Revolution (36 page)

65

“M
y brother’s name was Truman and he was on his way to school. He was walking past this crappy welfare hotel, the Charles. It was about to be made into condos but tenants still lived in it. Poor families, old people, and a guy named Max. He was skinny with bad teeth. He wore beat-up suits and bow ties. He would sit outside the place on an old lawn chair.

“Truman and I went to the same school. I was supposed to walk him there every morning. On the first day of school that year, Max appeared. He’d just been dumped at the Charles by the city. He saw us and hauled himself over to us, getting in our faces. ‘Maximilien R. Peters! Incorruptible, ineluctable, and indestructible!’ he yelled. ‘It’s time to start the revolution, baby!’ I grabbed Truman’s hand and pulled him away. ‘Won’t talk? What’s the matter? Think you’re royalty living in your brownstone castles?’ he said.

“Truman was afraid of him, but he stood his ground. ‘Stop yelling. If everyone’s yelling, no one can be heard,’ he said. It stopped Max in his tracks. Then Truman introduced himself. He held out his hand. Max took it. Then he growled at Truman. He screwed up his face and growled like a dog. Truman winced but he didn’t budge. Max burst out laughing. From that day on, he called Truman Prince Valiant.

“We saw Max almost every day. Usually he was yelling about the revolution he was going to start, telling everyone to kill the rich and give the city back to the people. He ranted about the mayor, the housing commission, and Donald Trump. Someone said he used to be a lawyer, a public defender. Everyone said he was harmless and that he’d be gone soon anyway. The city was going to rehouse the Charles’ tenants so the developers could get started.

“But Max wasn’t harmless. He was a schizophrenic. He was out of his mind the day the police came to evict him. It was in December. We were on our way to school. I was supposed to walk all the way with Truman, but I bumped into this guy I liked. His name was Nick. He said he was starting a band and he wanted me to be in it. He was smoking a blunt. Said he’d taken some pills and that he had more at home. He wanted me to come over. So I said I would and then I told Truman to go on alone. It was only a few more blocks to the school. He knew the way. Truman didn’t like Nick; I could tell. He didn’t trust him. And it pissed me off because deep down, I didn’t either. ‘Andi, come on,’ he said. ‘Just go, Tru,’ I said. ‘I’ll watch you walk down Henry. You’ll be fine.’ He waved goodbye. And I waved back. I … I waved goodbye to him. I—”

I have to stop here. And bury my head in my arms. Virgil says nothing. He just waits until I can speak again. After a few minutes, I lift up my head, wipe my face, and continue.

“We decided to cut all our morning classes, me and Nick,” I say. “We’d just turned off Henry Street onto his street—Pineapple—when he said he was hungry. There’s a little deli just past the corner. He went in and I waited outside for him. He never called afterward. Never once in the whole month I was out of school. The next time I saw him, he was on the Promenade. Sitting on a bench with a girl on his lap. He didn’t remember. Not a thing. He gave me a hug, told me he’d heard what happened, said he was so sad. He’d been stoned out of his mind the whole time.

“I read the police report afterward. It said that Truman had walked past the Charles. He’d seen the police. He must have. There were plenty of them. He didn’t know enough to cross the street. To get out of there. The cops were evicting tenants who’d refused to leave. The police report said it was a bad scene. An old lady was crying. She had all her things in two D’Agostino’s bags. She said she’d lived there for the past twenty years and didn’t want to leave. A mother was yelling in Spanish that she wasn’t going into a city shelter with five kids. Max was yelling, too. He was on the sidewalk arguing with the cops.

“Some woman walked by just then. She was wearing a fur coat and a lot of jewelry and eating a muffin. It set Max off. ‘Still eating cake?’ he shouted at her. She got scared and dropped her muffin. He picked it up and threw it at her. ‘We’ve got no cake! No bread. No nothing. Don’t you understand that? All we’ve got is rats and bugs and cold water. You’re going to take that from us, too?’

“A cop grabbed him and told him he was done. That’s when Truman walked by. Just as the police told Max to go get his things. But Max wouldn’t go. He yelled. He shoved one of the cops. The cop tried to arrest him and that’s when Max snapped.

“He grabbed Truman. Then he pulled a knife out of his pocket and held it to his throat. He dragged my brother down the sidewalk, yelling at the police to back off. They did and Max started making demands. Some were semirational—like stopping the eviction. Some weren’t—like giving Manhattan back to the Indians. More police came. They tried to calm Max. They asked him to let Truman go. Max said no. He said he was going to take the prince away. He would teach him. Someone needed to learn how to rule the world right.

