.
Like the sucker I am, I stay beside my phone all night hoping that soon means “soon”. It doesn’t. How could I have lashed out at him like that? He trusted me. He bared his soul, and I held it against him. I hate this. I hate that I hurt him. And I hate that I’m still upset about his work, and I really hate that I’m gonna have to pretend like I’m not.
I keep the box in my closet, hoping for an out-of-sight, out-of-mind experience, but it’s impossible. It’s the only thing on my mind. By Saturday night, I still haven’t heard from him. Fear of my wrongdoing reaches a critical peak. I have to do something. I add a small peace offering to the box and carry it to the Wasserstein residence, using the return address already on the package. The weight of the box is heavy, burdensome. But it still doesn’t take me long to get there.
Their brownstone looks similar to the others on the street – beautiful, old and well kept. They have miniature evergreens and ivy in the window boxes, an American flag hanging from the second storey, an autumn wreath on the door, and a silver filigree mezuzah affixed to the door frame. The curtains are drawn.
I knock, hoping for an answer from the Secret Service or whatever organization it is that watches over this nation’s more famous senators. No one answers. I knock again, and a stocky man with broad shoulders, stylish grey hair, and a security earpiece opens the door. “May I help you?” His voice is as solid and sturdy as his appearance.
“Isla Martin.” My own voice trembles. “I’m Josh’s girlfriend. From France? I know he won’t be home until tomorrow, but that’s when I’m leaving, so I was hoping you could pass this along to him.”
“I know who you are.”
“You do?”
The tough guy act is dropped for a moment. He smiles, and it’s surprisingly warm. “I’m paid to know that.”
“Oh.” My cheeks turn pink. “Well, would you please give this to him?”
He takes the package from me. “Sure. But I’ll have to scan it for explosives first. As long as it passes, he can have it upon his return.”
I laugh.
“That was a serious statement. All parcels are checked.”
My cheeks deepen into red. “Of course. Thank you, sir.” And I scuttle away.
The next night, when I check my phone in Paris, I have a text from an unknown Manhattan number. He doesn’t mention the return of the manuscript – nor the fact that I left its pages wildly out of order – but he does say this: I can’t believe how much I missed your scent. Merci for the scarf, my sweet rose.
Chapter twenty-four
The pallor of winter further overcasts the already grey city. Olympic rings, bright and colourful, provide the only visual relief. They’re plastered on every advertising surface, including the sides of entire buildings. This February, the Winter Olympics will be in the Rhône-Alpes region of south-eastern France, though, by the adverts, you’d never know they weren’t in Paris proper. The French athletes are the stars of the posters, naturally, but a few of the biggest names from other countries have also made the cut.
Kurt and I exit the Denfert-Rochereau métro station and pass a larger-than-life poster of a fierce-looking American figure skater named Calliope Bell.
“Who do you root for?” I ask. “The Americans or the French?”
The Olympics have always been a source of mixed feelings for me. I know I’m supposed to feel a sense of national pride, but which nation? I feel loyalty towards both.
Kurt glances at the poster. “I root for the best athlete in each event. They don’t have to be American or French.”
“So…you root for the winner. Isn’t that sort of cheating?”
“No. I root for the person who appears to be working the hardest.”
It’s a strange answer, but it’s still a good one. It gives me something to think about. We enter a small, nondescript, dark-green building. It’s empty of tourists today. We pay a guard, pass by another guard, and tromp down a spiral staircase until we reach a long, low tunnel. Water drips overhead. We splash through shallow puddles. It’s cool down here in the catacombs, but not cold, because there’s no wind.
Kurt points towards a tunnel that’s been gated off from the public. “Have I told you there are over a hundred and eighty miles of abandoned tunnels in Paris?”
Yes. He has told me. He’s been talking about the tunnels non-stop since our return to school. In the last month, he’s gone from intrigued to full-blown obsessed. While I sat in detention, he read everything about them – the métro tunnels, limestone quarries, utility lines, sewer systems and crypts – which together make one of the most extensive underground networks in the world.
He wants to map it, of course.
It’s odd how the two most important people in my life are both interested in maps. Kurt in the most literal sense. But Josh, too. By chronicling the major events in his life, Josh is also drawing a map. I wonder how long I’ll be a part of it. Where and when does my story fall away from his?
“Maps of the tunnels exist,” Kurt continues, “but none of them are complete. And they’re often purposefully misleading to keep people away.”
Exploring them is illegal, and as a bona fide rule-follower, this is Kurt’s greatest frustration. But that hasn’t stopped others from doing it. The tunnels attract all types, known collectively as cataphiles – historians, graffiti artists, ravers, cavers, musicians, treasure hunters. Some have gone into the tunnels to restore priceless art. One group ran an underground cinema. The French resistance hid down here during the Nazi occupation, and then the Nazis used the exact same tunnels to flee.
It won’t be long before Kurt’s obsession overpowers his need to follow the rules. But, for now, he’s been visiting and revisiting the legal part – les Catacombes. More than six million bodies were carted down here in the late 1700s, and the endless walls of their stacked bones are available for viewing at a small fee. Some of the bones are arranged into simple shapes like crosses or hearts. Some are arranged by size or type. But most of them were thrown in at random for practicality’s sake.