On the Brink of Paris (9 page)

I
had viewed more masterpieces than I ever thought possible in one afternoon. As I lay facedown on my bed on the
deuxième étage
of the VEI, my feet throbbed and felt uncomfortably hot, like they were about to go supernova and splatter carbon and stardust up into the stratosphere.

Bonnie and Janet were napping too, but Charlotte was undefeated by our hours at the Louvre. I could hear her flipping through her guidebook, muttering occasional remarks, and scratching notes with her Bic ballpoint. I could practically hear her brain working as she figured out how many places we could visit during our free afternoon tomorrow. This might be an opportune time to show her I was as good as my word, that I was making an effort to find
out
seule
what Paris had to offer, instead of relying on Charlotte to figure it out for me. Using the force of ten oxen, I lifted my head off the pillow and looked over at her.

“Hey, Charlotte,” I said.

She peered at me over her glasses, lips still pursed in reading-small-print mode.

“You know what I would really like to see while we're in Paris?”

“What?” Charlotte asked, one eye still on her guidebook.

“The Père Lachaise Cemetery,” I replied.

Charlotte gaped at me. I gestured toward my pristine guidebook, which I'd unpacked and leafed through before collapsing on my bed.

Taking advantage of Charlotte's unusually speechless state, I pulled the removable metro map from my guidebook.

“It seems to me that if we get on the eleven train here, at the Hôtel de Ville stop, and transfer here, at République, to the three line, then it's just three stops to Père Lachaise. I know it's a little outside the city center, but I think we could make good time and have a few hours to stroll around.”

Bonnie had risen silently to a sitting position on her bed, like the Bride of Frankenstein but, well, more wholesome-looking.

“Père Lachaise?” she asked. “Jim Morrison is buried there! Man, I wouldn't mind visiting the Lizard King.”

I knew Jim Morrison was a legendary American rock star who'd died in Paris around thirty years ago, because my father had insisted on educating me in the ways of the fossil rock gods. The Lizard King thing was a mystery, though. Maybe he was one of Bonnie's seventeenth century relatives.

“There's someone there for everyone,” I said, sounding like an advertising jingle. “Writers, actors, musicians. Oscar Wilde. Sarah Bernhardt. Chopin!” There WERE some advantages to reading one's guidebook. I'm sure I sounded Supremely Knowledgable.

“I know that,” Charlotte said patiently. “I just wasn't aware that YOU knew that.”

“Well,” I said, fanning myself with the metro map, “I thought it was time I did a little research.”

“Interesting,” said Charlotte. She arched an eyebrow. I have a theory that Charlotte practices arching her eyebrow in private, in front of the mirror, as a way to convey serious thoughtfulness. I'm totally supportive.

“I'm game,” said Bonnie. “Maybe I'll run into some old friends.”

Yikes. I hadn't considered any possible paranormal high jinks; that might get creepy. But Charlotte looked
positively enthusiastic. She obviously wanted to encourage me in my new ways.

“I think that's an excellent idea, Lily,” Charlotte said. “There's a huge amount of history there.”

“It was founded by Napoleon!” I shouted, unable to contain the self-pride in my historical Parisian knowledge.

“I don't want to go to a cemetery,” whined Janet, who was sprawled on her bed with one arm dangling over the side. “I want to see the Eiffel Tower! I want to take a cruise on the river Seine! I want to climb the Arc de Triomphe!”

Crapstick. The girls all had to stay together, which meant we had to agree unanimously where to go.

“We're supposed to go to the Eiffel Tower after dinner the night before we go home,” I told her. I proudly waved the copy of the trip schedule I had borrowed from Bonnie. “So you'll see it then. It's better at night anyway, according to my guidebook.”

“What about the Seine? What about all the little shops on the rue de Rivoli where I can buy French
objets
? What about the men in berets and
les chic Parisiennes
? I mean, actual REAL
chic Parisiennes
.”

“Listen,” I said, plopping down on Janet's bed next to her. “I bet we could talk Madame Chavotte into showing us the Seine and the rue de Rivoli tonight after dinner. But tomorrow is our last Free Time. Madame Chavotte
would definitely never take us to Père Lachaise. So let's go there ourselves and witness a place that's really vital to the history of Paris, that's like, three-dimensional history because all these famous French figures are right there beneath us!”

