William Wharton - Scumbler

Panic’s surging; I stop a minute to get my bearings. I take slow, deep breaths; whip out the old mantra for a couple of quick Kee Rings; try to think of something else except where I am. What’re they doing up there?

Sticky cobwebs keep brushing against my face; there can’t actually be spiders in all this dark; these must be left over from the Middle Ages. Maybe secret mystic masses were held down here: Ignatius Loyola and his fighting Jesuits.

I flash my light around; don’t see anything except more tunnel. There’s water running over the stones, and dirt’s caught in the spiderwebs. It’s warmer down here than outside. ‘OK, get on with it Scum, stop diddling.’ I reach the end of my string, a hundred meters. I check my compass, mark the spot and go back.

I sneak up the ladder. They’re sitting on her bed. Never trust a Swede at the hole! I climb out and we work over the map again. ‘I’m up to Boulevard Saint-Germain, now; be crossing under the church next.

I go back down and in. I find my mark, drive in a stake and tie the string to my stake. Maybe I should be dropping bread crumbs as I go along; feed the rats. I move on. The tunnel begins rising and turns to the left. There, at the turn, is a big wooden door with iron hinges and a bolt. I give the door a strong pull; it budges and dirt falls. I try two more tugs and the bolt snaps off. The door swings open on its own; the middle hinge is broken, but there are three hinges, so it holds.

I flash my light on four steps down. Now I’m into Ali Baba’s cave. I go down slowly into a big room with cut-stone paving. I flash my light around. There are tall boxes standing against the walls. I start pacing to get the size; this room must have two hundred squares, at least.

Holy mackerel! Those are coffins standing against the walls! Right then, one of my flashlights blinks out and I let myself sink slowly to the ground; time for a little more deep breathing; I need to take a leak, too – mostly just nervous, probably.

The rats’-nester-scumbler mind is spinning. What a great place I could make out of this, a real rat’s nest, burrows and all. Nobody could ever find me, not even the FBI. I turn my head slowly, the flashlight cutting through the dark. There’re maybe twenty coffins around the walls. There’s also something in one corner made of wooden poles and rotted cloth.

It might be tough renting with all the coffins; like one of those French apartments you buy already occupied – only occupied this time by a few dozen corpses.

There’s another door in the wall to my right. I get up, go over, try it. This one’s locked tight; probably leads up to the church, straight into the tabernacle. Hey, maybe I could rent this nest to a religious freak. He’d be the first one to early mass mornings; beat the sexton, the priest, maybe even God himself. I take my leak against the wall while I’m over there.

INSIDE, UNDER, BEHIND; I BURROW

OUT OF LIGHT, OUT OF MIND. I DRILL

INTO A CAST CORE OF CARBIDE HARDNESS.

NEVER MIND.

I go around checking coffins. They’re nailed tight; square-headed nails; wood rotten but holding. Nobody’s going to get out from any of those boxes. I’m beginning to have a hard time breathing again; too much excitement for an old man; ticker’s pounding wildly, skipping beats like a Caribbean marimba player.

About halfway back along the string, I see something moving in the tunnel. I hit the floor without even knowing it.

It’s Sweik; he borrowed a flashlight from Lotte. He got to worrying what the hell happened; thought maybe the rats had wrestled me to the ground. I take him back and show him the room. He comes in behind me and keeps saying, ‘Jesus, man!’ ‘Shit, man!’ ‘Holy fuck.’ We both try that other door but it’s locked tight. I put my flash onto the ceiling. It’s a high-arched vault, no bats, no vampires. We check measurements and head back out to the map.

It feels wonderful being outside in light, clean air. We calculate that room to be directly under the altar of Saint-Germain-des-Prés, one of the oldest churches in Paris.

I’m covered with cobwebs and dirt, so I take a shower in Lotte’s little stall shower. She’s not making any noises at all about not wanting to share now.

DESIRE WASHES AWAY RELUCTANCE,

REFURBISHES TIRED, SWAYING BONES.

WE ATONE WITH ELECTRIC ATTENTION.

We spend the next day exploring. There are tunnels under the whole Left Bank. They go up to Montparnasse and down to the river. We don’t find any more big rooms like the first one but we do find ways to come up in different cellars all over the quarter.

We invade the cellar of a high-class restaurant and snitch a few bottles of wine. That’s a kind of wet dream, direct access to a wine cellar.

I think of getting a Velosolex, one of those little French bikes with a motor on the front wheel; use it to run around down in those tunnels, my own private Métro. But I don’t. I know I’ll use that tunnel somehow, someday, but now I only want to think about it; let my mind play with the idea of deep tunnels and nests under the city.

Sweik tells me he thinks he’ll stay on at the Isis; leave the place for Lotte. I don’t know whose idea this is but I think it’s Sweik’s. He’s no fool.

EGYPTIAN MUFFLED TUNNELS. NO SKY,

NOTHING OPEN, A CAREFUL PREPARATION

FOR AN UNENDING NOTHINGNESS.

It’s Saturday and one of those spring days we often get in Paris when there’s a constipated heavy sky trying to rain and thick hemorrhoidal clouds listlessly drifting.

I go down into the Marais, ready to start the first painting of my new series. I figure Sabbath’s the best day, not so much traffic. I don’t figure on old ladies.

I’m setting up my box when the first one comes over to me.

‘A nice boy like you shouldn’t work on the Sabbath,’ says she.

‘Not work, my pleasure,’ says I, smiling. Haven’t been called a boy in about thirty years or more.

‘All the same,’ says she, then hobbles on down the street, shaking her head.

I get the box set up. I’m painting the façade of a broken-down old kosher poultry store. It’s the kind of place where they bleed chickens live, old-style; makes me think of South Street in Philly. There they used to keep all the live pigeons and chickens in wooden cages right out in the windows. No birds in the window here, but the same smell.

This place is a terrific mess: smeared cracked windows, dirty white marble tables inside. There’s chicken shit, blood and guts all over; probably the chickens are out of the window for Sabbath.

I’m doing it straight on. I dig in with the underpainting; mostly dark browns and yellows, with some blue for inside. I’m concentrating and flying; this will be a good one. This whole series is going to be wonderful: interesting people, real places, trapped space, good twisting light.

CUTTING LIGHT DOWN AND STILL STAYING TRANSPARENT:

ANOTHER FACE OF REALITY, FUTILE FANTASY. I DRIFT

ON TRANSITIONS TILL WE TOUCH EARTH

IN DARK STILLNESS.

Another old lady comes up. Skinny hag; hair all whichway. No teeth; bottom lip almost touches her nose. The toes are cut out of her shoes; big bunions bulging out. She pushes me away from the box, good strong push.

‘You got permission to paint my store?’

Face right up to me.

‘No, lady, didn’t know I needed permission. May I paint your store?’

‘No!’

I look down at her, trying to figure if she’s only crazy.

‘I’m going to paint your store anyway, lady. Don’t need permission; street’s a public place. Artist’s got some rights.’

She stomps her bunioned foot.

‘I do not give permission!’

She stares at me wetly. Her eyes have Velásquez lower lids, red, watery. She stomps again and goes away.