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The children of Satan are restless. They grind their pointed little teeth as they sit impatiently, crowded together on benches pulled up to a long wooden table. They watch my every move with their dark, beady eyes and finger their knives greedily with their tiny, grimy hands, ready to pounce when the time is right. From its resting place near the long table, Rosemary’s baby emits a piercing, soulless cry, an ominous signal calling Satan's children to action.

My skin is clammy with sweat and my heart throbs frantically as I try to recall how Satan’s children are to be killed – stabbed with a knife seven times? Or stabbed one time with each of seven different knives? A logistical nightmare! If only I were Catholic, I would know what to do. A mere Lutheran, I am woefully unprepared.

I surreptitiously check for knives in the kitchen as I retrieve the baguettes. There is an abundant supply.

“Don’t forget the cheese,” Madame’s voice is grating, like the iron gates of hell scraping and screeching as they open to the inferno below.

“Oui, Madame,” I respond dutifully. Should I just use the knives on her instead, and take my chances with the children?

I look for the cheese and spy it on the counter among a clutter of soiled dishes and utensils from the previous course. It is a camembert, my favorite. I lift it up gently, the scent of it teasing my nostrils, begging me to imagine its soft fleshy body slowly melting in my mouth. Perhaps the killing can wait, at least until after the cheese.

Fingers trembling, I place the bread and cheese on a platter and bring it to the table. My eyes flit nervously from one small beast to the next. Slowly, I place the offering down before them. Satan’s children pounce, stabbing and scraping with their dull-edged little knives relentlessly. After their hunger has been sated I scrape up the remnants of cheese oozing out on the tray and savor it, rolling it gently from one side of my mouth to the other. For one blissful moment, my mind transcends the circles of hell I've passed through and I return to the paradise I once knew, but failed to recognize.

A sugary snow falls gently outside the windows of our classroom, each crystal flake catching a gleam of sunlight before drifting down to rest on the soft mounds of pure white snow already covering the landscape. Dr. Maro stands in front of the windows proclaiming the virtues of French. The rays of sunshine and snow crystals streaming behind him cast his silhouette in an angelic glow.

“Attention, les femmes,” he says in his perfectly accented academic French. His balding head, normally hidden under a beret, glistens under the fluorescent lights of the classroom.

To graciously refuse food at the table, the women among us must say “je suis satisfaite” rather than “je suis pleine,” which can mean either “I‘m full” or “I’m pregnant.” And all of us are warned that public bathrooms, if any can be found, will be monitored by an attendant expecting a tip and furnished with tiny squares of crunchy, light brown paper that pass for toilet paper. Dr. Maro delicately suggests that if we expect the comforts of home when using public toilets, we should bring our own toilet paper.

We have spent an eternity in our third year college French class listening to Dr. Maro, chairman of the French department, render advice and tell anecdotes about traveling in France. We are all going to France after finals for a month long tour, led by the venerable Dr. Maro himself. Following the tour most of us are staying in France for the remainder of the summer, living with French families arranged for us by the college. The idea is that we will be so immersed in French through this experience that we will return home speaking French fluently, sparing Dr. Maro and our other professors the arduous task of actually continuing to teach us.

Then, a miracle. A large crow wings its way through the sky and past the large oak tree just outside the window of our French classroom. It settles on a window ledge directly behind Dr. Maro, just at the level of Dr. Maro's balding head, so it appears as though the crow is actually perched on top of his crown. Oblivious to the crow, Dr. Maro drones aimlessly through his lecture. Students who had been nodding off at their desks sit up to watch. Dr. Maro misconstrues their sudden rapt attention and becomes more animated.

The crow stretches its wings and turns its glossy head up, then leans down to peck on the window ledge, although it looks as though it is pecking Dr. Maro's gleaming head. Students gasp collectively and then try to refrain from chortling. This may be the most exciting lecture since Dr. Maro gestured with a coffee cup in his hand and sloshed coffee all over Andy Weston, who now sits in the back row twitching under his jacket and hat, a bandage still covering the horrific burn on his nose.

The crow finishes its pecking and looks around from the vantage point of Dr. Maro's gleaming dome. Looking directly into the classroom, it cocks its head slightly as though pondering all of the faces staring back. Dr. Maro’s whole face beams along with his balding head, relishing the absolute adoration of his students in these final moments of his lecture. In a perfectly choreographed move, the crow straightens its head and begins to flap its might wings just as Dr. Maro completes his lecture. The students release their collective breath as the crow lifts off and flaps its way into the horizon. Dr. Maro packs up his lecture notes and he, too makes his exit, radiant with the thought that the power of his lecture has successfully transformed his entire classroom into Francophiles.

*********

The following day I rise early. Today is placement day, the day my classmates and I have been anticipating eagerly since school began, the day our efforts will be judged as being worthy or mediocre. The families in France who have so generously volunteered to have an American student spend the summer with them have been matched with a student. Though the matching is supposed to be based on the endless questionnaires, surveys, and other useless information both students and families had to provide, students know it's based almost entirely on grades. Those with the best grades are placed in Paris, those with mediocre grades are placed in outlying areas of France. A consummate overachiever with a perfect GPA, I fully expect to be placed in Paris. And since there is only one family from Paris who volunteered for the program this year, I will be the only student who has the good fortune to be there.

I cross the campus as the sun is rising and head to the French Department for my scheduled meeting with Dr. Maro. Our small Lutheran college is still mostly sleeping, although as I approach the chapel I hear the women's choral group singing. There is a light snow falling, and the cool flakes brush my nose and cheeks gently as they slowly drift down to join the host of other flakes on the ground. The shape of the grand stone building where the French Department is located gradually comes into view through the snow. As I walk under the craggy old oak tree near the entrance, I notice the enormous crow from Dr. Maro's lecture sitting in one of its branches. It eyes me thoughtfully as I approach. It seems like an ominous sign, and I shiver as I pass under it.

I rush up the stairs to Dr. Maro's office, only to be told by the department secretary that he is still in a meeting down the hall with some of the other professors and administrators. I wander around aimlessly and end up near the conference room where they are meeting. Animated voices rise up from behind the thin walls.

"Be advised, Dr. Maro, that such a task has never before been given to a mere student.” Incredulity punctuates every syllable. “We at least expected an academic, a professional of some sort."

"Here, here," a gruff voice cuts in. "Remember, those selected before have been in the middle of their lives, have already had to deal with their own demons, have had some sort of experience to help them understand what they see. A student simply isn't equipped to deal with a journey like this, to hell and back."

"I concur." Now another voice, a female voice, thin and scratchy. "What's more, what experience does this student have in communications? Is there any evidence to support some ability to write, to speak, to bring the message back to others? We all most certainly agree that the standard already established is incredibly high. Of course we don't expect a Dante, but neither do we want to subject ourselves to the embarrassment of some mediocre messenger who misconstrues or misinterprets what is the most important message of all."

Immediately a chorus of voices begins to speak, all the different voices and tones seeming to meld together into a singular voice, rising and falling and rising again, speaking individual words that are comprehensible, but all together making no sense whatsoever. Then a single, deep, resonant voice penetrates the chaos.

"Ladies and gentlemen, please!" The other voices are still, deferring to this one voice. "I think we must be more thoughtful about Dr. Maro's recommendation, and whether that recommendation meets the criteria we developed. And let me remind you again, we developed that criteria after studying the many failures that have occurred since Dante's time. Indeed, there has been nothing but failure since Dante's time. Esteemed academics, established writers, respected theologians, all have failed. Failed not only to bring the message to others, but in some instances failed to recover from the journey itself, living out the remainder of their lives in misery and torment that we cannot appreciate." There is a pause in the room, then the voice resumes.

"Dr. Maro's recommendation does seem to meet the criteria we established, yet also represents a new approach which is, I think, exactly what we need. A young person who understands communications in our time, whether through social media or some other form. A Lutheran, who lives among ordinary people, who is of sufficient intelligence to appreciate what will be seen on the tour, but whose capacity lends more towards bringing the message to ordinary people of our time instead of merely the academics who study Dante already. From a practical standpoint, of course, someone who will be in France for the summer. And it's significant, I think, that it is someone young and vigorous who will, hopefully, have the resilience to recover from the journey. I for one whole heartedly approve of Dr. Maro's recommendation. If, however, there is anyone here who disapproves of the recommendation, please speak up."

After a nanosecond of a pause, the voice booms out again. "Good, then it's settled. Dr. Maro, if you would be good enough to inform the student of our decision, we would appreciate it. Ladies and gentlemen, I thank you all for your input, your thoughtfulness and your patience as we complete this process. I think we can look forward to some real results in the not too distant future."

Chairs squeak as they're pushed back from the table, briefcases open and close, and there is a quiet murmur of voices. The door to the conference room opens and Dr. Maro walks out.

"BJ, I didn't expect you here," he walks to me hastily, casting a look over his shoulder to the conference room behind him as he approaches.

"Well, the secretary said you were in a meeting, so I thought I would just walk-"

"Yes, yes," he interrupts me quickly. "We can go to my office now." He walks hurriedly and I try to keep up. I hear others coming out of the conference room behind us. Dr. Maro walks even faster until he turns the corner to head down the hallway back to his office.

"So you heard the discussion in the conference room?" he looks at me questioningly.

"Well, yes, I guess I did."

"Then perhaps our conversation won't talk as long as I thought." We arrive at his office and he motions for me to take a chair in front of his desk. Obediently I sit down and look at him expectantly. He sits down in his chair with a sigh.

"BJ, you must understand that we went through a very long process to match you with your family."

My heart begins to pound – is this the prelude to the glorious message that I'm being placed with a chic and sophisticated family in Paris? Or is Dr. Maro preparing to tell me that I'm being placed with a family of sheep herders who will force me to shovel dung all summer?

Dr. Maro sighs again before he continues. "Your family is uniquely positioned to help you during your journey in France. They have a long history of guiding people on tours." He leans forward over his desk to look directly into my eyes. "It is very important, BJ, to learn as much as you can from your family, to understand and appreciate what they show you. You will see many things that are difficult to comprehend, in fact, it may take you some period of time to truly understand what you see. And it is possible that it may take you some time to recover from the journey itself. But you have great vitality and energy, and I want you to know that if I did not believe that you would fully recover, I would never send you on such a trip as this."

I lose all hope. Dr. Maro is clearly preparing me for the disappointment of my life. I hear his voice droning on and on, and I slip under the sound into another state of consciousness. I imagine my summer with the French equivalent of the reality TV freak families – the swamp people, the hand-fishing hillbillies, the Kardashians. My chest feels tight and I struggle to breath, to survive the torrent of Dr. Maro’s words and my own cruel imaginings. I grasp the arms of my chair tightly and try desperately to rise back above the doleful sound of Dr. Maro’s voice.

Finally, a pause. I suck in a deep breath of air, air free of Dr. Maro’s dreadful dronings. My imagination releases its grip on my consciousness and I see Dr. Maro looking at me rather curiously.

"I’m sorry, Dr. Maro. Where did you say this family lives?" I ask weakly.

"In Paris, of course. That's where your tour will begin. It will conclude in Britanny, where your family traditionally spends vacation during the latter part of the summer and where, as I said, you will have the great privilege of seeing sights that only a few souls have ever seen."

I sit up straight on the edge of my chair.

"Paris? You said they live in Paris? I'll be living in Paris with my family?"

"Yes, as I said, if you agree to undertake this . . . . this journey, then you'll be in Paris for most of the summer, and then you'll end the summer in Britanny, at your family's vacation home. Of course, you may choose to stay with another family if you think this trip too difficult-"

"Another family! I wouldn’t consider it. I am so looking forward to staying in Paris, and I guess the part about Britanny is OK, too." Relief surges through me. I relax my grip on the arms of the chair. "I guess if that's everything, then, I'll just be on my way." I jump up and rush to the door.

"BJ?" Dr. Maro calls out as I reach the door.

"Yes, Dr. Maro?" I half turn as I put my hand on the door. Dr. Maro is looking at me with a puzzled expression on his face.

"BJ, if you ever want to discuss this further, if you have any questions about your family or your upcoming trip, please feel free to come and talk with me." "Of course, Dr. Maro," I respond and turn back to the door.

“And BJ,” Dr. Maro calls out again. Impatient now, I turn back again.

“BJ, there are some forms here that the school needs you to sign, some releases and waivers about your trip.” He pulls out a stack of documents. “Academic institutions like to make sure that everyone is informed and that things are properly documented. You might want to take these with you and read through them before you sign to make sure you understand the nature of your trip.”

“Oh, that won’t be necessary. I understand the nature of my trip.” I return to Dr. Maro’s desk, sit back down in the chair, pick up a pen on his desk and start thumbing through the documents until I reach the signature pages. I sign page after page under Dr. Maro’s watchful eye. I hand the stack of documents back to him.

"I’ll make sure you get copies of these.”

“That really won’t be necessary.” I jump up again and head towards the door.

“I’ll have copies for you at our next class . . . .”

I race out the door before he can go on and run down the hall, overjoyed with the thought that I will soon be living in Paris, and completely oblivious to the desperate and horrific journey I have just agreed to take.

*********

Bags packed, repacked and packed again, I arrive at the small airport near our college well in advance of our departure time. The TSA is unaware of this tiny airport's existence, so security is haphazard and I merely wave at Hank the security guard as I approach my gate. Hank is too busy picking at his teeth with a small pocket knife he no doubt confiscated from an unwary passenger on the last flight out two weeks ago to acknowledge me. He is cleaning the blade on his pants leg as I walk through to my gate. There are only three gates at the airport, mysteriously numbered 3, 7 and 9. Most of my classmates are already at our gate, and Dr. Maro is giving the male students yet another lecture on keeping a sharp eye out for U.S. Senators when using the men’s bathroom.

My classmates greet me excitedly. This is a welcome change from the cool reception I had been receiving from most of them since the placement process was completed some months ago. As the beneficiary of the process and the sole student to be placed in Paris, I tried to be magnanimous with my fellow French students. Unfortunately they didn’t appreciate my beatific attitude and grumbled about favoritism. I ignored the grumbling, which usually stopped - along with all other conversation - when I was around anyway. Today it appears that all ill will about the placement process has been forgotten.

We while away long hours at our gate alternating between downloading apps on our iPhones, listening to our iPods and watching gophers dash across the runway. I even pick up a newspaper from the prior week and read large parts of it. The headline rticle describes more layoffs at Target Corporation, including Bullseye, The Target Dog.

"The decision to lay off Bullseye, The Target Dog was a difficult one, but one Target feels best meets the needs of our guests," a Target spokeperson stated. No Target guests could be located to confirm or deny that this was indeed the case. Target Dog's management team claims there had been difficulties in the relationship for some time, particularly after Target Dog urinated in the pet aisle at a store in Toledo to express his dissatisfaction with Target's failure to keep pet costumes in-stock year round. "Target Dog feels strongly that if a dog wants to dress as a giant hot dog or a ballerina, or anything else for that matter, a dog should be able to select a fun or frilly costume at any time of year, not just Halloween," his management team stated. "Target led Target Dog to believe that it would support pets in their freedom of expression, but did not follow through to Target Dog's satisfaction." Target responded to the statements of Target Dog's team by saying it would gladly sell pet costumes at any time, at any of its stores, to anyone who would actually come in to a Target store.

While analysts were mixed on how the layoff of Bullseye, The Target Dog would impact Target’s long term outlook, the future for Target Dog looks bright. His legal team recently filed documents to formally change his name from Bullseye, The Target Dog, to Bright Yellow Sticks Floating in a Circle or Starburst-Like Thing, the Walmart Dog. According to his legal team, the change is a welcome one. “Our client was always uncomfortable wearing a bullseye and felt it was an inappropriate symbol for any animal to wear. But he is very fond of sticks, so we think this is a good match for the long term.”

Finally we board our plane, the first of many legs of our journey to Paris. All of the flights are uneventful, other than the continued reminders from Dr. Maro as he walks up and down the aisle to keep track of our passports, stay together, and above all, be gracious and polite. Dr. Maro clearly has grandiose visions of improved Franco-American relations following our trip. When the classmate next to me gets up to use the bathroom, Dr. Maro takes the opportunity to sit down next to me.

"BJ, I hope you've been giving some thought to the conversation we had about your family in Paris and your upcoming journey." He speaks to me in French. One of his other reminders in his walks up and down the aisles was that since our trip has begun, the expectation is that we will speak in French, and only French, until we return home.

"Of course, Dr. Maro," I reply curtly.

He nods his head and gazes out the window of the plane. "You will see many things on our tour that you may not fully understand until you spend some time with your family in Paris."

I turn to look out the window, too. Is there something out there that I'm supposed to see and understand now? We are above a layer of clouds, but I see nothing that illuminates my understanding of Dr. Maro's obscure comments. It’s as futile as trying to understand Alan Greenspan’s comments about, well, anything, or Hillary Clinton’s comments about personal email accounts. I hesitate, but then plunge ahead and ask a question.

"And will the other students come to understand what they see as well?"

"Each student will reach their own level of understanding in their own way, in their own time. But of course the hope is that you will help others, enhancing and accelerating their understanding."

My head hurts. I lean back in my chair. Dr. Maro turns back from gazing out the window and looks directly at me.

"BJ, the opportunity you are being given on this trip is a rare one indeed. You will witness what few have ever witnessed. You must take advantage of this opportunity to learn as much as possible and follow through on what you learn. If you do not, well, I am sorry to think about the consequences that might occur if you do not." There is a sorrowful little smile on his face as Dr. Maro finishes. I feel a pang of anxiety. What kind of consequences? Will I fail to graduate? Fail to get a job? My classmate returns from the bathroom and Dr. Maro gets up to leave.

"More lectures from the old man?" she asks as she sits down.

I nod my head and give her a sorrowful little smile.

*********

After arriving at Charles de Gaule airport, we get our first exposure to the vast inefficiencies that are peculiarly French and wait for hours to retrieve our luggage. But our enthusiasm is not dampened and after collecting our luggage we merrily descend into the ḿetro, a labyrinth of tunnels and subway cars that serves the transportation needs of humans and rodents. Mass transportation in our tiny college town consists of two empty city buses running back and forth on the same route until sundown. Here in the ḿetro we are confronted with thousands of sophisticated and aggressive Parisians on their way somewhere important, and willing to trample foreign students burdened with too much luggage to get there. All of this is played out to the tune of French folk songs played by an elderly accordionist who looks as though he may have been in the ḿetro for several decades.

After being beaten back from the doors of several cars as they pass through the tunnels, Dr. Maro casts aside his delusions about improving diplomatic relations with the French and huddles us up for a pep talk on American supremacy. Our blood boiling, we push our way through the masses when the next car arrives and burst into the car before its doors slam shut.

Flushed with success, we high five each other and chatter happily, in French, while we look for places to sit. But the car is completely full. Parisians of all ages, shapes and sizes sit in their seats looking straight ahead. The sudden arrival of a group of raucous American students does nothing to change their demeanor. They sit speechless and nearly motionless, only swaying with the rhythm of the car as it speeds down the track. We stand in the aisle, clinging to the rails above our heads and balancing our luggage with our legs, hoping people will disembark at the next stop so we can sit down. But no one leaves at the next stop, likewise no one gets on.

Our chatter comes to an end, and the only sound now is of the wheels on the tracks and the creaking of the car as it sways. I look at the Parisians in our car with some dismay. Far from being the vibrant, joyful people I had expected, these people are dour and dusty looking. Their skin is ashen, they wear dark colored clothes, and their eyes are glazed. Perhaps they're all stoned. I look from one to the other until I see Dr. Maro standing at the other end of the car. He is watching me, his sorrowful little smile on his face. I feel another pang of anxiety. Is this some kind of teaching moment? Am I missing something?

Then one of the students near Dr. Maro points to the subway maps at the head of the car and explains that we're going the opposite direction of our hotel. Dr. Maro nods his head, and we all disembark at the next stop. Dr. Maro treats the whole thing as an exercise in learning the ḿetro system, and says he hopes we will learn from what happened. I feel as though he is speaking only to me. Perhaps he expected me to be the first to figure out he'd sent us off in the wrong direction. We cross over to the other side of the ḿetro station where a young violinist is playing all of Vivaldi’s Four Seasons simultaneously, and pick up a car going the right way.

*********

As part of our tour, we spend numerous days in Paris. We try to absorb the massive amounts of art and culture in Paris by touring an infinite array of museums and architectural wonders. We see classical art, renaissance art and modern art. We see paintings, pottery, textiles and sculptures. We see things that can’t possibly be described as art that are, in fact, considered art.

Eventually our group succumbs to the overdose of art and culture. Our smiles are smug, there is a haughtiness to our tone and we always cross our legs when sitting. We gaze condescendingly on other groups of tourists whose tour guides rush them through the Louvre to see the Mona Lisa, scuttle them over to the Eiffel Tower to take a few pictures, dart over to Notre Dame, and then, if they're lucky, take in a production at the Opera in the evening before walking down the Champs Elysee when it's all lit up for the night. Failing to recognize the similar frenzied pace we're keeping, we mock other tourists. We delight in mimicking their shuffling steps from walking too far in shoes that are too new and pointing excitedly at everything in sight, making loud exclamations and speaking in rudimentary French with atrocious accents.

Dr. Maro takes me aside while we are having great fun watching a group of Italians at the Eiffel Tower having some kind of argument about which direction to go, all gesticulating wildly and talking very loudly. Eventually a tour manager herds them all up and they walk off.

"It's interesting to see how people spend their time here, yes?" Dr. Maro says to me as he smiles his sorrowful little smile.

I'm beginning to hate that smile. I feel another pang of anxiety. "Yes, Dr. Maro."

"I hope you'll remember the other tourists you saw here on our tour of Paris."

"Of course, Dr. Maro."

But why would I remember them? Why does Dr. Maro insist on making these incomprehensible comments? From then on I decide to avoid one on one conversation with Dr. Maro as much as possible.

Before we slip any further into the twisted world of the cultural elite, we wrap up our tour of Paris and head into the French countryside, saving ourselves from the fate of forever wearing dark turtlenecks under our jackets. At the train station on our way out of Paris, someone even finds a People magazine that was tossed in the trash by another American, and we get caught up on the latest in celebrity, used to be celebrity and never heard of before and never will hear of again celebrity news, thereby completing eradicating any residual impact of our excessive exposure to art and culture.

We devour an in-depth article about Taylor Swift, who grew out her bangs, cut them, wrote a song about it and earned a grammy for it. The article includes numerous photos of Taylor and her bangs in various growth stages. There is a short article about the Rolling Stones, who are reportedly working with the manufacturer of Depends to develop a less bulky but super absorbent adult diaper that could be worn under skin tight jeans during performances. Thankfully there are no photos included with this article. There is also an astonishing report that Hollywood is working on a movie that involves neither Matt Damon nor Ben Affleck in any way. And a moving article describing the efforts of the Wilson Fan Club to award a post-humous Best Supporting Actor award to Wilson for his amazing performance as Tom Hank’s only true friend in Cast Away. Wilson was recently found washed up on the shore of a remote island not far from where the movie was filmed, completely deflated and with multiple puncture wounds believed to be the result of a shark attack. A spokesperson for the fan club stated “We are devastated that Wilson would be literally cast away after the filming of his sequences were completed. For years the Wilson Fan Club has attempted to obtain information from the studio about Wilson’s whereabouts, and now, sadly, it is clear that the studio simply abandoned Wilson after all he gave to his work. While efforts are underway to revive and repair Wilson, the prognosis is grim, so we are requesting that the Academy grant Wilson a post-humous award for his amazing work.” The article ends with the question on all readers’ minds, if Wilson does recover, will he still be awarded an Oscar, and if he attends the Academy Awards ceremony in person, whatever will he wear?

Our tours become much more enjoyable in wine country. We drink different varieties of wine all day as we travel from one famous wine area to the next, and in the evenings we have lengthy dinners and drink more wine. My palate, de-sensitized by years of eating such delicacies as tater tot casserole and shredded carrots embedded in green jello served up at family reunions and Lutheran church retreats, gradually re-awakens. It even evolves to the point of distinguishing some of the subtleties of fine and not so fine wines. I begin to relax, letting myself enjoy the beautiful French countryside, the fabulous food and the oh so lovely wines. In wine country, everything seems right with the world, Dr. Maro's smile no longer seems so sorrowful, and I am blissfully unaware of the demons gathering around me.

During our month long tour, we have one homestay. Each student in our group stays with a French family while in the village of Chambery. Students from Chambery have signed up to be our hosts, and we meet the students from our respective families at the lycee, just after the last class of the day. My student is Mylene Laroche. Mylene is 16 years old, and with her thin, gaunt frame and unhealthy looking pallor bears a striking resemblance to Mick Jagger. She is wearing a tight fitting low cut top, even tighter jeans, and knee-high boots. She wears big hoop earrings and shiny, jangly bracelets well up both arms, making her look like a walking slinky. She has short, jet-black hair, dark red lipstick, and although we are indoors, is wearing dark sunglasses. She could pass for a rock star who has just checked in for rehabilitation.

When Mylene realizes I’m the student she’s been assigned, she gives me a nod, although in a disapproving way, and tells me we’re going to the café across the street before going home. I get the distinct impression that Mylene does not want it to appear that we are actually going anywhere together, so I follow behind her some distance while we make our way through the crowds in the lycee and across the street.

At the café, there are dozens of students who look and act just like Mylene. Most of them are smoking, and Mylene lights up after we find her friends crowded around one of the small tables near the window inside the café. Mylene chatters away with her friends, and when one of them eventually asks about me, I am referred to as one of a group of American students who are staying for a few days and were placed with the students in Mylene’s English class. This results in a few nods and hellos in my general direction, but the conversation continues without me. I peer through the thickening smoky haze in the café to see if there are any other Americans from my class there, but from what I can see, I am the only one.

After Mylene finishes smoking a half-pack of cigarettes, she gets up from the table to leave. She motions to me to follow, and like an obedient dog I trail along behind her to the sidewalk outside the café. It is now nearly dark, and we make our way to the train station and take the train to Aix-les-Bains, a village about 15 kilometers away where Mylene’s family lives. At Aix-les-Bains, we walk several blocks from the train station to her family's apartment building. It is a non-descript building about 10 stories high which seems new and yet dilapidated. We are greeted by a barrage of yelling and questioning when we enter Mylene's apartment. The questioning is coming mostly from a woman I take to be Mylene’s mother. She is heavy-set, with short dark hair, wearing what looks to be a large housecoat with big blue flowers arranged in random patterns. The yelling comes from a man who appears to be Mylene’s father. He is small, with dark greasy hair, but with the same skinny Mick Jagger frame Mylene shares. He is wearing jeans and a dirty white t-shirt, and has a cast on one arm. He is trying to gesture with his hands while he yells but the cast prevents him from making a full range of motion, which seems to frustrate him further.

I can understand only part of the yelling, but it seems to be around the general theme of being late, not letting them know we would be late, that Mylene has been told many times not to be late, etc. I understand little of Mylene’s response, except I distinctly hear her say that I wanted to go to the café after school. At this there is a pause in the yelling and both Mylene’s mother and father look directly at me for the first time.

I smile hesitantly. “Bonjour. My name is BJ.”

There is an awkward silence. Mylene’s parents consider whether to continue yelling or to acknowledge my presence. In the manner of a grand diplomat, Mylene’s mother decides on the latter.

“BJ, I’m sorry you had to hear all of this. Welcome to our home. We are just about to sit down and eat. I hope you enjoy our meal.”

“Thank you, Madame. I’m sure I’ll enjoy everything.” Mylene’s mother disappears into another room. Mylene’s father throws another angry look at Mylene, then says to me “You are from the United States?”

I explain where I’m from as Mylene’s father continues to look angrily at Mylene. In the halting conversation that continues between Mylene’s father and me, Mylene eventually excuses herself. Thankfully we are called to the table to eat shortly after that, and the tortured conversation with Mylene’s father comes to an end.

Mylene has a 14-year old sister and a 3-year old brother who are already at the table. Mylene’s mother is preoccupied with the 3-year old and his frequent tantrums through most of the meal. The conversation among the rest of the family is minimal. When he does speak, Mylene’s father uses the same harsh tone he used with Mylene when we first arrived. The entire family is tense and on edge, as though we‘re living through the last half of a Steven Spielberg film.

By the time the meal is finally over at 9 p.m., I’m exhausted. I’m looking forward to going to bed. Much to my surprise, however, Mylene announces that she and I are going out to meet her friends. Her sister joins in and says she’s coming too.

Mylene’s parents exchange looks and I brace myself for another tirade like we experienced when we first arrived. But permission to go out is granted with little discussion. We leave immediately, not offering to help with the clean-up, and Mylene’s little brother’s wails grow fainter as we exit the apartment and walk down the hall.

Outside, we walk for blocks without saying anything. Finally we reach our destination, another smoky bar that looks almost identical to the one we were at earlier. Inside are more students who look and act like Mylene. I am introduced to some of them, and even talk with a few of them, but for the most part I am an outside observer, left to look on while the others laugh and chatter. Mylene’s sister finds her own friends and sits with them at a table in the corner of the bar.

Around midnight, just when I think I’m going to nod off, Mylene tells me one of her friends will drive us home. When we get to the apartment, it is dark and quiet. Mylene’s parents and brother are sleeping, and we quietly make our way back to the bedroom that Mylene and her sister share. I’m given some blankets and a pillow and a spot on the floor of the tiny room, and grateful to finally lie down, I fall asleep within minutes.

*********

The next morning Mylene is up early. I get up too, and we have breakfast in the tiny kitchen before taking the train to Chambery for her Saturday morning classes. On Saturdays she has math, science and English. I understand nothing at all in the math class. In the science class, her teacher does an experiment with a Bunsen burner that the class is expected to watch attentively. The class gets restless and the teacher gets angry, throwing the Bunsen burner while it's still lit and nearly igniting a pile of papers on his desk. Student laugh, inciting the teacher further. As punishment for their misbehavior, he hands out a pop test and glares at them while they struggle through it.

In English, I am the center of attention. The students take turns asking me questions, in English, most of which are about Johnny Depp. Dr. Maro's lectures had not prepared me for this line of questioning, but fortunately I've seen the entire Pirates of the Caribbean series, or at least I think I have. I kind of lost track of things after a while, just like the screenwriters. But I have enough confidence to fabricate answers to even the most intimate questions about Mr. Depp. I struggle only when attempting to describe his relationship with Tim Burton. There are titters of laughter following my explanation and I realize it was likely interpreted as only the French can interpret the relationship between two consenting adults, but given some of the films they've done together somehow I feel neither Johnny nor Tim would really care what people think about them.

When the English class is over, Mylene and I take the train back to her family's apartment. From there, the cycle repeats itself. A tense meal with the family followed by an announcement from Mylene that she and I are going out to meet her friends. An afternoon in a smoke-filled bar followed by another uncomfortable meal with the family and another announcement from Mylene that she and I are going out for the evening.

But on Saturday night, instead of going to a bar, we take the train to Annecy and go to a club. When we arrive at 10 p.m., there are throngs of young people standing around outside the club smoking, and even more inside. A small dance floor is teeming with bodies, writhing to the amplified sounds of music that surely must exceed the limits permitted under the Geneva Convention. The strobe lights are incessant and unforgiving, and cast a ghoulish glare over the entire scene. It is an overwhelming experience for someone coming from a small town with no clubs and only a handful of bars that play Gordon Lightfoot songs on 8 track tapes.

Mylene disappears into the crowd, and I am left to wander about on my own. I am stopped occasionally by people who want to talk, but since I can barely hear let alone understand what is being said, the conversations are usually brief. I am led to the dance floor several times by overly eager French men, but extract myself from the dance floor as politely as possible after one or two dances.

The evening wears on. At 2 a.m. I begin to look for Mylene, fearful that she has left, forgetting to bring me along. But I see her with a group of her friends. She does not appear ready to leave. I wander around again, and finally find a spot to lean up against the wall and watch. 3 a.m. comes and goes, and again I search for Mylene. Again she does not appear ready to leave. Finally, at 4 a.m., she comes to me, saying it’s time to go. Outside the discotheque, the sound of the music can be heard half-way to the train station. When we get to the station, it is dark and unusually quiet.

“Shit,” says Mylene, looking at her watch. This is a word, like many words, that sounds much better in French than in English. “The last train left an hour ago. The station is closed for the night.”

The beat of the club music is still drumming inside my head and it takes me a moment to comprehend what Mylene has said. I shiver in the cool French 4 a.m. air and wonder exactly how far we are from her village.

“Can we take a taxi?” I ask slowly.

“We won’t find a taxi around here,” she responds curtly. “We’ll have to see if we can find a ride from someone.” She walks briskly away from the station and down to the road. “Come on,” she says, turning to me and motioning me to follow.

Not entirely understanding her plan, I follow rather slowly. She continues down to the road, with me several paces behind. She sees a car coming and sticks out her hand, thumbing for a ride. I am shocked. Doesn't she know this is how people are murdered, thumbing for a ride and getting picked up by serial killers? The car passes by without stopping and I breathe a sigh of relief. Mylene grumps in disgust and keeps walking. I follow along behind, trying to think about how else we can get back. Perhaps we should just sit at the station until it reopens in the morning. It can’t be more than a couple of hours before the trains start running again. Several more cars pass us as Mylene continues to thumb for a ride.

As I start trying to compose my suggestion about waiting at the station, another car comes along and I hear it slow down. It is a VW beetle, already packed with young people. The driver rolls down the window and grins at us.

“Where are you going?” he asks in a squeaky voice, with a little girl giggle at the end.

“Aix-les-Bains,” Mylene replies.

“That’s on our way, come with us,” says the driver, ending again with a little giggle. The back door opens and the smell of pot and sweat escapes from the vehicle. Mylene hops in without hesitating. I step in cautiously. There is much giggling as people move around to make room for us.

