“Maps of the tunnels exist,” Kurt continues, “but none of them are complete. And they’re often purposefully misleading to keep people away.”
Exploring them is illegal, and as a bona fide rule-follower, this is Kurt’s greatest frustration. But that hasn’t stopped others from doing it. The tunnels attract all types, known collectively as cataphiles – historians, graffiti artists, ravers, cavers, musicians, treasure hunters. Some have gone into the tunnels to restore priceless art. One group ran an underground cinema. The French resistance hid down here during the Nazi occupation, and then the Nazis used the exact same tunnels to flee.
It won’t be long before Kurt’s obsession overpowers his need to follow the rules. But, for now, he’s been visiting and revisiting the legal part – les Catacombes. More than six million bodies were carted down here in the late 1700s, and the endless walls of their stacked bones are available for viewing at a small fee. Some of the bones are arranged into simple shapes like crosses or hearts. Some are arranged by size or type. But most of them were thrown in at random for practicality’s sake.
As a child, I found the catacombs frightening. As I got older, they grew fascinating. Now they’re almost tranquil. But maybe all of these skulls are just reminding me of a certain someone’s tattoo. I sit on a folding chair that’s meant for a guard while Kurt surreptitiously pokes around.
It feels fitting to be here. Quiet yet undeniably gloomy, much like my state of mind. Since Thanksgiving, I’ve finished detention, toiled over homework assignments, and crammed for exams. I haven’t been reading for fun. Schoolwork is better at distracting me from the enforced silence between Josh and myself.
How did my parents live before texting? Before the internet? I’m used to knowing things and all of this unknowing is driving me mad. We send each other handwritten letters, but it takes so long for the mail to arrive that he’s often in the wrong city by the time my correspondence reaches him. His family has been travelling non-stop between New York and DC.
I think he’s in DC right now. At least, that’s where I mailed his Atheist Hanukkah present, a box of his favourite pre-packaged French foods. If only I could talk to him, I know I’d feel better. I carry his letters in my bag, I use his stein as my everyday drinking glass, and I’ve hung up his drawings beside my bed – the one of my necklace from the first week of school as well as the Sagrada Família’s dove-covered tree, which he gave me after he was expelled. But he still feels so far away.
And the more time we spend apart, the more I can’t shake the ending of Boarding School Boy. Our time together was only eight rough pages. The head of school thinks I was a distraction for Josh, which means she thinks that I take our relationship more seriously than he does. But that’s not true. He did take it seriously.
Does he still?
He hasn’t given me any reason to doubt him, but the more time we spend apart, the more clearly I see that our relationship was founded on unstable ground. His loneliness. How long will it take before he realizes that having me as a girlfriend was easier than being alone? I was convenient. I was a distraction.
Josh is a romantic. He likes being in love, and he craves love to fill the void left by his absentee parents. Maybe our relationship didn’t happen quickly because we’re perfect for each other, but because we each got swept away by it – him because of this insatiable need, me because of my pre-existing crush. Did those three years of longing cloud my perception of reality? How well do I really know him? Since I’ve last seen him in person, I’ve been faced with several incarnations that I didn’t even know existed.
And he still hasn’t made a decision about finishing high school. What if Dartmouth accepts me, and I move to New England, and he’s not there? What am I supposed to do without him? I still don’t have a plan for myself, nothing that doesn’t involve him. But his plans are no longer concrete. They’re as fragile as a wall of bones.
I get through midterms on the hope that I’m only plagued by these doubts because I’ve been away from him for so long. Seeing him again will fix this. The night before my last day of class, I’m surprised by a call from Mrs. Wasserstein’s phone.
I answer, praying that it’s actually Josh. It is. But a follow-up worry kicks in, and I’m instantly on the verge of hysteria. “You’re staying in DC for winter break.”
Josh laughs. “No, I’m calling with happy news. For once. It’s an invitation to a Christmas party at the Met. Black tie. Movers and shakers. It’ll probably be atrocious, but my parents invited you, so that’s a good sign.”