A smal group of American tourists hovers behind us. They look confused. A bearded guy in his twenties opens his mouth to speak, but Rashmi
interrupts him. “Jim Morrison is that way.” She points down the path. Bearded guy smiles in relief, thanks her, and they move on.
“How’d you know what they wanted?” I ask.
“It’s what they always want.”
“When they should be looking for Victor Noir,” Josh says. Everyone else laughs.
“Who?” It’s frustrating being in the dark.
“Victor Noir. He was a journalist shot by Pierre Bonaparte,” St. Clair says, as if that explains anything. He pul s The Hat up off his eyes. “The statue on his grave is supposed to help . . . fertility.”
“His wang is rubbed shiny,” Josh elaborates. “For luck.”
“Why are we talking about parts again?” Mer asks. “Can’t we ever talk about anything else?”
“Real y?” I ask. “Shiny wang?”
“Very,” St. Clair says.
“Now that’s something I’ve gotta see.” I gulp my coffee dregs, wipe the bread crumbs from my mouth, and hop up. “Where’s Victor?”
“Al ow me.” St. Clair springs to his feet and takes off. I chase after him. He cuts through a stand of bare trees, and I crash through the twigs behind him.
We’re both laughing when we hit the pathway and run smack into a guard. He frowns at us from underneath his military-style cap. St. Clair gives an
angelic smile and a smal shrug.The guard shakes his head but all ows us to pass.
St. Clair gets away with everything.
We strol with exaggerated calm, and he points out an area occupied with people snapping pictures. We hang back and wait our turn. A scrawny black
cat darts out from behind an altar strewn with roses and wine bottles, and rushes into the bushes.
“Wel . That was sufficiently creepy. Happy Hal oween.”
“Did you know this place is home to three thousand cats?” St. Clair asks.
“Sure. It’s filed away in my brain under ‘Felines, Paris.’”
He laughs. The tourists move on to the next photo opportunity, and we’re both smiling as we approach Victor Noir. His statue is life-size and lying flat on the ground above his tomb. His eyes are closed, his top hat beside him. And despite the fact that his gray-green patina is clothed, his pants have a
remarkable bulge that has, indeed, been stroked to a shiny bronze.
“If I touch it, do I get another wish?” I ask, remembering Point Zéro.
“Nope. Victor deals strictly in fertility.”
“Go on. Rub it.”
St. Clair backs into another grave. “No, thank you.” He laughs again. “I don’t need that kind of problem.” My own laughter catches in my throat as I get
his meaning. Shake it off, Anna. That shouldn’t bother you. Don’t let him see how it bothers you.
“Wel . If you won’t touch him, I will . I’m not in any danger of that.” I lower my voice to a mock whisper. “You know, I’ve heard you actually have to have sex to get pregnant.”
I see the question immediately pop into his head. Crap. Maybe I was too hasty with my joke. St. Clair looks half embarrassed, half curious. “So, er,