She turned her head, opened her eyes to the mirrored closets. Seeing the woman in the looking glass, the woman watching her, following her every move. The woman she was making love to.
‘Look at her eyes, baby. She needs it.’
Katherine kicked off the duvet, watched her body stiffen. She let the sensation build, felt the rush flow deeper, harder. Wanting to hold it …
‘Not yet, so good.’
… but the woman in the looking glass wanting, begging, quivering …
‘Oh, look at her, she’s coming, look at her. Oh, baby … oh, the lovely, the lovely.’
For the briefest moment, she felt it: a place of perfect pleasure. She sighed as it slipped away. ‘Wow, if only you could stay there for ever, girl.’
She rolled out of bed, slipped on her white robe. Something moved outside her windows. The two black crows from the cathedral now sitting on the railings of her terrace, watching as she covered her body.
‘Enjoy the show, fellas? You know I usually get paid a lot of money for that trick.’
The crows cocked their heads and fluttered their wings. They fell from the railings and then rose through the blue sky to reclaim their circling place above the belfry.
‘Men, who needs ’em?’
She tipsied to the bath.
Rochat opened his eyes to pitch black.
He smelled old dirt, old bones. He heard footsteps overhead, sat up, hit his head against something hard.
‘Ouch!’
The footsteps above stopped and a voice shouted:
‘Who’s there? Who are you, where are you?’
The voice was muffled and distant but Rochat knew it belonged to the caretaker of the cathedral.
‘Monsieur Taroni, it’s me, Marc Rochat.’
‘Marc Rochat? But I don’t see you, where are you?’
‘I’m under your feet.’
‘But your voice is coming from the air vents by the narthex.’
‘I’m down in the crypt, monsieur. Could you shine a light through the iron gates under Otto so I can find my way out?’
‘Yes, yes.’
The steps walked away but quickly returned.
‘Rochat, what are you doing in the crypt?’
‘I was drawing and my lantern went out after I fell asleep.’
‘Drawing? Drawing what? There’re only skeletons in the crypt.’
‘
Oui, monsieur
, I was drawing the skeletons.’
‘Drawing skeletons? Again? You aren’t touching them, are you? They mustn’t be touched. They’re like dust already.’
‘That’s why I need a light. So I won’t trip over anyone.’
‘Anyone? What anyone? Is someone down there with you?’
‘It’s only me and the skeletons, monsieur. I don’t want to trip over a grave and hurt the bones.’
‘
D’accord
. I’m going for a lamp, Rochat. Don’t touch anything.’
The steps walked away; they returned again.
‘Rochat.’
‘
Oui, monsieur?
’
‘This is Marc Rochat speaking? This isn’t a trick?’
‘
Non, monsieur
.’
‘You swear this isn’t a trick?
‘Swear on what?’
‘You’re in a cathedral, for heaven’s sake, swear on anything. Wait, I’ll tell you. There’s something down there, under the crossing square, swear on that.’
Rochat needed a moment to remember.
‘I swear on the old well under the altar square.’
‘
Alors
, you must be Rochat. He’d know about the well. Unless you read it in a book.’
‘Monsieur Taroni, it’s Marc Rochat who can barely read or write his own name.’
‘All right then,
j’arrive
.’
The footsteps walked off. Grey light dripped through the stone shafts of the air vents. Rochat yawned and rubbed his eyes, saw he was in a small cave at the back of the crypt. Through a low arch he could see into the larger caves, to the small mounds of open graves rising from the dirt. The footsteps came back, stopped over his head.
‘Rochat. Are you still there?’
‘Where would I go, Monsieur Taroni?’
‘Just checking. I have the lamp. I’ll lay the power cable and hang it on the gates to the crypt. I must hurry and open the Apostles’ entrance. It’s after nine and the workers are waiting to begin work. We’re starting the renovations on the south portal today and moving the Apostles’ steeple. You’ve made us late, Rochat.’
‘I’m very sorry, monsieur.’
‘Be sure to replace the lamp in the unfinished tower. On the proper shelf, mind you. I don’t like it when my equipment is misplaced.’
The footsteps marched towards the altar, Rochat heard the iron gates squeak open and he saw yellowy light pour through the earthen arches and tunnels. Rochat scrambled to his knees, looked across the graves. The lamp was at the far end of the crypt, the thin shadow next to the light belonged to Monsieur Taroni.