The driver, who has long brown hair and wire rim glasses, turns around to make sure we’re all in before accelerating, giggling again like a little girl. The back seat is a tangle of legs and arms, and after some time I am able to sort out that there are a total of five complete bodies in the back seat. There are three in the front. French rock music is blaring from the radio, and some of the legs and arms also seem to have voices, which are singing along. Mylene seems unconcerned about the chaos and is having a conversation with someone in the front seat, who, through the strange arrangement of seating in the car, is actually closer to her than anyone in the back seat. There is another rather disjointed conversation going on in the back seat, which I cannot follow, and which is punctuated by frequent giggles. The driver, too, breaks out from time to time in high-pitched girlish giggles, despite the fact that he is not actually engaged in conversation with anyone.

I wish I could reach a window so I could hang my head outside, but I am too far from the door and fear that if I move too far in any direction I’ll cause the entire car to careen out of control. I begin to sweat, adding to the odor that is already filling the tiny car. I wonder if it’s possible to pass out from the smell of pot and body odor. I wonder how long the driver will be coherent enough to continue to drive. I wonder what will happen if we’re pulled over by the police. I wonder if we’re going the right direction to get to Mylene’s apartment.

My head is pounding, filled with all of these alarming thoughts, the pulse of music from the radio and the continued beating of dance music which hasn't stopped since we left the club. Just when I think I’m about to lose consciousness, I hear Mylene giving specific directions to turn right, go straight, make another turn. The car comes to a stop and, miraculously, we’re in front of her family’s apartment. Mylene and I extract ourselves from the car and bid the giggling VW goodnight. I take several deep breaths of the cool night air and thank God that I was not pulled from the car by a French ambulance crew.

Mylene and I take the elevator up to her family’s apartment and, without speaking a word, we creep through the apartment and into her bedroom, where she throws herself on her bed and I fall down in a heap on my spot on the floor.

*********

The following morning is Sunday, and Mylene and I are supposed to meet my fellow American students and their French families at a nearby lake for a picnic. Exhausted from our night at the discotheque, we miss the first train to the lake and arrive several hours late.

After spending so much time in bars, it is refreshing to be outside, and the weather is gorgeous. Mylene, who looks so at home in smoky bars and discotheques, looks out of place at the lake. Her jangling bracelets frighten the ducks, and families with young children cast disapproving looks in her direction. Undaunted, Mylene strides around in her knee high boots, smoking cigarette after cigarette. Parents pull their children away from us as we approach in our promenade around the lake.

We eventually find Dr. Maro and my colleagues from school and their families, and I’m able to catch up on some of what my friends have been doing. It seems I'm the only one placed with a dysfunctional derelict who spent most of the home stay not in the home, but in bars and discos. I try to get Mylene to participate in our conversation, but she gazes off at something in the distance through her ever present dark sunglasses when spoken to, appearing bored and distracted, puffing on her cigarettes. Eventually I give up and she sits alone with her cigarettes, contemplating the torment of the world around her or the jagged edges of her dark purple fingernail polish, I’m not sure which.

At the end of the day the students and their families all pack up and head for their respective homes. Dr. Maro approaches me as I prepare to leave.

"BJ, I hope you are learning much from Mylene during your homestay."

"Of course Dr. Maro," I reply somewhat tersely. I am growing weary of his incessant lectures.

"Mylene and your homestay family were carefully selected for you, just like your family in Paris, to guide you on your journey."

Suddenly, I feel angry. What did I do to deserve getting stuck with Mylene and her dysfunctional family while everyone else got a normal family?

"Dr. Maro, why don't you just come out and tell me what it is you want? Because I'm getting a little tired of your lectures when I don't even know what you're saying. All I learned from Mylene is that her life is hell, she has no future, and nowhere to escape other than the bars and discos. Is that what you want me to understand? Because I got that the first night I stayed with her. I don't need any lectures from you about it and I'd appreciate it if you'd just come out and tell me what you want me to know instead of giving me these inane, incomprehensible lectures." My face is flushed as I finish. I have never spoken to a professor like this before, and I don't know how Dr. Maro will react.

"Ahh, BJ," Dr. Maro replies quietly. "If mere words were enough, I would certainly tell you everything. But sometimes to see and experience is what is needed. I think perhaps you are indeed beginning to understand." He smiles his sorrowful smile and walks away.

Mylene and I say little on our return trip, and for once we both go to bed early. When I leave Mylene and her family the following day to rejoin my group, I am thankful that my time with them is over. Certainly the rest of my stay in France will be an improvement from my stay with Mylene.

Our group is together for only a few more days before we each head off to the families we'll be staying with the remainder of the summer. We finish our tour together by visiting castles and cathedrals. We see dark and sinister medieval castles, light and airy gothic castles, and excessively ornate renaissance castles. We see cathedrals with flying buttresses and great stained glass windows, cathedrals with orgasmic angels over the huge entry doors and demonic gargoyles waiting to spit out rain on the rooftop.

At most castles and cathedrals, we receive guided tours from local historians, arranged for us in advance by Dr. Maro. The historians all seem strangely similar. Sometimes male, sometimes female, and sometimes difficult to tell, they are all small, frail, dusty and wrinkled. They look as though they will disintegrate if touched. They are condescending, as though a group of American students could not possibly fathom the significance of the buildings they are walking through.

Like the historians themselves, the cathedrals and castles begin to look strangely similar. I struggle to recall the lectures from French class about the architectural evolution from the Middle Ages through the Renaissance, to focus on the fascinating facts our tour guides so patiently, if condescendingly, describe. To no avail. Instead I find myself fascinated with watching the absurd ways in which the tour guides’ lips move as they talk, or on one tour, become completely obsessed with watching some small crumbs caught in the moustache of our female guide, trembling with each “voila” and “oui”, but never quite falling off.

Just as I'm prepared to throw myself off the roof of the next cathedral we visit, our tour finally comes to an end. We have a final dinner together before each heading off to find our families throughout France. Dr. Maro gives an eloquent toast in his elegant French at the end of the dinner, and some in the group get teary-eyed.

When we head back to our hotel, Dr. Maro holds me back and walks with me some paces behind the rest of the group. Prepared for another lecture, I feel myself getting anxious.

"Don't worry, BJ, there will be no more lectures," he says to me. I relax some, but remain on guard.

"BJ," he continues, "I want you to know that I will be staying in France most of the summer as well. I'm staying with friends in the south of France. If you run into difficulties, if you need anything, at any time, please be sure to let me know." He hands me a slip of paper with a number on it. "That's my cell phone number. I've also texted it to you in case you lose it. You should be able to reach me from anywhere in France without any difficulty."

Why is he telling me this and not the other students? Why would he expect me to have difficulties? I am the best student in the group, after all. I should have fewer difficulties than the rest of the group combined. For a split second I wonder if he wants me to call him for other reasons. Maybe this is some kind of creepy 50 Shades of Grey copycat thing. But as I look at his face under the passing streetlights I see no trace of desire. He looks genuinely concerned for me, in a paternal sort of way. I feel a chill run down my spine in the cool night air.

"Thank you, Dr. Maro," I say as I put the number in my pocket. We say nothing further until we reach the hotel. He opens the door for me to pass through and says "Good night BJ, and good luck on the rest of your stay in France."

"Thank you, Dr. Maro." Although we're now inside, I feel another chill run down my spine as I walk down the hall to my room.

*********

The next morning I pack up my bags and leave the hotel to return to Paris. My train leaves early, and as I exit the hotel in the early morning light I see Dr. Maro eating breakfast in the hotel restaurant. He nods his head at me when he sees me leave and gives me a last sorrowful little smile. I’m thankful I won't have to see that smile again for a long time.

My train brings me to Paris, and from there I take the métro to find my family's home. As I descend into the Parisian ḿetro, I try to ignore the odor and concentrate on where I’m going. I anxiously check my directions every few minutes to make sure I’m on the right ḿetro, headed the right direction. At the last ḿetro stop I get out. From here it’s several more blocks, but since I’m not expected for several more hours I decide to find somewhere to sit down for a while.

I soon find a small park. I sit down on a bench next to my luggage and am soon approached by a young, disheveled looking Frenchman. He grins at me greedily and sits down at the other end of my bench. Everywhere we went on our tour of France the women of the group were pursued by young French men who wanted to talk with us, walk with us, ogle us, stroke us, and take our money. The unemployment rate for young males must be staggering. They can be found loitering in parks, at cafes, the train stations and all major tourist attractions. They are often not particularly coherent and are usually rather unkempt looking, with rumpled looking clothes they seem to have slept in and dirty, oily hair. In short, they lack the kind of appeal we had expected from Frenchmen.

That is not to say that unkempt men with dirty, messy hair are never appealing. Viggo Mortensen was wildly appealing in the Lord of the Rings trilogy when his hair was stringy and matted with sweat and dried blood, or whatever it was that spurted out of the orcs when he sliced their heads off. In fact, it was devastating when he had clean, fluffy hair in the last scene of the trilogy when he was crowned king. He looked like just another guy who spent too much time in front of the mirror with a blow-dryer.

I turn away from the Frenchman on my bench and he eventually wanders off in search of a more receptive tourist. After he departs a large crow flies down from a nearby tree and sits near my feet. He eyes me as greedily as the Frenchman. I try to wave him off, hoping he'll follow the Frenchman's lead and look for another tourist. But he sits motionless, unperturbed by my attempts to shoo him away. Finally I give up and try not to look at his dark, beady eyes.

After enough time has passed, I too walk off still reading my directions, pulling my luggage behind, bouncing and lurching over the peculiarly placed slabs of concrete that pass for a sidewalk.

My anxiety level heightens as I draw closer to my destination and my stomach and bowels churn, alerting me to an urgent and potentially catastrophic event. I spy a public toilet, a rarity, and after giving the matronly attendant the requisite tip for the privilege of being able to relieve myself in private, I relinquish control of my body to the cracked porcelain stool. Afterwards I dab at myself delicately with the tiny squares of crispy, waxy paper that pass for toilet paper. Anything more strenuous would permanently damage my privates. I wash my hands in the cold water running from the sink, likely routed directly from the Seine and back again without any type of filtration, and try to brush out my hair in front of the dulled and cracked mirror over the sink. I am startled when I turn around and find the attendant directly behind me, pulling at her long, greasy hair and watching me with greedy, beady little eyes that dart back and forth from her hair to mine. The mirror was so dull I had not noticed her reflection. She obviously expects another tip for allowing me to use so much of France’s precious natural resources. I drop a few coins in her hand as she continues to eyeball me and pull at her hair with her free hand, then I gather up my luggage and continue on my way.

When I reach the right apartment building I knock on the door for the concierge. She greets me as though she has been expecting me.

"You are BJ? From America? We have been waiting so long for you!!" She exclaims loudly when she opens the door. She looks me up and down and starts to giggle. She covers her mouth with one hand and I am surprised to see thick dark hairs on her fingers and hands. When she recovers from her giggling fit and puts her hand down, I see a slight, dark moustache on her upper lip, and a few dark hairs curling out of each nostril. She smiles, her plump red lips parting to reveal two front teeth that are slightly twisted and a large gap in her bottom teeth. She has thick, dark, wavy hair. Her dark eyes sparkle as she continues to look me up and down. I feel my flesh begin to crawl under her gaze.

"You rode the subway from the airport?" She asks with a giggle.

"No, I came from Rennes this morning," I reply.

"Yes, yes, but when you first arrived in Paris, you took the subway from the airport?"

"Yes, I took the subway from the airport."

"Which subway did you take?"

"Well," I begin slowly, remembering the odd ride we took from the airport, "to start with we took the subway going the wrong direction, but then we took the one to our hotel."

She bursts out laughing again, and covers her mouth with her hairy hand. I shift from one foot to the other uncomfortably and wait for her laughing to cease.

"And you've seen many of the tourist attractions in Paris already?" she asks, still giggling slightly.

"Yes, I have seen many of them," I respond.

"The Louvre?" she asks.

"Yes, I've seen the Louvre."

"And Notre Dame?"

"Yes, I've seen Notre Dame."

"And the Eiffle Tower? You've seen the Eiffle Tower?"

"Yes – can you show me the way to my family's apartment?" I am anxious to get away from this woman.

She bursts out laughing, and tells me to follow her.

"My name is Madame Noir," she explains as we walk through the courtyard. "We will get to know each other very well during your stay here. You can always come to me if you ever need anything, or have any questions." She ends with another giggle. I am quite sure I will never be seeking this woman out to help me with anything. She brings me to the elevator and demonstrates how to use it. There is a metal gate that must be shut before it will operate. She tells me my family is on level 7, the first door to the left. I wrestle briefly with the elevator gate before it finally latches, then I punch the number for level 7 and go up. I can hear the concierge still laughing below me as I ascend.

At the 7^th level, I exit the elevator clumsily with all my luggage and ring the bell at the first door to the left. Immediately I hear a commotion on the other side. A dog begins to bark loudly, children scream, and a woman's voice hushes them all. Bolts are undone and the door opens. God, let my family not be related to Madame Noir.

“BJ welcome!” Madame greets me enthusiastically.

Madame is a striking woman, completely unlike Madame Noir. She is petite, with straight dark glossy hair parted down the middle and pulled back tight in a small bun. Her dark hair is in stark contrast to her pale skin. Her face is a perfect oval, and her cheek bones are high and very prominent. Her smooth skin is incredibly taught over her cheekbones, perhaps because her hair is pulled back so tightly. She has large blue almond-shaped eyes set rather far apart. Her lips are thin and her mouth wide, showing an amazing set of teeth when she smiles. There is a faint smell of expensive perfume as she moves back in the entry to allow me in. She tells me to bring my luggage in and sit down. I obediently reach for my luggage and step into the apartment.

There are two children behind her poking their heads around to see me. Their screams have subsided and now they are giggling. A smaller child is darting about the room, first hiding behind a chair, then a sofa. A man stands farther back in the apartment holding back a large dog with reddish fur. The dog is still barking a deep, throaty bark and struggling to get loose. The man is shushing the dog and telling the children not to be shy. Madame is talking rapidly amidst the chaos, apologizing for not being entirely ready for my arrival.

The dog settles down, and the man leads it into another small room and shuts the door. As he returns to the entry, Madame introduces him as her husband. He greets me and shakes my hand, the “American” way, he says. We all laugh.

Monsieur is very tall and thin, like Madame he also has dark hair and a pale complexion. He is perspiring slightly from his efforts with the dog. His face is damp and he takes a handkerchief out of his pocket to mop it off. His hair is parted on one side, and is constantly falling into his eyes. Now that he is no longer holding the dog, every few seconds he uses one hand to push the hair out of his dark eyes.

The children have become braver since I stepped into the apartment, and the two that had been standing behind Madame now run to the couch and start bouncing on it. They are singing something, but I can’t understand the words. Madame scolds them and tells them to say hello to me. They giggle and say hello before starting to bounce again. Madame tells me that this is Adrienne and Antoine. Both of them also have dark hair and pale complexions, both have dark eyes like Monsieur.

Now the littlest child, Aurore, comes out from behind her latest hiding place behind the couch and runs up behind Madame. She throws her arms around Madame’s legs and looks at me. She has lighter hair and the same blue eyes as Madame. I bend down to say hello and she gives me a smile before turning away. Madame says she is rather shy.

Madame offers me a chair next to the couch and I sit down. Monsieur tells Antoine and Adrienne to get off the couch and he sits down as they get off. Madame also sits on the couch, and we proceed to talk briefly about my stay in France so far. I tell them about the places I’ve visited, and they smile and nod. Monsieur asks me several questions, his voice slow and methodical. He enunciates carefully as he talks to me. Madame also asks some questions, but she speaks rapidly, and with many hand gestures.

After several minutes of small talk, Madame gets to her feet and motions for me to see the rest of the apartment. She shows me the tiny kitchen. To enter, you walk through a narrow pantry lined with shelves filled with wine and canned goods. The kitchen itself is the size of a large closet, with a sink on one side, a refrigerator and small stove on the other, and a small table with four tiny chairs all pushed up against the far wall. The walls are painted a strange shade of green, like the color Kermit the Frog would turn several days after being crushed by a Renault on a Parisian street. There is one small, high window above the table, which casts a small shaft of light into the center of the kitchen. Madame shows me some bread and chocolate that the children like to eat before bed. I nod my head and smile.

We exit the kitchen and go to the children’s room, which is right next to the kitchen. This is a large room, with dark, dingy pink walls and three beds lined up in a row. There are children’s drawings taped to the walls at all sorts of odd angles, some are starting to fall down or curl at the edges. There is a heap of toys in a box in one corner of the room. She shows me where their clothes are, in a large armoire against the wall opposite the beds. Again I nod my head and smile.

From the children’s room we walk back to the bathroom. This is actually two rooms, one outer room where there is a tiny washer and dryer and a bathtub. The huge old bath tub deserves a room to itself, it has tall sides and sits way up on huge clawed feet. It looks like it would take a ladder to get into it. The next room has a small sink and toilet.

We end in the dining room, the largest room in the apartment. It is open to the living room, and has huge windows along one side. The windows overlook the courtyard below. There is a huge dining room table with massive chairs. There is a large chandelier over the table and old portraits of stern looking men along one wall. It is a spacious, elegant room, unlike the cramped rooms in the rest of the apartment. Along one wall is a small couch. Madame explains that it folds out to a bed for Madame and Monsieur. In the city, she explains, space is at a premium. Again, I nod and smile.

As we continue back to the living room, she explains that I will have a separate room on another floor of the apartment building. They are having it repainted and it is not quite finished, so for tonight I will sleep in the children’s room.

"And now, since you have arrived, we will go out for the evening," Madame smiles at me.

"That's not really necessary-" I begin haltingly.

"You remember where the bread and chocolate is for the children's snack. They should be in bed by 10 p.m," Madame continues without listening to me.

"Um, of course," I finally reply. And within a matter of moments, Madame and Monsieur have left the apartment and I am left alone with the children.

Antoine and Adrienne watch me intently with their dark eyes. Without their parents in the apartment, their eyes take on an almost sinister look.

“We want to play a game,” Adrienne announces matter of factly.

“A game?” I ask.

Antoine grabs Adrienne by the arm and whispers something in her ear. I can’t quite make out what he is saying, although it is loud enough for me to hear. Adrienne looks at me and giggles, then runs back to the bedroom. Antoine and Aurore run after her. Reluctantly I follow.

Adrienne and Antoine are crowded around the toy box in the far corner of the bedroom, digging through it excitedly, while Aurore stands in the middle of the room, watching them. As I enter the room Aurore turns and smiles at me.

“Here it is!” yells Antoine, pulling a toy camera from the big box.

Adrienne runs to the middle of the room with Aurore and they both begin posing as Antoine circles them with the toy camera and pretends to take pictures. They put their hands on their hips and their noses in the air, then start to strut around the room as Antoine continues to take pictures. Adrienne moves towards Aurore and puts her arm around her shoulders and they start to pose together. Adrienne pulls Aurore even closer and something about their body language begins to make me feel uncomfortable, even creepy, like watching Miley Cyrus perform on stage.

I’m about to say “that’s enough” when Antoine exclaims “Aurore, let me take a picture of your little hole.”

Adrienne turns on Antoine. "No!" She cries with a vehemence that seems well beyond a 6 year old girl. "She's too young!"

My relief at not having to intervene in this sordid affair lasts only a fraction of a second as Adrienne continues.

"Take a picture of my little hole."

And before I can react Adrienne drops to the ground, flat on her back. She lifts up her dress with one hand and pulls down her underwear with the other. She spreads her legs and Antoine moves in with the camera.

“All right, that’s enough games for tonight,” I am surprised at how high my voice sounds. Adrienne gets up and Antoine throws the camera into the toy box.

Relieved that I did not have to use more specific vocabulary to end the game, my voice returns to an almost normal level.

“OK, it’s time for a snack. Do you want some bread and chocolate?”

“We always put our pajamas on before our snack,” says Antoine, speaking directly to me for the first time.

“OK, let’s get your pajamas on then.”

I watch them nervously as they strip down and put their pajamas on, but there is no further perverted activity involving anyone's genitalia. By the time we sit down for snack I have almost convinced myself that these are completely normal children, but for the sinister looking eyes of Adrienne and Antoine.

*********

The next day I hear Monsieur get up and leave the apartment for work. When I hear Madame getting up, I too get up and get dressed. The children are still sleeping, their faces innocent in slumber, no trace of the lewd acts of the evening before. I go into the kitchen and find Madame sitting at the tiny kitchen table, drinking coffee and eating part of a baguette.

“Good morning, BJ,” she greets me cheerfully.

Her hair is pulled back and tied with a silk scarf. She is wearing a dark sweater and tight black pants. She looks elegant even at this hour of the morning in the tiny, dark kitchen. I feel out of place in my tennis shoes, jeans and t-shirt.

She invites me to sit down for some coffee and bread. I sit down and start eating a slice of bread with jam. She tells me that since they were not quite organized for my arrival, I can have a “free” morning.

I'm not sure what she means by this, but she is talking so fast that I have to focus all of my attention on what she’s saying and can’t think fast enough to interrupt her. She says she will get the two older children to school this morning, and that if I would like to spend the morning shopping or getting to know the area, that would be fine, but I should be back by 11:30 a.m. I nod my head in agreement, finish my bread and jam and leave the apartment just as the children are straggling into the kitchen asking for hot chocolate.

As I cross the courtyard, anticipating a pleasant stroll through my new Parisian neighborhood, a small figure in dark clothing suddenly darts out from one of the doorways facing the courtyard, pounces on me and seizes my arm. The grip is powerful enough to cause pain, and I feel sharp nails digging in, nearly piercing my skin. I shriek and try to jump back. The concierge lets go of my arm and throws her head back, cackling with an eerie laugh that reverberates off the walls of the courtyard.

I rub the pain in my arm and take another few steps back, away from the hideous concierge.

She finally stops cackling and looks at me intently.

"You have the morning to yourself, yes?"

"Aaaah, yes," I respond slowly, still rubbing my arm and judging how far it is to courtyard exit in the event I have to run away from this bizarre creature.

"Then you come with me, we will have some coffee and talk," she motions with her arm to have me follow her.

"Well, I thought I would go for a walk." I back away from her a few more steps. "It's such a beautiful morning, and I need to get to know the neighborhood."

"Yes, you will get to know the neighborhood." Here she cackles again. The sound chills the blood in my veins.

"But first, you come with me. I will help you . . . . I will be your guide, in a sense, on this first part of your journey in Paris." She stares at me intently. I stop rubbing my arm and stare back. Why is she using the same language Dr. Maro kept using? Am I supposed to go with her? What if she feeds on foreign tourists, like some kind of macabre villain from a bad horror flick or a Walt Disney movie?

"I will not hurt you," she says, as though reading my thoughts. "We will talk and have coffee. You must come. It is important that you begin to understand what you see." Again she motions with her arm.

Is this what Dr. Maro meant when he talked to me about understanding what I see? I take one last look around the courtyard, carefully judging how to best make my escape from the concierge. But somehow I feel compelled to follow her, and slowly, my footsteps sounding heavy and slow in the vacant courtyard, I follow her into her ground-floor apartment.

She is already pouring cups of coffee when I reach the entrance. I stand in the doorway, noticing that the only way out is the way I've come in. She motions for me to sit at the little table where she is setting out the coffee cups. I choose the chair closest to the door and slowly sit down.

She sits down and takes a sip, staring at me intently with her dark beady eyes.

"So you understand why you are here, yes?"

I stare back. "Yes, I think so," I respond slowly.

"Good, good," she giggles and puts her hairy hand over her mouth.

"I don't know why it can be so difficult to understand, the things we see." She continues with a serious expression, gazing out the window overlooking the courtyard. "It's all so obvious, so logical." She looks back at me. "But I suppose it's easier for people to dismiss it, rather than try to understand any of it at all."

She pauses, as though waiting for some kind of reaction from me.

"Yes, I suppose so," I agree, although I have no idea what we're talking about.

"But you've seen some of it already, yes?" She leans forward now, her eyes still boring into me. Instinctively I draw back from the table.

"Well, I'm not really sure," I respond hesitantly.

"But you took the subway from the airport, yes?"

"Yes," I answer slowly.

"The wrong subway, you called it," she giggles again.

"Yes, the wrong subway," I repeat.

"But you know who was on that subway, yes?"

I remember the odd assortment of characters on the subway, and the way Dr. Maro was watching me watch them.

I look back at the concierge. I smile slightly and shake my head.

"They were at the first level."

"The first level." I repeat.

"Yes, the first level of hell," she replies matter of factly. Then she leans forward across the table. "They are the ones who never made decisions, never made choices. They let things happen to them instead of making things happen," her voice is like a hiss of air. "They are destined to forever circle the city on the métro, never getting up and never getting off." She sits back from the table and gazes out the window again.

"They say that's the mildest form of hell, but I'm not so sure. Of course they're not in any real physical pain, but even so, the torment of being destined to forever ride the métro around and around the city – a cruel way to spend eternity." She shakes her head and turns back to look at me.

She is mad, I think, truly mad. I must ask Madame about her. If she lived in the United States she would most certainly be locked up in an asylum, or at least be heavily medicated before being allowed to wander around in public.

"You think I'm insane?" she cackles again. The sound sends a chill down my spine. How does she know what I’m thinking?

"I assure you, my dear, I'm not insane. It's all the other ones out there," she motions with her head towards the courtyard, "that you have to watch out for." She takes another sip of coffee and stares at me over the rim of her cup.

"And what about your homestay?" she inquires. "You had a nice time with your family in Aix-les-Bains?"

I wonder how she knows where I stayed, but I don't ask. I just nod my head and look down at my coffee cup.

"You spent a lot of time in the bars and clubs, yes?" she asks.

"Yes, I guess so," I continue to look into my coffee cup.

"But you know who is in the bars and clubs, yes?" she asks.

I look up at her and see her beady eyes upon me. She is leaning over the table again, as though she's about to devour me.

I shake my head.

"They are at the second level of hell. Oh, it would have been nice to have you see everything in the proper order. You did see the first level right away, but you actually saw the third level before the second level. But then you can't really expect a tour of hell to be perfect, can you?" She throws back her head and cackles again. This time I see all of her black, rotted teeth when she puts her head back. I shiver again. She stops cackling and looks at me.

"Still, they went out of their way to make sure Dante had a perfect tour. But then again, he was an exceptional case." She looks out at the courtyard. "He was truly an extraordinary man, with extraordinary talents," she muses.

She looks back at me and giggles. "I'm afraid your tour will not be so perfect as his," she giggles again and covers her mouth with her hairy hand. When she recovers she continues with her description of hell.

"The second level of hell is for those who did not make use of what was given them. They were given gifts and talents, just as everyone is. But they never used them, choosing rather to waste their time on idle, frivolous pursuits. So they are destined to spend an eternity doing just that, just what they chose to do with their lives. And that may sound like an enviable thing, but truly, it is a horrendous thing to do nothing with yourself for a lifetime, let alone an eternity." She clucks her tongue and shakes her head.

"So everyone in the bars and clubs is in the second level of hell?" I ask dubiously.

"No, no, my dear. Not everyone. Some people there are still of this world, and come and go as they please. And others in the second level may be in different places – loitering in the parks or wherever they chose to idle away the hours of their lives. All of those in the second level are destined to stay forever in those places – it is the form of hell they chose given how they chose to spend their lives. Don't you see?" She asks me as though she is talking to a second-grader.

"Yes, I see," I respond, although I don't.

A loud buzzing noise sounds above the door. Someone is ringing at the front gate to get in.

"Ahh, I have to go, my dear. We'll continue this chat latter. There is still much to talk about, and you still have much to learn and understand." She giggles as she gets up from the table.

I quickly get up and walk out into the courtyard. I had not realized how dark it was in the concierge's apartment until I step into the light of the courtyard. I breathe deeply, and try to forget about the concierge. I look at my watch. I still have time to go for a walk.

Out on the street, I look up and down wondering which way to go. There is a stream of people headed towards the ḿetro. There is also a steady flow of people in and out of the patisserie across the street. I comfort myself by buying a pastry and eating it on the street corner while everyone else hurries past me. The pastry is filled with a fabulous chocolate filling that I had not really anticipated and it oozes all over my mouth and fingers will I’m eating. Not wanting to let any of it go to waste, I lick myself clean while busy Parisians pass me by, most of them casting disapproving glances in my direction. By the time I'm done, the concierge and her rantings are a dim memory.

After wandering around aimlessly for some time, I finally return to the apartment. Madame is busy preparing the noon meal. She shows me where the dishes, glassware and silverware are, and I start setting table. Aurore plays in the children’s room. As I go back and forth to the table, I call out to Madame.

"I had coffee with the concierge this morning."

"Really?" responds Madame absent-mindedly.

"Yes, she is a very . . . . interesting person."

"Yes, she is," Madame is concentrating on whipping up a sauce in the kitchen.

"Do you know her very well?"

"Not really, I don't speak to her very often."

"I see. Has she been the concierge long?"

"As long as we've been here."

"Doesn't she seem a little, well, bizarre to you?

Madame pauses in her sauce making and thinks for a moment. "Well, she is a Lutheran. Did you get the wine glasses on the table?"

"Yes, Madame."

When Monsieur arrives home from work, Madame brings the food from the kitchen to the dining room table. Monsieur seats himself at the head of the table, Madame at the foot. I am asked to sit to the right of Monsieur, the place where the female guest typically sits. Aurore sits opposite me, her little legs sticking straight out on the grand dining room chairs. The table is laden with food, yet as we finish one course and move on to the next, Madame goes to the kitchen to retrieve even more. I try to remember to leave my left hand on top of the table while we’re eating. If you leave your hand in your lap, the American way, the French evidently think that you’re playing with yourself, or possibly your neighbor.

Madame speaks rapidly throughout the meal. My head aches trying to keep up with everything she's saying. After my second glass of wine things seem to get better. Monsieur continues to talk slowly and methodically, especially when speaking directly to me. Aurore plays with her food and smiles shyly at me. The meal goes on for hours. Finally, when my legs are nearly falling asleep from sitting so long, Monsieur apologizes for having to leave so soon and return to work. Gratefully I rise from the table and start helping Madame clear away the dishes. Madame asks me to start washing, and obediently I fill the tiny kitchen sink with soap and water. When at long last all of the dishes are washed and put away, Madame tells me she will show me what chores I need to do. I smile and nod my head.

First she leads the way down the hall to a tiny closet outside the bathroom I hadn’t noticed before. She pulls out a vacuum cleaner and brings it to the dining room. Each day, she explains, I am to vacuum the rug in the dining room and the living room. When the vacuuming is done, she continues, I can start on the ironing. She leads me back to the same closet and pulls out a tiny ironing board and what looks like some medieval weapon. She brings them to the kitchen and sets the ironing board up in the tiny space below the one window, right next to the kitchen table. She places the weapon on the ironing board. With the ironing board set up, there is no room to stand next to it to iron. Madame seems oblivious to the space constraints, and goes on to explain that she does the wash each day and places it on the drying racks in the bathroom to dry. Each day I am to take all of the dry laundry off the drying racks and iron it. Since ironing is a rarity in my life I am rather dumbfounded by what can possibly need to be ironed, particularly on a daily basis. Haven’t the French discovered the miracles of polyester?

I am then to straighten the living room, which generally means picking up and folding newspapers and magazines and picking up toys and putting them in the children’s room. I am also to dust the living room and dining room each day. With each chore she explains, she uses dramatic hand gestures to demonstrate the activity I’m to do, such as moving her arm back and forth to demonstrate vacuuming and pushing her hand back and forth to demonstrate ironing.

When she is finished, she stops and looks at me with a smile and says “You understand?”

I smile feebly in return and nod, “Yes, I understand.”

“Good,” she replies. She goes on to explain that she is visiting a friend this afternoon, and will take Aurore with her. She will pick up the older children after school and will be back at the apartment by 5:00 p.m.

She goes back down the hall to find Aurore, and I hear her struggling to get Aurore to change her clothes and go to the bathroom before they leave. Aurore seems to be in no mood to do either, and there is a great deal of yelling before Madame finally drags Aurore out of the bedroom, wearing the clothes that Madame wants her to wear, and down the hall to the bathroom. I hear more muffled commotion in the bathroom before Madame reappears at the end of the hall pulling Aurore behind her by one hand, her bladder now presumably empty.

I step back from the hallway as they approach and Madame calls out cheerfully “A tout a l’heuere” as she pulls Aurore after her. I nod and smile in response, and Madame opens the front door with one hand while still holding tight to Aurore with the other hand. She uses one foot to push the dog back as she opens the door, turns to me and asks me to hold the dog back so he doesn’t get out the door while she’s leaving. I move forward and grab the dog by the collar. I had not realized how large he was until I try to hold him back. Fortunately Madame is quick, and the door slams shut before he has much chance to lunge forward.

I release the dog and he looks up at me hopefully, wagging his tail. When he realizes that I will not be opening the door, he sighs and lies down in front of it.

The apartment is eerily quiet after Madame leaves. I have a major headache, and the silence is a welcome relief. I look at my watch and calculate how much time I have to complete my chores before Madame returns. Two and a half hours, plenty of time.

I start with the vacuuming, which does not take long. Next I go to the bathroom to check the laundry on the drying racks. I am utterly dismayed. The racks are covered in multiples layers of sheets, a huge tablecloth, t-shirts and Monsieur’s underwear. None of this is anything I would consider ironing at home, and I wonder if Madame really intends for me to iron Monsieur’s underwear. But when I consider the awkwardness of asking her about it, I realize it will simply be easier to iron everything. I gather up all the dried and stiffened underwear, sheets, t-shirts and tablecloth and head back to the kitchen.

Back in the kitchen, I stack all of the laundry on the kitchen table, then plug in the iron, which is so heavy it must truly be made of iron. I decide to start with the underwear, the smallest items, and move on to the biggest. While I wait for the medieval iron to warm up, I gaze at the huge stack of laundry on the tiny table. There are five pairs of Monsieur's underwear. If Madame does laundry every day, why would there be five pairs of Monsieur's underwear? Did Madame exaggerate her washing chores to impress me? Does Monsieur have some kind of hygiene fetish that compels him to change multiple times a day? Does he have a medical issue? Should he be wearing adult diapers instead of underwear? I shudder and try to direct my thoughts elsewhere. I test the iron and burn my finger tip.

