The Parisian Codex

5 - The psychic of Montmartre

I avoided Montmartre as much as possible, partly because of the incessant stream of tourists that clogged its streets, partly because of the monstrosity that dominated the hilltop. The basilica's architecture was beyond ridiculous, halfway between a cream puff and Marie-Antoinette's wedding dress. The monument's history revolted me—built there to crush the rebellious spirit of the Paris Commune and hide under its immaculate stone the blood that still soaked the hill. Just a few hundred yards from the Sacré-Coeur and its hordes of tourists, millions of Parisians trampled on a collective grave ignored by all. A mass grave dug just over a year after the end of the Commune. The bodies of the Swiss Guards massacred at the Tuileries had been dumped there. It was as if Montmartre attracted death—which I thought it might: the place had its own powerful, mysterious magic.

And above all, the church had appropriated the spiritual energy that had always flowed from the hilltop even before it was called Montmartre. This takeover made me grind my teeth. But when I wanted to consult Madame Sofia, I had no choice. The clairvoyant never left the neighborhood—especially not at night.

Psychism, tarot cards, spiritualism, spells and counter-spells, Madame Sofia offered a variety of services to her loyal customers. She also possessed an impeccable knowledge of the occult, and on more than one occasion had given me advice.

Madame Sofia had taken up residence at the foot of the Butte Montmartre, on the border between the sex-shop and souvenir-shop districts. In a lane barely ten yards long, her practice was structured like a doctor's but decorated with more panache than a GP could ever dream of.

From the street, the first thing to be seen was a shop window covered by a red velvet curtain. Hanging in the window, a neon sign proclaimed "clairvoyance/psychism/tarot" in multicolored letters. Despite the late hour, the sign was on, and light filtered around the curtain: Sofia was still working.

The door looked plain with its peeling blue paint, but Sofia had inlaid silver sigils in its wood and traced other protections around the stone frame. Having no desire to take a jolt of magic in my fingers, I decided to wait for the customer to finish his consultation and open the door for me. I leaned against the building opposite and watched patiently.

From one end of the alley came the shouts of a group of drunken men, probably looking for a sex club. The sound of breaking glass conjured up a beer bottle ending its existence on the asphalt. Someone shouted.

At the other end of the alley, the tourists who had come to admire Montmartre were hardly any quieter. They laughed, called out to each other in several foreign languages, and shouted enthusiastically.

Sofia's street, on the other hand, was as quiet as a grave. No one was using it. No music blared from the windows. Not even a stray cat to keep Kitten company, asleep at the bottom of my pocket. His breathing vibrated against my ribcage.

At last, Madame Sofia's door opened to reveal a masculine figure wrapped in a long woolen coat. I crossed the road in two strides and charged straight for the open door. The man gasped at my presence and stepped aside to let me in. I mumbled a thank-you and entered the practice.

Crossing the threshold made my hair stand on end. Sofia had stepped up her protection since my last visit. It was a good thing I hadn't touched the door: I could have caught fire on the spot.

The walls of the waiting room were covered with retro posters extolling the powers of long-gone clairvoyants, a few posters of the Carpathians, a diagram showing the chakras on the human body, and a list of Sofia's services: bewitchment, clairvoyance, transcendental meditation, pendulum, esotericism, mediumship... Each service had a corresponding consultation duration and fee.

The floor was made of weathered terracotta tiles. Half a dozen plastic chairs lined the walls. At the far end, a second door led to the consultation room—and it was closing.

"Sofia!" I called.

The clairvoyant's face framed itself in the doorway. Pale skin, wrinkled and looser than I remembered, but still the same overly red lipstick, the same outrageous make-up, and those heavy gold earrings.

She grimaced. "You didn't catch fire coming through the door?"

When she received customers, Sofia affected a vaguely Russian accent. In truth, she was born three blocks from her office and spoke with a Parisian swagger worthy of Arletty in Hôtel du Nord.

"It tickled," I said. "You've beefed up your security. Trouble?"

"What do you want?"

I took the mangled embroidery out of its envelope.

"Too bad," said Sofia. "But I'm not a seamstress."

"I need to know which demon was imprisoned in there."

"Absolutely not! If you're having trouble with the guys downstairs, I don't want to get involved. I've already had my share of that."

She stepped back, and the door began to close. I didn't dare approach, convinced that she'd arranged some other protective mechanism between the entrance to the waiting room, where I was standing, and the threshold of her office.

"Just a name! No one will know. A man's life is in danger."

The door stopped a couple of inches before it closed. A moment later, it slowly reopened, and Sofia gave me a wary look. "In danger how?"

"He came into contact with the embroidery, then destroyed his workplace and took off with a precious object."

"You think your guy's possessed by the demon."

"Got any other hypothesis?"

She sighed and slowly shook her head. "No, possession is the most likely scenario. But in that case, your poor fella's already screwed. There's no point in antagonizing the guys downstairs to save someone dead."

"Don't write him off until you know more," I said.

But Sofia was right. Demons didn't care about humans. They took possession of a body, ejected the soul, and went about their business.

"I suspect the demon has a very specific idea in mind," I said, "and I want to know what it is."

I'd known Sofia for a long time. Long enough not to tell her all my secrets.

"What could it be?" Sofia said with a pout of disdain. "Chaos, destruction... It's never good with those."

"All the more reason to help me."

"All the more reason not to interfere!"

"Sofia... For old times' sake..."

"Ah! Old, that's for sure! It's been years since you've shown your ugly mug!"

"And yet you're still as beautiful as ever."

Yes, I flirted shamelessly to get what I wanted.

Sofia glared at me, then opened the door wide. "Let's do this in my sanctuary," she said. "So we won't be spied on."