On the Brink of Paris (10 page)

Lewis started walking, holding his Sidekick in front of him the way Mr. Spock carries his tricorder while exploring an unknown planet. We filed behind him, not entirely unlike Madeline and the other eleven little girls in two straight lines trailing Miss Clavel. (You see, Dear Readers, everything DOES go back to Madeline in the end.) We followed Lewis along the outer wall of the cemetery, paused when he paused, then followed him left down a little road.

There were so many monuments, large and small, they almost seemed to be on top of one another. I could make out the names on dozens of them just from where I was standing.

“Even if we get to the right spot, how are we going to
find him?” Tim asked. “There's so many different headstones.”

“Look,” said Bonnie quietly.

On the wall of a mausoleum someone had spray-painted
JIM
and a little arrow pointing to the left. Tim drew in his breath in awe.

“That's vandalism!” I said, outraged.

Bonnie linked her arm through mine. “The rules aren't quite the same here, man,” she said. “Don't you feel that? Can't you feel all the thousands of people who have been here to pay their respects to Jim?”

I knew that Bonnie meant “feel” like the animal psychic meant it when she investigated the moods of people's pets on Animal Planet. I was a Writer. I didn't consider myself of the Psychic Ilk. I was of the Verbal Ilk. But I did suddenly feel like crying and singing at the same time. I wished Jake were here to see this.

“I heard they have to send police here on Morrison's birthday and the anniversary of his death every year,” said Tim, “because the crowds come and they don't want to leave Jim.”

“I've heard that too,” said Lewis.

Where did these people hear all these things? I had not come across anything like this in
Star
magazine.

Bud and Chaz remained back on the cobblestone path, chatting together and throwing little fake sucker punches
at each other, as we picked our way through the graves in the direction the spray-paint arrow had pointed.

“This is creepy,” said Janet. But she kept up with us.

“There it is, people,” said Bonnie suddenly.

We stopped.

In front of us were a rectangular grave and headstone, surrounded by a low iron fence. A plaque read:

 

J
AMES
D
OUGLAS
M
ORRISON
1943–1971

 

My first thought was that the place was totally covered with litter, but when I took a closer look, I realized all the objects on the grave had been placed there with care.

There were candles, wine bottles, flowers, even little framed pictures of Jim Morrison. He had a moody, beautifully angular face framed by loose brown curls. We stood around the grave, looking down in silence.

“You know, I read somewhere there used to be this cat that hung around the grave all the time,” said Tim.

Boy, get this guy started and it turns out he has a lot to say.

“And everybody called the cat Jim. You'd come to the grave, and Jim would appear from behind one of the other headstones and start meowing and rubbing your leg.”

“I don't like cats,” said Janet. An irritating, irrelevant
comment if I ever heard one.

“Where is it then?” I asked, looking around.

“Some fan took him home, in, like, the eighties, they say,” replied Tim.

Bonnie suddenly began to sing softly.

It didn't really surprise me that Bonnie had a lovely voice. It DID surprise me when first Tim, then Lewis began to sing along with her.

I made a mental note to get a Doors CD when I got home. Clearly, this was a phenomenon I needed to investigate more thoroughly.

“People, I'm getting the heebie-jeebies!” cried Janet.

I wasn't happy she'd interrupted the moment, but to be honest, I had goose bumps up and down both arms too.

“We should go,” said Lewis.

Bonnie was still humming, her eyes closed, one finger lightly touching the headstone. She had one of those half Buddha smiles on her face.

I looked around at our little group. And a strange little group we were. A Future Corporate Executive, a Reincarnated Medieval Queen, a Francophile, a Computer Geek, an Until Recently Silent Sibling of a Celebrity, and
a Writer. I had a feeling this was the moment I would most remember when I passed them in the hall after we were back at school.

“On to Edith Piaf, then,” Lewis said, brandishing his Sidekick.

Janet gave a little whoop of happiness.

“Step right this way, ladies and gentlemen,” said Lewis.

And we followed him, like obedient little lambs, through the city of the dead.