I lift the heavy iron and proceed with Monsieur's underwear. I start with the back of the first pair, then flip them over to the front. It would have been easier if he wore boxers. Now I look at the multitude of seams around the crotch area and wonder if I'm really supposed to iron around all of it, like you would on the seams of a shirt. I look curiously at the double layer of fabric and little slit in the front. I have never examined men's underwear this closely. It's rather ingenuous, really, but also kind of grotesque. I feel like I shouldn't be handling his underwear this much. The more I debate what to do, the more confused I become. Finally I lift my heavy iron and drop it directly onto the middle of his underwear, just where the slit is. I wince a little as the heat sizzles up from under my weapon and hope that there is no symbiotic connection between Monsieur and his underwear, else he would no longer have need for the little slit at all. Then I move the iron around randomly on the front of the underwear, ignoring the seams completely. I doubt that Monsieur will complain about how his underwear is ironed, although I feel sure that Madame will tell me if it is deficient in any way.

I try to move quickly through the rest of his underwear, and keep my mind busy thinking about other things. Finally I move on to his t-shirts, which do not cause me so much anxiety. Then I tackle the sheets. They are way too large for the tiny ironing board. When I place one of the sheets on the board, it drops down to the floor in folds all the way around the board. However I position the sheets on the board, some part of the sheet drops to the floor and gets wrinkled again. It seems ridiculous to spend time ironing something that is getting wrinkled even as it’s being ironed. I get through one sheet and I’m not sure it looks any better than before I started. I do the rest of them anyway, then do the massive tablecloth.

When I'm done with the tablecloth and start folding it up, I notice the light coming through the window has become much fainter. As I glance out the tiny window, a large crow comes swooping down from the sky and perches on the edge of the window sill. At such close proximity, I see he is a huge bird, like the bird in the park from the other day. His feathers are such a dark glossy black he is nearly iridescent. He looks directly into the window at me with his dark beady eyes. I remember the dark beady eyes of the crow in the park, and those of the concierge, and I feel a slight chill run down my spine. I flap the tablecloth at the crow in an effort to get him to move off the window ledge. He is unperturbed by my frenetic motions. Then there is a commotion at the front door as Madame returns with all three children in tow, and the crow lifts off the windowsill and disappears from view.

*********

After another night of sleeping in the children's room, Monsieur informs me that my private room is now ready. The fresh paint is dry, so I can get my things together and he will show me my room.

Eager to have my own space, I quickly pack up my things in the children’s room. As we leave the apartment, Monsieur explains that my room is on the top floor. When the building was originally designed, the top floor was intended for the paid help that served those living on the lower floors. In fact, to reach the top floor, we have to take the elevator down to the street level and then take the service elevator back up.

When we reach the service elevator, I start to feel somewhat apprehensive. The service elevator is not entirely enclosed, but is merely a cage with a metal door on the front that you have to open and close manually. We enter the elevator. The only place this elevator goes is the top floor, like an express elevator for servants. The elevator makes so much noise as we go up that there is no use in trying to carry on a conversation. While I am not afraid of heights, I feel rather queasy by the time we reach the top floor. I try not to look down.

As we exit the elevator, I see a long, dark hallway in front of us. It is lit by a single bare light bulb halfway down the hall. There are no windows, only a series of doors on each side of the hallway. At the far end, I see a stooped old man shuffling away from us down the hall. There is a small clump of waxy brown French toilet paper stuck to one of his shoes. It makes a strange scraping sound on the bare wooden floors of the hallway as he walks. Monsieur informs me that all of the rooms on this floor share a single bathroom at the far end of the hall. I nod and try to smile. My stomach feels even more queasy.

We walk down the hall and Monsieur stops in front of my door, #33. He retrieves the key from his pocket and unlocks the door. He throws it open with a grand gesture and pronounces, “Voila!” Then he steps back from the door to let me pass through.

I enter the room and know immediately how Martha Stewart felt when she was first shown her prison cell. Quel horreuer! The room is tiny, and rectangular in shape, like a prison cell. The door cannot be opened all the way as it hits the narrow bed that sits along one long wall. On the wall opposite the bed, there is a sink, which Monsieur tells me does not work as there is no running water. Next to the sink is an old metal armoire. Directly opposite the door is a small window. The walls are covered with something that looks similar to burlap - a rough, brown fabric. The room, indeed, the entire floor, smells musty and moldy. There is no smell of fresh paint, or fresh anything. In fact, I cannot see what there would have been to paint in the room at all.

Monsieur is still in the hallway, since only one person can stand in the room at a time, and seems to be waiting for me to say something. All I can come up with is a feeble "It’s very nice.” Monsieur responds that he and Madame thought I would be more comfortable here than sharing a room with the children downstairs.

“Of course,” I respond, and try to ensure him that I appreciate the privacy.

Monsieur goes on to say that he and Madame have talked and that they will give me some “free time” today as it is Saturday. That will allow me some time to get settled into my room. They will not need me back at the apartment until later that afternoon, around 5 p.m. I thank him and he walks back down the hallway to the service elevator. I can hear the metal door thunking shut as he prepares for the descent.

I turn back to my room, close the door and sit down on the bed. It is hard and lumpy. I stare blankly at the wall across from me, just a few short feet from my face, and feel a wave of depression wash over me. I close my eyes and try to think of something else.

Martha Stewart! What did she do on her first day in her cell? Did she become morose, down-cast, depressed? Of course not - I must be more like Martha Stewart.

I open my eyes. In the wall above the sink I see something shiny-stick pins! I open my suitcase and look for the random assortment of postcards I’ve accumulated during my travels. In a flurry of domestic decorating, I arrange them on the wall over the bed in a random, abstract art kind of way. The entire room could be an exhibit at the Pompidou Museum of Modern Art titled, “Untitled”, or perhaps “Room #33.” The notation on the work would read:

This work symbolizes the isolation and despair of humans in the modern world, and our continued struggle to assimilate with our surroundings in a way that gives us the illusion of hope in a hopeless world. The single bed represents the individual nature of this struggle and the isolation of each individual from the rest of humanity. The iron bed frame, with the vertical bars on the headboard and footboard, symbolizes the imprisonment of man in his environment during his entire lifetime, from birth until death. The non-functional sink represents the futility of man’s efforts to improve upon his surroundings. The empty armoire represents the inability of man to fill the voids in his empty life. The cheap glossy postcards symbolize man’s ludicrous efforts to bring hope to his life through visions of being in another reality, and the rough burlap fabric on the walls reminds us that all of these elements – despair, hopelessness, isolation, imprisonment and futility are threaded through every element of our lives.

There would be a further note in fine print attached to the work:

The artist was commissioned to create this work by a coalition of pharmaceutical drug manufacturers whose profits are derived largely from the sale of anti-depressant drugs. If you are feeling depressed, please ask your physician about getting a prescription for one of the many anti-depressants now available on the market. Use of anti-depressants can result in nausea, restlessness, tremors, blurred vision and the desire to make repeated trips to Disney World. Use at your own risk.

I step back to admire my work and hit my ass on the non-functional sink. Martha Stewart would probably use it as a garden center, growing exotic, trailing vines down the sides. Not having much of a green thumb, I use it to store my feminine hygiene products instead. I continue to admire my work while rubbing out the pain in my ass.

I open my suitcase and put my clothes in the armoire. I take the four steps from one end of the room to the other to look out the window. It looks over the courtyard. I am almost directly above Madame and Monsieur’s apartment. As I look out I see another crow gliding down from the sky. He swoops around the courtyard once, then flies directly up to my window and sits on the ledge. He stares intently at me with his dark, beady eyes. My spine tingles. Is this the same crow that came to the window while I was I ironing? And sat near my bench at the park? I tap on the window in an effort to scare him off, but he is unperturbed. I tap harder, but he just gazes at me, unblinking. The similarity between his eyes and those of the concierge are creepy.

I try to ignore him and sit down on my hard bed to write in my journal, a prescribed activity in order to get college credit for my experience.

On a day in Paris dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,

Over the many curious chores assigned to me-

While I sat upon my rock hard bed, my head filled with thoughts of dread,

There came a shadow on my knee.

Looking up in fright, I cried out with all my might,

For there upon my window sat a crow.

As it watched me with a beady eye, I shrieked a final fearful cry,

While its shadow pierced my very soul.

Dr. Maro probably won't give me a very good grade for that, especially since it doesn't even really rhyme. I scratch it out and start journaling in earnest. When I look up from my writing sometime later I see the crow still watching me. My fear is replaced, at least temporarily, by anger. I get up from my bed determined to do something to rid myself of the crow. But now, as though sensing my change in demeanor, the crow lifts up off the windowsill and flies off into the horizon before I even reach the window.

*********

The next day, a Sunday, I am given several additional hours of free time after helping to get the children ready for mass. I decide to go out for a walk.

As I cross the courtyard, I hear the concierge call out to me from her apartment.

"My dear, come in for a cup of coffee." Her head is poking out her window overlooking the courtyard.

I slow down. I have to walk past her apartment to get out.

"I have to run some errands," I say, sounding completely unconvincing.

"Errands? You can't run errands on Sundays, my dear. Everything is closed on Sundays."

She's right. I walk even more slowly, trying to think of a more convincing excuse. I come up with nothing.

"Come in, come in," she motions with her hand through the window for me to come in, then disappears inside her apartment.

I stop and look around, hoping I'll find someone else to save me from another conversation with the mad woman. There is no one.

I start walking towards the exit, and as I pass the concierge's apartment she pops out.

"There you are, my dear." She takes me by the arm. Her grip is not as tight as the first time she latched on to me. "Come along, come along. We still have much to talk about." She leads me into her apartment and motions for me to sit down at the little table. The coffee is already poured and waiting for us. For a second I wonder if she's trying to drug me with something she's put in the coffee, but then I remember I never actually had any the first time I was here. I just held on to the cup and looked into it. I decide that's what I'll do again, just to be safe.

"So you have some free time this morning?"

"Yes, my family is at mass this morning."

"Yes, so are most. It's very quiet here Sunday mornings. I like it that way."

"You don't go to mass?" I inquire.

"Oh no, my dear. I'm not Catholic. I'm a Lutheran, like you. There are a few of us in France, you know." She giggles. "I like being Lutheran because you don't have to feel guilty about not going to church all the time. The Catholics, they feel guilty about everything. It's a terrible way to spend a life." She giggles again.

"But tell me, my dear, tell me about your tour of France. You were on tour before you came here, yes?"

"Yes, I toured France with a group of students from my school, and with our professor."

"That's good, that's good. And you toured Paris?"

"Yes, we did."

"And you saw the other tourists, yes?"

"Yes," I reply slowly, wondering what she is getting at.

"What did you think of them?" She is looking at me intently again with her dark, beady little eyes.

"The tourists?" I ask, confused.

"Yes, yes, the other tourists."

I shrug my shoulders. "Not much, I guess. I didn't talk to them."

"But did you notice? Did you see how frenzied they were?" she demands, leaning over the table and hissing at me.

"Yes, I guess so."

"That is their form of hell. It is the third level. Those who failed to take enjoyment out of the simple, everyday pleasure of life. They are destined to spend an eternity rushing from one thing to the next, never having the time to enjoy anything."

"I don't think I understand what you're saying."

She giggles. "Oh, my dear. It is not difficult to understand. It is just like the others – how you choose to spend your life affects how you will spend eternity. If you fail to take the time to truly enjoy life, and spend it instead on a frenzy of worthless activity, then you will spend eternity in an endless frenzy of rushing from one thing to the next - never thinking, never enjoying, never appreciating, never feeling."

"But what if you enjoying traveling and seeing new things? Do you go to hell just because you go on a few vacations?"

"No, no, my dear! Certainly there are tourists that are of this world! Not all of them are in the hell I described."

"So how do you tell the difference?" I ask.

"You will, my dear, you will." She reaches over and pats my arm. "In time you will learn to tell the difference. I think perhaps you already know." She leans back and takes a sip of coffee.

"Have you used any of the public bathrooms here?" she asks.

"Yes."

"Did you notice any of the attendants? Did you notice that their reflections cannot be seen in the mirrors?"

I recall the attendant at the station near here. "Well, the mirrors are so dirty, you can hardly see anything in them."

The concierge cackles with laughter. "Ahhh, my dear, that is so precious. You are still not believing what I say!" She cackles again.

"My dear, they are in hell, too. They are the ones who spent all their time on themselves. Self-centered, narcissistic, vain, concerned only about themselves and how they looked. Nothing else. They must spend their eternity watching others groom themselves in the mirrors, but never see themselves. They must spend their eternity cleaning up after other people's shit." The concierge throws back her head and cackles again.

"Do you see how just it all is? How everything makes sense?" she asks me.

I think she's growing more insane by the day. Nothing she has said has made any sense at all.

"Ahhh, my dear," she leans over and pats me on the arm again. "Perhaps this is all too much for you at one time. I see that you are not yet ready to believe. But you must believe, for you are the one that must see everything, and let the others know. What you see here is easy, there will be other things you see that will be very difficult, and dangerous. You will not be able to go without a guide. But enough for now, you run along and we'll talk again later. We'll talk about your new living quarters."

She giggles again as I walk out of her apartment. I walk until I find a pastry shop that is open on Sunday. The shop owner must be Lutheran. This time I have to eat a half dozen pastries, each a different variety, before I can forget about the concierge.

The next week is a difficult week. It starts on Monday, when some of Madame's cousins arrive for our noon meal, and Madame is in a frenzy to get everything prepared just right. She asks me to get a bottle of wine out, not just the everyday table wine, but an excellent Bordeaux, and I promptly drop it on the kitchen floor. I pick up the shards of glass all over the floor while Madame glares at me. The only one who is happy is the dog, who laps up almost the entire bottle of wine on the floor before I can get it wiped up. To make matters worse, during the meal I learn that the portraits hanging in the dining room are Madame's ancestors. Barons, both of them.

“Under the old system,” one of Madame’s relatives confides to me while nibbling some cheese, “Madame would have been a baroness.”

So Madame is genetically inclined to command servants, oppress the masses, and look fashionable while doing it. I take some satisfaction in knowing that barons and baronesses were at the bottom of the noble chain. Still, while my ancestors were scurrying to dig potatoes out of the dirt with their bare hands during the two weeks of summer harvest somewhere in Scandinavia, Madame’s ancestors were chatting up the King of France, waging war, and drinking fine wine. The portraits of her ancestors stare down at me sternly, their eyes scornful. Both of them hold their heads high, their noses well up in the air, as though the servants forgot to empty their chamber-pots and they can’t get the stench out of their nostrils.

The next day the bag bursts on the vacuum cleaner while I’m vacuuming the living room, sending clouds of dusty swirling through the air. Madame is not in the apartment when this happens, so I search frantically for a spare vacuum cleaner bag so I can clean up the mess before she returns. I search the tiny closet where the vacuum cleaner lives and in a fantastic move that would be the envy of a Chinese contortionist, I squeeze past the extraordinary amount of household clutter in the closet and finally find an extra bag lying in a clump of dust in the back corner.

Overjoyed, I bring it out to the living room and lay it next to the vacuum cleaner, then commence the process of trying to open the vacuum cleaner to get at its insides. But there are no helpful directions on the outside of the vacuum cleaner, no arrows, nothing to help discern how to get at the bowels of the vacuum cleaner. I turn it over and examine it closely from every angle, press on parts that look like they should move, then finally pick it up and drop it on the floor from several feet in the air not once, but several times. Voila! A mysterious cover is unlocked and pops open.

I carefully look at the burst bag and the new bag for further instruction, but find none. No symbols, no hieroglyphics, no French, English or Japanese. I curse the French and their carelessness as to domestic drudgery. Another reason why France is no longer really a super-power. They’re only invited to the G-8 summits because they cater the food.

Outraged, I shake my fist at the vacuum cleaner, now lying on the middle of the living room floor, its insides spilling out onto the carpet it’s supposed to clean. I jump up and down in a fit of rage, causing the floor to shake and the vacuum cleaner to send up little poufs of its guts into the air in response. Even Renard lifts his head to watch me from his post by the door.

It is just at this moment that I hear Madame’s keys in the door. I drop to my knees and paw desperately at the vacuum cleaner insides lying on the floor, trying to stuff them back in the bag. Madame opens the door to find me on the floor, straddled over the vacuum cleaner, both hands deep inside the vacuum cleaner bag. I fell as though I’ve been caught in some kind of perverse sex act. She stares at me with her big blue eyes, unblinking, and I stare back.

“The vacuum cleaner is broken,” I finally say, hesitantly. Not exactly true, but I don’t have sufficient vocabulary to explain precisely what happened and I trust she can figure it out on her own. She just stares at me with her nose up in the air like there's a stench she can't get out of her nostrils.

The day after the vacuum cleaner incident I overload the washing machine and it breaks down. Monsieur has to spend most of the following Saturday with his head in the washing machine and tools in hand. I feel sorry for him as he no longer has a free hand to push his hair out of his eyes. He seems invigorated by the whole thing, however, whether it’s the sense of accomplishment in fixing something or the fact that he effectively avoided his family for an entire day, I’m not sure.

That evening after the children are in bed I sit down with Madame and Monsieur who are watching the news on television. I can make out only some of what is being discussed on the television. Monsieur patiently explains to me some of what they’re talking about, using a slow, methodical voice.

Madame interrupts him, “But why are you speaking so slowly to her? She will never improve her French if you speak like that! You must speak as you normally do, that is the way to help her learn French better!”

Monsieur turns to stare at her for a moment, then turns back to stare at the television and stops talking entirely.

*********

On Sunday afternoon, Madame suggests I take the children on an excursion to the Bois de Boulogne and the Jardin d'Acclimisation. It is a beautiful day and I'm excited to see the park, which is massive. When we arrive at the park entrance, however, the children immediately want their snack. I pass out the bread and chocolate that we packed and they proceed to eat some and smear the rest on their faces and clothes. I hurry them along so we can see the park, not bothering to try to clean them up.

We have gone only a few more yards when they spot a puppet show going on just inside the park entrance. They beg to watch, and reluctantly I agree to sit down with them. The puppets are screeching at such a high pitch I cannot understand a word they're saying, but the children are fascinated. I content myself with watching the other people in the audience. There are a lot of children there with young girls. Most of the girls appear to be foreign, wearing clothes that seem just as out of place as mine. There are Indian girls, African girls, and Hispanic girls. There are girls who appear to be from other parts of Europe, as they are not dressed as stylishly as a French girl would be. I seem to be the only one wearing American attire, with my tennis shoes, jeans, and bright red t-shirt.

While observing them, it slowly dawns on me that I am one of them. I am not part of a French family, as Dr. Maro so charmingly described it. I am the summer help, the nanny, the servant, the bottom of the food chain. I am an au pair. My long list of daily chores, my nearly constant tending to the children - why did it take me so long to see it?

I look at my au pair colleagues more closely. I watch them interact with their children. I feel the dreadful sense of depression wash over me that I felt when I first saw my private cell. Not only am I the bottom of the food chain, but I am the incompetent among au pairs, the slime on the underbelly of society. The other girls have some level of control over their charges. They speak, and the children listen. Their children laugh politely at the puppets, and clap their hands as though they’re watching a Shakespearean production at an English boarding school.

My children screech like deranged maniacs, demons from the underworld. Their entire bodies gyrate as they howl and point at the puppets. Their eyes have a sadistic glint, their teeth are sharp and pointy. Streaks of chocolate and bread crumbs are around their mouths, their hands and their clothes. Their hair is disheveled, their clothes rumpled. I shudder as I watch them. By the time the puppet show is finally over, it is time to return to the apartment.

When we return home and I’m at last free to go to my private quarters, I dash out to a pastry shop and buy half a dozen pastries to bring back to my room. As I sit on my bed devouring them, the crow returns to watch me. I glare at him so ferociously he lifts off the sill after only a few seconds and flaps off into the horizon.

*********

The following week Madame informs me that she has purchased some holy things to help her ailing father, and that I am to retrieve them. Nervously I ask what they are, thinking I may have to travel through Paris with the bulky and bloodied shroud and skull of a martyred saint. I am relieved when she says it is a vial of holy water and a basket of rose petals. Not being a catholic, the significance of these items is lost on me, but I am glad to be gone on an errand most of the day.

I follow Madame's directions closely. The shop where I am to pick up her items is close to one of the major flea markets in Paris. Having been given most of the day for the errand, I decide I should take some time to browse among the assorted junk at the market. I am intrigued by the array of rusted out doorknobs, fragments of ancient wooden furniture, and old portraits missing large parts of their subjects' faces. According to the vendors, the high prices associated with all of these items is well worth it as they were at one time handled by none other than Marie Antoinette, one of the many King Louis, or some other noteworthy figure.

While I inspect the remnants of a garment that was once worn by Joan of Arc, an hunched up lady wearing an even older garment approaches me.

"You were sent by Madame Noir, yes?" She asks in a raspy voice.

I look up. I am startled to see that there is a crow perched on her shoulder.

I recover enough to respond, "No, Madame, you are mistaken."

"But Madame Noir told me to expect you," she insists. She and the crow both look at me intently.

"I'm sorry. Madame Noir was mistaken." I try to sound firm.

"But you do know Madame Noir?" the old lady persists.

"Well, . . . " I hesitate too long.

"You must come this way," and the old lady seizes me by the arm just as Madame Noir had done so many times. She walks me across the street and down a narrow little cobblestone street. The old stone buildings on either side of the street seem to close in closer and closer around us. I struggle to release my arm but her grip is fierce.

"Madame, I must tell you-"

"Don't worry my dear, we're almost there," the old lady cuts me off. The crow flies off her shoulder and sits atop the door frame of a dilapidated old door just down the street. The door is just like all of the other doors in the street, except this one is marked #6. We stop in front of the door and the old lady raps on it with her fist with all of her strength.

"You go in, they will show you what you need to see." Then the old lady steps back from the doorway. On the other side of the door, I hear a shuffling sound, feet approaching the door. It opens and the crow flies away.

Two old people, a man and a woman, stand inside the now open door. They wear matching frowns in their pale wrinkled faces, like a French version of Grant Woods’ couple in American Gothic. They step back and I hesitate at the doorway.

"I'm sorry," I begin apologetically. "There seems to have been some mistake-"

"There's been no mistake," the old lady behind me cuts in, then gives me a ferocious shove in the back with both of her gnarly old hands. I stumble into the hallway with the old couple. The old lady slams the door behind me. I turn quickly to open the door and run out, but the door handle won't turn. I shake the knob determinedly and pull at the door, but still it won't budge.

"You can't get out," the old man says to me.

"What?" I am panicky now.

"You can't get out that way, you have to walk this way if you want to leave again." And he turns and starts shuffling down the hallway. The old woman shuffles after him.

Desperately I try to open the door again, but it is no use. I will have to find another door, or a window. I turn to watch the old couple still shuffling down the hall. They seem harmless enough, but what will they lead me to?

I walk gingerly down the hall. There is furniture piled up along either wall, leaving only a narrow little path to walk through. There are large armoires that are partially open, bursting with other smaller pieces of furniture inside. The hall opens into a larger area, a living area, which is also stuffed with furniture. There is a large couch along the wall along with a series of chairs, all representing the history of chair making from Louis XII through the present day. Coffee tables and end tables take up so much space there seems to be no way to walk through the living area, let alone live in it. The tables in turn are loaded with books, lamps, china dogs, and other assorted odds and ends. Pictures in wooden frames, gilded frames and no frames cover every possible inch of wall space. There is more junk in here than in the flea market outside. There are no windows, and my panic about getting out increases.

Beyond the living area I see an entrance to another part of this odd indoor flea market, and I hear the distinct noise of a door opening coming from that direction. I jump over tables and chairs, knocking all sorts of clutter down in the process, and make my way towards the sound. The old man is standing in another small room equally full of furniture, but this room has a door, and the door is open. I push my way past the old man and through the door. I hear the door close behind me and I look around to find myself in a small shop with lots of tiny wooden cubicles full of small packages – like the back of the wand shop where Harry Potter was matched with his wand.

"Hello?" I hear a man's voice calling from somewhere in the shop. "Is someone there?"

Before I can respond, a middle aged man comes from the opposite end of the shop and sees me.

"Hello!" His voice booms in the small shop. "You must be the American!"

"Ah, yes," I respond hesitantly.

"Yes, yes, I received word that you would be coming to pick up the holy water and rose petals today."

"Yes, that's right," I try to recover myself. I pull out the slip from Madame with the address on it. "Is this 33 Rue D'Alighieri?"

"Yes, you're in the right place. But you have come in the back way!" he exclaims loudly.

"Well, yes. I was just at the flea market."

"The flea market!" He laughs a loud laugh. "It is good you had a chance to see the flea market, but I hope you didn't spend any of your money there!"

"No, no I didn't."

"Excellent. Let me get you the things for Madame." And he bustles off to the front of the shop. I follow him slowly. I hear the door at the front of the shop open and a little bell rings.

"Bonjour Madame!" the shop owner calls out.

"Bonjour," replies a lady.

"I will be right with you, I am just finishing up with another customer," the shop owner says.

"Of course, of course," the lady replies.

The shop seems to be an ordinary shop, despite the fact that it carries things like holy water and rose petals. Did I just imagine the other place with all the furniture, and the old lady and the crow?

I get to the front of the shop and the shop owner is just wrapping up my items.

"Here you go, Mademoiselle," he hands me two small packages. I thank him and leave the shop. As I do so, I notice a crow perched over the doorway. I hastily make my way to the métro, not wanting to linger in the area any longer than necessary. Thankfully the métro is not very busy this time of day, and I don't have to worry about crushing my precious cargo.

Curious, I unwrap the packages after I take my seat to take a look. The holy water is in a little glass vial. It looks like ordinary water to me. I'm not sure what makes it holy. The rose petals are all dried out, and very fragile looking. They are in a little velvet bag. As I'm examining them, someone sits down in the seat next to me. It is a young Frenchman, like the many young Frenchmen I've seen throughout my tour. I notice that the rest of the car is empty. Odd that he decided to sit right next to me, but he doesn't try to talk to me or even look at me, so I don't worry about his intentions.

As I start to re-wrap the holy things, the Frenchman places his hand on my inner thigh and starts moving it towards my crotch. My hands are full of the precious holy items so I can't use them to fend off the advance. If I scream, there is no one to hear me. If I wait and try to report the incident, I’m not sure the French would consider his actions objectionable, let alone criminal. As far as I know this ḿetro molester is employed by the ḿetro itself, paid to keep tourists traveling alone from becoming lonely and despondent. I am clearly left to my own devices.

"Stop!" I say with as much force as I can. The hand doesn't stop. I pull up both my legs and push at him, then leap from my seat as though someone had hit the ejection button, not the erection button, and dash to the other end of the train, still clutching the holy items.

Since I can go no further, I simply sit down again, facing away from the ḿetro molester. My heart is racing but I try not to panic. Other Frenchmen have not had the least bit of energy for pursuit when confronted with the slightest resistance. Surely the ḿetro molester will simply wait to fondle the next unsuspecting rider and hope for a more positive reception. But alas, such is not my luck.

I see in the reflection of the train windows that the ḿetro molester has gotten out of his seat and is headed toward me. He sits down next to me again and I turn to face him, holding out the holy items in front of me like they're loaded pistols in the hopes that they will provide me some protection. But they must not work for Lutherans, and the métro molester pays no attention to my hands as one of his again seeks out my crotch. I must plan an escape.

Like a James Bond girl, but without the skin-tight clothes or the bouncing bosom, my body tenses as I develop my plan and prepare for execution. The ḿetro molester mistakes my tensing muscles as a sign of encouragement, and begins to move his hand faster. I feel the train starting to slow down for the next stop. As his hand reaches my crotch and he starts to rub in earnest, the doors to the train open. There is no one else getting on to distract him. With perfect timing, I wait until just before the door closes again, then leap out of my seat and take the two steps to the door and exit just as the doors start to close. As the train pulls away I see the métro molester still sitting in the same seat.

My brilliant plan and its exquisite execution has worked. I am exhilarated. And the holy things are still intact, although the rose petals are a bit crushed around the edges. I wait until the next train pulls in, which has several people on it. None of them look like they will try to fondle me. I take a seat, and hope Madame does not have any more errands for me to run.

*********

The next morning, I drag myself down to the apartment to help get breakfast ready for the children. I am immensely relieved when Madame tells me that she will not need me until late in the afternoon. She is expecting her brother Jean-Regis to arrive from Rennes that day, and she and the children are going out for the day with him.

I walk through the courtyard, happy to be free for almost an entire day. But the concierge, whom I have effectively avoided for some time, leaps out of nowhere as I cross the courtyard and latches on to me.

"My dear, I have not seen you for many days. It is time we have another conversation. Come, come with me." She drags me towards her apartment. This time I don't even try to resist. I sit down at the little table where she has the coffee poured and look into the cup. I hope I don't have to spend much of my free time listening to her insanity again today.

"Why so gloomy?" she asks.

"What?"

"You look sad. What's wrong?"

I am surprised her madness would allow her to see what other people are feeling. But maybe that's what drives them mad in the first place – seeing too much.

"It's just such a nice day out, and I haven't had much free time lately. I was hoping to walk to the park today."

"Ahhh, my dear. There will be plenty of time for walks later. But while you're here it's important that we have these conversations. You must understand and appreciate all that you see. It's going to be all up to you, you know, to update Dante's message and let others know."

I stare blankly at her.

"You have been told, haven't you?"

I still stare blankly at her. "Told what, exactly?"

"Oh, dear Lord. Dear, dear Lord. This is quite unbelievable." She shakes her head back and forth.

"Well, it's not my job to explain all of that to you. That's for others to do. It should have been done by now, but like I said your tour is not exactly a perfect tour." She cackles. The sound no longer sends shivers down my spine. Perhaps I'm going mad, too.

"Tell me about the errand you ran yesterday."

"What about it?," I say suspiciously.

"You stopped at the flea market, didn't you?"

"Yes," I reply slowly.

"Did you meet my friend?"

"There was a woman there who asked if you sent me."

"Yes, yes, that was my friend." She giggles. "And she showed you the old couple's apartment?"

"Well, she forced me there and pushed me in."

"Oh, I'm sorry. She is rather pushy sometimes." The concierge giggles again. "But what did you think about the old couple's apartment?"

"I couldn't get out," now my tone is angry. "The old lady pushed me in and I couldn't get out again."

"But you went out into the shop, didn't you? You got the things for Madame there?"

"Yes, I did."

"So you found your way out, just as you were supposed to."

I glare at the concierge. She goes on, undaunted.

"Did you notice all the things the old couple had?"

"Yes," I reply tersely.

"That is their form of hell. They chose to spend their lives accumulating material things. In their case, as I understand it, mostly furniture. Seems an odd thing to want."

I notice for the first time that other than the little table and chairs in the concierge's apartment, there is very little other furniture.

"In any event, they must spend their eternity being smothered by the things they gathered during their lives. It's the 5^th level of hell. They are very nearly suffocating under all of their furniture, aren't they?"

"Yes, I suppose so." My tone is still short. I glance at my watch. Still plenty of time to enjoy the day, but I'm ready to move on. "And is there anything else you want to tell me? To help deepen my understanding and appreciation of what I'm seeing here?" I try to keep the sarcasm out of my tone, but it creeps in.

"Tell me, my dear, how do you like your living quarters."

"They're very quiet."

"Yes, yes. And the people there?"

"I haven't seen anyone else. Except for the first day, I saw one old man walking to the bathroom. I think he stole all the toilet paper."

The concierge cackles. "He doesn't need toilet paper, my dear."

"Is he in hell?"

"Yes, my dear, he is. He's in the 6^th level of hell."

"So you don't need toilet paper in the 6^th level of hell."

She cackles again. "No, no, there's no need for it at any level of hell. You don't have normal bodily functions in hell." She giggles at the thought of it.

"And so why is the old man in hell?" I decide if I just get her to talk, and talk quickly, perhaps I can be on my way sooner.

"Everyone on that floor was a bystander. While others were doing good deeds, or bad deeds, or anything at all, they merely stood by and watched. They could have taken action, they could have stood for something, they could have made connections with others during their lives. Instead they chose to stand by and watch, and do nothing. They cut themselves off from their own lives, and the lives of others. So now they are destined to spend an eternity cut off from others, never interacting with others, never seeing others. They can observe what is going on in the world through the little windows of their rooms, just as they did during their lives. But they must spend an eternity all by themselves."

"But the old man is the only one on the floor."

"No, no, my dear. There is someone in every room on that floor. They do not come out to see each other, or anyone else. The old man you saw, did he see you?"

"No, he was walking away from me."

"Yes, yes, that's how it should be." She nods her head up and down.

"So, what else do you want to tell me?" I try to hurry her along.

"Just one more thing today, dear. Have you noticed the other au pairs? At the park with their little ones?"

"Of course."

"Many of them are also in hell. Their hell is at the 7^th level. It's reserved for those who neglected the children in their lives. Those you've seen in the 1^st through 5^th levels, for the most part what they did hurt only themselves, not others. But those at the 6^th and 7^th levels, the bystanders and those who neglected the children – what they did or failed to do hurt others terribly. They're at the deepest levels of the first layer, very nearly in the second layer. And those at the 7^th level have to tend other people's children, and a terrible task it is. Other people's children are snot-nosed, shit-bottomed little monsters, don't you think?"

I stare at her. "So I'm in hell, too?"

The concierge throws back her head and cackles. "Figuratively speaking, I suppose you are. But no, no, my dear. For whatever reason, you've chosen to spend this part of your life tending other peoples' children all on your own. Your time here will end, but the other au pairs, those serving in hell, will never be done. As the children they're tending grow up, they'll be given new families, and continue to care for other people's children for all eternity."

