We stand before the cathedral’s double doors and look up, and up, and up. I picture my own mom, typing snapping turtle data into our home computer, her usual evening activity. Except it’s not nighttime in Atlanta. Maybe she’s grocery shopping. Wading in the Chattahoochee River. Watching The Empire Strikes Back with Sean. I have no idea, and it bothers me.
At last, St. Clair breaks the silence. “Come along, then. Loads to see.”
The farther we go, the more crowded Paris gets. He talks about his mom, how she makes chocolate chip pancakes for dinner and tuna noodle casserole for breakfast. How she painted every room of her flat a different color of the rainbow. How she collects misspellings of her name on junk mail. He says nothing of his father.
We pass another enormous structure, this one like the ruins of a medieval castle. “God, there’s history everywhere,” I say. “What is that place? Can we go in?”
“It’s a museum, and sure. But not tonight. I believe it’s closed,” he adds.
“Oh. Yeah, of course.” I try not to let my disappointment show.
St. Clair is amused. “It’s only the first week of school. We have all the time in the world to visit your museum.”
We. For some reason, my insides squirm. St. Clair and me. Me and St. Clair.
Soon we enter an area even more touristy than our own neighborhood, crammed with bustling restaurants and shops and hotels. Street vendors everywhere shout in English, “Couscous! You like couscous?” and the roads are so narrow that cars can’t drive on them. We walk down the middle of the street and through the jostling crowd. It feels like a carnival. “Where are we?” I wish I didn’t have to ask so many questions.
“In between the rue St. Michel and the rue St. Jacques.”
I shoot him a look.
“Rue means ‘street.’ And we’re still in the Latin Quarter.”
“Still? But we’ve been walking for—”
“Ten? Fifteen minutes?” he teases.
Hmph. Obviously Londoners or Parisians or whatever he is aren’t used to the glory of car ownership. I miss mine, even if it does have trouble starting. And no air-conditioning. And a busted speaker. I say this, and he smiles. “Wouldn’t do you any good even if you did have one. It’s illegal to drive here if you’re under eighteen.”
“You could drive us,” I say.
“No, I couldn’t.”
“You said you had a birthday! I knew you were lying, no one—”
“That’s not what I meant.” St. Clair laughs. “I don’t know how to drive.”
“You’re serious?” I can’t help the evil grin that spreads across my face. “You mean there’s something I know how to do that you don’t?”
He grins back. “Shocking, isn’t it? But I’ve never had a reason. The transit systems here, in San Francisco, in London—they’re all perfectly sufficient.”
“Perfectly sufficient.”
“Shut up.” He laughs again. “Hey, you know why they call this the Latin Quarter?”
I raise an eyebrow.
“Centuries ago, the students at La Sorbonne—it was back there.” He gestures with his hand. “It’s one of the oldest universities in the world. Anyway, the students were taught in, and spoke to each other in, Latin. And the name stuck.”
A moment of reserve. “That was it? The whole story?”
“Yes. God, you’re right. That was pants.”
I sidestep another aggressive couscous vendor. “Pants?”
“Rubbish. Crap. Shite.”
Pants. Oh heavens, that’s cute.
We turn a corner and—there it is—the River Seine. The lights of the city bob in the ripples of the water. I suck in my breath. It’s gorgeous. Couples stroll along the riverbank, and booksellers have lined up dirty cardboard boxes of paperback books and old magazines for browsing. A man with a red beard strums a guitar and sings a sad song. We listen for a minute, and St. Clair tosses a few euros into the man’s guitar case.
And then, as we’re turning our attention back toward the river, I see it.
Notre-Dame.
I recognize it from photographs, of course. But if St-Etienne is a cathedral, then it is nothing, NOTHING compared to Notre-Dame. The building is like a great ship steaming downriver. Massive. Monstrous. Majestic. It’s lit in a way that absurdly reminds me of Disney World, but it’s so much more magical than anything Walt could have dreamed up. Mounds of green vines spill down the walls and into the water, completing the fairy tale.
I slowly exhale. “It’s beautiful.”
St. Clair is watching me.
“I’ve never seen anything like it.” I don’t know what more to say.
We have to cross a bridge to get to it. I hadn’t realized it was built on an island. St. Clair tells me we’re walking to the Île de la Cité, the Island of the City, and it’s the oldest district in all of Paris. The Seine twinkles below us, deep and green, and a long boat strung with lights glides underneath the bridge. I peer over the edge. “Look! That guy is so trashed. He’s totally gonna fall off the bo—” I glance back and find St. Clair toddling on the road, several feet away from the edge of the bridge.
For a moment, I’m confused. Then it hits me. “What? You aren’t afraid of heights?”
St. Clair keeps his eyes forward, on the illuminated figure of Notre-Dame. “I just can’t fathom why anyone would stand on a ledge when there’s a respectable amount of walking space right next to it.”
“Oh, it’s about walking space, is it?”
“Drop it, or I’ll quiz you about Rasputin. Or French verb conjugation.”
I lean over the side of the bridge and pretend to wobble. St. Clair turns pale. “No! Don’t!” He stretches out his arms like he wants to save me, then clutches his stomach like he’s about to vomit instead.
“Sorry!” I jump away from the ledge. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize it was so bad.”
He shakes a hand, motioning for me to stop talking. The other hand still clings to his queasy stomach.
“I’m sorry,” I say again, after a moment.
“Come on.” St. Clair sounds peeved, as if I was the one holding us back. He gestures to Notre-Dame. “That’s not why I brought you here.”
I can’t fathom anything better than Notre-Dame. “We’re not going inside?”
“Closed. Plenty of time to see it later, remember?” He leads me into the courtyard, and I take the opportunity to admire his backside. Callipygian. There is something better than Notre-Dame.
“Here,” he says.
We have a perfect view of the entrance—hundreds and hundreds of tiny figures carved into three colossal archways.The statues look like stone dolls, each one separate and individualized. “They’re incredible,” I whisper.
“Not there. Here.” He points to my feet.
I look down, and I’m surprised to find myself standing in the middle of a small stone circle. In the center, directly between my feet, is a coppery-bronze octagon with a star.Words are engraved in the stone around it: POINT ZÉRO DES ROUTES DE FRANCE.
“Mademoiselle Oliphant. It translates to ‘Point zero of the roads of France.’ In other words, it’s the point from which all other distances in France are measured.” St. Clair clears his throat. “It’s the beginning of everything.”
I look back up. He’s smiling.
“Welcome to Paris, Anna. I’m glad you’ve come.”
chapter nine
St. Clair tucks the tips of his fingers into his pockets and kicks the cobblestones with the toe of his boots. “Well?” he finally asks.
“Thank you.” I’m stunned. “It was really sweet of you to bring me here.”
“Ah, well.” He straightens up and shrugs—that full-bodied French shrug he does so well—and reassumes his usual, assured state of being. “Have to start somewhere. Now make a wish.”
“Huh?” I have such a way with words. I should write epic poetry or jingles for cat food commercials.
He smiles. “Place your feet on the star, and make a wish.”