I
t was almost a completely perfect outing. Almost. We were heading through the gate to go back to the metro station when Charlotte realized with dismay that she'd left her camera behind.

“I know exactly where it is,” Charlotte said. “I put it down right next to Oscar Wilde.”

It figures Charlotte would have become distracted at Oscar Wilde's grave. I suppose it had been my fault, completely. She had tried numerous tactics to get me to walk away. But I had been so completely overcome with awe, I hadn't wanted to leave the grave at all. I kept staring at it, trying to imagine him, Wilde himself, with that Brain and those Hands that had written all that stuff of greatness, right there in the ground below me. And I couldn't
help remembering the last thing Wilde supposedly said before he died. It was “Either that wallpaper goes or I do.” A genius even as he took his last breath. Who was I kidding? With or without Paris, I was no Oscar Wilde, and never would be. I stood, caught in his spell. Charlotte actually had to walk away to provoke me into leaving. But she had left her camera behind.

Oops.

“You guys go ahead,” I said. “I'll go back with Charlotte for the camera, and we'll meet you outside the gates.”

I remembered exactly where the Big Monument was. Unfortunately, it was clear on the other side of the cemetery, which was a bit of a hike.

“A little exercise will be good for us,” I said to Charlotte as we trotted briskly up the main cemetery road.

“Lily Blennerhassett, you have evolved since we came to Paris,” Charlotte said.

I gave her a brilliant smile but saved my breath for important things. Like breathing.

“Finding out about this cemetery, figuring out how to get us all here, that's really great. You're finally taking some responsibility for yourself.”

I beamed again. I loved it when Charlotte was proud of me. But I couldn't help thinking at the same time that I'd become exactly what I'd said I would never become. A Simple Tourist.

“Doesn't it feel good? Don't you feel better about yourself?” Charlotte asked.

I sighed, scanning the vista for signs of Wilde.

“Yes, I pretty much do, and yes, you were right about me needing to take control of details and stuff,” I said. “As evidenced by the Complete and Utter State of Terror I found myself in when I got on the Wrong Train. I'm never going to let THAT happen to me again.”

Charlotte peered at my face as we walked.

“So why do you look…less than thrilled?” she asked.

“Oh, I don't know,” I said. Which of course means I DO know, but please pull it out of me.

“What?” Charlotte asked.

“I just feel kind of stupid,” I said.

“About getting on the Wrong Train?” she asked patiently.

I wondered for how many years THAT was going to keep coming up.

“No. I mean, yes, obviously. But right now I'm talking about…you know.”

Nice sentence fragment, huh?

“I'm not getting it, Lily,” Charlotte said.

I could see Wilde's headstone several yards off now. It was a friendly sight. Even dead, the guy had nice timing.

“Madeline,”
I said. “I thought coming to Paris would give me my
Madeline
.”

“The cookie?” Charlotte asked.

“The magnum opus,” I replied. “
Madeline
. The picture book.”

“I LOVE the Madeline books!” Charlotte cried.

“Exactly,” I said. “Everyone does. I thought Paris was going to do the same thing for me that it did for Ludwig Bemelmans.”

“Your Great Parisian Novel?” Charlotte asked. “What makes you think Paris isn't going to do that for you?”

I sighed and glanced over in the direction of Wilde. We'd arrived at his headstone. Me, author of nothing, contemplating the grave of a literary giant. I imagined a sympathetic vibe transmitting from him to me.

“I really got only one good nugget,” I said. “A character like that ditzy designer broad we met who Janet thought was the archetype for Parisian chic. But it was while I was coming up with that character that I got on the Wrong Train. You know, at that point I not only had no idea what metro stop we were at, I'm not even sure I was aware of what planet I was on. And it's fine, actually. I learned my lesson. I need to be a Simple Tourist in Paris. That's okay. I just…you know. I thought I was FINALLY going to have something interesting enough to write a book about.”

Charlotte picked up her camera and snapped the cover off and on as she thought.

“Lily, if you want to write the Great Parisian Novel,
I'm sure you can. But what makes you think you have to write about Paris to be interesting enough? Why does it
have
to be Paris?”