"I see. Well, if that's all for today, I guess I'll be going." I get up and head to the door.

"Yes, yes, you go along. We'll talk again later."

I pause at the door and turn around.

"What about meals?" I ask the concierge.

"What about them?" she responds.

"Well, when we spend hours on end - nearly an eternity - sitting at the table eating and talking, is that a form of hell?"

The concierge giggles. "No, my dear, that's just how we do it here in France."

*********

When I come back to the apartment later in the day, Jean-Regis is there. He is standing in the entry when I come through the door.

“So, you are the au pair from America,” he says with a sly grin.

“Yes,” I respond. I can tell already that I don't like him.

“My name is Jean-Regis. I am Muriel’s brother and I will be staying here for a few days.” He continues to look me up and down, stroking my body with his eyes. I feel as though I do not have enough clothes on. My dislike for him intensifies. Jean-Regis has blue eyes and fair skin like Madame’s, with dark hair.

Madame comes down the hall with all three children trailing behind her.

“Ah, BJ, I see you have met Jean-Regis.”

“Yes,” I respond.

“Ah yes, Muriel, we have already had a very nice conversation,” Jean-Regis tells his sister, but without taking his eyes off of me.

“I hope you won’t mind Jean-Regis,” says Madame. “He does not always have the best manners,” she says laughingly.

I don’t have a response for this, which is not necessary as Madame continues without pausing. “I am meeting Monsieur for a dinner party with some of our friends later tonight. You won’t need to wait up for us as Jean-Regis will be here, but I would like you to get dinner for the children and get them to bed as usual.”

“Of course, Madame,” I respond automatically.

Madame continues on in her hurried way. “And now that you’re here with the children, Jean-Regis and I are going out for a little while. I’ll be back to get ready for the dinner party shortly.”

“Of course, Madame,” I respond again.

Madame calls to the children and tells them that she and Jean-Regis are leaving for a little while. The children beg to go with, but Madame insists that this is a trip only for Madame and Jean-Regis. After a flurry of good-byes, Madame leaves with Jean-Regis right behind her. As he follows Madame, Jean-Regis turns around to give me another sly grin and one more look up and down before closing the door behind him. I feel my face flush as I lock the door after them.

The children and I go through our usual routine of playing games in their room. Then, as usual, I try to get them to clean their room but end up picking up most of the toys myself. I find some leftovers in the refrigerator for their dinner and Antoine and Adrienne bicker at the table while I try to get them fed.

Madame and Jean-Regis return while we’re eating in the kitchen. Antoine and Adrienne greet Jean-Regis enthusiastically, but Aurore merely continues to eat her dinner and stares at him with her big eyes. Madame tells the children even though Jean-Regis is there they will need to go to bed at the usual time. The children complain loudly, but Madame is firm. Then she disappears down the hall to get ready for her dinner party, and Jean-Regis settles into the living room to read the paper.

Antoine and Adrienne hastily finish their dinner and run to the living room to pounce on Jean-Regis. While he rough-houses with them, Aurore stands watching from the kitchen. She backs up into me while I too, watch, and she reaches for my hand. Jean-Regis sees her and calls her to him, but she just stares at him and presses even farther into me. I pick her up and we sit down in the other chair in the living room. I can feel her little body tense up as we move closer to all of the commotion, and I wrap my arms around her waist as she sits in my lap.

“Aurore, Aurore,” Jean-Regis calls to her, “I need your help. They’re too much for me.”

Aurore merely continues to stare at him and makes no move to join in the play. Adrienne and Antoine continue to pounce on Jean-Regis. He grabs at them and they shriek at each other, “Watch out, watch out, he’s going to get you!”

Then Jean-Regis, with Adrienne and Antoine still on top of him, rolls off of the couch and onto the floor.

“We’ve got him, we’ve got him!” Adrienne and Antoine shriek.

Jean-Regis gasps loudly and says “I’m done, Aurore, I’m done,” then lies still. Adrienne and Antoine look at his motionless form on the floor and cry “We did it, we did it!”

But just as they look away from Jean-Regis he grabs each of them with one arm and cries out “Look, I’m not done after all!” Adrienne and Antoine shriek again, and even Aurore giggles.

“That will teach you to finish the job,” Jean-Regis says to Adrienne and Antoine.

He gets off the floor and sits back down on the couch, somewhat winded from all of his play. “All right, that’s enough for now.”

Adrienne and Antoine start to complain immediately, “No, no, we want to play some more,” and pull at his arms and legs.

“No, no, I need to rest a bit,” says Jean-Regis. “But tell me what you’ve been doing all summer. I haven’t seen you for so long.”

Adrienne and Antoine start chattering away. Aurore continues to sit perfectly still in my lap, watching and saying nothing. I am glad that she is there, each of us protecting the other from Jean-Regis.

When Antoine and Adrienne finally pause in their chattering, Jean-Regis turns to Aurore and says, “And what have you been doing, Aurore? Aren’t you going to talk to me?”

She continues to stare at him and says nothing.

“You hurt my feelings when you don’t talk to me,” he says to her.

Adrienne and Antoine immediately start in, “Aurore, say something, talk to Jean-Regis.”

Aurore is saved by Madame’s entrance into the living room. She is wearing a sleek little black dress. She is wearing low heeled, black velvet shoes and is carrying a black velvet jacket. She has pulled her hair back tight with a narrow black velvet ribbon. She has her dark red lipstick on, and has made up her eyes more than usual so that they look huge in her pale, oval face.

“All right, children, I’m leaving now,” she announces.

“Mama, you look so beautiful,” says Adrienne. She runs up to Madame to hug her. Madame holds her off, but leans down for a kiss on the cheek. Antoine gives her a kiss on the cheek too, and even Aurore slides off of my lap to run over and give her mother a kiss, but runs back quickly to the safety of my lap.

“Ten more minutes and then it’s time for snack and bed,” says Madame. I look at my watch and am surprised to see how late it is. Maybe having Jean-Regis here won’t be so bad after all if he entertains the children like this every night.

“BJ,” she says, “you can put the children to bed as usual but you don’t need to wait for me to return since Jean-Regis will be here.”

“Yes,” I respond. Madame says her goodbyes and leaves the apartment. I wonder if Jean-Regis’ behavior will change now that she is gone, but he continues to talk with the children.

After a few more minutes, I tell the children that it is time for snack. They complain as usual, but Jean-Regis backs me up and tells them to listen to me.

I head into the kitchen with the children and get them a snack. Jean-Regis stays in the living room and reads the paper. Once the children are done with their snack, I herd them into their bedroom to get their pajamas on, then let them run out into the living room to say goodnight to Jean-Regis. Once they come back to the bedroom, I get them in bed as usual and shut off their light. I go to the kitchen and start cleaning up, and just as I’m finishing Jean-Regis appears in the doorway.

“So, how do you like Paris?” he asks.

I look up from wiping off the table. “I like it,” I respond, and return to wiping the table.

He laughs. “You would like it better if you did not have to work like this. The kitchen is clean, come and have a drink with me. Have you tried cassis? It’s a perfect drink for women, and Muriel has a fine bottle here.” He motions out to the living room.

I finish wiping the table and look around the kitchen. There really isn’t anything else to clean, and I can’t think of a response. I fold the dishcloth I’d been using and place it on the kitchen counter, then slowly walk out of the kitchen, following Jean-Regis. He is continuing to talk, very rapidly just like Madame. I try to listen to what he's saying while trying to think of some reason to leave the apartment. By the time I step out of the kitchen he is already pulling the bottle of cassis out of the cabinet in the living room, saying that anyone who takes care of children all day deserves to relax with a drink in the evening.

"Please, sit down,” he says, motioning to the chair in the living room. He starts to pour a drink for me, and I slowly lower myself into the chair. He hands me the drink and pours one for himself. I take a sip, and feel the stickiness of the cassis covering the inside of my mouth, coating my tongue, and sticking to the back of my throat. I take another sip, and taste the sweetness of it, but don’t like the sticky sensation it leaves.

Jean-Regis takes a drink of his, sees my reaction, and laughs. “You don’t like it!” he exclaims. He is standing in front of me, watching my reaction.

I look up and am about to respond when suddenly he leans over me, and puts his mouth over mine. Before I know what is happening I feel his tongue in my mouth. I instinctively pull back in my chair to get away, but Jean Regis stays with me, pushing his tongue into all the recesses of my mouth. Like a fish flopping on a hook, his big tongue flops and flops in my mouth. I am horrified by the sloppiness of it, the wetness. I think of the disgusting, sloppy kisses from big dogs I’ve known, their huge wet tongues happily licking and salivating on anything they can reach. I pull back even farther and then, as quickly as he leaned over me, he draws back and stands up again. He laughs again, and says “But you like that, don’t you?”

I feel that my mouth is so full of the saliva he left that if I open my mouth it will come pouring out. I take another drink of cassis, hoping that the alcohol will kill the germs. I set my drink down, stand up and say, “Good night.” He backs up to let me pass, and I head straight for the door.

“Good night,” he calls out as I leave, still laughing.

I rush to the elevator and punch the button. Down to the street level, then back up to my floor in the service elevator. With rising anxiety I watch impatiently as the floors pass by. I wrench open the doors to the elevator when I reach my floor and dash to my room, heedless of the noise my pounding feet are making. I grab my toothpaste and toothbrush and run headlong to the common bathroom. I stand at the sink and scrub my tongue and all of the insides of my mouth until they bleed. Satisfied that I’ve done as much as I can to rid my mouth of the germs, I return to my room. I make a mental note to ask the concierge what kind of hell I just witnessed.

In July, the heat and humidity in Paris becomes more unbearable with each passing day. I switch from wearing t-shirts and jeans to t-shirts and skirts. Adrienne and Antoine are finally done with school, which means they're at home every day, all day. The family starts to talk about their annual summer retreat to Britanny. Madame’s parents own a small farm in Britanny, near the village of Tremoyec, where the entire family comes together for the summer. My family will be leaving for Britanny the end of July, and of course I will be going with them. The children tell me that there are loads of mice there, but every time Madame and Monsieur overhear them they shush them.

Descended from a long line of farming families, I have no romantic delusions about the country. I know what cow manure smells like, the squishy sound it makes when you step in a freshly dropped cow pie, the sucking noise it makes when you step out of it, and how even those that have a crusty outside can still be squishy on the inside. I know that farms are magnets for insects, and for flea-ridden dogs and mangy, three-legged cats who did not heed the warning signs boldly printed on all farm equipment “DO NOT INSERT FINGERS OR CATS IN MOVING PARTS WHEN OPERATING.”

But this farmplace is not just any farm, it is a farm near the ocean. I imagine spending lazy days on the beach watching the waves roll in, reading trashy novels, my skin bronzing in the French sun. But my imagination is interrupted by Madame’s frenzy in preparing for our departure to Bretagne. Madame’s moods swing from frenzy to hysteria. I am swept up in the torrent of her moods and I, too, begin to panic about the trip, the preparations, the ironing, the mice.

Before we depart, the concierge accosts me one more time as I pass through the courtyard on my way to buy some baguettes for Madame.

"Come, come," she calls out from her window. "We must talk again before you leave for the country."

Reluctantly I head to the door of her apartment. At least this should be the last time I have to sit with the mad woman.

"Sit down, sit down," she motions to the little table. There is no coffee this time.

"My dear, your stay in Paris is nearly over."

"Yes, I'm afraid so."

"I hope you'll remember everything you've seen here, and everything we've talked about."

"Of course. I don't know how I could forget."

"That's good, that's good. It's important that you let others know, just as Dante did. And you see now it's not as complicated as he made it out to be – with all his rings and circles of hell, I don't know how anyone could have understood that. You see, there are only the 7 levels we talked about. But of course that's only the first layer. You'll be seeing the second layer when you go to the country."

"The second layer?"

"Yes, yes. You weren't told about any of this?" She shakes her head again. "This is most bizarre, most bizarre."

"And what exactly is the second layer?"

"Well, my dear, I don't know that it's really my place to tell you." She pauses for a moment and looks out the window to the courtyard. "And yet, it seems you should be somewhat prepared for the terrible things you will see." She turns back to look at me.

"Everything you saw here, everything in the first layer of hell, is for those who really didn't intend to harm others. They may have harmed others, and in some cases they most certainly harmed others. Those in the 6^th and 7^th levels harmed those that they neglected. But they didn't intend for that to happen."

She looks at me intently. "The second layer of hell is for those who fully intended to harm others. It is a horrible, dangerous place. Here you were able to walk about freely and see things on your own, without a guide. In the second layer of hell, you cannot go without a guide. To do so would be very dangerous indeed, and it's possible you would not be able to return."

"I see. And will you be coming with me as my guide?" I ask rather sarcastically.

"Oh no, my dear. I am not allowed. You will have someone to guide you who has been authorized to go, and to bring you along, and to return you again. You must always stay with your guide – that is very important."

"I see." I look at my watch. "Oh, look at the time. I really must be going. Madame wants me to get some baguettes for dinner." I get up to leave. The concierge grabs me by the arm before I reach the door.

"My dear girl, you are such a nice, ordinary girl. I'm not sure why you have been chosen for this task. But you must take what I say seriously, for you are in great danger if you do not. And if you do not let others know about what you see, then the rest of the world is in great danger." She releases my arm.

"At the very least, I hope you have come to understand that things are not always as they seem. On both this side and the other side, it can be difficult to see right from wrong, and good from bad. You must always seek to find the truth, and let others know."

I back out of the doorway as she continues to watch me with her beady eyes.

"Good luck, my dear. I wish you the very best."

"Thank you," I mumble. When I exit her apartment, I run to the bakery and eat a dozen pastries before buying the baguettes for Madame.

*********

On the day of our departure for Britanny, Monsieur drives the car from the garage where it is parked to the street in front of the apartment, and one by one we load ourselves in. As each person enters the little car, it sinks down closer and closer to the road that it is supposed to carry us over. I am the last to enter, and I step in gingerly, holding my breath as if this will somehow relieve the car of the burden of my weight.

I sit at a slight angle as my knees hit the back of Monsieur’s seat if I sit straight. Monsieur is hunched over the steering wheel in the front, his head and shoulders bowed over more than ever given the inadequate amount of clearance above him. I can see that his long legs are bent at an awkward angle and his knees are nearly touching the steering wheel. His pale skin looks even paler in the early light of the Parisian morning, and he is sweating more than usual.

Aurore is practically on my lap, and Adrienne and Antoine are on the other side of her. I reach for the door and swing it shut. I pull it with more force than necessary, expecting it to be a heavy duty American style car door, and the entire car rocks on impact.

Madame seems to be the only one with enough space, looking cool and sophisticated as ever in the front seat, her hair pulled back tight and looking shiny in the sunlight. I look around for a seatbelt but, safety on the road not being a priority for the French, I find none. Given we are unlikely to be dislodged from our spots even if hit by a bullet train, considering how tightly we are packed in the back seat, I decide a seatbelt is unnecessary.

Antoine and Adrienne immediately begin to argue about which of them should get to sit next to the window. Antoine, as the more intellectually advanced, had the foresight to get in the car first, allowing him to claim the coveted spot. Madame turns around and yells at them to be quiet. Her voice seems especially loud and shrill in the confines of the tiny car.

Monsieur turns the key in the little car and it makes a clicking sound, like a wind-up toy, before the engine turns over with a high-pitched whine. He pulls away from the curb and we’re off with a lurch, the car barely clearing the road as it struggles to hold our collective weight.

As we approach the center of the city, Monsieur’s shoulder blades, which I can view easily as his shoulders are well above the seat of the car, become sharper and sharper as he hunches more tensely over the steering wheel. Madame shouts out shrilly from time to time to warn him of cars careening in our direction. The tiny white car swerves this way and that, responding to the quick motions Monsieur makes with the wheel and our shifting weight.

I begin to feel nauseous. Other cars swarm around us, like insects converging together for some kind of mass migration, although in this case everyone is trying to head a different direction. The high-pitched horns of the other cars sound off relentlessly, as though they can hasten their way through the streets by punching their horns.

I wonder if I should roll my window down and hang my head out so I don’t throw up on everyone in the car, but am fearful that my head will be knocked off by a larger vehicle passing us by. I try to find something to focus on. I see some kind of religious icon hanging from the rear view mirror, and though like most good Lutherans I have never considered myself particularly religious, I try to focus on the icon and pray for survival. But the icon is swaying back and forth so frenetically that is only makes me more nauseous to watch it.

I close my eyes and and silently sing the Marseilles. By the time I’m through, we have made it through the worst part of the city, and when I open my eyes I see that Monsieur’s should blades are no longer as sharp as they were.

The children, who have been relatively quiet up to this time, sense the relief and start to giggle and play games, making faces at one another and at me. They soon grow tired of this and decide to play “Mom and Dad.” I have not heard them refer to this game before and watch them with some trepidation.

Antoine turns to Adrienne and says, “OK, you open your mouth and hold out your tongue.”

Adrienne turns her head to face Antoine and obediently complies with his command. Antoine leans towards her, opens his mouth and licks her tongue with his tongue. They both giggle and Aurore claps her hands. I am horror stricken.

“Let’s do it again!” cries Adrienne.

Antoine licks Adrienne’s tongue again and this time Madame realizes what is happening.

“No, no!” she shrieks as she turns around in her seat. “It’s only real moms and dads who do that! Stop that right now!” She reaches her arm around her seat and starts to hit indiscriminately at whatever she can reach. I cringe along with the children as the blows come at us. Fortunately I am the furthest away and don’t get hit, and Aurore mostly escapes by scrunching even closer to me than she already is. Antoine and Adrienne take most of the hits, and shriek until Madame stops and says “Don’t ever do that again!” Madame’s reaction makes me wonder what she would think of the photography game they played the night I arrived.

After this, the children are quiet for some time and I am able to look out the window for a while. We are now out in the country, and there are wide expanses of green hills dotted with cows and sheep. Occasionally we drive through a small village, but since Monsieur does not reduce his speed much it is difficult to see much other than the winding streets and the few cafes and bakeries that are present in every village.

Along the way, we stop at the village where Madame's parents live. They are already at their farm in Brittany, but they have asked Madame to pick up some things at the house on our way out. Their village is close to where Sven, one of my classmates, is staying. I have arranged to see him while we’re there. I am anxious to talk to him to see if he's had any of the bizarre kinds of experiences I've had.

The house where Madame’s parents live has been in the family for many generations - generations of barons and baronesses. The house is a great stone building with an entrance more like a cathedral than a home, the steps leading up to the great doors worn smooth by the thousands of footsteps going up and down over the years, seeking counsel from or making demands of the baron of the moment.

Madame and I enter the house as Monsieur struggles to remove his large frame from the tiny automobile and the children dash off to play in the yard and torment local wildlife with their high pitched shrieks. Madame gives me permission to look through the house while she gathers up the things her parents have asked her to bring along.

It is cool and dark inside the massive structure. My eyes adjust to the dim light, and I see that the entryway is very large, with a high ceiling and threadbare rug covering the squeaking, ill-fitting planks on the floor. Off the entryway is a huge dining room. A chandelier darkened by years of dust hangs over a huge, plank-topped table. A total of ten ornately carved wooden chairs in various states of disrepair surround the table, as though protecting it from peasants in need of firewood. Just beyond the dining room is the kitchen. This room seems small, although it could be because it is a jumble of furniture, stacks of books, and dirty cookware, with a lingering smell that defies description.

I pass out of the room quickly and head back to the entryway and up the stairs to the second level. The light is even dimmer here, and it is slightly warmer. At the top of the stairs is a small bedroom. I peer in from the hallway, feeling like a voyeur who arrived several centuries too late. I continue down the hall, the light getting dimmer and dimmer. Ten paces down the hallway, there is an opening in what had been the right-hand side of the wall, in the middle of which stands a fiberglass shower unit and a toilet. Like a monument to modern plumbing, not closed up behind a door or even a curtain, the shower and the toilet stand side by side, boldly calling forth anyone in need of their services. Staring at the toilet makes me realize I have not relieved myself for some time. I struggle to weigh the risks of being caught mid-stream on the toilet against the benefits of a voided bladder. My thoughts are interrupted by a commotion in the entryway below.

I hear Madame greeting someone at the door, and realize that it must be Sven. I hurry back downstairs and see him standing at the stop of the steps speaking to Madame. She is speaking with a tone I have not heard before. She is smiling one of her wide smiles at Sven, and I see him trying to look past her into the house as he hears me coming down the stairs.

“Sven, Bonjour!” I say as I get to the entryway. “It’s so good to see you!” I exclaim in English.

Sven responds in English with a grin “It’s good to see you too!”

I turn to Madame and revert to French “This is my friend Sven.”

“Yes, yes, we have already met, “ she says, turning to Sven again with her big smile.

"We had planned to walk to the village and have lunch if that’s OK with you,” I tell her.

“Of course, of course,” Madame responds. “We will not be leaving here for several hours. The children need a break from riding in the car and I will get them something to eat here after I finish packing the things my parents need.”

I look at my watch. “We’ll be back by three o’clock.” I say.

“Do not hurry on our account,” Madame says with another smile in Sven’s direction. She blinks her eyes at him several times. Sven does not seem to notice.

“Good,” I say. “We’ll see you soon.”

“Goodbye, Madame,” Sven says.

“Goodbye, Sven,” responds Madame. “I am so happy to have met one of BJ’s friends from school.” She gives him another big smile as we turn to walk down the steps.

I turn back at the bottom of the steps and notice that she’s still watching us. When she sees me turn around she closes the door.

When Sven and are a few steps from the house we both start to talk at the same time, pelting each other with questions about our summer stays. “How do you like your family? Do you get any free time? Have you seen anyone else from school?” We laugh that we are both asking the same questions.

"So, tell me what you've been doing? How do you spend your days?"

"Well, most days I spend the morning cleaning out barns and herding sheep. It's a lot more work than I expected."

I look at him and see that it does look like he's been working hard. He looks more muscular than he used to, and he is very tan.

"Then the whole family and the hired help comes in from the fields to eat at noon," Sven continues. "There 's always at least a dozen people at the table. A lot of times we sit outside at one big, long wooden table on the patio behind the house. We sit there for hours, eating, drinking, laughing and talking. It's the best part of the day, and the food is fabulous. Then in the afternoons I either help with odd jobs or go into town when they need some errands run. By then, it's time for dinner, and after dinner I either sit around and talk with my family or play soccer with the guys who were hired to help out for the summer. I'm trying to teach them to play football, but they just don't get it."

"So, you're enjoying your time with your French family?" I ask slowly.

"Absolutely!" Sven responds. "But then, it would have been nice to be in Paris and be able to live a more sophisticated life. How are things going with you?"

And so I give Sven the upbeat version of my life in Paris, leaving out the details about the mad concierge, the creepy crow, and all the other strange things that have happened. Once we reach the village, we decide to forego the little restaurant in town for some bread, cheese and wine. We make our purchases and sit down at the park in the center of town. We have just started eating when a large crow flies down and sits at our feet. My skin starts to crawl.

"Look at that!" Sven cries out. "Out on the farm these guys would never dare get this close to people."

"There are lots of crows out there?"

"Yeah, always feeding on the grain in the fields and around the barns. Robert, my family's dad, always keeps a gun handy to shoot them. He usually misses but at least they keep their distance from people."

"Really? Too bad Robert isn't here right now."

"Yeah, this one is close enough he might actually be able to hit it," Sven laughs.

"There were a lot of crows in Paris, too."

"Really? I didn't really think they were city birds."

"Well, there weren't a lot, really, but it seemed like there was always one hanging around the courtyard where my family lived. And he would sometimes come and perch outside my window, too."

"Well, maybe he followed you here," Sven says jokingly. "Get away!", he lunges at the bird, but it just stares at him without moving. "This one is used to people. He's not scared at all."

"They're kind of creepy when they're this close."

"Yeah, well, maybe this will scare him away." Sven gets up and runs at the crow. It spreads it wings and lifts up, flying up to a tree branch not far from our bench.

"Well, I guess that's a little better," says Sven, returning to the bench.

I look at the crow and feel its beady eyes on me. I try to forget about it during the rest of our lunch, but it stays there until we're done and start walking back to the house. When the house is in sight, I see Madame coming down the front steps, carrying something, and loading it into the already over-burdened car. There is no sight of the children or Monsieur.

“Madame was on her best behavior when she met you,” I comment.

“What do you mean?” he asks, looking at me curiously.

“I’ve never seen her so animated as she was with you, and that thing with her eyes,” I say, rolling my own eyes in my head.

“What thing with her eyes?” he asks.

“You didn’t notice?” I look at him in disbelief. “She was batting her eyes at you the whole time you were there!”

“Really? I guess I wasn’t looking that closely,” he answers.

“Well check it out when we get back. I’m sure she’ll want to talk to you again,” I respond.

Sven grunts in response and kicks at a pebble in the road We reach the bottom of the steps to the house and stop. Madame has seen us and comes out of the house and down the steps, smiling a big smile and calling out “How was your lunch? Did you have a nice time?”

Sven looks up at her and I see him looking directly into her eyes this time. Madame tips her head down and looks up at him with her eyes blinking. I see the corners of Sven’s mouth turn up in a little smile, and he looks sidewise at me. He’s noticed the eyes this time.

“Yes, we had a very nice time,” he answers politely.

“I am so glad that BJ was able to spend time with one of her friends while we were here. I hope you are enjoying your stay in France, Sven, “ she adds, still blinking at him with her eyes.

“Yes, Madame, I am enjoying it,” Sven responds again, all politeness.

Just then Monsieur comes around the corner of the house. He sees Sven and comes over to shake his hand and introduce himself. Then he turns to Madame and says, “We should be leaving if we want to get to Tremoyec before dark.”

“Yes, yes,” responds Madame. She turns back to Sven and says “It was so nice to meet you. I hope you enjoy the rest of your stay in France.”

“Yes, I’m sure I will,” Sven responds automatically.

“BJ, if you could go get the children, they’re behind the house,” Madame says to me in her typical authoritative way.

“Yes, Madame,” I respond.

Sven and I look at each other, and now I see that he understands about Madame. He grins at me and says, “I’ll help you find the children.”

The children are surprised to see Sven and are surprisingly obedient when I tell them to get into the car. They file past him, looking at him sidewise as if they expect him to strike them as they walk by. Once they’re past us, they run to the car.

“Well, good luck with the rest of your summer, Sven,” I say as we walk back around the house.

“Thanks. Au-revoir,” he says with a grin, and he turns to make his journey back to the sheep farm.

“Au-revoir,” I reply, and wave when he turns around to look back.

I watch him head off and then go around the house to the car.

Madame is still standing at the bottom of the steps of the house when I get there. She is full of questions for me about Sven.

“Your friend Sven is very handsome. Are all the boys at your school like that?” Her eyes are intense as they watch me and wait for my response.

“Ah, like what?” I ask, not sure entirely what she means.

“Like Sven, so tall with such blonde hair and blue eyes, and so muscular,” she replies quickly, still piercing me with her eyes and waiting for my response.

I can’t help but laugh a little at her eagerness for a response. “No, Madame,” I answer. “They are not all like that.”

She is disappointed by my response.

“Still,” she persists, “there must be some others like Sven there.”

Seeing that there is no point in disagreeing with her, I simply say “Yes, Madame, there are a few others like Sven.”

By now Monsieur is trying to herd everyone back into the car. I sigh and open the back door to squeeze in next to the children. The children get into an argument over how much space Antoine is taking in the back seat. Madame turns around and yells at them all, and we ride most of the rest of the way in silence. I find myself looking behind us from time to time to see if there is a crow flying behind us.

When we finally arrive at Tremoyec, the sun is just beginning to set, casting everything in a warm, romantic glow. The rolling green hills are dotted here and there with grazing cattle and sheep, oblivious to their idyllic surroundings and focused solely on the constant creation of methane gas. Here and there an ancient farmhouse stands, crumbing around the edges and held together by masses of crawling ivy. We pull up to one such farmhouse and park in the yard. The stone walls of this farmhouse are barren of ivy and its decay is complete exposed. It is a long, low building, with shutters faded to a warm brick color and heavy wooden shingles clinging desperately to the oddly slanted roof.

Renard, who had been brought earlier by another passing relative, wakes from his nap by the farmhouse door when the car comes to a stop. Reluctantly he gets up, stretches, and comes to the car to greet us. As we clamber out of the tiny white car, an older lady comes out of the house to greet us. She is tall and thin, stopped over slightly at the waist and again at the shoulders. Her gray hair is pulled back in a bun, like Madame’s, but not as tight. She is wearing a loose fitting cotton dress that comes to her ankles and a pair of heavy sandals. Madame calls out “Mama!”, the children jump up and down and shout “Ḿeḿ́e! Ḿeḿe!” and there are many hugs and kisses exchanged.

When the hugging and kissing finally ceases, I can see the resemblance between Madame and her mother - the same high cheekbones, the same almond shaped eyes, the same wide lips. Ḿeḿ́e’s face, however, is tan and wrinkled, her eyes twinkle the way a grandmother’s should. She looks at me kindly when we’re introduced and takes both of my hands in hers, saying “It’s so good to meet you.” She makes me feel welcome with just those few words. She turns to lead us into the house, saying as she does that her husband is not feeling well and has already gone to bed. I think about the holy things I retrieved for Madame and wonder if they'll help.

We enter the farmhouse, which consists mostly of one long, narrow room with a very low ceiling. If the outside of the farmhouse could be classified as quaint, charming, and an inspiration for fans of shabby chic, the inside has more of an emphasis on shabby and less on chic. At the center of the room is a long table with a multitude of benches and chairs on either side. Along the back wall of the room is a couch, several small chairs and two tables. Next to one of the tables is a ladder leaning against the wall that leads up to the grenier, or attic. At the far end of the room is a small kitchen with a sink, a small stove and a small refrigerator. There are open shelves along the walls above the sink and stove that are stacked with dishes and canned goods. Though it can’t be seen from where we are, there is also a small bathroom around the corner from the kitchen. At the opposite end of the room are two doors. Both doors are closed, leading to the only bedrooms in the house.

Madame’s mother asks if we are hungry, and we sit down at the long table to have some bread, cheese, fruit and wine. The children are tired from the long trip, and as soon as we’re done eating Madame asks me to find the children’s pajamas and bring them up to the grenier. Monsieur takes his cue and gets up to get the luggage from the car.

He begins the precarious task of taking each piece up the ladder to the grenier. The luggage is large and heavy, the ladder is at a steep angle, and the hole at the top very small, so he is forced to perform some interesting and somewhat embarrassing maneuverings to maintain his balance while not doing damage to either the luggage or his cranium, all the while Madame is talking animatedly to her mother at the table. When he disappears up the grenier for the third time with the third piece of luggage, I follow him up to see about getting the children’s pajamas.

The grenier is an unfinished loft. When originally built, the loft would have been a hayloft, with part of the loft open to the room below to permit the hay to be hauled up one side, and then pushed down as needed to the animals below. The hay has since been removed, some flooring has been layed down where the openings were, but little else has changed. There is one small windows at the end which, if cleaned, might have let some light through. Rough wooden beams angled above support the roof, rough wooden beams along the side support the walls, and rough wooden beams below support pieces of plywood placed sporadically here and there to form a kind of patchwork floor, with the wooden beams exposed in many places, showing how it supports not only the plywood above it but the ceiling below. Monsieur cautions me about where to walk so as not to fall through the ceiling below. I wonder if Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie take similar precautions at their home in France.

There are a total of seven single beds in the grenier. Three are lined up together, the others are scattered about randomly. It is like the seven dwarves’ bedroom after their descent into madness when Snow White abandoned them for better prospects.

Monsieur explains that the three children are to be in the three beds lined up together. He walks to one end of the grenier and shows me an 8^th bed. It is behind a partial wooden wall that I had thought was the end of the grenier. There is a small grimy window on one side. An olden wooden trunk sits in one corner of the room. Monsieur is apologetic about the lack of privacy, and I do my best to assure him that I don’t mind.

The three children clamber up the ladder and head for their beds. They immediately begin bouncing on them, laughing and giggling while Monsieur patiently asks them to stop. When they don’t stop, he yells at them, and when they still don’t stop he yells louder and tells them they’ll fall through the floor. They finally stop and I start searching through their luggage for their pajamas. Monsieur disappears down the ladder to retrieve my luggage.

When the children are in their pajamas, I herd them cautiously over the floor and down the ladder to use the bathroom before going to bed for the night. Madame and her mother are still sitting at the table, talking. Madame turns briefly when she sees us and tells me where the bathroom is, then turns back to her mother and continues to talk. Each of the children takes a turn in the tiny bathroom. I take a turn, too, deciding that I might as well go to bed. When we file past Madame and her mother on our way back Madame turns to say good night to the children, and gives them each a quick kiss. I say good night, as well, and Madame’s mother seems surprised.

“You can stay up with us and talk,” she says encouragingly. “I would enjoy hearing about your life in the United States.”

I see Madame’s face harden and I know that she would not enjoy hearing about my life in the United States.

“I’m sorry,” I say apologetically. “I’m a little tired from the trip today.”

“Of course,” says Madame’s mother. “We’ll see you in the morning. I hope you sleep well.”

“Thank you,” I respond.

Madame finally turns to me and gives me a big smile. “Good night, BJ,” she says in an artificially cheerful voice.

“Good-night Madame,” I respond.

It is very dark in the grenier now, and I lead the children across the patchwork floor to their beds, feeling my way cautiously as though working my way through a mine field. The children are tired enough that they go to bed without much difficulty, and I leave them to feel my way across the floor to my "room." After I crawl into bed, I lie still listening to the noises around me. I hear much scratching - the scratch, scratch, scratching of mice claws on rough wooden beams, and the scratch, scratch, scratching of Madame’s voice from down below as she chatters incessantly to her mother. It takes me a long time to fall asleep.

The next morning I get up early, before the children. When I go down the ladder I see Madame’s mother in the kitchen, cooking something in a big pot on the stove.

When she sees me she calls out “Good morning. I hope you slept well!”