‘Can you find your way now, Rochat?’
‘
Oui, et merci beaucoup
.’
‘Don’t leave anything down here. There’s to be nothing left down here but the skeletons, and Rochat?’
‘
Oui, monsieur?
’
‘I’m still unclear why you were down here all night.’
‘I was drawing.’
‘Yes, yes. Drawing skeletons by candlelight, I know this. The rest is strange.’
‘
Pardon?
’
‘Rochat, we all know you are a little, well, we know what you are. But I’d think even you’d find sleeping in the crypt a little, well, you know, strange.’
Monsieur Taroni’s shadow hung the lamp on the gate and left. Rochat looked around to the skeletons. All the skulls staring at him.
‘Don’t mind Monsieur Taroni, he’s very nice. And I’m sure he didn’t mean to be rude. I suppose a crypt is a funny place to wake up. Maybe I’m not here, maybe I’m dreaming.’
But he couldn’t remember being in his bed and falling asleep, and he couldn’t remember ever talking to himself in a dream. The last thing he remembered was lighting one more candle in the lantern, the last candle. Feeling sleepy but wanting to finish a drawing of a skeleton melded into the hardened dirt, fused and inseparable. Then he remembered imagining Monsieur Rannou at the organ, talking about lost angels coming to the cathedral to hide because they were broken and needed Rochat to protect them.
‘Dear me, such a strange night. You must have a cup of tea.’
He gathered his things, stood as best he could beneath the low stone ceiling and shuffled through the labyrinth of open graves. He could sense the skeletons watching him pass, even though they only had holes in their skulls where their eyes used to be. Arms folded over their chests, the way they were laid long ago when there was flesh on their bones.
He came to the old stone well directly under the crossing square of the nave. Monsieur Buhlmann once said it’s where the dead bishops poured holy waters that couldn’t be used any more. These days the well was dry as dust and covered by a heavy grate of thick iron rods protruding from a central hub. Rochat circled the well, counting the sixteen iron rods pointing in different directions. Like a very old compass, he thought. This way would be north, this way south, then east and west. He followed the tunnel to the east, ducked under a low-hanging arch that opened to a crescent-shaped cave, directly under the chancel. He looked back, saw the skeletons and graves scattered around the well. The graves like a garden and the bones like seeds scattered in all the directions of the world.
‘It looks like someone planted you in your graves and you’re waiting for a dead bishop to put holy water on the ground so you can grow again and go back outside. That’s a much nicer story to imagine than being stuck in the ground, isn’t it? Yes, it is, Rochat, and you can draw that story the next time you come to visit.’
He turned and banged his head against a stone buttress. He heard the yellow teeth of the skeletons chatter with glee.
‘Oh, I’m glad you think it’s so funny. You may be dead but that’s no excuse for bad manners. Good day to you.’
He shuffled away, his crooked foot catching the corner of a grave. He tumbled to the ground, pencils and papers scattering in the dirt. He heard yellow teeth chattering again.
‘You did that on purpose! Don’t deny it. I come down here to keep you company and this is the thanks I get.’
He crawled through the dirt, pulling together the pages of his sketchbook and searching for his pencils. He found three, but the number four pencil was missing. He looked through the dirt, in the graves, between the bones.
‘Must find it, can’t leave it down here. Monsieur Taroni said nothing’s to be down here but you old bones. Which one of you is hiding it?’
One skeleton lay in his grave, its cracked skull turned and looking to the side, its bony finger pointing
that way
. Rochat followed the skeleton’s gaze to the stone well under the main altar.
‘How could it have fallen into the well? There’s a big stone wall around it and an iron grate on top.’
Rochat heard the skeleton rattle its teeth.
‘Oh, you think so? Well, I’ll show you.’
He crawled to the well, looked through the spikes of the grate.
‘See, I can see and I can tell you there’s nothing down there but …’
Something along the side of the well, in a dugout where some stones had fallen away. He squeezed his arm through the iron spikes, just barely. And he stretched as far as he could reach, touching it with the tips of his fingers. Metal, square, a handle. Rochat tried to lift the iron grate. It wouldn’t budge.
‘Whatever it is, it doesn’t belong in a well for holy waters.’