“Well…” I began. “Because it does. I've got to get out and find Exotic Things, things that aren't from my Regular Life, because my Regular Life isn't interesting. No offense,” I added, since Charlotte was a central part of my Regular Life.

Charlotte sighed and took my arm.

“Okay. Let me ask you this, Lily. What's your favorite book?”

“You know what my favorite book is. It's
To Kill a Mockingbird
.”

“And why is it your favorite book?”

“Because it's the Perfect Novel. It has EVERYTHING.”

“Such as?”

“Fascinating characters. Drama. Comedy. Betrayal. Grace.”

Charlotte nodded.

“And where does it take place?”

At least she was finally asking some questions I knew the answer to.

“A little town in Alabama. Maycomb.”

“And throughout the book do we ever leave this little town?”

I entertained a quick, amusing thought of the Finch
family traveling to Paris.

“Nope,” I answered.

“Nope,” Charlotte repeated. “Because it wasn't necessary. The writer—”

“Harper Lee,” I interrupted, because it was nice to know something every once in a while.

“—because Harper Lee knew she didn't
need
to go to Timbuktu to write a novel. She wrote about a town like the one she lived in, about a childhood similar to her own, about regular people who resembled people she knew. She took what she knew from her own life, and she created something spectacular.”

“But Charlotte, I'm not Harper Lee,” I said.

“No, you're not. You're Lily Blennerhassett.”

Hey.

HEY!

I'd kind of FORGOTTEN about that! Like Harper Lee, I live in a small, ordinary town. But I am not a small, ordinary person! I am Lily Blennerhassett. And I always will be. And whether I am wrestling with a great white shark off the coast of Tasmania or eating broiled free-range turkey on whole grain bread at home, I am going to write good books. Because it wasn't about Paris.

It was about Me.

I looked at Charlotte and wondered if it was a burden to be Right All the Time, as she was.

“You're right,” I said. “Again. AGAIN. Is there ANYTHING you don't know the answer to? Not that I'm complaining, mind you, but is there really anything you don't know about?”

It was supposed to be a rhetorical question, but Charlotte appeared to be mulling it over carefully.

“Boys. I don't really know anything about boys, Lily,” she said. “I know there was a lot of…um, confusion last year with The Boy and Jake. But you muddled through it. You actually have a boyfriend now! I can't help thinking sometimes that I never will.”

“Of course you will,” I said.

“It's statistically quite unlikely,” said Charlotte.

I don't know where she got her statistics (probably
The Wall Street Journal
), but I was suddenly determined that Charlotte WOULD have a boyfriend.

And then I had a Small Burst of Brain.

“What about Lewis?” I asked. Sure, he was short, but so was Charlotte. They both were really smart. They both were studious and goodhearted. They both seemed to know exactly what they wanted to do with their lives.

“What about him?” Charlotte asked. But she knew perfectly well what I meant. Her face had turned red. Oscar Wilde must have been having a field day watching this.

“He's completely revised my thinking on computer dudes, you know,” I said. “I told you, he took it upon
himself to text message me when I was lost. He's the one who got me to where the group was in the Louvre. Lewis, like, saved me. And that virtual tour thing of the cemetery he found and figured out how to use—that was remarkable. You have to admit it. He's not your run-of-the-mill guy.”

I snuck a quick look at Charlotte's face. She was doing the eyebrow arch thing, but she was directing it at one of her shoelaces.

“I don't know, Lily,” she said finally.

“Charlotte, I'm not asking you to MARRY him. I'm just saying, you know. Keep it somewhere in the back of your mind. He could be Boyfriend Material. And remember, I AM an expert.”

I knew well enough to quit while I was ahead. I initiated an Abrupt Subject Change.

“It's getting late,” I said. “It's already six and aren't we supposed to meet back at the VEI before dinner, at seven?”

“Yes,” said Charlotte, looking relieved to have a new topic of conversation. “We'll have just enough time. Come on.”