“Yes, thank you,” I respond. “Is there something I can help you with?”

“Oh no,” she responds with a smile. “I’m just preparing the milk for the day. We get fresh milk from the farmer down the road, but it is not safe to drink unless we boil it.”

“I see,” I respond, although I’m not sure I want to drink milk straight from the cow, even if it has been boiled.

“Are you hungry?” She asks me, looking at me kindly.

I am tempted to tell her that I am hungry just to have her get me something to eat, to serve me, as I’m sure she’ll do. But I’m not hungry.

“No, thank you. I’m going to take a walk before the children get up. I could not really see anything outside when we came in the dark last night.”

“Yes, yes, of course,” replies Madame’s mother. “You take your walk and when you return you’ll be hungry,” she says with a smile.

Outside the main house at Tremoyec, there are two other much smaller structures. A little ways from the main building is a chicken coop. The chickens are roaming freely about the yard, pecking at whatever they can find, and must roost in the coop at night. The only other structure on the property is another small building, just past the chicken coop. This building has two small windows on each side. I peek through one of the windows and see some old rakes, hoes, buckets and other garden tools inside. It looks like it has not been used in some time.

I walk down the road leading up to the farmhouse. The sky is overcast and it starts to mist lightly, but the cool fresh air and the mist feels refreshing after the heat and humidity of Paris. I walk past a field where sheep are grazing, and another whether there are cows. I see no other houses, barns or structures. I turn back and head to the house. When I return, Madame and her mother are sitting at the table drinking coffee. There is no sign of anyone else. Madame’s mother graciously offers me a cup of coffee and motions for me to sit down. I tell her I don’t drink coffee, but sit down at the table.

Madame’s mother asks about my walk. I give a brief answer, and she smiles and nods encouragingly. How different my summer might have been, I thought, if I had been helping Madame’s mother instead of Madame.

By the time I’m done explaining what I saw on my walk, the children are coming down the ladder from the grenier. They run to their grandmother and give her hugs. She laughs and asks if they want breakfast.

“BJ can get it for them,” Madame says.

“No, no, it’s no trouble, “ says Madame’s mother. She rises from the table and gets some hot chocolate that is warming on the stove. The children drink it from the same type of big bowls they use at home, and help themselves to the toasted French bread already on the table. Starting to feel hungry myself, I eat as well. Madame’s mother asks the children about school, about the trip to Tremoyec, about everything she can think to ask about. The children respond excitedly, and even Madame laughs. Perhaps Tremoyec won’t be so bad after all, even with the mice.

While we are eating, I am surprised to see another woman come down the ladder from the grenier. One of her legs is shorter than the other and her descent is rather awkward because of it. She has long dark hair that is mussed up and falling all over her face. She is petite, and when she turns around after coming down the ladder I see that her skin is pale. She cannot stand straight because of her one short leg. When her eyes meet mine, I feel a shiver run down my spine. She has the same dark, beady eyes as the concierge, except that one of them looks off in one direction while the other looks straight ahead. A dreadful feeling comes over me as she approaches the table. She limps terribly because of her one short leg. She is introduced as Eloise, Madame's sister.

"I hope we can spend much time together," she says in a raspy voice when she learns my name. "I can do much to deepen your understanding and your appreciation of what you see here."

*********

That night in the grenier I cannot sleep. I hear the sounds of the children's even breathing. They are sleeping soundly. I hear the sounds of scratching on the wooden beams as mice run back and forth. Then I hear ka-thump, ka-thump, ka-thump. The noise gets closer and closer, and I know it is Eloise limping to my bed on her hideous legs.

"You are awake?" She asks in her raspy voice.

"Not really," I answer.

"Get up and follow me." She turns and leaves, ka-thump, ka-thump, ka-thump. I stay in bed and close my eyes, hoping she'll go away and forget about me. The ka-thumping noise stops, then starts up again, this time getting closer and closer.

"You must follow me," her raspy voice is angry.

I'm more afraid to not follow her than to follow her. I put on an old pair of sweat pants and a sweat shirt and follow her down the ladder. She goes out of the house and I follow.

"Where are we going, exactly?"

"To the second layer of hell, of course," she responds angrily.

"And where is that, exactly?"

"It's everywhere, you fool. Just like the first layer of hell. Just like heaven. There are no separate places for any of it. It's all around you, if you'd just open your eyes." Her raspy voice is loud and angry against the stillness of the night. She heads off into the darkness.

"Come along, we'll start in the chicken coop."

Why am I continually being harangued by these deranged people in France? Why must I be the one to meet up with both the concierge and Eloise? One of them would have been enough. The night air is cool and I shiver slightly. Eloise turns around and yells at me to keep up. I follow behind her slowly. When we reach the coop Eloise lifts up the heavy wooden beam holding the door shut and then pulls on a rusty metal tongue to open the door. It is a heavy door, somewhat overdone for a chicken coop. The door groans mightily as it opens. I glance at the sign above the door as we enter. KEEP OUT, it warns in big red letters. The chickens must be dangerous.

Eloise cannot walk softly, and her ka-thumping disturbs the chickens. They cackle as we enter, some start to beat their wings, and some even jump off their nests and start pecking at our legs. Eloise picks up a broom in the corner of the coop. She swings it furiously at the chickens.

"Away! Away with you little bastards! Stop your pecking!" She beats them back into the corner with the broom and they huddle together there, still cackling. Eloise walks to the back of the coop and opens another door. This one groans when it opens, too. She motions to me to follow her as she disappears through the door. Slowly I make my way past the cackling chickens and into the darkness of the next room. Eloise hands me a flashlight.

"Here, you can see better with this."

I take the flashlight in my hands and turn it on. I shriek at what I see, drop the flashlight and run for the door. Eloise grabs me by the shoulder and pulls me back.

"No, you must stay here," she screams. "You must see all!"

"No, no!" I beat at her with both of my arms and push away, but her grip is solid. She pulls me back into the room. I hear groaning and shuffling noises around me. I scream again and try to pull away from Eloise's grip. She is surprisingly strong for her size.

"Stop it! Stop it!" I scream at Eloise. "Let go of me!"

She takes one hand and slaps me across the face with all her strength. Her long nails cut my cheek. Now I shriek in pain and hold both hands to my face. "What are you doing?" I am nearly sobbing now.

"Look, look around you! This is what you're here for!" She picks up the flashlight where I dropped it and shines it around the room. It is full of people, or what appears to be people. They shuffle and groan when the light hits them, trying to step out of the light. Most of them are naked, some wear a few shreds of cloth. They are all slimy and wet with filth and grime, and the smell I thought was coming from the chickens is actually coming from them.

"Who-who are they?"

"Why don't you ask them?" Eloise answers angrily.

I look at one that is near me. "Who-who are you?" My voice shakes.

The thing near me opens its mouth, and a stream of brown, thick, foul smelling liquid runs out and down its chin and chest. I scream again and step back. The thing turns around with its back to me and leans over. It places one of its hands on each buttock and spreads them apart.

"My name was James. I lived most of my life in New York." The words are coming out of the crack in his buttocks. I shriek again and step back.

"What is this?" I demand of Eloise.

"Ask it," she responds.

I turn back to what used to be James, and speak to his ass. "What are you doing here?"

"I abused the privilege of my mouth. I led other people to believe what was not true with my words. I lied, and I took advantage of others with my lies and untruths. Now I can only speak through my ass, and shit flows out of my mouth."

I stare at his ass and listen to the voice.

"Come along, that's all we have time for tonight." Eloise ka-thumps out the door and I quickly follow her. She shuts the door behind us, then we walk out through the chicken coop. She shuts that door and puts the heavy wooden plank back in place. She ka-thumps back towards the house.

"Eloise?" I ask hesitantly.

She turns around and looks at me with her one eye while the other looks off somewhere else.

"How many levels are there in the second layer of hell?"

"Levels?" She asks incredulously. "There are no levels in the second layer of hell, there is no organization, no structure. There is only chaos." She turns back around and ka-thumps into the house and up the ladder. I quickly follow along after her, not wanting to be out in the night alone.

*********

The next morning I wake with a severe headache. I remember Eloise coming to get me out of bed, but I'm not sure if it was a dream or something real. I touch my face where she cut me with her nails. It's sore, but there are no scratches. It must have been a dream. Her one eyeball's resemblance to the concierge was enough to give me a nightmare.

I get dressed and hurry down the ladder. Fortunately there is no sign of Eloise – she must still be sleeping somewhere in the grenier. I busy myself helping Mémé with the breakfast. She is so pleasant it is hard to believe she gave birth to both Madame and Eloise. She asks me about life in the United States, my studies, my family. She is interested in everything I have to say and by the time the children come down the ladder and Madame comes out of her bedroom I have all but forgotten my nightmare about Eloise.

The children bicker more than usual at the table this morning. Monsieur has already returned to Paris and without him, Antoine and Adrienne are surly. Madame makes some effort to quiet them down but soon gives up and starts talking with her mother instead. I can't help being envious of Monsieur, frolicking around Paris on his own in his wrinkled underwear.

After breakfast, and for most of the day, I am in charge of entertaining the children. By the time we eat at noon I am utterly exhausted from my efforts. Without their boxful of toys, the television, assorted electronic gadgets and, of course, the sights and sound of Paris, they are disoriented and unhappy. I try every game I can remember from my childhood days. Duck duck gray duck occupies them for about 3 minutes. Tag last for 2 minutes. That leaves 143 minutes until we eat at noon. We try making chains out of blades of grass. We blow on blades of grass. Now there are 137 minutes until we eat at noon. And so, somehow, minute by agonizing minute, we work our way through the morning until we are called to the house to eat. And for once I am glad to think about spending hours at the table, and hours cleaning up in the kitchen afterwards. But because there are so few of us, the meal does not last for hours and the clean up does not last long. And now a tortuous afternoon with the children looms in front of me like an eternity. But Mémé suggests the children play some hide and seek, a game they have evidently played here before, and they are delighted with the suggestion. And instead of occupying them for only a few minutes at a time, this activity occupies them most of the afternoon.

When we are finally called in for dinner late in the day, I notice a large crow perched on a low-hanging branch of a tree near the house. When we walk past it, it does not move, but seems to keep its beady eyes upon me. When we reach the house, I look back and see that it is still sitting in the same place, watching me. I hurry inside with the children and don't look outside again.

*********

That night Eloise makes another appearance at my bed. I can hear her as soon as she gets out of bed, ka-thumping towards me. I pull the sheets up over my head and pray that she won't find me. But the ka-thumping gets closer, and I know she's at my bed when it stops. I can hear her breathing, it is raspy just like her voice. There is a peculiar odor to her that nearly makes me gag as she leans over my bed and hisses, "Get up and follow me."

I lie motionless in my bed. She seizes my shoulder with a grip so ferocious I cry out.

"Get up now, you fool. There isn't much time." Her voice is angry.

I slowly get up and put on my sweatpants and sweatshirt. I descend the ladder after Eloise and follow her outside.

"Where are we going tonight?" I ask timidly.

"Back to the chicken coop," she hisses. "You're such a neophyte we couldn't see everything the first time." She limps off to the chicken coop and I follow behind. Again she lifts up the heavy wooden plank and pulls open the heavy door. Again it groans as it opens. We pass under the sign that says "KEEP OUT" and enter the coop. Again she fends off the chickens with the broom when they start to peck at our legs. Then she starts to sweep in the middle of the coop, sweeping away bits of straw, chicken feed and chicken shit. Eventually a heavy metal ring is exposed in the floor. She leans over and pulls on it. A door slowly opens up in the floor, and she props it open with the broom.

"Come along, quickly. We don't have much time." She starts down a ladder and gradually disappears. I peer over the edge and see her head below. She looks up at me.

"What are you waiting for? Hurry up."

I hesitate, then start to descend. As we go lower, I hear a constant rumble of noise. Gradually I begin to distinguish low groaning noises, sobbing, and shrieks of pure terror. I look down at Eloise, who is still going down the ladder. One particular shriek penetrates the very core of my being, and without thinking I hastily begin to go back up the ladder. But Eloise sees me, and grabs my ankle with a vice like grip.

"Get down here, you imbecile. You must be shown everything." She pulls on my ankle so hard that I lose my grip with one hand, and am dangling from the ladder with one hand while she pulls at my ankle. She gives me a sudden jerk and I lose my other grip and tumble down. I scream in terror as I feel myself drop, but find myself on the ground at Eloise's feet before my scream stops. I realize I only dropped about two feet. Embarrassed, I get up and brush myself off.

The eerie mix of groans, sobs and shrieks is louder at the bottom of the ladder, and seems to be coming from all around us. I shudder in the pitch black of the cellar at the noise, and reach out blindly looking for Eloise.

"Eloise? Where are you?"

"I'm here, you idiot," she growls in reply. She turns on a flashlight which gives her whole face a strange glow. The light catches her one good eye and bounces off of it but fails to light up the other which is still looking off in a different direction.

"Follow me." She turns with her flashlight and heads off into the darkness. Afraid of being left behind, I follow closely behind her, so closely I can hear her raspy breathing over the other gruesome noises coming from all around us.

As Eloise continues on, she moves the beam of the light back and forth, from one side of the cellar to the other. I see piles of rubbish in the light. Old car tires, boat propellers, large timbers, all partially immersed in the damp earthen floor of the cellar. The groaning and sobbing seems to be coming from the rubbish itself. I try to get even closer to Eloise, fearful that the rubbish will somehow spring to life and try to suck me in.

Eloise stops short and I am so close behind I nearly knock her over.

"Watch it," she hisses. "There's a fresh one ahead, we'll take a look at it." She moves on, I try to give her a little more room this time. A constant wailing shriek is coming from the direction we're headed, getting louder as we move on. As we get closer, it overpowers the sounds of the moans and sobs all around us. It is a fearsome shriek, starting so high that it sends shivers down my spine, then trailing off slightly before starting anew with the same ferocity. Unconsciously I again move closer to Eloise, my one-eyed protector in the darkness of the cellar.

When the shrieks are so close to be nearly deafening, Eloise stops and shines her light directly ahead of us. I see a huge stone pillar, skewering a human form lying naked and filthy on the floor of the cellar. The human form is emitting the ear-splitting shrieks, one after another without stop. The form's mid-section, pressed down by the weight of the pillar, is partially sunken into the damp earth. With each shriek the form's head and chest rise up off the floor, then exhausted by the end of the shriek it lies back on the ground, only to rise up again with the next shriek. Its hands are groping and clawing and pushing at the pillar, in a futile effort to lift the massive weight of the pillar that has it pinned down. The beam of light from Eloise's flashlight bounces off a glistening mass around the form's mid-section. I see that it is a swarm of black beetles, coming out of the earth where the pillar is coming down, and crawling in mass over the human form.

Overcome with nausea at the sight, I bend over and begin to wretch violently. Eloise turns to me in disgust.

"What's wrong with you? You need to see all of this. Look, look!" She pulls me by the ear to stand me up straight. The pangs in my stomach are eased by the sudden burning pain in the ear she has latched on to.

"This is what happens to those who are obsessed with greed and obtaining material possessions. They spend their lives manipulating and abusing others in pursuit of things, meaningless things, and at the end of their days all sorts of crap comes with them to hell. Everything piled up on top of each other, houses, cars, boats, pressing down on them until they're forced deep into the underground. Then fresh arrivals come and press them even deeper down into hell."

She pulls on my ear again to make sure I'm paying attention. I cry out in pain.

"What's the matter with you?"

"My ear!" I cry. "You're hurting it." She grunts and releases my ear.

"This one hasn't been here long. It's not far under yet. See the face." She points the flashlight directly at the face of the form pinned under the pillar. It has no eyes – only dark holes where the eyes should have been.

"Blinded by greed in life, the eyes are removed after death."

"How are they removed? The eyes?"

"The bugs devour them, of course."

The sharp pangs in my stomach return and I begin to wretch again.

"Come along, that's all you can handle for tonight." She pulls on my ear again but this time it doesn't hurt – there is no feeling in it at all.

I stumble to keep up with her as she returns to the ladder. As we pass along the piles of rubbish this time I see arms and hands groping at the rubbish and clawing at the dirt, desperate and futile efforts to keep from being completely submerged underground. Black beetles swarm over the hands and arms. I clutch my stomach and try to keep up with Eloise, who can move amazingly fast with her one good leg.

We reach the ladder and climb up, then once again navigate through the pecking chickens and out into the cool night air. Eloise shuts the heavy door while I breathe as deeply as I can without causing more pain to my stomach. Eloise passes me on her way back to the house, and I follow her in and up the ladder to the grenier. She thumps off to her bed without saying anything further, and I turn to go to my corner of the attic.

*********

A few rays of sunlight penetrate the grime on the window in my room. I close my eyes again and pull my blankets up around my chin. A few more moments to myself. Outside I hear the voices of the children, bickering about something. Someone, probably Mémé, is banging pots around in the kitchen. Then, a harsh noise right in my room makes me sit upright in bed.

"BJ, you must get up!" Madame is standing at the entrance to my room, her hands on her hips, her mouth frowning, her nose up in the air. "It is very late. I need you to help in the kitchen and take care of the children."

I feel slightly dizzy from having sat up so quickly. I hold my head in my hands. Madame stares at me.

"What's wrong with you? Are you sick?" Her tone is angry.

"Ah, no," I reply. "I'm just tired. I haven't been sleeping very well since we got here."

"Well, I need you downstairs. My mother is worn down from helping my father, and without Monsieur here I cannot do everything by myself. We are expecting Jean-Regis and my sister Isabelle here shortly so there is much to do. Get up and get dressed and get downstairs. And do it quickly." Madame turns abruptly and leaves my room.

In the few days we've been at Tremoyec, Madame has turned into a tyrant. Always somewhat condescending, she has now become openly hostile, viciously relentless in her demands, which must be met with immediate compliance. And without Monsieur around, she takes whatever opportunities come her way. Yesterday when a serviceman from the electric company stopped by she followed him around everywhere he went, and they spent an inordinate amount of time in her bedroom checking electrical outlets. Even though they closed the door you could hear Madame’s cries throughout the house, “Yes, yes, that works, that works!”

Adrienne and Antoine have picked up on her attitude and have become monsters in miniature. Their snacks must be made to exacting specifications, entertainment must be non-stop, and entertainment increasingly consists of taunting the American au pair. Only Aurore has remained sweet and innocent. And of course Mémé is extraordinary, but she is always tending to her invalid husband. The holy things must not have had the desired effect. And now Jean-Regis is going to be here. The thought makes my skin crawl. He'll probably be sleeping in the grenier. I should set up some kind of door on my room so he can't come creeping in and take me by surprise. And who knows what Isabelle will be like – if she’s anything like Madame’s other sister, Eloise, then-

“BJ, I need you downstairs,” Madame’s voice cuts through my distressing thoughts. I think about my second nocturnal encounter with Eloise while I get dressed hastily. I don’t typically have dreams, let alone nightmares. And now I’ve had two in two nights. A disturbing pattern. If I had about a dozen pastries I might be able to get through this crisis.

When I get downstairs Madame immediately puts me to work scrubbing the kitchen, with a few trips outside then and again to monitor the children. She busies herself preparing some kind of sauce and other delicacies for our meal later that day. When I’m outside I notice the crow is back, now sitting on the ground under the tree where it was perched yesterday. While I’m watching it Eloise stumps by down the driveway, one eye watching me and the other watching the road. It is like the Raven and the Tell-Tale Heart all in one, which does not bode well for me, or for Eloise.

Back in the house I compose a poem in my head for the crow while I continue to scrub the kitchen.

Friend or foe?

Messenger from Poe?

Or just another ordinary crow?

Be gone, you ghastly fiend!

Don’t haunt my every dream!

Or I’ll serve you up in Madame’s saucy cream!

Before I can come up with a poem for Eloise and her eye, which would have something to do with the continued thumping of her leg after her untimely demise at my hands, Jean-Regis and Isabelle both arrive. They serve as a great distraction to the children, which eases my burden considerably. And Jean-Regis actually looks me in the eyes instead of all over the rest of me, which is a pleasant surprise, although I remain on guard. In the chaos of their arrival I am able to sneak up to the grenier with a rope and an old bedsheet I scavenged and, sliding the rope through the hem of the sheet and then tying the ends of the rope to the wooden beams that form the entrance to my room, am satisfied that I’ve done what I can to keep out unwanted guests.

When we all sit down to the table to eat, Isabelle, who is about my age, launches into a lengthy monologue about the philosophical state of the catholic church in France, most of which I don’t understand. Madame testily cuts her off after some minutes, and Jean-Regis in turn cuts off Madame. Eloise glares at all of them simultaneously with her two odd eyes and Mémé goes back and forth from the table to her husband’s bedside, trying to get him to eat whatever she can. The children make faces at each other and swing their feet from the long wooden benches pulled up to the table while they devour the meat and creamy sauce that the crow, under slightly different circumstances, may have been a part of. I drink as much wine as possible.

When the meal is finally over I start the clean up process and Jean-Regis offers to help. Suspicious of his intent, I remain on guard. But he is incredibly courteous, and explains the oddities of his family as typical peculiarities of the French. His company is actually a welcome relief and the clean up goes much faster than usual. In fact, the entire day passes in an almost pleasant way and that night, for the first time since arriving at Tremoyec, I sleep peacefully.

*********

The following morning at breakfast Jean-Regis announces he is going to the ocean that day to try out his new wind-surfing equipment. It is quickly decided that Isabelle, the children and I will accompany him. I am more thrilled than the children, and immediately after breakfast dash up to the grenier to put my bathing suit on under my clothes and gather up the children's beach things so we can be ready to go as soon as Jean-Regis is ready.

My Disney character euphoria wanes somewhat when I realize we won't be leaving for the beach until sometime after we eat at noon. Still, I go about my endless tasks with enthusiasm and even find interacting with the children to be more tolerable than usual. By the time we sit down to eat, Madame's continual commands are no more distracting than the chirping of a small bird and Eloise's peculiar eyes are almost endearing. I leap up from the table as soon as we are done with our last course of cheese and start cleaning in a frenzy to hasten our departure. When I am finished I go outside to look for Jean-Regis, who was to start packing up his gear.

I am devastated to find him sleeping in a hammock. I shake him to wake him up.

"Jean-Regis? Are you ready to go?" I ask.

"Ahh, BJ," he mumbles. "It's too hot to go to the beach right now. We'll wait until it cools down a little."

I am astounded. Isn't that the point of going to the beach? When it's hot? Where I come from summer is short, and the god of the summer sun demands worship when its rays are most potent, between high noon and 2 o’clock. We flock to the beaches at the appointed time and offer our snow white skin as sacrifice to the great ball of fire in the sky. To go too late would be heresy.

But there is no moving Jean-Regis, so I have no choice but to tend to my typical afternoon tasks of helping Madame and tending to the children. The minutes tick by slowly, slowly, as we play hide and seek and duck duck gray duck and throw sticks in the creek that runs near the house. Finally, when it is close to 4 p.m., Jean-Regis announces he is ready to go.

The beach is a vast sandy expanse that we mostly have to ourselves. The children and I play in the waves while Isabelle sits on the beach reading a three-inch thick book about religious doctrines. Jean-Regis takes his wind-surfer out, and even lets me try it out while Isabelle watches the children. It is exhilarating when I finally get the sail up and manage to stay up for a few seconds before crashing down into the waves. Isabelle tries, too, but is no more successful than I am. Jean-Regis laughs at us both and tells us he will dedicate his summer to teaching us to become proficient. By the time we return to the house in the early evening, all my anxieties about my French family and my strange dreams have been forgotten, and when I curl up in my bed that night I am sure I will have a sound night of sleep.

*********

"Tonight we go to the river." Eloise's voice seems more dreadful when I'm lying contented in my bed.

"I'm not feeling well tonight. I think I'll just stay here."

"Idiot," Eloise hisses. "Follow me." She reaches for my ear but this time I see it coming and pull my head away from her.

"You have no choice. You must follow me." She glares at me with her one good eye, waiting while I slowly creep out of bed and put on my sweatpants and sweatshirt.

I follow Eloise down the ladder, past the chicken coop and out towards the creek where the children and I were throwing sticks. I can hear the gurgling of the creek as we approach. As we get closer to creek, a putrid stench makes me gag and I stop to cough. Eloise turns to glare at me with one dark beady eye. I try to stop coughing and keep up with her. The ground beneath our feet is getting moist, then a dark gooey substance starts to ooze up and suck at my feet as we walk. Eloise stops in front of me and motions for me to come along side her.

She is standing on the bank of a large cesspool. The stench here is overpowering, and I pull my sweatshirt up over my mouth and nose to try to ease my breathing. My eyes stream from the fumes. In the filthy brown sludge in the pool, I see a multitude of heads bobbing up and down. The noises I heard earlier are not the creek, but from the people in the pool. They are all struggling to reach the opposite shore, gurgling in the muck as they do so. Some are almost completely submerged in the cesspool, while others are scratching and crawling and stepping on top of them to reach the opposite bank. There are occasional shrieks from those being stepped on.

On the bank opposite there is a small flat area backed by a steep cliff. A few people have made it to the opposite shore and are attempting to scale the cliff. But as they begin, others from the cesspool crawl out and toss them back in the pool. They are stepped upon by the others and pushed farther and farther back into the pool, until they're back at the bank we're standing on. Then they start crawling on top of others to once again reach the other side, and so the process continues.

"Why don't they just help each other get to the other side and scale the cliff?" I ask Eloise through the protection of my sweatshirt. "It could be easily scaled if they lifted each other up to that ridge over there." I point to a ridge part way up the cliff.

"That's just it, you moron. They won't help each other. They used others to get what they wanted in life, then discarded them. They never helped anyone during their lifetimes, and they're not going to do it now. There's nothing but more hell for them on the other side of that cliff anyway. They just think it's something they want, just like they thought they wanted all sorts of things in life – power, money, status, fame. But it's never enough for these kinds of demons."

Eloise turns from the bank abruptly. "Come on, let's go." I follow her quickly, and we return to the house.

"Leave your sandals outside. You'll track that filth into the house." Eloise rasps at me. Obediently I leave my sandals at the front door, then head up the ladder to my bed in the grenier.

� �

The children are snickering at the foot of my bed. I sit up quickly.

"What are you doing?" I demand.

"We thought of a new game!" More snickering.

"What kind of game?" I ask suspiciously.

"It's kind of like hide and seek!" More snickering.

"Really? Who's hiding?"

"It's not a person that's hiding. It's your sandals! We're playing hide and seek with your sandals! Come see if you can find them!" And they run off, clambering down the ladder.

I rub my head and remember the events of the day before. A lovely day with time at the beach, followed by another nightmare featuring Eloise, the cock-eyed mad-woman of Tremoyec. I get dressed slowly and head down the ladder to find the children outside still snickering about my sandals. Eventually I retrieve them from one of the branches of the tree where the crow has been perching. They are unusually dirty on the bottom, and I remember the mucky mess I walked through in my dream the night before. But I brush off the dirt and try not to think about it. The children are up for more traditional hide and seek so after we have breakfast we're back at it.

Aurore as the smallest is always the hardest to find. Adrienne, Antoine and I search everywhere but cannot find her. Then I notice the door to the chicken coop is ajar. Could Aurore have lifted the heavy door open? The chickens are milling about the yard pecking randomly at the grass and dirt as usual. Cautiously I approach the door of the chicken coop, passing under the DO NOT ENTER sign. I poke my head inside and look around in the dim light.

"Aurore, are you there?" No response.

"Aurore," my voice is louder now. "You should not go in the chicken coop. If you're hiding in there you should come out. Right now." Still no response.

As my eyes adjust to the dim light in the coop, I see that the door in the floor of the coop has been raised up and is propped open with a broom. Could Aurore have gone down the ladder? My skin prickles at the memory of my dream. But what if it wasn't a dream? What if it was real, and now Aurore is down there on her own?? I hear Adrienne and Antoine. They are still calling for her – she hasn't been found.

Slowly I step into the chicken coop and approach the open door in the floor.

"Aurore," my voice is stern now. "If you're down there you must come up, now. Aurore, come up right now." What if she fell down the ladder and is hurt? What if she can't talk for some reason? I feel compelled to go down the ladder.

Taking a deep breath, I step down onto the first rung, then determinedly go to the bottom. It is cool and dark, and smells of damp earth. I turn from the ladder and let my eyes adjust to the dark.

"Aurore? Are you here?" I call out. I begin to see shapes in the dark. Directly in front of me is a huge pile of old car tires, rusted out pieces of metal, bits of broken glass. I walk farther into the cellar and find another pile of junk – broken down furniture, huge stone urns, old pictures and picture frames, broken vases. Then I look at the far end of the cellar. There is the pillar – exactly as I remember it from my dream, skewering the screaming sinner. Now I see it is the support for the ceiling. There is no human form under it – and yet it is so precisely like my dream, I feel a chill that does not come from the coolness of the cellar.

I walk towards the pillar and look closely at the base. There is no sign of any form under it, just the damp earth. Then I see a shiny black beetle emerge from the dirt and crawl towards me. I back up, but it moves fast and reaches my toe. Always fearful of bugs, I cry out and shake my foot wildly until it drops off. I sigh with relief only to realize another one has reached my other foot and is about to crawl up my ankle. I shriek again and brush it off with my hand. It too falls to the ground. Just to make sure it doesn't come back, I step on it until I hear the cracking noise confirming I've broken its shell.

I hastily head back to the ladder before more bugs appear. The similarities between my dream and what's in the cellar are creepy, but don't all cellars look like that? Is it so far fetched that I could have a dream about a place I haven't seen, and then find out the real thing looks so much like the dream?

At the top of the ladder, I decide to check out the back of the coop, site of my other dream. Slowly I open the door and it creaks loudly on its rusted out hinges. The light is better here, but still dim. There is a putrid smell as I open the door, and I see dark stains all over the floor. As I look around I see dozens and dozens of old gas cans and oil cans, all leaking dark sticky substances out of their nozzles and down their sides. One of them has fallen on its side in the middle of the floor, just where I was groped by the sinner in my dream. My skin starts to crawl – was I really here with Eloise before? Did she convince me that these inanimate objects where souls from hell? Is insanity contagious?

I run out of the coop and down to where the stream is. I have forgotten Aurore now – I must see if this place is also like my dream. I race down the path I have taken with the children.

It descends gradually to the stream. Then the ground levels out and the long grass gives way to rocks and gravely sand. I stop at the edge of the stream, panting. There is no putrid odor here as I remember from my dream, no filthy sludge. The stream is crystal clear. I close my eyes and breathe a deep sigh of relief. Thank God, perhaps I'm not going insane after all.

I open my eyes again and look up at the clear, cloudless blue sky. I see a crow flapping its way across the sky. It swoops down over the stream just in front of me and then flies off farther downstream. I turn to watch it, and notice that further down stream, on the opposite bank, is a large cliff, with a ridge jutting out just below the top of the cliff and a flat level spot beneath the ridge at the edge of the stream. I run farther downstream. The ground beneath my feet is getting wet and mucky. I gasp for breath as I look at the stream from this vantage point. There is a series of rocks jutting up out of the stream that has formed a little dam. Tree branches that had been floating down the stream have gotten hung up on the rocks, bouncing up in down in the slight current but not quite getting over the rocks. Tin cans, plastic bottles and other bits of debris are in turn caught in the tree branches. At the top of the cliff I see a herd of goats, bleeting and butting one another. Some of them jump down onto the ridge and then down to the flat spot on the opposite bank, continuing to bleet and butt one another. One of them takes a shit in the stream. The stench makes me gag. Slowly I drop to my knees.

"God, don't let this be happening to me, please don't let this be happening to me." I beg to go back to the place of sanity where my brain used to reside, where goats and gas cans were not the dead being punished for their misdeeds. I put my hands over my face and begin to cry.

"BJ! BJ!" The children's voices come from somewhere behind me. "We found her! We found her! She was hiding in her bed all this time!" The children run up panting. When they see me on my knees sobbing they are truly sympathetic, at least momentarily.

"You don't need to worry, BJ. She didn't drown in the stream. She's safe! She's here with us now!"

And Aurore herself stands in front of me and smiles. Her little hand reaches out to stroke my cheek. "Don't cry. Everything is OK." Then she takes both of her little hands and pulls at mine until I stand up, and we walk back to the house hand in hand, the other children running ahead.

*********

By the time we are done eating at noon I am seething with anger. I despise Eloise. She is the cause of all of this. I am determined to confront her and tell her to stay away from me. All through the meal I glare at her, but can never catch one of her eyes to do it proper justice. This makes me even angrier. When the meal is over and the endless number of dishes have been cleaned and put away, I set out to find her.

She is sitting in what is referred to as the garden, smoking a cigar. When I first hear reference to the garden, I think there is another piece of property somewhere that I haven’t seen, full of beautiful blooming flowers, smiling stone cherubs with streams of water gushing from their crotches into little ponds, long carpets of grass and neatly manicured hedges, something like the gardens at Versailles. But after a few days I come to understand that the garden is actually a tiny area on one end of the farmhouse speckled with some bedraggled wildflowers, patches of dead grass, and clumps of petrified dog turds. Rusted and broken down lawn chairs are scattered about so that one can linger in the area and enjoy the ambience. It seems to be the French version of one of those wildly untidy English gardens, except in this case the untidiness is not the result of hours of effort to make it look untidy, it is due to total neglect. Unwelcoming as it is, it is still a refuge from the children, who dislike having to step so carefully around the abundance of dog turds.

I stand in front of Eloise. "Just what do you think you're doing?" I demand.

She takes a puff on her cigar and blows it out, watching the smoke with one of her eyes while the other looks at me.

"I'm enjoying my cigar."

"No, I mean what do you think you're doing with me?" My tone is as angry as I can make it.

"I don't know what you mean," she responds.

"You don't know what I mean? No? Well let me tell you! You've been drugging my food, making me hallucinate about all sorts of things! You show up nearly every night, in my dreams, and I know you're doing it by drugging me! I want it to stop!"

