The Parisian Codex

33 - A Café in Montmartre

Montmartre. The mist hid the top of the Sacré-Coeur basilica, and the street lamps on Orsel Street created rainbow halos in the humid air. Despite the early hour, the café was already welcoming a dozen or so customers, all men. Through the window, the owner glanced at us: three young people bundled up in their jackets, all carrying large backpacks. Luckily, Zagan had put the rooster, dog and lamb back to sleep.

"Zagan," I said, "give me a wad."

"For what? Coffee?"

"Give it to me. At least 200 bucks."

The demon let out a martyr's sigh and plunged his hand into his jacket pocket. He handed me a wad of 50-euro bills.

I pushed open the café door.

The owner nodded, and I shoved the wad under his nose. "Can we still access your coal cellar?"

He didn't seem the least bit surprised. The cellar was famous in certain circles and had been before this guy bought the business.

He pointed to Zagan and Romane, who were standing on the sidewalk, loaded like mules. "What are you gonna do with that stuff? A party?"

"An experiment. We're medical students. We want to study the effects of the absence of light on the human body. We plan to stay down there for three days."

The café owner turned to the outside and the mist. "You don't have to go underground to stop seeing the light," he growled.

I gave him a shy smile and shrugged. "What we wouldn't do to get a good grade, eh?"

A customer winked at me and pointed to Romane on the sidewalk. "Three days locked up with the lady? What a sacrifice, kid!"

I forced myself to laugh with him, then turned back to the owner. He took the wad of bills with a disapproving frown. "Should I call for help if I don't see you again?"

"No need. We've taken our precautions."

"Go ahead then. But don't kill yourself, or I'll feel guilty, and that's not good for my ulcer."

I promised to exercise the utmost caution, waved goodbye to the audience and headed out to join my two companions.

In the courtyard behind the café, an old metal trapdoor opened onto a coal cellar. I turned on my headlamp and shone it into the void. The place hadn't been used to store coal since the late '60s, but it was regularly visited by underground enthusiasts. Tags, food wrappers and other garbage had been left behind, testifying to the passage of other explorers. An old wooden plank lay against the far wall. I dropped into the cellar and pushed back the plank, revealing an irregularly contoured hole.

Romane and Zagan joined me—Zagan helped Romane down by holding her wrists, then jumped to follow us. Both were dressed for underground exploration.

"Who dug this passage?" asked Romane.

"Generations of visitors," I said. "In the old days, there was a gate in the octroi wall not far from here. The wall was used to levy taxes on goods entering Paris. The wall surrounded the capital, and smugglers dug underground passages to avoid paying the tax. What's more, gypsum was mined at the foot of Montmartre Hill for several centuries. The subsoil is real Swiss cheese. After that, a whole host of people had an interest in hiding there. Criminals, fighters in various wars, Communards in 1871..."

I checked the sturdiness of the metal ring fixed to the wall near the passageway. I hooked my rope onto it and let it hang in the hole.

Romane turned on her own flashlight and cautiously leaned over to look down into the tunnel. "Ooh! It's going steep! How deep is it?"

"Four or five yards. After that, it's a gentle slope. Should I go first, and Zagan bring up the rear?"

The demon nodded.

I placed my lamp on my forehead, grabbed the rope and dropped into the shaft.

I bounced once against the wall, more out of principle than necessity, and landed on a dusty floor. I quickly surveyed the area. I had just landed in the middle of an old gypsum quarry access tunnel. It was wide enough for three people to stand abreast, and the ceiling was lower than in modern apartments.

"Romane, it's your turn!" I shouted upwards.

The rope stirred under my nose. A few minutes passed. No Romane on the horizon. Up there, people were whispering excitedly.

"Problem?" I asked.

"It's okay!" said Zagan, "We're on our way. I'll send the bags down first."

The rope twisted its way up. A moment later, it came down again, weighed down by Romane's bag (containing the supplies) and Zagan's (where the lamb was fast asleep). The puppy and the rooster were having sweet dreams at the bottom of my rucksack, between a few pockets of blood.

I received the bags gently and released the rope. "You're good to go!"

The rope wiggled again, and a silhouette bounced quietly against the wall of the shaft, once, twice, three times.

Zagan reached the bottom of the tunnel. "It's okay, Kiddo. You can let go now."

Romane clung to Zagan's back like a terrified baby koala. She opened her eyes and slid to the ground. She was too pale in the light of my torch. "Sorry," she breathed.

Zagan looked around doubtfully. "So, where are your dead?"

"We still have to walk," I said.

"Is it far?" gasped Romane.

Her voice was still trembling a little, but she was trying to put on a brave face and had already picked up her backpack.

"A mile," I said, "maybe more. It's hard to keep track of distances underground. It's that way."

I pointed in the right direction and started walking.