“I was still outside the store and I heard the sirens. I walked back to Henry Street to see what was going on. I saw my brother in Max’s arms and I started screaming and running toward them. Truman was crying. When he saw me, he tried to break loose. He struggled with Max and the knife Max was holding cut him. Not badly, but enough to draw blood. A rookie officer freaked. He drew his gun. Max saw him. He panicked and bolted into the street with Truman. The guy in the delivery van was arguing with his dispatcher. He never saw them. He only knew he’d hit them when he heard the thump. When he saw what he’d done, he collapsed. My mother collapsed, too, when the detectives came to the house to tell her. I was there. The police brought me home afterward. My father was there, too. He hadn’t left for work yet. All he could do, at first, was shout ‘Where were you?’ at me. He apologized later, but I told him he didn’t have to. I mean, he was right. Where was I? Where the fuck was I?”

I stop talking and pound my palms against my forehead.

“Hey … stop,” Virgil says, pulling my hands away.

I shake my head. “I see him all the time, Virgil. I see him waving goodbye to me. Not wanting to but doing it anyway because I told him to. I see him in Max’s arms. He was so afraid. He was reaching for me. If only I’d gone with him. If I hadn’t seen Nick and cut class. If I’d—”

“All the ifs don’t matter. Max killed your brother.”

“If only I’d—”

“Andi, did you hear what I said? Max killed him. Not you. He killed your brother two years ago. Now he’s killing you. Don’t let him do it.”

“I don’t know how not to,” I say helplessly. “I keep trying to find an answer—with a shrink, with my drugs, but I never do. It used to be that my music kept me going, but I’m even past that now. I feel like it’s too late for me. Like stepping off the Eiffel Tower would only have been a formality. Like I’m already dead.”

He’s about to say something when somebody tosses a bone across the room. It nearly hits him in the head. He swears at the guy. “No wonder,” he says. “Pack your stuff, we’re getting out of here. I’ll tell the others. It might take me a minute to find them all, so sit tight. I’ll come back for you.”

He takes off and I put my guitar in its case. A call goes up for more music. Someone sparks up the iPod again. People start dancing. It’s turning into a rave. Pills are being passed around. A guy hands a joint to me but I decline. I’m already sorry I drank that wine. It’s fighting with the Qwell, making me feel really whacked out.

I wish Virgil would come back. Now. I look around for him, but don’t see him anywhere. I pack up his stuff, too, so we can get out of here faster. I put his guitar back into his case, fold up his map and stuff it into my bag. I look at my watch. The numbers blur, which freaks me out a bit. When they come back into focus, I see that it’s nearly midnight. Constantine walks by. I’m just about to ask him if he’s seen Virgil, when I feel a hand on my shoulder.

66

I
t’s not Virgil.

It’s the goth, the hot one. He’s looking down at me and the feeling that I know him is so strong, it’s scary. He has dark eyes, high cheekbones, thick brown hair tied back in a ponytail. His face is powdered a ghostly white, his lips are rouged, and he has a black beauty mark pasted on his cheek. He’s wearing these funky pants that end at his knees, a ruffled shirt that’s open at the throat, a long silk vest, and a red ribbon tied around his neck. It’s too weird.

“What is that music?” he asks me, nodding at the iPod.

“I don’t know. Some house mix,” I say.

“But what is that which makes the music?” he asks.

“Um … an iPod?”

“I have never seen such a thing.”

“Yeah? Well … don’t know what to tell you. Maybe it’s a new model,” I say.

He sits down next to me, runs his hand over my guitar case and says, “I enjoyed your playing. Very much. And your instrument has a lovely sound. Who made it?”

“It’s a Gibson.”

“May I?” he asks, pointing at the case.

I take the guitar out and hand it to him. He inspects it. “How unusual,” he says. “The body is a good deal bigger than most I have seen. Italian?”

“Dude, it’s a Gibson. It’s American,” I say, getting kind of annoyed with him and his schtick.

“The Americas,” he says. “I did not know there were good luthiers working there. Perhaps it is a more civilized place than one is led to believe.”

“I guess. Do you want to play it or what?”

He nods, then plays a piece by Lully. I can barely hear him over the din but what I can hear is beautiful. He’s an amazing player. No, actually, he’s astonishing.

“It is a worthy instrument,” he says when he finishes, putting it back in its case. “I write music, too,” he says. “Or rather, I did.”

His eyes flicker to the red ribbon on my neck. “I did not know you were one of us. I did not see you at the widow Beauharnais’ ball. Or any of the balls,” he says. “Who is your family?”

“What’s that to you?” I say testily. I’m starting to feel dizzy. It was a mistake to drink that wine, a big one. I want Virgil to come back. I want to get out of here.

“Be not afraid. Your secret is safe with me. My friends … you see them there? Stéphane, Francois, Henri … they all just barely escaped.” He touches the ribbon gently. “You wear the red ribbon, do you not? Do we not all wear it?” he says, gesturing at his friends. “Have we not all suffered? Who have you lost?”