Janet still looked unconvinced. It was time to play the trump card.

“You know, Edith Piaf is buried there,” I said.

Janet sat up with a start.

Jackpot!

To the non-Francophile (read: normal person) the name Edith Piaf probably means nothing. However, I had found a little section on Piaf in my guidebook. To the Franco-obsessed, Edith Piaf was recognized as the greatest popular singer of modern French times. I had learned that she was tiny and sang with a tragically tight vibrato. And she was now dead, obviously. But there were droves who worshiped her like the Sloane Rangers worshiped Lindy. Dear Readers, what could be more a more suitable homage to French culture than shedding a few tears over the grave of Piaf?

“I'll even take your picture by her memorial, as a keep-sake,” I said. “You'll kick yourself later if you miss the chance. I think it could be very important to you, Jah-nay.”

I know, I know. It must have seemed like I was bribing her by pronouncing her name in Franglais, and in
part I was. But I had also realized that though I thought it stupid, and superficial, and embarrassingly obvious, this girl wanted to be called Jah-nay. Who was I to judge?

“Well…” Janet began tentatively.

“Yes!” cried Bonnie, perched regally on her bed. “I am the Lizard King! I can do ANYTHING!”

I looked at Charlotte in alarm. Bonnie might be having some kind of serious and traumatic spontaneous past-life regression. But Charlotte's expression was nothing but happy.

“Well done, Lily,” said Charlotte. “Welcome to Paris.”

 

When it came down to it, I surprised myself and everyone else by suggesting we ask the boys if they wanted to join us. I had no personal interest in watching Chaz and Bud toss a football between headstones, but I did feel it would make a big difference to Lewis if we asked him to come along. As for the Mysterious Tim, since he had miraculously “recovered” from his
stomak big
, it might do him some good to see people having a good time around him and with him, even though they didn't know the identity of his older sister. He would see I was as good as my word.

There was a little grumbling, particularly from Janet, who somehow felt the presence of American boys at any
Parisian landmark was unattractive and counterproductive and would detract from her experience. Bonnie, as always, was up for anything. So the invitation was extended and accepted, and after spending a morning with Madame Chavotte touring the modern glass cake of the Bastille Opera House, and lunching on peanut butter sandwiches at the VEI, we were ready for an adventure.

I am pleased and proud to report that the metro directions I had put together were accurate (though I'm certain Charlotte checked them over and discreetly supervised our every step). We came out of the metro onto a quiet, wide street with cobblestone sidewalks and smaller versions of the rounded beige buildings I'd gotten used to in Paris. We walked through the open gateway and it felt like we'd stepped into Wonderland.

“Man, it's like the inner city of the departed,” said Bonnie. “Get a load of that energy shift.”

I don't know about an energy shift, but I could see right away what Bonnie meant by an inner city. It was like this separate miniature metropolis within Paris. Paved paths went off in every direction, and each one was lined with memorials and mausoleums. Some of them were simple stones, some were elaborate sculptures, and others looked like little houses. There was a strange hush over the place. Even Bud and Chaz were walking quietly ahead of us, though periodically one of them would
suddenly lunge back and pantomime hurling a touch-down pass to a phantom quarterback.

“Where's the Famous People Section?” asked Janet.

“Well,” I replied patiently, “I don't think there's any one section for them, Janet. I think they're probably scattered individually throughout the grounds.”

Janet looked appalled.

“But there must be
thousands
of graves here,” she said. “Where do they give out maps? How are we going to find Edith Piaf?”

“And Jim Morrison,” added Bonnie, holding her hands palms downward over a small grave marker.

Tim shot us a look. “Wait. Jim Morrison? As in The Doors? Jim Morrison is buried HERE?” he cried.

I had never seen him so animated.

“Yeah, man. Definitely,” said Bonnie, looking at Tim with a new level of interest. “Morrison died in Paris, dude. They buried him right here.”