Eloise stares at me with one of her eyes.

"No one is drugging your food. You aren't hallucinating. I might be showing up in your dreams – I don't know. But I can't control whether I'm in your dreams. Only you can control that. All I know is that I'm in your life, and I'm doing the best I can to show you everything you should know."

"Well, I don't want you to show me anything! I want you to stay away from me. Do you understand? Just stay away from me."

Eloise takes another puff on her cigar. "I'm afraid that's not possible. You have to be shown everything – it's already been decided. Why, I don't know. Personally I can't believe you're the one, but that's not for me to decide."

"I don’t even know what you're talking about! You are totally insane, and I'm telling you to stay away from me – I don't want to be infected with you insanity!"

Eloise leans forward in her chair to look at me more closely with one of her eyes. She hisses at me just as she does in my dreams. "I'm not the one who's insane, my dear. Everyone else here is insane, including you. But if you listen to me and learn from what I show you, there is hope for you. And you in your turn may help others."

"Well, I'm telling you I want you to leave me alone. If you don't, then, then . . . ." too late I realize I have nothing to threaten her with. "If you don't, I'll tell Madame," I finish triumphantly, confident that anyone would be intimidated by Madame.

Eloise throws back her head and cackles in the same way the concierge used to, except with a more sinister tone.

"You go ahead and tell Madame, you do that." She cackles again. Then she leans forward and hisses at me "But tonight we go to the fields. And don't delay in getting out of bed this time. It's a long walk."

I hear Madame's voice calling me from the house, and for the first time, I am glad to hear it.

*********

As promised, Eloise comes to my bed that night to take me to the fields. There are fields all around the farm house, mostly used as pastures. She leads me to a hill where we have a panoramic view of the fields. There is a full moon and no clouds. The light from the moon and stars is so bright we cast shadows on the ground as we walk.

As we approach the hill, I hear a constant, deep, rumbling noise, pierced occasionally by shrieks. At the top of the hill, she sweeps her arm across the vast expanse of fields. "See there," she hisses.

I look at the fields spread out below. The rumbling noise is coming from the fields, but at first I can't make out what it is. Then I realize the whole field is in motion. Creatures are walking, crawling, slithering across the fields, all moving in the same direction. Tens of thousands, perhaps hundreds of thousands, of shapes and forms are moving below us, like a massive army on the move. The shapes themselves are grotesque mutations – some seem partially human, moving on two feet, yet have long scaly tails and protrusions coming out of their backs. Other are slithering like snakes on the ground, yet have human faces where one would expect a snake's head. One creature turns to look at me with what is clearly a human face, a woman's face. The skin on the face is deathly pale in the bright moonlight. Straight, dark, greasy hair comes down to a massive jawline, the face itself is concave. The creature's body is shaped like a gorilla, with huge hairy thighs that move it along, arms dangling down and ending in huge fists that touch the ground as it moves. The eyes that look at me from the creature's face have a dull, blank gaze, as though unable to comprehend anything that is going on around it.

"See how they change as they move," Eloise hisses in my ear.

I watch one form in particular. It is lumbering along on all fours, much as a bear would move. It has long shaggy fur on its body, but the head is covered with reptilian like scales, with small horns protruding from its skull. A forked tongue flits out from its mouth and back in again constantly. As I watch, its back end suddenly drops down in the earth and the creature lets out a shriek of pain. Its back legs have disappeared, and as I watch the front legs seem to be drawn up into the body of the creature, so that now it falls flat on the earth. The shaggy hair sheds off in big clumps and a smooth, slimy skin appears underneath. It continues to shriek as its reptilian head is spun around on its neck 360 degrees multiple times, while the scales fall off and are replaced by tufts of feathers. When the entire transfiguration is complete, the creature stops shrieking and slithers off with the rest of the parade of horribles, now a slimy worm with an owl's head.

"What are they?" I ask Eloise, and realize my voice has a hissing sound to it similar to hers. I shudder slightly at the thought of it.

"These are the hypocrites. Never true to anything in life, always shifting position, pretending to be one thing and then another, they are destined to march forever, as forever changing mutants. There are many of these, yes." She nods her head, as though in approval of the massive number of hypocrites serving out their punishment below.

"How is it decided exactly? That these are hypocrites and this is their punishment?"

"They decide for themselves, of course. They made choices in life about how to live and how to act. When their lives are over, those same choices led them here, to this place. Their punishment merely replicates what they were in life."

"But what if you're hypocritical just once in a while, like you tell someone you're going to come to their party, or that their new boots are awesome, but you never intend to go to their party and you think their boots are hideous. Would you end up here then? Hypothetically speaking, of course."

"It is when hypocritical behavior defines who you are that you end up here."

"I guess that means you're not going to answer my question then."

Eloise looks at me with one of her eyes. She seems disgusted. "Come on, we'd best get back." And she thumps off in the direction of the house, with me trailing along behind.

*********

My arms ache from hauling the huge basket of wet laundry through the field. The long dry grass scratches my bare legs, the hot Brittany sun burns the back of my neck. I can hear the children trailing along behind me, gleefully throwing sticks and rocks at any living creature they see. Birds take flight in advance of our approach, snakes slither through the grass in desperation. The children shout out in fiendish delight as they surround their next victim, a beetle, and pound it to death mercilessly with their rocks. I hunch my shoulders, expecting to be pelted in the back myself once they’re done stoning the beetle.

Madame’s mother has done the morning laundry, and now I am to put it outside to dry. This is one of the endless tasks Madame has assigned me since our arrival in Tremoyec. The “washing machine” is a small contraption that somehow connects to the shower for water and chugs away most of the day, cleaning one or two garments at a time. There is no dryer, however, and apparently no clothesline. Why it hasn’t occurred to them to tie a rope between two trees for a clothesline, I’m not sure, but it seems indicative of why France has not been a real super power for several centuries. I am instructed to take the wet laundry and lay it out in the field to dry. I feel like Laura Ingalls.

"Laura," calls Ma. "Will you take the laundry and lay it out to dry?"

"Of course, Ma," Laura replies. "I just finished making a Sunday dress by sewing together all of the corn husks we didn’t have to burn during 'The Long Winter,' so now I can lay out the laundry."

"Such a good girl you are, Laura," says Ma in her calm way. "I don’t know what I’d do without you."

But even Laura probably would have had a clothesline.

"Hold on there, Half-Pint," says Pa. "What are you doing with that laundry?"

"Ma asked me to lay out the laundry to dry, Pa," says Laura.

"Well, that will never do," says Pa with a twinkle in his eye. "Don’t you know the grasshoppers will shit all over the laundry if you lay it out in the grass like that?"

Laura is shocked. She gasps, "Why Pa, I never thought of that!"

"I’ll make you a clothesline to hang the clothes from," says Pa.

"Oh Pa, that would be wonderful, so wonderful!"

But Pa is not in Brittany and the French don’t mind grasshopper shit, so I find the cleanest patch of grass I can and lay out the laundry to dry. I am just finishing when Eloise pops up out of nowhere.

"Were you in the chicken coop yesterday?" Her hiss seems even more vicious than usual.

"Yesterday? I'm not sure. I don't think so."

"You were there! I know you were! Don't lie to me!"

"Wait a minute. Now I remember! Yes, we were playing hide and seek and the door to the coop was open. I thought Aurore might have gone in there so I went to check."

"What did you do there?" She asks vehemently.

"Well, I went downstairs to look for her and I didn't see here. Then I went into the back room and didn't find here there, so I left."

"You did nothing else there?"

"No, I just looked for Aurore and then I left."

"You didn't happen to see any beetles while you were there?

"Well, yes, I did see some beetles in the cellar."

"And what did you do with the beetles?"

"One of them started crawling up my leg and I brushed it off."

"And then?"

"Well, it started crawling back to me, so I stepped on it."

"Imbecile! Do you have any idea what you've done?"

"Made the world a better place by eliminating one more disgusting insect?"

"That wasn't just any insect, you fool!"

"Well what was it then, exactly?"

"The insects in that place are working on behalf of the evil one himself. They are not to be touched!"

"It looked like a pretty ordinary beetle to me."

"You had just been there – you knew what that place was! This is very serious, very serious. I cannot continue to guide you now."

"So this means I'll be able to sleep at night? You won't be coming to get me in the middle of the night?"

"I will not be coming to get you, but you won't be sleeping."

"Why is that?"

"The devil will be after you now. You have upset the balance between good and evil."

"By crushing one beetle? Don't they multiply somehow anyway? Or can't a good beetle be recruited to work for the devil?"

"This is not a joke, you idiot! How is that I have shown you all of these things and still you do not see? This is not something that exists only in your mind – this is real. You saw in Paris how every form of disregard for one's own life, or too much regard, is met with consequences in the afterlife. Here I show you that every form of evil in this life is punished in the next. And yet still you pass it all off as a drug-induced nightmare, a wild concoction of an insane mind! And now! Now you, a teenaged American twit-"

"I'm 22, actually."

"Now you have the audacity to mock the devil's own devices, and alter the balance between good and evil, all of which has been carefully worked out. The devil has the authority to rule over those that come to him, by whatever means he chooses. If he chooses to use the form of insects, then those insects must be left to his devices. They are not to be touched. For you to crush one of his instruments, you who had seen and should have understood what purpose it served, you have created havoc in the plan. The devil will not let this rest, you can be sure. And I will not be able to help you. When he sends his messengers to you, you will need help from a higher source than me."

Eloise stumps off through the long grass and disappears. I decide to tell the children not to stone any more beetles, just in case.

*********

Eloise glares at me all throughout our meal that day. She says nothing, but masticates her food violently. I try to avoid her eye. Madame announces that her friend Caroline and her three children will be arriving at Tremoyec later that day for an extended visit.

"We will need you to help take care of the children, BJ," Madame says to me.

I feel my face flush. I feel I already have enough work with the existing children. But perhaps being surrounded by even more children will keep Eloise away from me. But then again, what if these children are the devil's messengers Eloise warned me about? I brush the thought away – I cannot let myself be contaminated by crazy Eloise.

When we return from our excursion to the beach that day, Caroline and her three children have just arrived. Caroline’s older children, ages 2 and 4, have runny noses and dirty clothes. They have obviously already eaten as they have food all around their mouths and streaking down their chins. What’s on their chins appears to have been regurgitated. Their appearance gives me hope that Caroline’s expectations about the standard of care I provide will be minimal.

Caroline's third child is an infant. It is sleeping in a small basket. We all crowd around to see it. There are many exclamations about what a pretty baby it is, but I only see a mass of red, wrinkled skin, a life form that bears little resemblance to a human being and in fact, is appalling to look at. I shudder to think that I will have to hold it, feed it, respond to its cries. Hopefully it will spend most of its time in its basket, sleeping.

Caroline talks about what a good baby it is. She is very animated as she speaks, and laughs often, in an almost little girl kind of way. Like Madame, she is petite. She has short, thick dark hair that is cut off bluntly at her chin. She has dark eyes and a dark complexion. Caroline and Madame are former school-mates. Now they chatter and giggle together like little school girls.

Madame suggests that I take Caroline's older children and the others outside to play until we're ready to eat. We start with duck duck gray duck, and when I am going around the circle for the millionth time I notice that the cowlick on the back of Adrienne’s head forms a perfect 6. Odd that I hadn’t noticed it before. Even odder is that the Caroline's older child, the 4 year old, also has a cowlick that forms a 6. As I get to Antoine, I am horrified to see that he, too, has a cowlick in the shape of a 6. Sitting together as they are for our game, they form 666. At this very instant, a dark, ominous cloud passes over the sun and a raven circles in the sky directly above us, cawing. The baby’s piercing, soulless cry can be heard from the house, though we are some distance away. Is Caroline’s middle name Rosemary? Is the baby Satan’s child, signaling its trio of demons to take some kind of action? I step back from the children, horrified.

Antoine turns to look at me, his eyes burning read, his face twisted and distorted. He taunts me, “What’s the matter BJ? Where are you going? We haven’t finished our game . . . . . yet.” He laughs a devious laugh, and the baby’s cry sounds out again.

Frantically I try to remember what I can of Damien, Satan’s child from the Omen movies. Wasn’t he born at the 6^th hour on the June 6^th? It is now August and the baby is only a few months old. It’s possible it was born in June. What if it was born 6 minutes and 6 seconds after the 6^th hour of any day or any month? Would that count? The mathematical possibilities for arriving at some form of three 6s on one’s birthday must be infinite, or at least they are for someone who is studying languages and not math. And if the baby is Satan’s child, are each of the 6s also a child of Satan, or merely followers?

I am so absorbed in these horrific thoughts that I don’t see Madame come out of the house and motion us back to eat. But the children see her, and they race off to the house. The dark cloud is no longer covering the sun and the raven has disappeared. I am saved, for the time being.

Back at the house, I make sure that the 6s are not sitting next to one another at the table, just to be on the safe side. I see the baby sleeping in its basket. Is its name Damien? I think of it as “it,” and everyone else refers to it as “the baby.” I must check its scalp for a 666 marking, which won’t be easy as it’s wearing a little hat that’s so tight it is compressing its skull and squeezing its whole face in.

I sneak over to the baby’s basket and with some effort remove its skull cap. It wakes up and stares at me with its dark, beady eyes. It does look demonic, but I can’t see the back of its head to check for the markings, and I hate to touch it. Fortunately Caroline Rosemary comes over to check on it and, seeing that it’s awake, picks it up out of the basket. I do a little dance trying to see the baby’s head from all angles now that its skull is clearly visible. Caroline Rosemary is so obsessed, or possessed, with the baby that she doesn’t seem to notice my gyrations. There are so many odd wrinkles over that baby’s skull that it seems you could discern any number of things – 6s, the Mona Lisa, the guillotining of Mary Antoinette, to name a few. Caroline Rosemary asks me to retrieve the skull cap out of the basket and I oblige her, watching as she forces it over the baby’s head until it squeezes the head down to a size she’s satisfied with.

Madame asks me to retrieve the baguettes and other groceries she forgot in the car before we sit down to eat. In her joy over her friend's arrival, she neglected to schlep everything in from her visit to the nearby village earlier in the day.

Outside I open the door to the little car and rummage around in the back for her bags. I pull them out and am just about to slam the door when I hear a slow hissing sound. It is coming from directly behind me. I turn my head slowly and see the shape of a huge, scaly snake slithering through the grass towards me. It is so close I can see its lidless eyes glinting in the fading sunlight, a pink tongue darting in and out of its mouth. Its head and body are massive, thicker around than my own limbs. I scream and back away, falling back into the car. Despite its mass, the snake moves amazingly fast, closing in on my legs, which are still outside the car. Before I can pull them in and slam the door, the snake begins to coil around them. I scream hysterically, and the snake coils tightly around both my calves, pinning my legs together. I can feel its cool scaly skin on my bare legs. I kick both of them with all my strength in a futile effort to get the snake to stop. I reach for something to hit it with, and grabbing a baguette from Madame's bag begin to beat at the snake's head while still screaming. Bits of bread crusts fly everywhere. Then I see Eloise standing outside the car, glaring at me with her one good eye with the same look that I see in the snake's eye. She is holding a flashlight in one hand. With the other she grabs the snake by the tail and digs her nails into its skin.

"Go back where you belong, you demon!" She hisses.

The snake turns its head in her direction and hisses back. Eloise continues to hang on to the back end of the snake and starts to move her arm in circles to uncoil it from my legs. With her other hand, she shines the flashlight directly in the snake's eyes.

"Go back to your hell, you demon," she hisses again. "You do not belong here!"

The snake pulls its head back from the light. I feel its grip around my legs loosen. I give it another hit with the baguette. Jean Regis runs out of the house.

"What's happening?" he calls out. Eloise has uncoiled most of the snake from my legs. Now it falls off entirely, the top part of its body falls into the car and the bottom half hangs outside the car and on the grass. Its head turned to the outside, it begins to slither out of the car and off into the grass, still hissing.

"It's nothing," hisses Eloise. "This one is just afraid of a little snake, that's all."

"A snake?" askes Jean-Regis. "Yes, there it goes!"

I look past Eloise and no longer see the huge monster that was coiled around my legs, but only a skinny garter snake headed off into the long grass.

"BJ!" laughs Jean-Regis. "From the way you were screaming I thought you were really in trouble – you gave us all quite a scare!"

"I'm sorry, I was just taken by surprise," I answer shakily. I get out of the car and brush the baguette crumbs off of me. "I'm afraid I've ruined this baguette." The baguette in my hand is nearly broken in two.

"So now you'll have to deal with the snake in the house about that," Jean-Regis laughs at his own joke. "Here, I'll help with the rest of this." He retrieves the rest of the bags from the car and we walk back to the house. I can feel Eloise's one good eye burning at me the whole time. As we enter the house she hisses at me, "They'll just keep coming you know. There's nothing I can do about it."

*********

Thwump! Something lands on the foot of my bed. I shriek, and kick blindly with my feet at whatever it is. But it doesn't move off the bed, instead I feel its weight crawling up the bed, onto my legs. I sit upright, my shrieking now hysterical, and try to get out of the bed. My feet are pinned under its weight and I end up with my upper body on the floor and my feet still in the bed. I twist myself around in an effort to pull my feet loose, screaming all the while, and now I see the shape of the thing.

Its body is small, like a child's, with huge wings that extend on either side of it. In the spaces between my screams I can hear it making a slow hissing sound, like air leaking out of a ball. It crawls over to the edge of the bed and leans directly over where my upper body is lying on the floor. In the grimy moonlight shining through my little window, I can see its face. It is small and shriveled, like a shrunken head. It has two holes in its face for nostrils, but no eyes. There are two little nubs on either side of its head, like little ears, or horns. Its whole face and body are covered with short gray hair. It tips it heads from side to side as I continue to scream hysterically. My entire body is covered with sweat.

My screams have woken everyone in the attic. The children start screaming as well. One of them is crying. Then Jean-Regis opens the curtain to my room.

"BJ? What's going on?"

I stop screaming to try to tell him what's happening, but cannot speak. Instead I point to my bed. He walks over to look and a bat swoops down close to his head.

"Shit!" he cries. "There's a bat in here."

I look back at my bed. The creature is gone. I pull my feet onto the floor and get up. Jean-Regis has grabbed a loose board from the attic floor and is swinging it wildly at the bat. I poke gingerly at my bedcovers, wondering if the creature has somehow hidden in my bed.

"What's going on? You've woken everyone up!" Eloise is now standing in my room, glaring at both me and Jean-Regis.

"Grab something and help get this bat!" yells Jean-Regis as he continues to make mad dashes at the bat as it swoops up and down through my room.

Eloise ka-thumps over to the window and opens it up. Within seconds the bat flies out the window and into the night.

"Good idea," says Jean-Regis, somewhat embarrassed.

Eloise glares at each of us. "Here," she says to me. "You might need this" and hands me a flashlight. Then she thumps out of my room to go back to her bed.

"Are you OK now?" Jean-Regis asks, looking around my room.

I look back to my bed and wonder if there is still something there, under the covers. I want to know, but I’m afraid to look. I hear Aurore still crying.

"I . . . . I think I'm OK . . . . . but I better go check on the children." My voice is shaky.

"Good idea."

I follow him out of my room and head to Aurore's bed. She wants me to stay with her, so I lie down next to her in her little bed and wait until she falls asleep, wondering what other evils await me in the dark. By the time her breathing is steady and even, her little body relaxed in sleep, I know what I have to do.

I return to my room with flashlight in hand, checking all the corners, under my bed, and in my bed for any other horrific creatures. My hands are shaking so badly that the light from my flashlight is bouncing everywhere. Seeing nothing, I crawl into my bed with my flashlight and cell phone, pull the covers over my head and dial the number Dr. Maro gave me. It is nearly 2 a.m., and the old man is sure to be in a heavy state of sleep, but I can wait no longer. Surely this must be the type of thing Dr. Maro expected me to call him about.

On the fourth ring, I hear a man's voice.

"Hello?"

"Dr. Maro?"

"Yes, this is Dr. Maro."

"It's BJ. Dr. Maro, I need your help," my voice cracks as I speak. I hear the sound of clinking glasses and laughter in the background. That bastard, he's out drinking with his friends in the south of France while I'm here battling the demons from hell on my own.

"BJ, where are you?"

"I'm, I'm in the north of France. My family has a place near the ocean, near the village of Tre… Tremoyec."

"Yes, yes, I know where it is."

"I need your help. Terrible things are going on here. Can you come Dr. Maro? Can you come get me?" I begin to cry.

"Just a minute, BJ." I hear him talking in a muffled voice with someone in the background as I continue to cry. Then he is back on the phone.

"BJ, it will take me some time to get there. The earliest I can be there is the day after tomorrow."

"OK, OK," I am still sniffling.

"BJ, will you be OK until then?"

"Yes . . . . yes, I think so."

"I'll be there as soon as I can."

"Thank you Dr. Maro." I am still sniffling as I hang up. God, let me get through two more days.

After a fitful night of sleep, I get up just before dawn. It will be hours before anyone else gets up. When I descend the ladder, Renard stretches lazily and comes to greet me. I step outside with him into the cool morning air.

The morning countryside in Brittany is beautiful, with its rolling hills and pastures sprinkled with a few big gnarly trees. The grass and leaves, touched ever so gently by the rising sun, are turning a faded green as summer draws to an end. As I look around me the horrors of the last few days seem more distant. I decide to take the dog for a walk, hoping it will put even more distance between me and my memories. I stride off on the long dirt road leading away from the farmhouse, Renard bounding alongside me joyfully.

Off the city streets of Paris and off his leash, Renard is able to behave like a real dog. His whole body quivers with delight, his tail wags constantly, and his nose turns this way and that, trying to absorb all the smells of the outdoors. He runs off in front of me, pausing now and again to let me catch up, and criss-crosses back and forth from one side of the road to the other.

We head up one particularly steep hill and he disappears over the top. When I get to the top, I panic. There is no sight of Renard. Then I hear him barking, and see that has made his way through a barbed wire fence and into a pasture. He is barking enthusiastically at a flock of sheep, which is bleating madly and bunching together in front of him as though trying to meld together into one massive, single sheep. I yell at Renard, but neither the dog nor the sheep acknowledge me, all of them caught up in their barking and bleating stand-off.

Renard has no herding instincts and seems at a loss for what to do, other than to continue to bark, but even he seems to realize that he is beginning to look foolish. One sheep finally makes a break from the nearly melded bass of sheep and begins to run, followed quickly by the others. Renard gives chase but soon gives up, perhaps remembering his Parisian upbringing and how unsophisticated it is to be seen running. He returns to me, panting heavily.

We pass more pastures, some with sheep off in the distance, but Renard pretends not to notice. We go around a curve in the road and come alongside a pasture where cows are grazing peacefully. Renard sees the cows, and before I can call out or catch up to him, he once again forgets his Parisian sophistication and runs headlong toward the field. In one beautiful motion he leaps over the fence.

The cows, about ten of them, look up at the intruder one by one, still chewing their French cuds, calmly contemplating the situation. Renard, emboldened by his adventure with the sheep and frustrated with the cows’ unresponsiveness, takes a few steps towards them, barking. One by one, the cows stop chewing their cuds, their contemplation deepening. I yell at Renard, but am ignored. Renard takes a few more steps forward, still barking. The cows lift their heads higher. Their nostrils start to flare, their eyes begin to roll in their heads and they emit nearly lethal levels of toxic gas as contemplation turns to panic, just like a group of Fortune 50 CEOs testifying at a Congressional hearing about executive compensation.

The cows moo and shuffle back. But just a few feet behind them is another barbed wire fence. They have nowhere to run, and Renard continues his advance. I get through the fence and get to Renard, grabbing his collar and pulling him back. But the panic that has set in among the cows cannot be reversed, and they continue to moo and shuffle back against the fence behind them. Their collective weight pulls the entire fence down, and soon they are trampling on the barbed wire that was intended to keep them in.

As I continue to pull back on Renard, a man appears next to me out of nowhere, yelling in French and gesturing madly. He is thick and stout, wearing dirty overalls and big boots. His skin is dark and creased with wrinkles.

“What are you doing?” He yells angrily at me. “Why can’t you control your dog?”

“I’m so sorry,” I stammer. “It’s not my dog. I’m just taking it for a walk.”

“Where are you from?” he demands, his voice still loud and angry.

“I’m staying with the family just down the road,” I respond, gesturing down the road where I came from.

“Do you see what you and the dog have done to my fence? Do you realize how much work it will take to repair?” He demands.

“I’m so sorry, Monsieur,” I respond.

“And my cows,” he continues in his angry voice, “my cows do not give milk when they’re frightened by crazy dogs.”

“I’m so sorry, Monsieur,” I say, backing up now with Renard in tow. “We didn't mean to frighten your cows. The dog is not used to being in the country. I’m so sorry.”

“Ah, go on with you then,” he says crossly, making gestures with his hands as if to push me away. “Don’t come back this way with your crazy dog.” He turns to his cows while I continue to drag Renard back to the other fence. I manage to push Renard through the fence while still hanging on to his collar, and I don’t let go of him until we’re a long way from the cows.

On the walk back to the farmhouse, I go over in my mind how I will tell Madame about Renard and the cows. I decide there’s no need to tell her about the sheep, since there was really no harm done there. But the farmer is angry, and he asked where I was staying. There’s little doubt that he’ll be complaining to Madame or her mother about what happened. I go over the words in my mind.

"Renard saw some cows. He went crazy, barking and running. He went over the fence and barked at the cows. The cows were scared, and started to moo.”

But wait . . . . how would I say “moo” in French? And did they moo? Or did they make some other noise, something more French sounding? Maybe I should just say they got scared and took a shit – I know how to say that. But I’ve never heard Madame use that word and I’m not sure she’d appreciate my using it. So maybe I just skip the part about the mooing and the shitting. It’s not really critical to the story anyway.

By the time we’re back at the farmhouse. Madame and her mother are up and in the kitchen. I immediately launch into my story about Renard and the cows, before I forget all the words I rehearsed so carefully. Neither Madame nor her mother seems concerned.

“Well, of course dogs like to chase animals when they get the chance,” says Madame’s mother. “It’s too bad about the fence, but I’m sure it can be repaired.”

Madame says, “If you walk Renard again, just be sure you don’t go past the cows. You can walk a different way next time. There is only one farmer near here who has cows, so it shouldn’t be a problem.”

I am amazed by their lack of concern, and wonder if I failed to emphasize how angry the farmer was. And why shouldn’t he be? A trespasser caused property damage and a loss of revenue due to decreased bovine lactation. In America the resolution of such issues would require numerous attorneys and protracted litigation. Here, it doesn’t seem worth talking about. In fact, Madame seems more concerned about getting the kitchen cleaned up than the disgruntled farmer, and starts to tell me about all the cleaning that is necessary in the house.

“My parents have done much since they first bought the house, but there is still much to do. For hundreds of years peasants lived here, and it is difficult to get all the dirt off the walls where they put their hands.”

“See here,” she continues, gesturing to the entryway to the kitchen. “The peasants would come in from what used to be the barn directly to the kitchen, and would put their dirty hands on this wall as they came in. It’s very difficult to get all of that dirt off.” Her voice is contemptuous as she talks about the peasants and their dirt.

Now I see why she is not concerned about the farmer. He is merely a peasant. She is descended from barons and baronesses. As Madame reminds me to lay out the laundry and check on the children, her voice still contains a tone of contempt.

*********

At the end of the following day I am in the grenier changing the sheets on the children's beds when I hear a car coming up the gravel road. I look out the grimy little window and see a red convertible headed towards the house. Could this be Dr. Maro? I wouldn't expect him to drive such a sporty car, but I hurry in finishing up with the beds and head down the ladder.

I hear voices outside as I get to the bottom of the ladder and I hurry out the front door. I find Madame standing very close to Dr. Maro, next to the red sports car. She is laughing and batting her eyes at him, just as she did with Sven and the electric company serviceman. When I see Dr. Maro, I stop short. He looks very little like my professor. His skin is tan, and he's wearing a white button down shirt and jeans that actually fit him. He has trimmed his straggly hair and grown a beard that is closely shaven. The bald spot on his head where the crow perched seems to have shrunk in size. The setting sun is kind to the lines in his face – he looks 10 years younger, like maybe in his 50s instead of his 60s. He is smiling and laughing with Madame. He looks up and sees me hesitating in the doorway and calls out.

"BJ, how are you? It's good to see you!"

"Good evening, Dr. Maro," I reply slowly. I feel as though our roles have switched and I'm now the reserved, cautious old person and he is the carefree, impetuous student who has much to learn and understand.

"BJ, you did not tell me about your charming French professor," says Madame as she casts a sidelong glance at Professor Brown. "Had I known how charming and handsome he was, we would have invited him to spend the entire summer with us."

"Madame, your offer is too gracious. I am not worthy of your company, but I will always remember our meeting on this beautiful evening." Here he kisses her hand with mock formality and Madame cries "oooh la la" while she pats her chest with her hand.

"And now, Madame, if you will allow me to take my student out for the evening, I would very much appreciate it." He finishes with a little bow to Madame.

"Aaah, BJ, you are the lucky one!" cries out Madame. "Did you hear? You're going out for the evening with your charming professor. Behave yourself!" She laughs as she continues to watch Dr. Maro closely.

"BJ, are you ready to go?" asks Dr. Maro.

"Yes, yes, I'm ready," and I hurry to the other side of the car. Dr. Maro gets there first and opens the door for me. I jump in and slam the door shut hastily before he can close it. He exchanges a few more pleasantries with Madame before getting in the car himself.

"Thank you so much for coming, Dr. Maro," I say anxiously when he gets in.

"Of course, BJ, it's my job to help my students when they're having . . . . difficulties."

"Are the other students having difficulties too?"

"I don't think so. I haven't heard from any of them so I believe they're doing just fine."

"Well, Dr. Maro, so many strange things have been happening here. I don't even know where to begin with it all." My voice begins to get shaky.

"Well, BJ, I do want to hear all about it. But first let's have some dinner and relax. I think it will be easier to talk after that."

"Yes, yes, of course," I agree hastily. "Where exactly are we going?"

"There's a little village near here that I've been wanting to visit for some time. A former chef from a very well known restaurant in Paris retired there, but then opened a little restaurant that is serving some incredible food. I'm thinking of including it on one of my next tours with the students, but wanted to check it out first."

"I see," I respond somewhat dubiously. I am a little disappointed that he's thinking about restaurants and student tours when I have information about the very depths of hell to tell him. I glance at him sideways and again wonder about the change in his appearance. He looks almost GQ like, in an old man kind of way. I look down at my own clothes, and notice that I have several stains on the front of my blouse, and a small tear in my skirt.

"I should have changed clothes before we left," I say as I look down at my rather disheveled appearance.

"No, no, you look fine, BJ," Dr. Maro reassures me. I try to scratch out the stains with my fingernails but they resist my efforts, and I only succeed in bringing a sort of shine to the stains that makes them even more noticeable. I twist my skirt slightly so I don't have to look at the tear.

I look back at Dr. Maro and wonder if this is some new form of demon. Has something taken the place of Dr. Maro to take me to some new form of hell?

"Dr. Maro," I begin hesitantly. "If you don't mind my asking, how old are you?"

Dr. Maro smiles. "How old do you think I am, BJ?"

My concerns about this being the real Dr. Maro are allayed – only he could answer a simple, direct question with another question. My head aches.

"Forget I asked," I reply.

When we arrive at the restaurant Dr. Maro encourages me to drink a glass of wine as he pours over every detail in the menu and has a lengthy conversation with our server. The chef even comes out and launches into an enthusiastic explanation of how everything is prepared. Dr. Maro is thrilled. By the time we order, Dr. Maro, the chef and the server have developed an impenetrable bond. I bond with my wine, tossing it down and asking for more while I sink further down into my chair.

When the server has to go off to wait on another couple and the chef leaves us to do his real job, Dr. Maro smiles at me.

"Thank you for coming here with me tonight, BJ I think we're going to have an exceptional meal."

I grunt briefly in response, fingering my wine glass and wondering why our server hasn't been back to top it off again.

"You know, your French has improved greatly since we last talked."

"You think so?" I rise slightly in my chair.

"Yes, you even have a slight Parisian accent. It's very cosmopolitan sounding."

I feel myself blushing.

"And most importantly, it doesn't even seem to have occurred to you to speak English with me. You now seem as comfortable speaking French as you do speaking English. That's a tremendous accomplishment."

"Thank you, Dr. Maro." I am sitting upright now. I am grateful for his comments but at the same time embarrassed at how much they have affected me. I look down at the table.

"I think we should have a toast. Do you have enough wine?"

"Yes, yes," I say hastily.

"To your amazing French language skills."

I laugh and try to sip my wine instead of gulping it down. Dr. Maro asks about my French family, and I tell him about the children, the chores, the ironing of the underwear. He laughs and says I might get extra credit. When I try to tell him about the madness of the concierge and Eloise, he redirects me. And so we talk throughout the meal about everything other than what has really been on my mind.

Finally, when the chef finishes a lengthy second visit to ensure we enjoyed our meal and the server has brought us our coffee, Dr. Maro allows me to talk about the circles of hell. He listens intently, completely absorbed in everything I have to say. I tell him about the concierge, Eloise, my suspicions about the two older children and the newcomers. I tell him about the squashing of the beetle and the demons that have come to haunt me. My eyes well up with tears that I don't try to hold back and I end by telling him I'm no longer sure what's real, I no longer know if there's anything that separates me from the insanity of the concierge or Eloise.

"BJ," Dr. Maro leans forward and speaks gently, taking one of my hands in his. "I don't believe you're going insane. Reality can be very different for each of us, and even changes as we change. I believe that everything you described to me just now is very real. You're not going mad, BJ If anything, perhaps you are beginning to see things better, see things that have been there all along that you were unable to see."

"But how could that be? If these things are truly real, why isn't everyone seeing them?"

"Because most of us go through life so blinded by the little things that we fail to see the important things."