My fingers wrap around Truman’s key. How does he know I lost someone? “My brother,” I say.

He nods. His eyes are sad. “You have my condolences, Monsieur.”

Monsieur? He thinks I’m a
guy?
What the hell? I’m about to tell him I’m not when he says, “Who are the others at this Victims’ Ball? I recognize none of them.”

Victims’ Ball? The weirdness is suddenly getting a whole lot weirder. I remember the term Victims’ Ball from my visit to the catacombs. Aristocrats who lost family members to the guillotine during the Terror held them after the fall of Robespierre.

“Is this a history class project?” I ask him. “Like a reenactment or something?”

It’s his turn to look confused. He’s about to say something to me when his words are cut off.

“Run!” someone shouts. “It’s the cops!”

67

P
eople are swearing and shouting and burying their pot and their pills and running everywhere and knocking candles over. I can barely see. A guy leaps over me. I get hit in the head by someone’s bag. Two spelunkers tear past me, headlamps blazing.

I sling my bag over my shoulder, grab my guitar, and scramble to my feet. As I do, a girl crashes into me and nearly knocks me over. I want to run but I don’t know where.

“Virgil!” I shout.

“Andi! Where are you?”

“I’m here! Over here!”

I can’t see him. A fresh wave of dizziness washes over me, so strong and sickening that I think I’m going to puke. There’s the sound of a bullhorn. The police are telling us to stay put and not to panic. Which makes everyone panic. I feel someone pulling on my arm.

“Leave him!” a voice calls out.

“I cannot! He’s one of us!” the goth guy shouts back. “Come! Hurry! You cannot be found here. None of us can,” he says to me. He pulls me along with him down a tunnel. I’m tripping over my feet. Twisting and turning, trying to break free. I don’t want to go with him. I want to find Virgil. Finally I get loose.

“Virgil? Where are you?” I shout. I can’t see him. I can’t see anything because it’s pitch black down here without the candles. The only light now is coming from the beams of police flashlights. It blurs as I look at it, seems to hum and pulse. I remember that I’ve got a flashlight, too. I fish it out of my bag and turn it on. Now I can see. I see a policeman. And he sees me. He starts walking toward me.

I really don’t want to call my father from a Paris police station. Especially not in the state I’m in. I start running for the tunnel. I can see the entrance to it in the glare of the flashlight beam. I’m off balance. It takes all I’ve got to make my feet work right. The tunnel forks. I go left. I hear the police still behind me. I take another left, running as fast as I can. Stumbling. Nearly falling. After a few seconds, I see a faint glow up ahead of what looks like the white of somebody’s shirt. It’s the goths, I think. I hope.

I call out to them and run faster. And then my foot catches on something and I’m airborne. I come down hard. I’m lying on the ground. My head’s throbbing. Something warm and wet is trickling down my cheek. I’m so dizzy I feel like I’m going to die. I close my eyes, trying desperately to make the spinning stop, then open them again. I’ve never seen such darkness. Or heard such silence. There are no more voices. No more lights.

For a second I wonder if I’m asleep or passed out or dead.

I can’t be those things. If I was, my head wouldn’t hurt so much. I am alone, though. Deep under Paris in the catacombs. In the dark. With several million dead people all around me. And no idea how to get out.

I scramble to my knees and feel around for my flashlight. My hands travel over dirt and bones and I nearly sob with joy when I find it. It went out, but I give it a shake and it comes back on. I pick up my guitar case, and start off after the goths. I have to find them. They’re my only way out. I hope like mad that there are no more forks in the tunnel. No wrong turns to take. After a few minutes, by some miracle, I spot them. They’re up ahead of me. Moving slowly.

“Hey!” I shout in French. “Yo, wait up!”

They stop and as I catch up to them, I see why they’re going so slowly. They don’t have a flashlight. They have a candle.

“Enough already,” I say, handing the hot one the flashlight. “Get us out of here.”

But he doesn’t move. Instead he plays with the flashlight. He shines it up on the ceiling and all over the walls. He shines it in his face. His friend takes it. Turns it upside down. Shakes it. Accidentally turns it off. Asks me to light it again.

They’re high. They must be. Which is great. Just great. I’m in the catacombs of Paris with a bunch of stoners on a most un-excellent adventure. I turn the flashlight back on and give it back to the hot guy. We hear a shout coming from the way we came and it gets us going again. We’re moving fast. After a few minutes, the tunnel narrows. We trudge through cold, black water, then the floor slopes upward and the ground is dry again.