I blew Oscar a kiss good-bye, and we did the little half-jog thing down the central path. Eventually I could see the main gates ahead of us, and I felt relieved that we were almost there.

But something looked wrong.

As we got closer and closer to the gates, it registered in my brain that they were, indeed, GATES. They were tall gates, and those tall gates were CLOSED. The Père Lachaise Cemetery had been locked up tighter than Willy Wonka's Chocolate Factory after the Oompa Loompas were hired.

“Good grief, we're locked in!” I cried.

Charlotte skidded to a stop next to me, unusually silent.

“We're locked in!” I repeated.

We could see the road and the sidewalk just through the gates. But these were serious can't-be-climbed, can't-be-gotten-around gates. These gates meant Business.

“There must be SOMEONE around,” Charlotte said. “These gates can't have been locked for more than a few minutes. Where did our friends go? They were supposed to wait for us right outside the gates.”

We called HELLO in every direction, but no guard appeared. However, Lewis, Tim, and Janet did appear on the other side of the fence. A moment later Bonnie appeared as well.

“There you guys are,” Lewis said. “Did you find the camera? We gotta motivate. Hey, is this thing locked?”

“Honestly, girls, what are you doing?” Janet called. “You aren't supposed to be in there anymore. The cemetery is
fermé
for the evening.”

“If you knew they were locking the gates, why didn't
you stop them?” I hissed at Jah-nay.

“We didn't know, man,” Bonnie said, staring up at the pointy tops of the gate. “We were sitting on some benches down the street.”

“You girls better do something,
tout de suite
, before they let out
les chiens de garde
,” said Janet.

Everybody, on both sides of the gate, froze.

“What did you say?” I asked.

Janet, I fear with some evident satisfaction, pointed to a sign mounted on one of the gates. It read:

 

ATTENTION—CHIENS DE GARDE

 

“Guard dogs?” yelled Tim, getting an A for accuracy in Spontaneous French Sign Translation. “They've got guard dogs on duty in there? You guys have got to get out right now!”

Nice. Evening was approaching. We were locked in the inner city of the living dead. And any moment now we were likely to be approached by a salivating German shepherd with an antisocial canine personality disorder.

“Lewis!” Charlotte cried. “Think! There must be SOMETHING! If anyone can get us out of here, you can!”

For the third time in so many days Lewis spontaneously went crimson in the face and neck. I think, actually, this
might have been his most significant blush yet. He whipped out his Sidekick and began to type.

It was around then that Chaz and Bud showed up, taking in our situation with a staccato stream of laughter.

“Climb it!” cried Bud. Or Chaz.

“We can't climb it. It's too slick and too high, and there's pointy things at the top,” Charlotte said. “There's nothing to get a grip with.”

Which was exactly what I needed to do at that moment. Get a grip.

“No, seriously, just climb it,” repeated Chaz. Or Bud. “We climb over locked gates all the time.”

“Well, we don't,” I said.

Lewis seemed to have found something on the computer.

“I don't think text messaging is going to help when we're being torn limb from limb by the rabid French
Chiens
of the Dead,” I said. Charlotte shushed me.

“Okay, I've found a phone number on a tourist website,” Lewis said. “I can call it on my cell, but I might not be able to get them to understand me. Who speaks the best French?”

“Jah-nay,” said Charlotte and I simultaneously.

Janet looked triumphantly pleased. She clasped her hands together and pressed them to her heart. But before she could deliver an acceptance speech, I interrupted.
Well-timed flattery could be a highly effective tool.

“Yep, nobody can speak French better than Jah-nay. Did you dial, Lewis? Is it ringing? Are you ready, Jah-nay? Any second now.”

Lewis held up one finger. He was holding his cell phone to his ear. Then suddenly, as if he'd just discovered it was a hand grenade, he waved it in Janet's face. She took the phone quickly, and put it to her ear.

“Allô, oui? Je m'appelle Jahnay, et je suis une américaine qui visité le Cimetière Père Lachaise. Maintenant mes deux amies sont accidentellement fermées dedans…. Oui?…Oui?…Formidable, merci bien
.”