Renny led her to a manhole cover hidden in a shadowed corner of the courtyard. He fished out a crowbar from behind a trash bin, along with two mining helmets with lamps affixed to their front.
He pointed back to the bin. "They left us a couple o’ flashlights, too." "Your cataphiles?" "Aye. My fellow explorers of Paris’s underworld," he said, letting a little pride shine forth, his brogue thickening. "We come from every corner of the world, from every walk o’ life. Some search the old subways or sewer lines; others go boggin’ and diving into water-filled pits that open into flooded rooms far below. But most-like Jolie and me-are drawn to the unmapped corners of the catacombs." He went silent, worry settling heavily to his shoulders, clearly wondering about the fate of his girlfriend.
"Let’s get this open," Seichan said, needing to keep him moving.
She helped pry open the manhole cover and rolled it aside. A metal ladder, bolted to the wall of the shaft, led down into the darkness. Renny strapped on his helmet. Seichan opted for a flashlight.
She cast a bright beam into the depths.
"This leads down to a long-abandoned section of the sewer system, goin’ back to the mid-1800s," Renny said, mounting the ladder.
"A sewer? I thought we were going into the catacombs." "Aye, we are. Sewers, basements, old wells often have secret entrances into the ancient catacombs.
C’mon, then, I’ll show ye." He climbed down, and she followed. She expected it to smell foul, ripe with the slough of the city above.
But she found it only dank and moldy. They descended at least two stories, until at last she was able to step back onto solid footing. She cast her light around. Mortared blocks lined the old sewer’s walls and low ceiling. Her boots sloshed in a thin stream of water along the bottom.
"Over here." Renny led the way along the sewer with the assurance of a well-schooled rat. After thirty yards, a grated gateway opened to the right. He crossed to it and tugged the gate open. Hinges squealed. "Now through here." Crude steps led deeper into the darkness and down to a room that made her gasp. The walls had been painted in a riotous garden of flowers and trees set among trickling waterways and azure pools. It was like stepping into a Monet painting.
"Welcome to the true entrance of the catacombs," Renny said.
"Who did all of this?" she asked, sweeping her light, noting a few sections marred by graffiti.
He shrugged. "All sorts of dobbers make their way down. Artists, partiers, mushroom farmers. A couple years ago, the cataflics-that’s our name for the police who patrol down there-discovered a large chamber set up as a movie theater, with a big screen, popcorn maker, and carved-out seats. When police investigators returned a day later, they found it all gone. Only a note remained in the middle of the floor, warning ‘Do not try to find us.’ That’s the underworld of Paris. Large sections still remain unexplored, cut off by cave-ins or simply lost in time. Cataphiles, like me and my mates, do our best to fill in those blank spots on the old maps, tracking our discoveries, recording every intricacy." "Like you’ve done with your tattoo." "It was Jolie’s idea," he said with a sad smile.