"But Dr. Maro, I'm not speaking metaphorically." I pause slightly, wondering if I've chosen the right word, but then forge ahead. "When I say I see demons, they are really demons, like things you can touch and feel, not imaginary things."

"Of course, I understand BJ" He gives my hand a little squeeze. "I believe everything you're telling me."

"So will you take me away from here? Can I go somewhere else for the rest of the summer? Maybe stay with one of the other students?" I ask breathlessly.

Dr. Maro lets go of my hand and leans back in his chair. "BJ, I’m afraid that's just not possible."

"But Dr. Maro, I'm frightened. I don't know if I can go on with all of these strange, creepy things all around me." My voice starts to shake and my chest feels tight as I think about returning to Tremoyec. "I don't want to go back to Tremoyec. I know there will be more demons crawling about tonight."

"BJ, I'll be there with you. I'll stay with you until they leave, or until they no longer frighten you." He leans forward and takes my hand in his again. "It will be all right, BJ."

I nod my head slowly. We finish our coffee and pay for our bill. The chef comes out one last time to talk with Dr. Maro, who assures him that he will return with his American students in tow on his next tour.

We drive back to Treymoyec saying little. I am completely absorbed in anticipating the terrors that await me when I return to my corner of the attic. But when I think about Dr. Maro being there with me, I am taken by a new fear.

"Dr. Maro, where are you staying tonight?" I ask casually.

"Madame offered to let me stay at the house."

"But where, exactly?" I think nervously about Dr. Maro sleeping in the attic. It would be OK if there were demons there he had to be on the watch for, but if there weren't any tonight, then it would be kind of creepy to be sleeping in the same room with him.

"On the couch in the main room."

"I see, " I say with some relief. Then I think about how Madame was standing so close to Dr. Maro when he arrived.

"Dr. Maro, I feel I must tell you . . . . when Monsieur is not around, Madame, she is not always well behaved. You should be very careful. If you're sleeping on the couch, well, you're vulnerable. It would be better if you had a room with a door that could be kept closed to keep her out-"

"BJ, I think I'll be able to deal with the situation, should it even occur." Dr. Maro's voice is stern. We don't speak again until we return to the house. By the time we arrive everyone else has gone to bed.

I approach the ladder to the grenier hesitantly. "You'll go up with me? To see if anything is there?"

"Of course. Do you want me to go first?"

"Sure."

Dr. Maro climbs up the ladder and I follow. We walk quietly past the sleeping children and head towards my section of the attic. I enter my room cautiously, slowing pulling the curtain aside. There are no demons present.

"There's nothing here now, but if we wait just a bit I'm sure they'll come out. Then you can see them for yourself."

"Of course, BJ," says Dr. Maro. For the first time he looks at me as though he thinks I might be insane.

"Are you familiar with Dante's most famous work, BJ? The Divine Comedy?"

Dante, again?! Why does everyone keep talking to me about Dante?

I reply tersely, "I've heard of it."

"Yes, many people have, yet few have read it. Even fewer actually understand it." Dr. Maro walks about my little space and sees the trunk in the corner.

"Do you mind if I sit down . . . . . . while we wait?"

"Of course not."

He sits down on the trunk and looks at me. "Do you know what the Divine Comedy is about?"

"It's about the circles of hell," I respond rather absent-mindedly. I am looking closely at the rafters to see if any of the demons are watching us from above.

"Yes, more or less," Dr. Maro nods his head in agreement. "You know it's fascinating that a work of literature from over 700 years ago could still be so widely known." Dr. Maro pushes himself back on the trunk slightly as he warms up to his own soliloquy. "But to be known, yet not closely read, nor really understood . . . . except perhaps by scholars, students of literature, other authors . . . is that enough? You know, one of the great things about Dante's work was that it was very purposefully written in a manner that would be accessible and understood by the common, ordinary people of Dante's day. Most works of his time were written in Latin, yet Dante chose to write his work in Italian, so that ordinary people could read it. He developed his own form of rhyme to communicate his message, since rhyming was a typical means of writing at that time. Now, rhymes are hardly used. Unless of course you consider the works of Dr. Seuss, which of course have great merit in and of themselves, and are probably responsible for improving the literacy rate in the United States manifold . . . . "

Dr. Maro looks at me and I wonder why he is sitting on a trunk in my room comparing the merits of Dante to Dr. Seuss.

"But of course I digress," Dr. Maro continues. "The point is, a message as important as the one Dante was communicating should still reach the common, ordinary people he was originally trying to reach. Since his form of prose is no longer readily understood, perhaps it is time that the work be updated for our times. Someone who can communicate with others in a more . . . . ordinary way. Yes, yes, an ordinary person must update the message for ordinary people."

Here Dr. Maro leaps up from the trunk just as it is being opened from inside. I shriek and step back. A foul smell emanates from the trunk as the lid creaks open. A ghastly looking hand oozing with slime and crawling with centipedes becomes visible and pushes the lid farther open, and then a head covered with dark matted hair and swarming with shiny black beetles comes into sight. Dr. Maro grabs the flashlight from my bedside and rushes to the trunk. He seizes the head with one hand and shines the flashlight in its face, all covered with slime and crawling with maggots, with the other.

"You are not welcome here," Dr. Maro bellows in a deep voice. "Go back to the hell where you belong." He shoves down on the head with all his force and then slams the lid of the trunk down. He looks at me, standing aghast in the middle of the room, and walks over to replace the flashlight by my bedside. He turns back to me and speaks softly now, in gentle tones.

"You are that person, BJ. You must deliver the message to ordinary people about what you have seen and learned here, what you have come to understand. It is an important task, BJ, and one in which you cannot fail."

I feel as though some great weight hits me in the chest. I gasp and take several steps back. I take short heavy breaths, trying to fill my lungs with air. I feel cold. There is a sharp pain in my head and I reach both hands up to press on either side of my skull to try to stop it.

"I can't believe . . . . this is . . . . happening." I have difficulty breathing and can only speak in short bursts. "It can't . . . . be happening to me. You're telling me . . . . you're telling me . . . . I've been chosen . . . . . because I'm. . . . .I'm ordinary?"

Dr. Maro looks at me intently and nods his head slowly. "Yes, BJ," his voice is still soft and gentle.

The pain in my head increases. I stop pressing on my skull and starting pulling on my hair. Now I feel a flash of heat running through my body. My face flushes and I begin to walk around in circles, still pulling at my hair.

"But, but . . . how can you say that? I''m the best student . . . in your class . . . . I have a straight . . . . . A average!"

"BJ," Dr. Maro says gently. "Grades aren't everything. And we are a very small school, after all. Most people have never even heard of us."

I am enraged. "How can you say that? How can you say that? That doesn't even make sense!" I continue to walk around in circles pulling at my hair. "And, and you even told me yourself . . . . on the plane. . . . . that I have a won-, wonder-, wonderful mind."

"And you do, BJ. You do have a wonderful mind. But in the end, it's not really an extraordinary mind, which is really a rare thing. You have what is really, well, an ordinary mind. Most people do."

A demon drops down from the rafters in my path. He is a partial skeleton, insects devouring his skin and crawling out of the sockets of his eyes. I seize him by the neck with both hands and squeeze as hard as I can.

"Get out, you bug-eyed vermin!" I scream ferociously. "Get out or next time I'll slice off your dick and feed it to your maggots." I push him away from me with all my force. "And give the message to all your bug-eyed, shit-faced friends, too!" The demon slithers across the floor and disappears into the crevice between the floor and the wall, leaving a dark slimy trail on the floor.

"Jesus Christ, Jesus fucking Christ," I continue to walk in circles and start pulling at my hair again.

"BJ, your use of profanity at a time like this is really-"

I stop walking in circles and turn to face him.

"Well, excuse me, Dr. Maro, but this is how us simple people talk!" The words shoot out of my mouth in a blast of rage. "Given that you're so extraordinary, you should be able to relate to simpletons like me instead of just all your sophisticated, erudite professor friends. In fact, what is it about you that's so special? Why do you get to make these decisions about who's ordinary and who's extraordinary? I don't think you've gotten any Nobel Prizes for, for . . . intellectualism! Why don't you go off and write Dante's Divine Comedy for Dummies and leave me out of it?!"

"This is why I can't speak with you directly!" Dr. Maro exclaims, running his hand over his head and pacing around the room. "You get frustrated when I give you indirect answers, yet you get angry when I give you direct answers!"

"BJ," Dr. Maro regains his composure and continues. "BJ, these are not my decisions. I am merely the messenger."

"The messenger? The messenger for who? I mean, for whom?"

Dr. Maro smiles slightly.

"Not just for one person. There are many involved."

"So, is there a list somewhere? Something on Facebook? A secret club?"

"I'm afraid not, BJ. The important thing is that you know now what you must do. You need to update Dante's message, and make it understandable and accessible by ordinary people."

"Like doing a reality TV show about it?" I ask glumly.

"I'm sure you'll think of the most appropriate way to reach people. And it's also important to reach not just those of the Catholic faith, as Dante was trying to do, but to reach those who don't necessarily share all of the same ideas about purgatory."

"Like a reality TV show for Lutherans?"

Dr. Maro smiles. I feel suddenly very tired. I sit down on the edge of my bed and feel my shoulders slump forward.

"It's late. I'll let you get some sleep." Dr. Maro walks towards my makeshift door to make his exit. He turns just before he leaves.

"BJ, I realize it's probably small consolation if any, but for what it's worth, of all the years I've been teaching, and of all the students I've taught, you are my favorite student."

I look up at Dr. Maro blankly, swept up in my ordinary thoughts about being an ordinary person. "Perhaps you should set your sights a little higher, Dr. Maro."

"Good night, BJ," Dr. Maro smiles as he leaves my room.

*********

I wake the next day to the voices of Madame and Dr. Maro in the kitchen below. I can tell from her tone of voice that she is being coy. My head still aches and I press my hands to my temples. By the time I descend from the attic, Jean-Regis and Dr. Maro are having an animated discussion about wind-surfing. It has already been decided that we will go to the ocean for the day.

The entire day I feel sick. Everyone is so enthralled with Dr. Maro that they don't notice. He tells amusing stories to the children at breakfast that make them laugh and laugh. He helps Jean-Regis load up the equipment for wind-surfing. He has a deep philosophical discussion with Isabelle about Catholics and Protestants. He helps Mémé peel potatoes for our meal. He even plays fetch with the dog, who of course ends up adoring him and following him around everywhere. And all the while, Madame is at her seductive best, finding reasons to be close to him and even touch him from time to time, batting her eyes and cooing at him every chance she gets. Dr. Maro graciously fends off her advances. By the time we eat at noon, I am feeling not only sick but also very surly. I avoid Dr. Maro as much as is possible in our small quarters, and do not make eye contact with him at all.

We leave earlier than usual for the beach, and this time we have to take two cars given that Madame, Caroline and all of her children are coming as well. When we arrive and strip down to our bathing suits I am thankful at least that Dr. Maro is wearing typical American swimming trunks that cover his legs all the way past his knees instead of the European style of Speedo that leaves too little to the imagination. Madame, on the other hand, seems disappointed. She makes up for it by taking out a bottle of suntan lotion, which looks like it's never been used before, and asking him to put some on her back. I stalk off to the water, and wade about wondering how long I would have to stay underwater to drown myself when Dr. Maro approaches me from behind.

"The water feels good," he says. I say nothing and turn away.

"Did you sleep OK last night?" He tries again.

"Not really. I had a bad headache," I reply sullenly.

"Maybe a little too much wine," he tries to joke.

"If anything the wine helped to ease my headache and dull my senses." My voice is testy. "Although I guess some would say my senses are already rather dull."

"I don't know anyone who would say that. There's nothing at all about you that's dull." Something in his tone of voice makes me look at him sharply, but he looks away from me and out across the water. Seeing him there in the water, for a split second I understand why Madame is so eager to be close to him. I take a step back from him and reach down to the water. I splash as much as I can on him.

"Hey!" he calls out.

"How does the water feel now?" I splash him again. "Does it still feel good?" I laugh and run away from him as he starts to splash me. And suddenly I am no longer sullen, and it feels good to be running through the water and hopping over the waves. The children run out when they see the water fight and join in. And when we're done splashing and chasing each other Dr. Maro and I help the children build a sand castle. It's the best one we've built all summer, and the children are delighted. Jean-Regis even joins in and builds a dungeon before he and Dr. Maro go off to try wind-surfing. I take some comfort in the fact that Dr. Maro is not very good at it.

By the time I return to where Madame is lounging, she is the one who is sullen as she has been unable to keep Dr. Maro to herself all afternoon. When we finally leave, she offers to sit in back with Dr. Maro and the children while I sit in the front with Jean-Regis driving. Madame presses herself into Dr. Maro's side on every turn and every bump in the road, ooh-la-la-ing all the way.

As we pull up to the farmhouse, we pass the farmer I had the incident with the day before. He is just walking up the driveway, leaning heavily on a large walking stick. As we get out of the car, he steps up and uses his walking stick to point to Renard, who is happily greeting us all upon our return home.

"Who owns this dog?" He demands.

"This is my dog," Madame answers. "Who are you?" Her voice has a condescending tone to it.

"I'm the one whose property was damaged by this dog." His tone is surly.

"I'm sorry to hear that. But you know dogs like to chase animals."

"This dog caused my cows to trample my fence. It took me all day to repair it."

"That's too bad," says Madame, but her tone of voice doesn't sound like she thinks it's bad at all.

"And my cows are so upset they haven't been giving milk."

"Ahh, it sounds like your cows are overly sensitive," Madame responds.

The farmer shakes his walking stick at Madame. "You keep your dog away from my cows, or there will be trouble, I can tell you that!"

Madame is unperturbed. "I'll keep my dog away, but don't you shake your stick at me!"

"You people from Paris, you should keep away from here! You don't belong here!"

"We have as much right to be here as you do," Madame retorts. "And unless you have anything else to discuss, I suggest you leave."

The farmer angrily turns away, still muttering under his breath. We all watch him walk away, leaning again on his walking stick. He passes by the big tree where the crow usually sits. It is on the ground, and as the farmer walks by he shakes his stick at it. The crow doesn't move. Angrily he lifts his stick high up above his head, and in the instant before he swings it down I realize that this crow is not evil - this crow has watched over me during my bizarre journey, understands what I have seen and what I will see - I do not want to lose its companionship now.

"NO!" I cry as I run forward in a futile attempt to stop the farmer. Dr. Maro reaches out and grabs me, trying to stop me. I push him away and break free just as the farmer's stick comes down on top of the crow, crushing it. I feel tears coming to my eyes.

"NO!" I cry out again, running up to stand over the now flattened body of the crow.

"What?" cries out the farmer. "You care about a pesky crow, but you don't care about my cows? You're just as crazy as the Parisians!" And he stomps off with his walking stick.

Adrienne and Antoine run up to my side. I expect the little beetle stoners to glory in the death of another animal, but instead they seem genuinely sorry.

"The poor little thing!" exclaims Adrienne.

"He didn't do anything to that farmer," says Antoine. "That was a very mean, very bad thing to do."

"We should bury it," says Adrienne.

"Yes, and give it a proper funeral," adds Antoine. And they run off to find everything we need to bury the crow properly.

I am still staring at the crushed carcass of the crow when Eloise comes up behind me. I had been so focused on the crow I didn't hear her stumping towards me. She looks at the crow's body with one eye and at me with the other.

"Balance has been restored. You should be grateful." And she stumps away towards the house.

Before dinner the children and I wrap the crow in a soft cloth, place it gently in a box and bury it in a hole we dig under the big tree where it usually sat. Dr. Maro gives an eloquent eulogy while the children and I stand over the little grave. Aurore cries and I sniffle. Adrienne and Antoine are very serious, but immediately run off to play when the ceremony concludes, dragging Aurore with them.

"Am I the reason this crow is dead?" I ask Dr. Maro while still looking at the little cross of sticks we fixed over the crow's grave.

"You should not blame yourself for this, BJ," he replies.

"But it's my fault, isn't it? I squashed the beetle, and then the crow was squashed."

"Every living thing serves a purpose, BJ. And when that purpose has been served, then life as we know it, well, it concludes."

"So the crow lived to be squashed like a bug?"

"I'm not sure that's the best way to look at it. I think that this is another experience that will help to increase your awareness and deepen your understanding of everything you're seeing around you."

His comments do little to dispel the dark mood wrapping its fingers around me. When we sit down to eat, I barely notice Madame's continued and blatant efforts to seduce Dr. Maro and his diplomatic maneuverings to fend her off. When we're through with the meal, Madame whisks Dr. Maro out to the garden for a drink. Jean-Regis and Caroline join them as I stay behind in the kitchen to clean up with Isabelle and Madame's mother. As we're finishing, I hear Dr. Maro call out to me.

"BJ, it's such a beautiful evening. Come for a drive with me."

I go to the doorway to respond. "But it's rather late."

"No, not at all," says Dr. Maro. "Come with me, we'll put the top down." I hear him thanking Madame for the drink and the company as he leaves her sitting in the garden to finish her drink with Jean-Regis and Caroline.

"Where are we going, exactly?" I ask as we get in the car.

"Back to the ocean. I've always thought the ocean is best seen at night. There are no crowds of people, it's not hot, and you can see the stars forever."

I look up at the sky. It is a clear night. "You can see the stars now," I say.

"Yes, yes. It's a beautiful night for star gazing."

We ride in silence the rest of the way. At the beach we walk along the edge of the waves, gazing at the stars. Over the sound of the waves crashing into the beach you can hear French rock music coming from a group partying farther down the beach.

"You can star gaze and dance at the beach at the same time," I comment. I take off my sandals and walk in the water, just so the waves cover the tops of my feet when they come in. I start to run, then spin around in a circle. "Look, I’m dancing in the water," I cry out.

"What a beautiful dancer!" laughs Dr. Maro. "May I have the next dance?"

"Certainly, if you think you can keep up!"

Dr. Maro laughs and takes one of my hands, turning me in a circle under his arm. The waves come up over our feet. "But look at this, I can pirouette!" I boast, and start to spin faster and faster.

"The beautiful ocean dancer has mastered some new moves!" cries Dr. Maro.

I spin faster and faster, and feel my head getting light. "Yes, but the beautiful ocean dancer is in danger of falling!" I stop pirouetting, and feel dizzier than ever. I take a step and fall into the water.

"Beautiful ocean dancer, are you all right?" Dr. Maro kneels down next to me in the water.

I see his face above me, and beyond that the brilliant light of the stars and the moon in the dark sky. The water is cool, and I feel the warmth of his skin as he leans over me, asking again if I’m all right. He is close enough now I can feel his voice in his chest. I wonder why I've never noticed what a beautiful voice he has, and how attractive he is. He smells like wine and the salt of the ocean.

I reach out and touch his cheek with my hand. "The beautiful ocean dancer is in danger of falling . . . . in love with her handsome and charming French professor," I say softly, just loud enough to be heard over the waves.

Dr. Maro hesitates slightly, then puts both arms around me and kisses me, then kisses me again. I feel my body rising up to press against his, and his arms tighten around me.

WHOOSH! A huge waves crashes over both of us, breaking us apart and trying to pull us out into the sea. I shriek, then laugh, and Dr. Maro struggles to reach me and pull me back farther into shore.

"Quickly, quickly, there's another one coming!" he calls out as he pulls me out of the water. We both get to our feet and run farther into shore just as another huge waves come in. I am completely drenched, and I laugh as I look down at my dress which is plastered to my skin. Dr. Maro fared little better, though he is at least dry on the back side.

"Oh, the beautiful ocean dancer must give up dancing on the beach! It's far too dangerous!"

We both laugh as we try to wring out our clothes. I start to shiver.

"You're cold?" asks Dr. Maro.

"Yes, freezing!"

"Wait, I have a blanket in the car." He hurries off to the car while I continue to try to wring out my dress and my hair. Dr. Maro returns with the blanket.

"Wait, it won't do any good while I still have this on." I lift my dress up over my head and toss it on the beach. Dr. Maro stands in front of me, unmoving, the blanket in one hand.

"Hurry, hurry, give it to me!" I cry. Still he doesn't move. I snatch it out of his hand and wrap it around me. "There, that's better." Dr. Maro is still motionless.

"Are you all right?" I ask. "Do you need a blanket, too?"

"No, no . . . . I'll be all right," he finally responds.

"I'm going to put my dress on those rocks over there. It should dry out pretty quickly in the wind." I pick up my dress and arrange it over the rocks. When I turn around Dr. Maro is looking out over the ocean at the stars, both hands on his head.

I run back to where he's standing. I see that he's not actually looking at the stars – his eyes are closed.

"The tide is coming in," I tell him. "We should move farther back by those rocks." I hold the blanket around me with one hand and take his hand in the other. I pull him back towards the rocks and start to run. "Hurry, before the next wave gets us!"

He runs back with me. When we reach the rocks I flop down in the sand with my back against one of the biggest, craggiest rocks. There is still some heat left in it from the day. "It's pretty warm here, and we can still see the stars. Look, there's Orion, just about the same place it would be at home!"

Dr. Maro looks down at me, then up at the sky. "Yes, yes, we're at about the same latitude here as we would be at home."

I shiver and pull the blanket closer around me.

"You're still cold?" Dr. Maro turns back to look at me.

"A little, but I'm warming up."

Dr. Maro sits down next to me and stretches his legs out in the sand. We look at each other and smile, neither of us sure what to do next.

"BJ, I-" Dr. Maro begins hesitantly.

"Shhh," I say, and put the tip of my finger on his lips. "Let's not talk about it tonight. Let's just look at the stars, like we came here to do."

"All right," Dr. Maro smiles.

"And since I still need to get warmed up, can you sit a little closer to me?"

"All right." He moves closer to me and puts his arms around me, blanket and all. I can feel the warmth of his body through the blanket. I snuggle closer and look up at the sky.

"Look! I see a shooting star!" I cry out, pointing up to the sky.

"I think that might be a satellite," replies Dr. Maro.

"You think so? I don't know – it was moving awfully fast." And so we spend the night on the beach, talking and watching the stars, until finally my dress is dry and we return to my French family a few hours before the sun comes up.

*********

The next day Isabelle's friends begin to arrive. They are congregating for a friend's wedding that evening somewhere near Tremeyoc. The friends generally arrive in twos, like the inhabitants of Noah’s ark. By noon, there are six of Isabelle’s friends at the house. Two more are expected later in the day. When we sit down at the table to eat our meal, Isabelle announces, with everyone present, that she thinks Dr. Maro should attend the wedding.

"You are not in a hurry to return to your friends, are you? It would be wonderful to have you come with us."

"Well, I was planning to leave this afternoon," Dr. Maro begins.

"Oh, no, you must stay!" Madame jumps in, eager to have a reason for Dr. Maro stay another day. She is about to continue when Isabelle cuts her off.

“And BJ should come too. It would be good for BJ to see a French wedding. She will not have another opportunity like this while she is here,” says Isabelle.

There is a pause while Madame struggles to relax the muscles in her face, which became so tight on hearing Isabelle’s second suggestion that she is momentarily unable to open her mouth. She perseveres and stretches her mouth wide in an effort to loosen things up, giving the appearance of a demonic grin.

“But of course,” replies Madame, looking around the table for approval of her magnanimity. “What time is the wedding?” she continues, trying to calculate just how much work I can finish before leaving, and how much time she can get with Dr. Maro.

“The ceremony starts at 5 o’clock,“ says Isabelle.

I sit silently throughout the exchange, keeping my head down as though I’m not really interested in the outcome of the decision and my fate, but cast furtive glances at first one sister and then the other.

“That will be very nice for you, BJ, won’t it? To see a French wedding! Do you have anything to wear?” Madame addresses me directly in an even more condescending way than usual.

“It’s a simple country wedding,“ Isabelle responds for me. “You really don’t have to dress up.”

Thankfully Isabelle’s friends all start to talk at once about the wedding and the conversation about my going along is ended.

Late in the day, not long before the wedding ceremony is supposed to start, the last of Isabelle’s friends arrive. There is much kissing and hugging all around, but no one looks at the time or makes any suggestions about leaving for the wedding. Phrases such as “time is of the essence” or even “Oh my God! Look at the time! We’re late!“ can be translated into French, but really have no meaning. To be truly French is to transcend time, to let one’s spirit rise above such an earthly concept. French phrases about the concept of time are probably more like “Clocks are for peasants."

Eventually, however, someone suggests leaving for the wedding. Approximately five minutes before the ceremony is supposed to start, two tiny French cars are each packed with bodies and we’re off. These cars seem even tinier than Monsieur’s little car, but at least this time I don’t have to worry about someone reaching around to slap me.

We wind our way over the country roads, and though we stay on the same road we seem to be going in every possible direction. Where I come from country roads are generally straight and intersections are at right angles, neatly boxing in 40 and 80 acre parcels of land with geometric precision. Here geometry has no place, and the roads go where they will. After twenty minutes of driving, our driver stops the car and motions for the second car full of Isabelle’s friends to come up alongside us. There is much talking and laughing as the cramped inhabitants of both cars chatter away, realizing we don’t know where we are or where we’re going. Eventually both cars turn around and we head off back where we came from. Ten minutes later we stop again to converse with the passengers of the other car, then head off on a different road. Eventually we see a church steeple in the distance.

The church sits all by itself in the rolling hills, a picturesque scene but for the mass of cars surrounding it, all parked in random spots and at random angles. Another geometrist’s nightmare. We find our own random spot and park at a unique angle to enhance the overall chaos of the scene and make it more difficult and time-consuming to leave when the ceremony is over.

Although we arrive nearly an hour after the ceremony was supposed to start, it seems as though the ceremony has just started. The little country church is packed and there is no room to sit down inside. There are a number of people already milling about on the steps to the church, and we join them, all of us looking rather rumpled from having spent so much time cramped in our cars looking for the place. I see a brief glimpse of the couple at the front of the church, smiling at each other, and looking very flushed. We wait on the steps of the church until the ceremony is over, then cheer as the happy couple comes out. Isabelle and her friends call out to them as they head off to their car.

“We’ll see you at the party!”

And off to the party we go. Now the hundreds of cars parked around the church come to life at the same time, the high-pitched whine of all of their engines sounding like a swarm of killer mosquitoes. There is no orderly exit from the random parking spots to the road for this swarm, however. Instead, there is a mad dash to get to the road first, cutting off every car possible, darting and swerving and driving through the ditches. With the dexterity of a NASCAR race car driver, our driver cuts across the corner of the church cemetery, narrowly missing several centuries-old tombstones, to cries of horror and shrieks of delight of those inside, outside, and entombed underneath the car. Past the cemetery and into the ditch along the side of the road, our driver races past a group of cars already on the road, then causes the car to leap out of the ditch and onto the road, well ahead of most of the rest of the swarm of cars. The occupants of our car simultaneously cheer and scold the driver. My head and stomach are swirling, so much so that for an instant I wish I were back at the house, trying to entertain the children and keeping Madame satisfied, but the instant passes, and before long the swarm of cars arrives at its destination.

The party is at the farm of the bride’s parents. As at the church, the swarm of cars park in random places and at random angles near the farmhouse. Most of us park in what seems to be a cow pasture, given the number of cow droppings everywhere, but is mysteriously devoid of cows. We pick our way cautiously across the pasture as though working our way through a mine field, calling out to one another to beware whenever we come across anything that looks remotely like cow dung.

We cross the pasture without incident and arrive at the farmhouse. It is a long, low stone building with few windows. A short distance from the house is a huge barn. In the yard between the house and barn there are tables of every shape and size. Picnic tables, patio tables, kitchen tables, tables made of wood, tables made of aluminum, rusted out tables and tables with three legs and a stack of books to keep it propped up. Surrounding each table is a wild assortment of chairs. People who arrived before we did are already beginning to sit down at the tables. They are carrying glasses of wine and plates loaded with food

We head into the barn. Inside, there is one long table set up in the middle of the open area of the barn full of different types of cheeses and breads. At another smaller table sitting perpendicular to the big table, there are pastries and tarts. At another smaller table, several people are carving roasts into thin slices, and there are huge dishes of what appears to be roasted and sliced potatoes. Farther back in the barn, we see people gathering around to get glasses of wine. The aroma of all of the fine foods and wines is lovely, but there is still a lingering smell of the animals that spend most of their lives in the big barn. But the barn, like the cow pasture we parked in, is completely void of its usual inhabitants, all of them whisked away to allow the humans to make use of their space.

Isabelle’s friends head for the wine and Dr. Maro and I follow behind. Then we get some food and head outside to find a table. Isabelle’s friends continue to talk and laugh constantly, even while eating, and I can follow very little of what they’re saying. Dr. Maro, of course, is engaged in the conversation and endearing himself to everyone. I give up trying to understand the conversation and instead concentrate on devouring my food so I can make a return trip for some tarts and pastries.

Back inside the barn in front of the tarts and pastries, I stand salivating. I have not seen so many tasty delicacies since we left Paris. I ignore the scent of the barn animals and make my selections carefully, loading my plate until it looks like a miniature replica of the leaning tower of Pisa. I turn to head back outside, cautiously, so as not to disturb the delicate balance of my edible creation.

As I carefully make my way back to the table, Dr. Maro sees me and laughs at my loaded plate.

"BJ, it was so thoughtful of you to get pastries for everyone," he exclaims.

Reluctantly I set the plate down and slide it towards him. "Help yourself."

"No, no, I would prefer to watch you eat them."

I have worked my way through three pastries when we hear a band start playing in the barn.

"BJ, maybe you should take a break from your pastries and we should check out the band," Dr. Maro suggests.

"Or I could just take them with me."

"All right, whatever you prefer," Dr. Maro laughs.

In the barn all of the tables with food have been moved, leaving a big open area in the middle. The band is standing on an assortment of hay bales overlooking the open area. The bride and groom are dancing in front of them. When the song ends, the groom gives the bride a long, sloppy looking kiss. There are shouts of laughter and many exclamations of “Ooh la la!” to which the groom proudly responds by raising one fist in the air. The next song begins and more people move onto the dance floor.

Dr. Maro leans over to me and asks loudly, in order to be heard over the music “Do you want to dance?”

I find a safe spot for my pastries and we head to the dance floor. We dance until the floor gets too crowded to move, then we head back outside. As we pass the barn stalls, I see that some couples not so discreetly have moved off of the dance floor and into the vacant barn stalls to perform all manner of intimate acts. Now I understand why the animals have been forced to leave the premises - if there were to witness such acts of human lust and depravity the farmer would be subject to criminal penalties for cruelty to animals. Worse yet, some desperate French man unable to find a suitable human mate for coupling with may have availed himself of a fine dairy cow, with her large luminous eyes and soft bottom. The horror for the cow would be too great to bear.

Dr. Maro and I find a table outside and sit down.

"I hope you're enjoying your stay in France, BJ."

"I am," I respond. "I would have to say that the last two days have been the best part of my stay in France."

Dr. Maro smiles. "That's funny. I'd say the same thing is true for me."

"I'm not sure what I would have done if you hadn't been able to come and see me."

"I'm glad I’m here. But I have to leave tomorrow. Do you think you'll be all right? You'll be able to go on from here?"

"Yes, I think so."

"You understand how important it is to see everything while you're here? To remember everything, so you can tell others when you return home?"

"Yes, I think I understand that now."

"Eloise can be very helpful to you. You should feel free to ask her anything."

"Yes, I think I see that now, too. I guess I really didn't appreciate what she was doing until now."

We talk and occasionally dance until sometime after 2 a.m. when Isabelle comes to retrieve us. We meet Isabelle’s friends just outside the barn. They are totally sloshed. They cannot stand straight, they cannot walk straight, and I’m quite sure they cannot see straight. We stumble back to where the cars are parked, but have some difficulty finding the right cars. All French cars look alike when it’s pitch black and you’re completely inebriated. We move from one tiny car to the next, until finally one of Isabelle’s friends calls out.

Voila! We all stumble towards the direction of the shout, and pile into the two tiny vehicles. Isabelle is in my car, and I’m thankful that at least we have someone who should know the way back to Tremoyec. She patiently explains the way to the driver, who starts driving across the pasture, saying “OK, OK, OK” in response to her lengthy directions. At the road he turns right and Isabelle yells, “No, no, the other way, the other way.” The driver swears and makes the necessary 180 degree correction. The tiny car spins wildly on the loose gravel in the road, and we’re on our way. The other car follows behind us.

Someone in our car has stepped on a load of cow manure during our search for the cars and the stench is overwhelming. Tears stream down our faces as the toxic fumes do their work, threatening to poison our lungs and kill us before we have a chance to die in a horrendously tragic car accident. Those squished into the middle of the car beg to have the windows rolled down. There is much fumbling and cursing before the windows go down, whereupon the dust from the gravel road swirls into the car and so chokes our throats we are no longer able to speak, and can breathe only shallowly at best.

I see the grim reaper standing in the middle of the road before us, waiting to receive us as our driver heads straight towards him, but at the last second the drive swerves inexplicably from one side of the road to the other and the reaper is avoided, at least momentarily. I wonder how my parents will be told about my death, and what they will do with my body. Will I be sent home, or will I be buried here? I imagine my body decomposing in a ditch here in the French countryside, having flown out of the window when our driver performed a triple axel like a Russian ice skater, while French officials argue among themselves for weeks about what to do with the American corpse. At least they would serve good food if my funeral was in France. Perhaps they’d serve pastries at my funeral if it were here in France.

By some miracle we escape the jaws of death and the grim reaper moves on to look for other souls. We pull up to the house at Tremoyec and fall out of the car. The other car pulls in right behind us and its passengers, too, fall out of the car.

Isabelle does much shushing to us as we enter the house.

“Try to be quiet,” she scolds all of us.

There is much giggling, cursing and bumping into things as we make our way through the dark house. Most of Isabelle's friends simply drop down to the floor and curl up wherever they can find a spot for the night. I see Dr. Maro is fortunate enough to reclaim his spot on the couch. Isabelle and I head up to the grenier, and I fall asleep before I have a chance to think about the demons that might be haunting my room.