Tim seemed momentarily paralyzed with reverence. I was both surprised and impressed. Did other people's fathers also lecture them on fossil rock gods of the past? I would have pegged Tim as more of a Green Day fan.

“Jim Morrison? That is pretty cool. Let's find him!” Lewis said, powering up his Sidekick.

Lewis knew him too?

“Oh, yeah, we have to find him, definitely,” said Tim.

“I agree, bro,” Bonnie said. She peered over Lewis's
shoulder. “Whaddyagot?”

“Give me a minute,” said Lewis, tapping the buttons. “The Internet has never failed me.”

“Yo, dawg, what's the delay?” shouted Chaz or Bud, I'm not sure which. (I don't think I could identify one from the other in a court of law.)

“We're trying to find Jim Morrison,” I called back.

Bud and Chaz regarded each other.

“Is he in our class?” one of them asked.

I took a brief moment to deliver a silent prayer that neither Bud nor Chaz would ever hold a position of authority in the U.S. government.

Lewis suddenly made a sound indicating some kind of victory (or maybe a spider had crawled into his sleeve). Charlotte and Bonnie were firmly planted at Lewis's shoulder, watching his Sidekick with apparent fascination. Tim (I no longer thought of him as the Mysterious Tim) was standing off to one side, hands thrust into his jeans pockets, as usual.

“Tim,” I said, “you have to see what Lewis can do with this thing.”

Tim, whose face had been completely transformed since the name Jim Morrison was mentioned, joined us. Bonnie squinched closer, allowing him to sidle in and see what Lewis had found.

And what Lewis had found was extraordinary. He had
found a virtual reality map of the cemetery. One half of the screen showed a picture of where we had come in. When Lewis put the cursor on the photograph, it began to rotate, giving the viewer a 360-degree view of the cemetery from the precise spot where we were standing. On the other half of the screen was a map of the cemetery.

“See, that pulsing red dot shows where we are right now,” said Lewis, pointing to the map.

We, his audience, were captivated.

“Now look back at the photograph. See how they've superimposed little red arrows on the picture? They show that we can go in any direction from here. Look at this one, to the right.”

There was, in fact, a narrow cobblestone road going off to the right of where we were standing.

“Okay, now, watch the photograph,” Lewis said. He clicked on the red arrow going to the right. The photograph faded out, and a new photograph appeared. Lewis made it turn 360 degrees again. “This is what we'll see if we go thirty feet in that direction. And look at the map now. See, the red dot has moved, so we know which direction we're moving in.”

“How's that gonna get us to Jim Morrison, bro?” asked Bonnie.

Lewis tapped a few buttons.

“Here's an alphabetical list of notable graves,” he said. “We'll click on Morrison.”

A cross icon on the map blinked off and on in response.

“That's the one,” Lewis said. “Now we know how to get there.”

“That is unbelievable,” said Tim.

Everyone looked at him simultaneously; then everyone looked away. We didn't want Tim to feel self-conscious about speaking. It should look like he'd been doing it all along.

“Who created this?” Tim asked. “Who has that kind of time, to photograph a three-hundred-sixty-degree view from every spot in this graveyard and create a map for it? Some hardcore Morrison fan?”

“I'm going to create sites like this one day,” Lewis said shyly. “When I'm out of school.”

“Lewis, I feel certain you're going to become world-famous for doing stuff like this,” I said with admiration.

Lewis turned the vibrant crimson color again, and he shot a quick glance in Charlotte's direction, like he was checking if she'd heard.

“But what about Edith Piaf?” cried Janet. “Can Lewis's machine find her?”

Lewis hit a few buttons. Another cross pulsed on the map.

“There she is,” he said. “But Jim Morrison is closer.
Maybe we should go there first?”

Janet opened her mouth to object, but Charlotte interrupted her.

“Lewis, I say you're IN CHARGE of this expedition,” she said.

“I agree,” I stated firmly.

“Sounds good to me,” Tim said.

“Let's go see the Lizard King, gentlemen,” Bonnie cried.

I'd been called almost every male denomination in the world by Bonnie, but never “gentlemen.” Paris seemed to be having a genteel effect on her.