And suddenly, there is a stink—a stink like no stink I’ve ever smelled. It’s tangible. Evil. It’s so strong, it’s a physical entity. I drop my guitar and my bag, bend over, and throw up. I feel so insanely sick, I’m not even embarrassed. When there’s nothing left I stand up straight. I’m coughing and spitting and gasping for breath. My throat feels like someone poured acid down it. Tears are streaming from my eyes. I look at the others. And they’re fine. All fine. They’re looking at me with puzzled faces. Like they can’t figure out why I’m not.

“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” I rasp. “Can’t you smell it?”

“Yes,” one of them says.

“What is it?”

“Dead people, of course. We’re in the catacombs.”

“Yeah, but—” I start to say.

And then I see them. In the glow of the flashlight, I see the corpses. Stacks of them. Some are shriveled. Some are putrid. Most still have their clothes on. Not one has its head on.

“No. No way. No way! This can’t be.
Fresh
dead people?” I shout. “I took the tour. No one said anything about fresh dead people. They said the bodies were two hundred years old. This is bad. Really bad. We’ve got to call someone.
Frontline. Nightline
. Anderson Cooper.”

The four of them look at each other like I’m weird. Like
I’m
weird!

I freak out then. Get a bit shrill. The hot guy shushes me. “Be quiet. The guard might still be around,” he says. “Why are you making such a fuss? Surely you’ve seen these and more during the balls.” He pulls a little muslin bag from inside his vest and hands it to me. “Here. Hold this to your nose.”

I hold it over my face like a gas mask. It smells strongly of cinnamon and oranges. It helps a little. We start walking again. I keep my eyes trained on the goths. I don’t look left or right.

I know the French like their funk. I know they like stinky cheese and truffles. I know that Napoléon wrote Josephine from the front to tell her not to wash because he was coming home in a few days. I know all that. But this defies all logic. I truly believe that I will die if I don’t get out of these tunnels very shortly, and these guys are acting as if it’s nothing out of the ordinary. I start humming to myself. I hum the Ramones. Because right now, I really do want to be sedated.

Finally, we start climbing. The stone floor slopes sharply upward, and then becomes a set of spiraling iron steps. We go through an iron door like the one I came through earlier, then a passageway. The hot guy opens another door, small and wooden, and I find myself inside a crypt—a real crypt, dusty and musty. Fortunately, the dead people who reside here are all neatly sealed away. His friend—whose name, I’ve gathered is Henri—pushes open the crypt’s front door and we emerge inside a big, dark church. He closes the crypt’s door, then leads us outside, into a cobbled street.

“I’m hungry,” the hot guy says.

I feel like I will never eat anything again. Ever. “Can I have my flashlight back?” I say. I’m so out of here. I’m going home. And then I’m going to call the police and tell them about the big fat crime scene I just walked through.

He hands it to me, shining it in my face as he does, and says, “Your head. It’s bleeding.” He touches his fingers to my forehead and they come away red. While I dig in my bag for tissues, he asks Henri if he wants to come with him to eat.

“I can’t. I’ve got to get home. My wife will kill me as it is.”

Wife? He looks like he’s eighteen. At the most.

The other two goths say they have to get home, too. He asks me but before I can tell him no, Henri pulls him away from me but not far enough away. I can hear them whispering.

“Leave him here. It’s too dangerous,” Henri says angrily.

“I cannot leave him helpless on the streets. Haven’t we lost enough of our kind already?”

“Look, guys, I’m not helpless,” I say, really fed up with the
him
thing. “I can get myself home. I just have to find a taxi stand. Or a Métro station. I’m cool. Really.”

I look around hoping to spot Virgil. Jules. Someone I recognize. The hot guy kisses his friends goodbye, then takes the tissue from my hand and dabs at my head.

“You must attend to this before it becomes septic.”

“Do you think you could maybe drop the act for a minute and tell me where the nearest Métro is?” I say.

He looks at me, a worried expression on his face. “I think you should eat something. I believe the fall you took addled your senses,” he says. “Come, the Café Chartres isn’t far. I know the chef there. He’ll cook something good for us.”

“Thanks, really, but I’m not hungry and I have to get home.”

“Let me at least walk part of the way with you.”

“Sure. Whatever.”

“Wait,” he says. Before I can stop him, he takes my red ribbon and key and drops them inside my shirt. He takes his own ribbon off, then wipes the powder and rouge off his face with a handkerchief. “One cannot be too careful.”

We walk east. I’m glad to be out of the catacombs. Glad this night is almost over. I want to get out of the bell jar. Most of all, I want to find Virgil.

“I’m Andi, by the way,” I say.

“A pleasure,” he says, bowing to me slightly. “My name is Amadé.”

“Amadé,” I echo. “Weird. I’m studying an Amadé. He’s a musician, too, but he’s from the eighteenth century, and he …”

At that moment, we turn off the side street we were walking down onto the Rue de Rivoli and my words trail away. Because at that moment, things get really strange.