Anna and the French Kiss: Etienne's POV

18

"There it is! That's my plan."

I follow her gaze to the massive dome in front of us. The violet gray sky, the same sky Paris has dropped, had subdued it, stripped away its golden gleam.

"The Panthéon?" I ask warily.

"You know, I've been here three months, and I still have no idea what it is." She jumps into the crosswalk leading toward the gigantic structure.

I shrug. "Its a pantheon."

She stops to glare, and I push her forward so she's not run over by a blue tourist bus. "Oh, right. A pantheon. Why didn't I think of that?"

I glance at her from the corner of my eyes and smile. "A pantheon means it's a place for tombs--of famous people, people important to the nation."

"Is that all?" She sounds disappointed.

I raise an eyebrow.

"I mean, there are tombs and monuments everywhere here. What's different about this one?" We climb the steps, and the full height of the approaching columns is overwhelming. I've never been this close.

"I don't know. Nothing, I suppose. It's a bit second rate, anyway."

"Second rate? You've gotta be kidding." Now she's offended. "Who's buried here?" She demands.

"Er. Rousseau, Marie Curie, Louis Braille, Victor Hugo--"

"The Hunchback of Notre Dame guy?"

"The very one. Voltaire. Dumas. Zola."

"Wow. See? You can't say that's not impressive."

"I didn't." I reach for my wallet and pay our admission charge. Anna tries to get it--since it was her idea in the first place--but I insist. "Happy Thanksgiving," I say, handing her her ticket. "Let's see some dead people."

We're greeted by an unimaginable number of domes and columns and arches. Everything is huge and proud. Enormous frescoes of saints, warriors, and angels are painted across the walls. We stroll across the marble in awed silence, except for when I point out someone important like Joan of Arc or Saint Geneviéve, the patron saint of Paris. According to me, Saint Geneviéve saved the city from famine.

A swinging brass sphere hangs from the highest point in the center dome. "What's that?"

I shrug and look around for a sign.

"I'm shocked. I thought you knew everything."

I find one. "Foucault's pendulum. Oh. Sure." I look up in admiration.

The sign is written in French. Anna waits for my explanation. "Yes?"

I point at the ring of measurements on the floor. "It's a demonstration of the earth's rotation. See? The plane of the pendulum's swing rotates every hour. You know, it's funny." I say, looking all the way up to the ceiling, "but the experiment didn't have to be this big to prove his point."

"How French."

I smile. "Come on, let's see the crypt."

"Crypt?" She freezes. "Like, a crypt crypt?"

"Where'd you think the dead bodies were?"

She coughs. "Right. Sure. The crypt. Let's go."

"Unless you're scared."

"I didn't have a problem at the cemetery did I?" I stiffen. I think back to the call I got from my mum.

"Race you!" She blurts out and runs toward the closest crypt entrance. Her pounding feet echo throughout the building and the tourists are all staring. I smile.