If it weren’t for the German, I might have begun to head in the wrong direction. My own steps sound muffled, as if I’ve wrapped my shoes in cloth. Water dips in places from the roof of the tunnel, pooling below.
No one can actually get permanently lost in the ossuary, because — as you make your way by walls of bones, arranged many years ago by quarrymen in the shape of crosses, hearts and, once upon a time, a miniature Eiffel Tower — the circuitous paths have been blocked, so there is only one way forward. But before the ossuary was altered, someone did get lost. Philibert Aspairt entered the catacombs in 1793, and wasn’t found until 11 years later. His tomb is in the quarry gallery where he took his last breath. Later when I find the coordinates, I see that I have been sleeping in the hotel right aboveground. Which means that when I admired the view out my window, I was staring at his grave. Cataphiles see Aspairt as a protector of the catacombs, and so I am not afraid. In my mind, I name him patron saint of the lost.
In the ossuary, on the roof of the tunnel, there is a black line painted on the ceiling so modern-day guides can ferry curious Parisians in and out of this wet underworld. It reminds me of the red thread Ariadne gave to Theseus when he entered the maze to fight the Minotaur.
The corridor winds, and I come across stone placards that bear the names of the streets above — some of which don’t exist anymore.
It is a delight to be unmoored from the world. Léo and the cataphiles understand this, too.
It is midnight when I land in Barcelona, and if you can believe it, I lose my way in the airport. Somehow I end up in the area for connecting flights. The immigration officers are annoyed with me and, instead of escorting me, give me verbal directions to a hidden stairway. At one in the morning, in the deserted airport, where travelers sleep in fragile configurations and all the shops are closed, I know I am out of options. I choose a wall and keep my hand on it, just as I would do in a hedge maze. I inspect the abandoned desks from which, in daytime, gate agents lord over exhausted travelers, I look behind every column as if the secret stairs I am looking for might be mouse-size or hidden behind trap doors. Finally, I see a janitor, and I am so happy to encounter someone awake that I abandon the wall and run to her. Her hair is up in a ponytail, her nails painted neon green, visible through her translucent plastic gloves. She says she will take me to the secret stairs. We walk together, her pushing the bin of trash on wheels, me pulling on my small suitcase. When we finally arrive, I want to hug her, but refrain.