He shuffled through the graves to a small cave at the back of the crypt, where workermen hid their holding-up-the-ceiling tools. Inside the cave, a stack of timbers lay piled against the wall. He found a 1-metre length of timber and carried it to the well. He fitted it under the grate and heaved, making just enough space for his head and shoulders. He leaned over the rim and into the well, caught the handle between his fingers and lifted the thing up. He held it up in the light of Taroni’s lamp. Flat black in colour, metal handle on top. Black metal latches either side of the handle.
It looked like a lunchbox.
It was locked.
Katherine sat with her feet on the kitchen table. Her toes tapping the air in time to the music blasting from her stereo. Police, ‘Don’t Stand So Close To Me’. Teenage lust for cute teacher. Been there, done that, more than once, she laughed. She spooned the last of the strawberry yogurt from the bottom of the plastic cup. So yummy. She could polish off the other three in the fridge easy as pie. Pie, yes, with gobs of vanilla ice cream.
‘Get a grip, girl. Dope in the morning, good. Postgasm munchies, bad.’
She tossed the plastic cup across the kitchen. It bounced off the wall and landed in the trash bin.
‘Two points. Look out, world, I’m hot today.’ She dropped her feet from the table, pulled the towel from her head, ran her fingers through her wet hair, looking for split ends. Not a one. ‘And I feel a good hair day coming on.’
She mixed a Perrier and OJ and danced her way into the sitting room. She made a slow pirouette and sprawled on the sofa. It was going to be a lazy day. Nothing to do but relax before tonight’s command performance with Monsieur Wonderfully Rich. Two hundred and thirty thousand Swiss for one night, give or take a franc or two. The goofiness of life rolled on. She sorted through a stack of mags on the coffee table, picked up
Vanity Fair
. Hunky Brit actor on the cover. He looked yummy as strawberry yogurt.
‘Hello, hotshot.’
She thumbed through a worthy story of human suffering in some African country and got to the fresh meat. Hunky Brit actor, thirty-two years old, three smash-hit movies under his belt with number four about to be released. Money coming out of his ears, desired by every woman on the planet, but woe is he. He’s miserable, he’s lonely. His life wasn’t his own any more, nobody understands him. He’s still single but wants to find the right girl and have a family. Feels like a late bloomer when it comes to romance.
‘Gay, I knew it.’
She glanced out of the glass doors to the terrace. The two black crows were back at the terrace railings, watching her again.
‘Hello there, fellas, want another show? Or did you bring me a message from my gallant protector in the bell tower?’
The crows fluttered their wings.
‘You may tell him his fair maiden slept very well last night and she’s having a great hair day. And tell him if he looks anything like this guy on the cover and he likes it straight, he should come over and see me sometime. No charge. I’m feeling way generous today.’
The crows hopped from the railings, flew along Pont Bessières towards the cathedral. Katherine tossed the magazine on the coffee table and lay down for a long nap. Big night tonight. Must be beautiful, must be relaxed. Must fuck Mr Wonderfully Rich blind and give him his money’s worth.
Rochat was out of breath coming into the loge.
He tossed his sketchbook and pencils on the bed, set the lunchbox on the table. He paced back and forth, looking at it.
‘Should I tell Monsieur Taroni? No, he’s very busy with the workermen at the Apostles’ porch. I’ll call
le directeur
and ask him if I should put it in the lost-and-found box, that’s what I’ll do.’
He reached for the old telephone on the wall and dialled the numbers wheel. He waited six rings before he heard
le directeur
’s voice say the rest of him was at his chalet in Les Avants till next week. Rochat sat at the table and studied the lunchbox carefully. He tapped the lid, pressed his ear to the metal. He heard crows caw from the sky and the timbers creak and groan and Marie-Madeleine ring eleven times, but nothing from the black box.
‘Call Monsieur Buhlmann, Rochat. He’ll know what to do.’
He dialled the numbers wheel again and counted two rings before a voice picked up.
‘Hello?’
‘
Bonjour
, Madame Buhlmann, this is Marc Rochat.’
‘Who?’
‘Marc Rochat, from the cathedral.’
‘Oh, hello, Marc. How are you?’
‘I’m fine, madame.’
‘That’s nice. Well, thank you for calling. Goodbye, Marc.’
‘
Attendez, madame, s’il vous plaît
. Is Monsieur Buhlmann at home?’