Part 11
When Antoine sits beside me I want to grab his scruffy hair but feel shy. I’m embarrassed by my American psyche, which partly feels that because we fucked he is now my boyfriend and we’re going to get married.
Judy is concerned for her brother, who wants to try MDMA for the first time but not until we leave, so he can get high outside and not have a bad trip underground. She doesn’t want him to be peaking on his way home alone on a bus. I think if he’s afraid he might not enjoy it he shouldn’t do it, as nothing guarantees a freak out like worrying you might freak out. Beside me, Killer says, You are clean, so I trust you. If I become mad or sad, I will listen to what you tell me. If I can understand your English. Five minutes later he is hunched over crying.
The MDMA hits Judy like a bullet, and soon she’s screaming the French word for Fuck!, again and again, holding her head in her hands and then lifting her face to the ceiling, smiling, the candlelight pinballing off her teeth and glasses. She’s having an excellent time but needs to puke. She wanders off to the side to vomit, then returns, walking the lurchy lurch of a zombie. She feels great, but she’s so worried about Killer, and hurt that he won’t let her comfort him. When she tries he brushes her away, allowing only Kay to console him. It’s Okay, I tell her. It’ll Pass. You Can Talk About It All Later. I’m so glad you’re here, She wraps her arms around me and I pet her head. The queer family is so affectionate with one another, and I relish the moments I get in on the tender pats and quick embraces, I like them all so much. I wonder why I don’t hug and kiss my friends all the time, and vow to bring this souvenir back to San Francisco, with the attitudinal pfff and my equestrian boots.You are so—quiet?—no, calm, Judy observes. It’s Just Because I Can’t Speak French, I tell her. In America All I Do Is Talk. No, it’s your energy. You have a calm presence. It’s good. Really? How amazing. I used to be such a spazz, one of my old girlfriends didn’t want to date me because she thought I was a speed freak. This was back before I was actually a speed freak. I like that my energy has changed so much and I didn’t even know it.
It’s time to leave the catacombs, the trip cut short by Killer’s bad trip but that’s fine with me. I’m cold and wet and we’ve been down here for hours. The next closest area to explore requires another hour-long hike and no one is capable of that on the MDMA. As we gather our things I notice that people have left seashells, oyster mostly, along the wall beneath the wave mural. There’s even a tiny plastic crab. I feel like this whole place is an altar to human sweetness, the urge to sneak presents to one another, to delight a stranger, to leave an anonymous, humble mark upon the world. Not to tag so-and-so-was-here, nothing so self-centric, but to think instead of the other people who will come and go for years, affected in a small, significant way by the bit of color you left for them to shine their lamps onto. Everything I notice in the catacombs seems like a treasure left for me by someone kind and playful; the way the random swing of my lamp illuminates some things and leaves the rest in the darkness makes it feel like I’m seeing only what the catacombs means for me to see, a sort of coded message I could decipher if I had the mind for it. If I was on MDMA , maybe. I let me psyche soak it in.
You try leading us out, Antoine dares me. Oh God You Don’t Want Me To Do That, I say, looking at my potential charges, all doped up. Butches take turns consoling Killer, who looks small and scared and heartbreaking. Every single day in Paris I’ve gotten lost. Looking for the Concierge, where Marie Antoinette was locked up for a year before they lopped her head off, I found the Eiffel Tower swaddled in clouds. Looking for the Jardin des Luxemborg, I found the Seine, lined with the stalls where Jean Genet got busted stealing paperbacks and was tossed in jail to write Our Lady of the Flowers on paper bags. When his jailers threw the manuscript away he wrote it again. I lead the small circus of us around in a dumb circle, and with Antoine’s coaxing find the hall we came in through. That’s it I’m done. Antoine has a map of the place, he carries it folded in squares, routes he’s familiar with traced in highlighter pens, and marked with ink where he has added halls and passageways not charted. One of Antoine’s projects is mapping the labyrinth. How cool is Antoine? Many different maps exist of the catacombs, and much more existent are the number of undocumented trails and pockets. The map begins to flutter from his hand and he catches it, slapping it against his thigh. Oh My God Antoine Please Don’t Lose The Map, I say. I imagine it falling into the water, ruined. He is stoned, after all. Please Don’t Drop It In The Water. I know, he laughs, agreeable. It Would Be Like Blair Witch Project, I suggest. Oh no, don’t say that! Judy cries. I have to remember that everyone is on drugs and severely vulnerable to suggestion.