*********

The following morning Isabelle's friends are slow to wake. They are mostly silent and sullen, yet I find their company more enjoyable than the previous day when they were gay and chatty. As they drink their morning coffee, however, they begin to revive and revert to their behavior of the day before.

Throughout the day, people leave Tremoyec. Isabelle's friends are mostly gone by the time we eat at noon. Caroline and her children leave shortly after we eat. Later in the afternoon, Dr. Maro departs. Madame makes a scene when he leaves, repeatedly telling him he is more than welcome to visit any time during the rest of the summer, or any of the following summers, or when she is back in Paris. Dr. Maro wishes me luck, and tells me to call again if I have any further difficulties. Impulsively I give him a big hug.

"Thank you for coming."

"Good luck, BJ," he whispers in my ear. "I'll be thinking about you."

After Dr. Maro leaves, I seek out Eloise in the garden and tell her I'm ready to continue my tour.

"We will go out again tonight," she hisses after taking a puff on her cigar. "Be ready when I come to get you."

That night Eloise brings me to the pasture nearest to the house. It is a dark night with little moonlight to guide us.

When we arrive at our destination, Eloise stops and hisses at me, "Tonight you see the incontinent."

"You mean, you go to hell for losing bladder control?" I ask incredulously.

"You imbecile! The incontinent are those who do not exercise self-control! See over here, those are the lustful."

I look in the direction she's pointing and see large groups of people walking about, their bodies partially in flames. Screams of agony come from those whose bodies are burning the brightest. Some of them dash into a large pool to extinguish the flames, but their screams increase in intensity once the flames are gone. They dash out again, their flames temporarily gone, only to burst into flames once again.

"Their bodies are enflamed with their desires. When the burning is unbearable, they run into the pool. The substance in the pool puts out the flames, but continues to burn their skin. They run out only to burst into flame again. They have no relief."

We watch for a few moments before we walk to an area where there are scores of apple trees. A low moaning sound comes from the direction of the trees, broken occasionally by sobbing noises. For a moment it is hard for me to make out anything other than the trees. Then I see figures moving about among the trees, and other figures lying on the ground.

"These are the gluttons. Unable to control their desire for food and drink in life, here they are tormented by being surrounded by what seems to be the bounty of the earth. But the apples, which are irresistible to them, pierce their tongues until they bleed, so all they taste for the rest of eternity is their own blood."

I look more closely at the figures in the orchard. They are emaciated, with skin stretched taught over their bones. Their skin is ghostly pale. Dark streams of blood run out of their mouths and onto their pale skins. I see one take a bite of an apple and begin to sob, dropping to its knees while blood fills its mouth and courses down its chin. I shudder in the cold, and think about all the times I've over-eaten.

"Poor things," I mutter.

"They are not worthy of sympathy!" Eloise hisses at me. "They made their choices in life, and these are the consequences!"

"Still, it seems a little harsh, doesn't it? I mean, what harm did they really cause by over-eating?"

"They did not merely over-eat, their entire lives were driven by their desire for food and drink. They had no regard for others in the pursuit of their desires. We cannot say what harm they caused by that. But perhaps if they had spent their time doing something more worthwhile, the world would be a better place. Perhaps if they had not continually over-eaten, there would have been enough food for those who starved to death. We cannot know what would have happened had they controlled their insatiable desires. We only know that they are here, now, and for all time. But we must go on. We still have one place left to see tonight."

And with that she turns from the orchard and we walk some distance to a place where the ground drops off slightly before it rises up again, like a little valley. It is rockier here, not as suitable for pasture. I stumble several times in the dark over the rocks. I know we are near our destination when I hear loud rumblings and angry voices. I cannot make out the words, but I can tell from the tone that they are angry. Eloise stops at a place overlooking the little valley.

"See here," and she points to a group of people down below. It is hard to make out exactly what they are doing in the dark, but I begin to distinguish forms here and there – sometimes in groups, sometimes in pairs. I watch one pair, and see one figure push the other in the chest. The second figure lets out an angry shout and punches the first figure in the stomach. The first figure doubles over in pain, but upon recovering picks up a rock and dashes it violently at the second figure's head. Their fighting continues and I start watching another group of forms – all of them are brawling madly. Punching each other, pulling at hair and beating each other's heads against the rocks, all the while crying out unintelligibly in harsh, angry voices.

"These are the ones that cannot control their anger," Eloise hisses at me. "Their destiny is to forever fight one another."

"What are they saying to one another?"

"They aren't saying anything, at least anything that can be understood. They did not use their voices in life for any purpose other than to express their anger. Here their ability to speak has been replaced by what you hear now."

We watch the mayhem and listen to the guttural cries in the little valley below for some time before Eloise decides it's time to return to the house.

*********

The next night Eloise comes to my bed again. I follow her silently down the ladder and out of the house. This time we head beyond the chicken coop to another ramshackle outbuilding. The foundation is made of large stones, at one time carefully positioned and joined together by mortar, but now crumbling, causing the wooden structure sitting on top of it to sit at odd angles all the way around. Eloise pulls on the wooden door to the structure, which is already partially open, and we walk into the darkened building. She leads me through a large open area to another door, and with a mighty effort she pulls it open. We walk into a much smaller room, and I hear scratching noises coming from all around me, like mice scratching on the wooden floor. My eyes gradually adjust to the darkness of the room and I can make out bundles on the floor, like sacks of potatoes. Eloise stops.

"What's here?" I ask. "I only see sacks of potatoes."

"There are no potatoes here," she hisses. "Look again."

I look more closely at the bundles and let my eyes adjust to the darkness. They are not sacks of potatoes, but human forms curled up on the floor. The scratching noises seems to be coming from them. I gingerly step closer to one form and lean over it to see it more closely. More horrifying than anything I have seen, I open my mouth to scream but nothing comes out. I feel Eloise grasp my arm and hang on as I try to back away and start to stumble. The form lying on the floor in front of me is naked, curled up in a ball. Where the eyes should be, there are maggots bursting out of the sockets. Where the mouth should be, there are long slimy worms wiggling this way and that. There is little skin on the face. The form is scratching its face with such force that it is scratching its own skin off. More insects are crawling out of its bottom and are moving over its entire torso. I begin to wretch violently.

"Get a hold of yourself," Eloise hisses. "You must see all of this." She waits for my wretching to slow down.

"Look at this," she commands.

"I saw it! I already saw it!" I turn away and begin to weep. My stomach aches from wretching.

"Look again!" she hisses. "These are the rapists. As they devoured the flesh of others, now their own flesh is devoured - eaten by maggots and insects for all eternity. They even try to rip their own skin off to keep the insects away. Look!" She pulls on my head and forces me to take another look at the rapist curled up at my feet. This time I try not to look at the insects and look instead at the shreds of skin hanging from the face, revealing the bone and grisle underneath. I begin to wretch again.

"Come along," Eloise hisses with disgust. She pulls at me and leads me out of the room while I’m still bent over clutching my stomach. I can't stand up straight until we are near the house, and then climb up the ladder to the grenier with one hand still clutching my stomach.

*********

That weekend Monsieur arrives at Tremoyec to spend some of the last days of summer with his family. Madame is less oppressive with him around, and the children are more cooperative. He continues to speak slowly and methodically to me, and although I used to appreciate this, now I find it rather comical.

With Monsieur around, my duties with the children are lessened considerably. Madame even allows me to go to the beach one afternoon with just Isabelle and Jean-Regis while Monsieur and Madame take the children to the local village to run errands. The adults only afternoon is a fabulous luxury. Jean-Regis continues to behave respectably, even though I've long suspected he looks up my skirt whenever I go up the ladder to the grenier. His company is actually enjoyable, and I feel like I can truly relax with him now instead of always being on guard.

After he comes in from wind-surfing, he lets Isabelle try, and we watch her struggling with the sail while we sit in the warm sand on the beach.

"You know, I think you're holding up incredibly well," Jean-Regis says while he brushes some sand off his hands.

"What do you mean?"

"Well, as if it's not enough to deal with my oldest sister, who is truly a bitch, and all of her obnoxious little monsters, you have the ordeal of seeing everything Eloise is showing you."

I stare at him, not knowing how to respond.

"I . . . . I don't really know what you mean."

"You don't think I know?" he laughs.

"How long have you known?" I ask, picking up a handful of sand and letting it slide through my fingers back to the beach.

"After the snake and the bat came to visit you, and Eloise gave you the flashlight."

"Not so long ago, then." I continue to pick up sand and let it slide through my fingers.

"No, I'm kind of slow. That's why Eloise was chosen to be a guide and not me."

I stop playing with the sand. "What?"

"My family has been serving as guides for many generations. Eloise is also dealing with it all pretty well. Better than my father."

"Your father was a guide?"

"Yes, for most of his life."

"Is that why he- is that how he became an invalid?"

Jean-Regis laughs. "He's not really an invalid. He's just totally insane, by most people's standards. He refuses to speak, refuses to move, for the most part anyway, and he's almost entirely blind."

"I'm sorry. I didn't know."

"There's no way you could know. And you don't need to be sorry – he always considered it a great privilege to serve as he did, just as Eloise does."

"So how often, I mean how many people, are guided?"

"Not many. Eloise has only guided a handful of people. You are one of a very fortunate few."

"Does everyone in your family know? About Eloise being a guide and guiding me?"

"My mother does. And Isabelle suspects it. But my oldest sister, your Madame, isn't aware of anything. She's too engrossed in her own life to see it."

"I- I just didn't see all of this. I don't even know what to say."

Jean-Regis smiles. "I can see why Dr. Maro chose you."

"Dr. Maro? He told me he didn't choose me."

"Well, he might not have had the final word, but he certainly would have been the one to make the recommendation."

"Why him?"

Jean-Regis shrugs. "It was just his turn. I don't really know any more than that."

"But why do you think I was chosen?"

"Well, for one thing you're just an ordinary person. Too often they have selected extraordinary people, but the results in the communication of the message by those people, well, sometimes it works famously like in Dante's case, but most of the time it just doesn't work at all. But more than that, you seem so sweet and innocent on the outside, but inside"- he taps his finger on his chest while he looks at me, "inside of you right there is a core of steel."

He stands up and brushes the sand off his shorts. "It looks like Isabelle has given up. It's your turn on the wind-surfer."

*********

That night once again Eloise ka-thumps to my bed. I am dressed and ready to go by the time she gets there. We go out into the night and past the chicken coop. Tonight we walk down the gravel road for some time before Eloise turns off into a neighboring pasture. We cross over a barbed wire fence, and follow a well worn cow path through the pasture. We eventually arrive at what looks to be an abandoned barn. Eloise leads me to the back of the barn and we enter the building through a hole in the side where several planks have broken loose. Once inside, Eloise turns on her flashlight. She shines it on the floor of the barn first, then brings the light up to our eye level. A figure caught by the beam cringes and shrinks back, but Eloise's light follows it relentlessly. The figure's torso is bare, and a deep, jagged tear across its ribs exposes the bones protruding at odd angles from its inside. I see that its head is twisted at an odd angle on its neck. Eloise quickly moves her light from this figure to another standing near it, whose neck is bleeding profusely from a large gash across its jugular vein. Then the beam of light drops down to the floor where a body is lying inert, its intestines spilling out of its abdomen and onto the floor. Another body lying next to it has an open cavity where its heart should be, with streams of blood gushing out of the open hole.

I put my hand to my mouth as I feel a sense of nausea overwhelm me. I remember Jean-Regis talking about my core of steel and wonder what he would think if he saw me now. Eloise hisses at me, "Pull yourself together, there is more to see."

"I need some air," I gasp, and I stumble out the back of the barn the same way we entered. I stop and lean over, clutching my stomach and trying to breathe.

Eloise comes stumping out to me. "What are you doing? We haven't seen it all."

"What is this place?" I ask between gasps.

"These are the ones who committed sins of violence. The worst torment that they inflicted on their victims is what they must suffer for eternity."

I nod my head. My breathing has almost returned to normal. I straighten up.

"Come along," she seizes my arm in her vice like grasp. "There's more to see."

"NO!" I pull away from her with all my strength. "I understand what this place is. What more can I learn from seeing more of the same?! I’m not a moron, after all. You've done your job for the night. I'm going home." I walk off angrily in the night, back towards the farmhouse. After I've gone a few yards, I hear Eloise stumping along behind me.

*********

Eloise does not come to my bed for several nights after that. My days in France are coming to an end quickly, and I seek her out.

"Eloise, I won't be here much longer. Shouldn't we be continuing my tour?"

"I'm letting you recover. You don't really have the stomach for this."

"Well, maybe not, but I have to see it and I don't have much time left."

"There's not much more to see, but what you will see will be worse than what you've seen before."

"Is it like what we saw last time?"

"No."

"Is it more bugs?" I cringe as I ask the question.

"Yes."

My stomach starts to cramp up at the thought.

"Tonight we will go out again. There will be no bugs tonight."

*********

The place is eerily quiet. The only sound is the wind gusting. We pick our way across the rocky field until finally Eloise decides to stop. She turns to me.

"See here," she hisses, gesturing with her arm to the field in front of us.

There is some light from the moon tonight. But I see nothing other than the field and the rocks. There is no motion of any kind. The sound of the wind gusting here is louder, although the wind does not seem to be blowing any harder here.

"I don't see anything," I admit.

"They are lying on the ground. Look at them."

I look again, and still see nothing.

"Come along," Eloise hisses with disgust. "We'll get closer."

We walk up to a rock and stand over it. As I look at it, I realize it is in the shape of a human form, lying on its back on the ground. Its arms are spread out and its legs are crossed at the ankles, as though it's being crucified on the ground. Its chest heaves up from time to time, as though it is trying to breathe in.

"These are the ones who committed sins against the children. Their burden of sin is so great that it is crushing the very breath out of them. You hear the noise they make? They are gasping for air."

I realize the sound I thought was the wind is in fact the collective sinners attempting to breathe. I look down at the one at our feet. It is aware of our presence, and opens its eyes which had been closed. It looks directly into my eyes. I gasp at the sight. The depth of suffering in its eyes goes beyond what I had ever thought possible. For a split second I too am unable to breathe, crushed by the thought of the sinner's terrible burden. I step back and breathe again, and the sinner closes its eyes.

"They will spend an eternity like this, still conscious but hardly able to breathe, forever being asphyxiated. This is their torment for tormenting the innocent lives of children."

We stand in silence for a moment longer. I begin to shake with silent sobs.

"You should not feel sorry for them!" Eloise hisses at my angrily. "They made their choices in life just as the other sinners you've seen did!"

"I know! I know!" I try to control my sobs. "I'm thinking of all the pain. The pain they caused the children, the pain they're suffering now. It's more pain than I ever imagined could exist."

"Come along," says Eloise. "That's enough for tonight."

*********

Isabelle and Jean-Regis leave at the end of the week. I am truly sorry to see them go, and even miss Isabelle's constant musings on Catholicism and religion in general. Jean-Regis gives me a big hug when he leaves.

"I wish you the very best on the rest of your stay, BJ."

"Thanks, Jean-Regis. I'll miss you."

"You're in good hands with Eloise. She is truly the best there is."

Without Jean-Regis, the trips to the beach come to an end. About the same time that he leaves, the children's joy at Monsieur's being at Tremoyec dissipates, so their entertainment once again falls primarily to me. We again pass our days playing hide and seek and whatever other games I can think of. Madame seems to have run out of chores for me to do, so I actually have time to continue with my journaling. Life seems nearly normal, except for the continued nocturnal visits from Eloise.

*********

That night we again pass the chicken coop and start walking through the fields. We walk much farther then we have walked before. After a long time we come to hill that rises up more than the others in the rolling fields. Eloise heads to the base, where there are piles of rocks and boulders. She starts pushing at some of the rocks.

"Come help me move some of these," she hisses.

I obediently start pushing the rocks in the same direction she is. Eventually a small hole appears. It appears to go directly into the side of the hill. Eloise gets down on her hands and knees and starts crawling in.

"Follow me," I hear her hiss just before she disappears.

Reluctantly I get down on my hands and knees and poke my head into the hole. It smells of damp earth. I imagine all the bugs that must be in the earth, but Eloise had promised that there would be no bugs again tonight. Slowly I begin to crawl in on my hands and knees. Eloise has brought a flashlight and I see the beam ahead of me. I hurry to catch up, not wanting to be left alone in the dark. As we crawl along, the path seems to get wider and higher. I realize as some point that we're not actually going straight back into the hill, but are actually headed down into the ground. The dirt gives way to rock, and the path has enough clearance that I can walk on two feet, but hunched over. I see the flashlight stop in front of me and I catch up to Eloise. She is in a spot that has enough clearance that we can actually stand up.

"See here," she flashes the light around the walls of a small cave where we're standing. There is a foggy mist surrounding us.

"What is it?" I ask, not seeing anything other than the walls of the cave.

"There, there's one!" she exclaims. "See it?" Her flashlight is pointed directly at a small fragment of fog floating through the cave.

"What is it?" I ask dubiously.

"It's the soul of one who is still living. See, there are others."

"Isn't this just fog?" I ask

"You idiot. This is not fog. See how they move?"

I look at the fog again and realize that it is made up of many individual fragments, each moving in different directions, at a different pace.

"What is this, exactly?" I ask.

"There are times when a person living on earth becomes so evil that their soul is shattered, completely incapable of ever feeling love or doing good. When that happens, when a person becomes pure evil, the devil takes over the person's body while still on earth. There have been many names in history who you would recognize who have been inhabited by the devil in this way – Stalin, Hitler. And those whose names you would not recognize, but whose evil was equally great. The list is very long indeed. When the devil takes over the person's body on earth, what remains of their shattered soul comes here, waiting for its body to die. When the body dies and body and soul are joined again, the punishment for the person's sins begins."

"So it's kind of like a holding cell? For the truly evil?"

"More or less," Eloise responds.

I look around the cave again. I shiver. "There are a lot of them."

"Yes, more than you would imagine," Eloise responds gravely.

One fragment passes closely in front of my face. "What if they escape somehow? Can they inhabit someone else's body?"

"No, these souls no longer have any power without their bodies. One's soul is joined to one's body in such a way they are inseparable during life, each needing the other to survive, except for the ones you're seeing now.

We watch the seemingly fragile wisps of the souls float about the cave for some time before making the long walk back to the house.

*********

"We have only one place left to see," Eloise hisses at me. At one time such news would have elated me, but now I am almost disappointed.

"What will we be seeing?"

"The evil one himself," she hisses emphatically.

"I'm going to see the devil?" I ask hesitantly.

"Yes, and there will be bugs, so you must be prepared for that."

"When do we go?"

"Soon," she hisses mysteriously, and ka-thumps off before I can ask more questions.

For two days and nights I nervously expect Eloise to come take me on the final leg of my journey. I sleep badly, waiting tensely to hear Eloise ka-thumping to my bed, imagining the horror of the insects and the devil that I will have to witness. When I do fall asleep, I wake up in a sweat, my heart beating wildly, my thoughts scattered.

Finally, on the third sleepless night, I hear Eloise ka-thumping towards my bed.

"Tonight is the last night of your tour," she hisses at me. Again I dutifully get up, put on my sweats and follow her down the ladder and out of the house. Again we pass the chicken coop and head out into the night.

"How far are we going?" I ask. My voice sounds timid, even to me.

"As far as last time," Eloise hisses. We walk in silence for some time.

"Is there anything I should know now, before we see . . . . what we'll be seeing tonight?" For some reason I can't bring myself to use the word devil, like the Harry Potter characters who can't speak the name Voldemort.

"Just be prepared for the bugs," Eloise hisses.

"Will there be a lot of them?" My voice is still timid.

"Yes," Eloise's voice is curt. I stop asking questions.

We are headed in the same direction we went to see the souls of the living. When we arrive at the hill were we pushed away the rocks and crawled into the hole, Eloise walks around to the back side of the hill. The back side is rocky, and we walk carefully in the dark to avoid stumbling. Eloise reaches a crevice in the rocks beneath our feet and begins to lower herself in. The crevice is barely wide enough for her, and she has to push on the sides of the walls to get down. She grunts with the effort as she squeezes herself down. When the grunts cease, she turns on the flashlight she brought with and hisses at me to follow her.

Gingerly I lower myself into the crevice, expecting to see bugs swarming up around me at any moment. The rocks feel cool and damp, and I slip and stumble on the descent. When my feet reach the hard rock below, Eloise heads further down the narrow crevice and I follow. As we twist and turn through a myriad of tiny openings I become completely disoriented. I only have a general sense that we are very gradually working our way deeper into the earth. The only sounds are our footsteps on the rocks and our breathing as we suck in to slide through the narrow passageways. From time to time the crevices widen out and we are able to walk and breathe normally for a few steps before again entering a small fissure in the rocks. The only light is the beam from Eloise's flashlight, bouncing up and down as she ka-thumps through the rocks. Finally we reach a wide passageway and Eloise stops and turns to me.

"We are nearly to the entrance to his cave," she hisses. "There are many insects there. You must not touch them, or cry out. They know we're coming and will stay out of our way, as long as we do not disturb them. And try not to wretch."

I nod my head but she has already turned around and is headed farther down the passage. Instead of getting narrower again, this one continues to widen out. Eloise flashes her light around and I see that we have reached a huge cavern underground. It is perhaps ten feet high, and thirty feet across. As she moves her light along the walls, it looks like the walls are moving, and for a moment I think the entire cavern is closing in on us. Then I realize the walls themselves are not moving, but are covered with swarms of moving cockroaches. I start to gag and cover my mouth quickly.

Eloise turns on me and hisses. "Get a hold of yourself."

I squeeze my eyes shut tight and stop gagging. When I open them again, I see the beam from Eloise's flashlight near my feet. There are thousands of cockroaches swarming several inches from our feet. I start to hyperventilate. Eloise grabs me by the hair with one hand and pulls hard enough to cause me enough pain to stop thinking about the cockroaches.

"Stop it!" she hisses. She shines the flashlight in my face with her other hand. I squeeze my eyes shut. "You must not react to them, or all hell will break loose." She releases my hair and I rub the pain in my head. "Are you ready to go on?" She hisses, her light still shining in my face.

I turn my face away from the light and nod my head. Eloise turns around and starts to ka-thump along a little path along the side of the cavern. I concentrate on following her footsteps exactly, and think about everything except the cockroaches. Eloise's beam of light is shining on the path, and I can see the roaches are staying off the path we are walking on. I concentrate on breathing evenly. When we are nearly to the end of the cavern, Eloise eventually stops and turns to me again.

"We are about to enter his cave. Are you ready?"

I take a big breath and nod my head. Eloise walks to the end of the cavern and turns to enter a small opening. I follow closely. Past the opening, Eloise shines her flashlight around and I see we are in another cavern, but this one is vast, many times the size of the one we were just in. The walls are pitch black, they are not covered with roaches as in the smaller cavern. Eloise shines her light slowly along the middle of the cavern. The light gleams off of something positioned directly in the center of the cavern. Whatever it is is swarming with more cockroaches, crawling up the object and along its sides. As Eloise's flashlight continues to move slowly along the object, I realize that it is itself a huge roach, at least twenty feet long. Its legs are folded underneath itself. When the light reaches its midsection, it slowly stretches out its legs and begins to rise up. My spine tingles and my scalp prickles. I stop breathing as her light continues to move along the body of the huge roach, all shiny in the light. By the time the light reaches its head, it is up on all of its legs. Eloise holds the light steady on the head of the beast. The antennae on it head extend off into the darkness, but I can see them twitching back and forth at the base of the insect's head.

Slowly the beast turns its head in our direction. In its head are two giant eyes, like human eyes. They are completely black - a hard, cold black like the black in the deepest recesses of the ocean, where no life exists. I feel compelled to look directly into the giant insect's eyes. Its eyes in turn seem to seek out mine, and when our eyes connect, I feel a sudden sharp pain in my chest, followed by a hollow feeling. Immediately after I feel a rush of such feeling as I have never felt before or since. It is like a rush of all of the horrors, all of the pain, all of the evil that has occurred since the beginning of time until this time and into the future. The feeling sucks the very breath out of me and I feel icy cold from my toes to my head. My eyes are still locked with the beast's eyes and deep within them I see all of these horrors played out in an instant through its eyes. Now its head moves toward us, and its antennae reach out in front of it as though trying to touch us.

Eloise quickly shines the flashlight directly into one of its eyes and cries "No!" Her voice sounds deep in the recesses of the cave and reverberates off the walls. The beast turns its head slowly away from the light, maintaining eye contact with me as long as possible. The feelings of horror and agony pass away from me and I feel hollow again.

"It's time to go," Eloise hisses. She ka-thumps away from the beast and I stay close behind. We pass out of the great cave, through the narrow passage and into the smaller cavern. This time I do not even think of the masses of cockroaches surrounding us. We move quickly through the cavern and start working out way back through the crooks and crannies we passed through on our way down. Finally we reach the first crevice we came down and work our way back up the narrow walls of rock. We emerge from the bowels of the earth and into the night air. The sky is clear and there are an infinite number of stars above us. We walk in silence for some time when, overcome with so many emotions I cannot describe, I drop to the ground and begin to sob.

Eloise stops and comes back to me. She kneels on the ground next to me and puts one of her hands over mine. It is the first gesture of compassion she has ever shown to me.

"Eloise!" I speak in gasps between my sobs. "When I looked into his eyes! It was . . . . the most horrific . . . . most awful feeling. And just before that . . . . . and after . . . . I felt all . . . hollow. Like . . . . there was nothing left . . . . inside of me."

"To look into the evil one's eyes is to see all of the evil that has ever existed, from the beginning to the end of time. The feelings you have now will diminish over time, but some small part of them will stay with you the rest of your life. What you saw and what you felt is what you must tell the rest of the world. You must use those feelings to help others. The hollowness you felt is what the evil one himself, and those who do evil, feel all the time. Those feelings will not continue unless you, too, choose the path of evil."

My sobbing subsides. I look up at the starry sky and take a deep breath.

"Are you ready to go back to the house?" Eloise asks. This time her voice does not have the hissing sound to it.

"Yes, I'm ready." We walk back to the house the rest of the way in silence.

The following day I try to go about my routine as usual. I can feel Eloise watching me with her one eye all morning. In the early afternoon, after I've put the laundry out to dry in the long grass, I go to the garden and find Eloise smoking one of her cigars. I sit down next to her in one of the dilapidated old garden chairs.

Eloise smokes in silence for some time while I gaze off at the horizon. Finally Eloise breaks the silence.

"How are you feeling today?"

I shrug my shoulders in response. She takes another puff on her cigar and watches me with one of her eyes.

"You've been there before?" I ask.

"Yes."

"Then why did I have to go at all? Why can't you just do all of this?"

"People think I'm crazy already. No one would believe me if I tried to tell them anything. But they might believe you. You're normal. You're ordinary. You're just like everybody else."

"I'm not feeling like everybody else today."

"But you will again, sometime soon. What you're feeling now will diminish with time. You'll be able to lead a pretty ordinary life, just as you would have had you not gone through all of this."

Somehow this is not very encouraging.

"Why is he a cockroach?"

Now Eloise shrugs her shoulders. "That is what he chose." She takes a puff on her cigar. "It's a good choice, really. People are horrified by cockroaches, fearful of them, just as they should be of anything evil. And cockroaches have been around since the beginning of time. No matter how hard we try we can't eradicate them. They'll exist until the end of time, just as evil in some form will exist until the end of time."

"And all of the little cockroaches?"

"Those you saw belong to him."

"But what do they do exactly?"

Eloise shrugs her shoulders again. "Whatever he bids them to do, I suppose. Scratch his back, his underbelly. I don't know exactly. No one does."

"But what about the cockroaches we see here? Do they belong to him, too?"

"Some of them do, some of them don't."

"But how are we supposed to tell the difference?"

"You can't, for the most part. Just like with people. You don't always know who is aligned with the devil, who is doing evil."

"But how is that helpful for people? What am I supposed to tell them?"

"Tell them what you saw, what you felt. Let them know it's all real. That there are consequences for their actions during life. That they must choose their paths carefully, lest they end up like the sinners you've seen."

"It was very convenient that they were all here, in Brittany."

"They're everywhere. You could have gotten this tour anywhere in the world. Except for him, of course."

"So there are sinners like I saw all over the place?"

"Of course. You didn't think that was all of them, did you?"

"I didn't really think about it. Well what about him? Why is he here?"

"He chooses to be here for now."

"You mean he can go wherever he wants?"

"He is free to move around underground."

"That's kind of creepy."

"He's been here a long time. I don't think he'll be moving anytime soon. Perhaps like anyone else he finds it too much effort to move." Eloise cackles at her own joke.

"So when do I get the tour of heaven?"

"You don't need a tour of heaven."

"But Dante got one."

"He wrote about one."

"Are you saying he made it up? I thought you just told me I was supposed to tell everyone it's all real."

"What he made up is that heaven is some particular place, up in the sky somewhere. It's actually all around you, right here, right now."

"In Brittany?"

"In Brittany, and everywhere else."

"I'm not sure I understand."

"Heaven is when Aurore holds your hand, or brings you some flowers, or laughs with you. It's when you feel a warm breeze in your hair and the sun on your cheek. It's when you sit down to eat with your family and friends. It's when you see a butterfly float from flower to flower, or watch a horse run through a field. It's when you gaze at the night sky with your French professor or feel the warmth of his skin against yours."

"What do you know about that?" I snap.

Eloise cackles. "I know that you love him, and that he loves you. And when two people love each other, that's heaven too."

I scowl at her and she cackles again.

"So that's it then? Heaven is just a series of random moments in time, right here on earth?"

"Heaven is love, really. You have the power, anyone has the power, to make their life all about love. Love of other people, love of nature, love of life itself. And if you make your life all about love then your life will be like heaven, which is all about love, all the time."

"So if you live a life of love here on earth, or at least try to live a life of love, what happens when you die?"

"You will be surrounded by love, feel love, be embraced by love, for eternity."

I nod my head slowly. "I think I understand that. And if you live a life without purpose?"

"You will end up like those you saw in Paris."

"And if you harm others?"

"You will end up like the sinners you saw here."

"And what if you try to live a life of love, but it doesn't quite work out, and you end up not knowing what to do, or maybe even end up hurting others?"

"That I cannot answer. All I can tell you is that each person is responsible for choosing how to live their own life, and that those choices will ultimately determine how each person spends eternity."

"And what about purgatory? Dante wrote of purgatory."

"Pure fiction. There is no way to change your path after death, and no one on earth can do anything to change it either. It is your choices during life on this earth that matter."

We lapse into silence again.

"Eloise?"

"Yes?"

"I'm glad you were my guide for all of this. Thank you."

"You are very welcome, my dear. You have been a good tourist." And Eloise cackles before taking another puff on her cigar.

It is only one week until classes start again. I move my car load of belongings back into the house I share with my three roommates. I am anxious to see Dr. Maro, but I wait until the next morning. Then I hurry to the French Department. I know he'll be in his office – he always is.

When I get there I realize I don't know what to say. I stand in his doorway and watch him, his head bent over some papers on his desk, the bald spot on his head looking a bit bigger than I remember it last, but smaller than it seemed when he was in the classroom giving lectures.

He looks up and sees me in the doorway.

"BJ, it's good to see you!" he smiles and takes off his reading glasses. His voice is warm and melodious, the way I remember it in France.

"Hello, Dr. Maro." I feel shy.

"Please, sit down," he motions to the chair in front of his desk. "How was the rest of your summer in France?"

"It went quite well," I answer, my courage picking up. "I think I truly deepened my understanding and awareness."

Dr. Maro laughs. "That's excellent, BJ."

"And I'm thinking of starting a blog, based on my experiences there. I'll be done with school after first semester, and then I think I'll start blogging. I thought of writing a book, but no one reads books anymore, or a screen play, but movies are getting to be kind of expensive . . . . for ordinary people."

"I'm glad you've given some thought to it, BJ," says Dr. Maro.

"I'm looking forward to your level 4 class in French conversation this semester," I smile, but feel shy again.

"Ahh, well, BJ, actually there have been some changes in the schedules. Professor Maury will be teaching the level 4 French conversation class this semester."

"Really? Why? You've always taught that class in the past."

"Well, it just seemed like a good time to make some changes, to let someone else handle some of the senior level classes. I'm sure you understand, BJ."

I don't really understand at all, and am disappointed that I won't be seeing Dr. Maro every day in class this year.

"Well, since I graduate after first semester, I guess I won't have you again as a professor." I speak to my lap.

"No, I'm afraid not."

"I'm sorry to hear that." I watch my hands fidgeting in my lap.

"BJ, you asked me a question in France that I never really answered."

I look up at him. I asked him a lot of questions that he never really answered.

"You asked me how old I was." His voice is very quiet. "The night you and I were at the beach, about the time we were dancing, I turned 33. And I'd like to thank you for giving me the best birthday I can remember, ever."

I realize I have stopped breathing, and my head is getting light.

"I hope, after you graduate, when you're no longer a student here, that we can get together and talk about your blog, or whatever you like. If you want to, that is." His voice is still very quiet, and he is looking at me the way I remember him looking at me on the beach that night.

I start breathing again. My hands stop fidgeting. "Yes, yes. I'd like that very much."

Dr. Maro smiles. "Good. I'll look forward to it."

"Me too."

"Now, is there anything else, BJ?" He uses his professor voice now, and puts his reading glasses back on. It's my cue to leave his office.

"No, not now, Dr. Maro."

"Good luck with your classes this semester."

"Thanks, Dr. Maro." I leave his office, go down the stairs and head back across campus to go back home. As I pass the chapel, I hear the chapel choir rehearsing for the back-to school service next week. I stop to listen. I close my eyes. The music is beautiful, the sun is warm on my cheeks and a light breeze tousles my hair. A huge crow flaps down from the sky and rests on a tree branch overhanging the walk, his feathers dark and glossy, his eyes gleaming in the sunlight like precious gems. Tears of joy well up in my eyes. It's like a little piece of heaven on earth.