Part 12
We begin our exit. Antoine has me go before him. The sight of the long, half-submerged hallway stretching into darkness is goth and gorgeous, and I appreciate his thoughtfulness, having me see it. We turn off the lamps and our shadows bob crazily in the liquid. Soon we crawl on our knees through the tightest passage, and Antoine reaches out and grabs me between the legs. Perhaps that was why he wanted me to go before him? Either way I’m happy. We take the same route back but there is more to see, things I’d missed. Baby stalactites, frozen droplets speckling the limestone ceilings above our head. I rub my fingers over them. Antoine tells me of a movie night someone does down here, and how once he stumbled across a concert, a man had brought a generator down to power his electric bass. There are dance parties, like the ones Charles X threw. How Do You Find Out About Them? People leave them here, he runs his hand along the wall, dipping his fingertips into the cracks. They make papers, and they fold them and put them here, and that’s how you know. It’s a truly underground underground culture. There are cataphile groups that hold meetings, to discuss different routes, share maps, plan arts and events to bring to the grottos. How Do You Learn About Them? I ask. Sometime on the web, but not really, mostly here, Antoine taps the ruptures in the wall again.
As we kick through the water Judy, still blissed-out high, sings the American National Anthem. She doesn’t know why she loves it so much, she just does. Her voice is beautiful, strong and brassy but with the hint of a tremulous warble, Judy Garland meets Edith Piaf. The group behind us begin to sing old French Communist songs. Judy, who was raised by French Communists, explodes with excited nostalgia and backtracks to loop her arms with her comrades and sign along. By the time we crawl above ground she is cuddling Killer, who looks much better. The distracting wonder of the passages, the thrill of the water, the rousing song. He asks me for a piece of gum. Did you like it? I widen my eyes, clutch my heart and nod vigorously. C’est Magnifique! Killer asks me often if I am enjoying myself in Paris, it is very sweet. He did the same during sex. Ca va? he’d inquire gently, then whack me in the face. On the walk to the night bus stop, I learn from him that, though I never stop smiling, I am very serious while having sex. Really? I ask, disturbed to be reminded that people actually look at you when they’re fucking you. Grave, Killer reports, and makes an intense expression while pulling his fingers over his face, as if is drawing out gravity. Is it good or bad to make grave faces during sex? It doesn’t sound good. What if I think I’m making sexy faces but really I’m looking grief-stricken! Maybe that was what all the Ca va? was about? I often mistakenly think I’m smiling only to learn it’s more of a grimace. Judy soon shares that Killer would like to have another sex party, after Antoine’s girlfriend, in town for one week, departs. What a dog Antoine is! I decide to not worry too much about my grave sex faces, but resolve to look more carefree next time we all get it on. Also, I am informed by Killer, during the course of my visit, that I am blond. I thought I was brunette, but no. In Paris I am blond! I guess I think his hair is blond, and our hair is a similar color. A calm demeanor, grave sex faces and blond hair. It’s like I don’t know myself at all.
Eventually another night bus comes and we all climb on, sodden and fatigued. Paris at night flies by; I feel like I’m on an expensive tourist bus, gazing out at the rippling Canal St. Martin, the grandiose Opera, lit til it glows. I can’t believe it’s free public transit. It’s not free, Judy tells me. We just didn’t pay, and the bus drivers aren’t authorized to do anything about it. It’s why everyone is always sneaking on all the time. None of the Metro workers can stop you, only the Metro cops, and I don’t think I’ve seen a single one since I’ve been here. Even if you get caught, the fine is cheaper than having to buy a pass, Alice reasons. I get off at Place de Clichy, smashing kisses on all their cheeks, having total separation anxiety. I’ve been invited back to Killer’s to crash—just for sleep, everyone’s exhausted—but I feel like I ought to sleep where I’m staying, clear the debris of the orgy away. I know there is a soiled condom just lying on my bedroom floor, and dirty coffee cups and piles of croissant crumbs all over the rest of the house. My thong, Antoine had kindly reminded me, was on the living room carpet, and I knew the rest of my outfit had been cast off there, too.
I take a cab home from Clichy, not wanting to walk past the dreaded Moulin Rouge. At home, it takes twenty minutes to pull off my equestrian boots. They were snug to start, and the water and mud has created a suction that glues them to my feet. I almost cry. I almost take a knife from the kitchen and saw them off my calves. I almost sleep with them on and hope someone calls me in the morning and have them come over to yank them off. My Parisian cell phone is out of credit and I can’t deal with the language hurdles of getting more, so I can receive calls and texts, but can’t make any, which is actually totally amazing and so not capitalist. I love Paris. I love Paris I love Paris I love Paris. I heave with all my strength and my boot comes off. The cell phone rings and it’s Killer making sure I got home okay. The lousy little European shower where you have to crouch in the tub and hose yourself down, it has never felt so good. Nor has the bed, still vibrating with dirty cuddly sex vibes the way my body still rings with all the stone and water, the flashing lamplight and graffiti and screams and splashes of the catacombs.
