The Night Tourist (6 page)

They entered a marble chamber that blazed with the light of hundreds of electric candles mounted on stone candelabras. As soon as Jack’s eyes adjusted, he noticed the dead. They were everywhere: floating ten feet up in the air, arms filled with books, hanging off the onion-shaped brass chandeliers as they read, flying absently back and forth as they fluttered through the pages of yellowing newspapers. On the left side of the entrance was an information booth manned by a floating white-haired librarian who was busily scribbling into a ledger. Posted to the front of his desk was a printed sign. It read:

There are many requests for assistance in researching “the occult,” as it is popularly called, particularly from the recently dead. While the New York Public Library has an extensive collection on such topics as divination and the Russian mystic H. P. Blavatsky, we request that you first attend a “Now That You’re Dead” seminar before seeking further information on these or other “occult” topics.
Sincerely,
Wilberforce Eames, Bibliographer


“What’s a ‘Now That You’re Dead’ seminar?” Jack asked, pointing to the sign.

Euri rolled her eyes, but the librarian closed his ledger and stood up from his chair. “You must be right off the boat,” he said with a kindly smile. “Float on up, young man. You’ll see. They should be just beginning.”

Euri hurried Jack toward a pair of marble staircases. “I suppose we have to go past the McGraw Rotunda anyway. You might as well listen in.”

They drifted up the left staircase, which gently spiraled upward till it met the right in a high, arched anteroom. About thirty ghosts, most of them old, and all of them dressed in modern-day clothing, stood meekly beneath colorful ceiling murals. A few whispered in groups, but the majority silently looked up at the murals. Jack and Euri joined them. Each mural, Jack noticed, depicted someone reading or writing—Moses explaining the Ten Commandments, a monk inscribing a scroll, a man poring over the page of a printing press, a newsboy in colonial-era breeches hawking a paper. After a while, Euri pulled Jack up so that they were floating beneath the mural of the ancient Greek god Prometheus stealing the knowledge of fire from the gods and giving it to men. “This one’s my favorite,” Euri declared in a voice too loud for a library.

But before Jack could shush her, a recording of chamber music boomed through invisible speakers and the candelabras and chandeliers flickered. The rest of the ghosts looked around expectantly. To Jack’s relief, Euri floated back down and assumed a serious expression. The haunting strains of a clavichord softened into a backdrop as a high-pitched male voice bleated over the speakers. “Elegant. Mysterious. Timeless,” he intoned, pausing for a measure of violin music. “Death.”

Euri clapped her hand over her mouth as her shoulders shook with laughter. Jack was torn between elbowing Euri in the side and laughing along with her.

“For thousands of years, people just like you have joined in this age-old tradition.”

“Tradition?” Euri whispered.

“Shhh!” said a man in a hospital gown behind her.

“I’m Fiorello LaGuardia, former mayor of New York, and on behalf of the New York Public Library and the City of New York, I’d like to welcome you to the afterlife and share some tips for making your stay eternally pleasant.”

“Or just eternal,” whispered Euri.

The chandeliers went dark as an image of a ghost with a briefcase flying out of a fountain was projected in front of them. “I’m a New York ghost,” he said, tipping a fedora in their direction. Next the camera panned a long line of living Rockettes, and then stopped and held on a ghost Rockette high-kicking along with them at the end. “I’m a New York ghost,” she brayed. A taxicab splashed through a puddle near Times Square, and a ghost in a fez poked his head out of the back window. “I’m a New York ghost,” he shouted with a proud grin. A shot of the Circle Line ferry passing the Statue of Liberty, the deck packed with waving ghosts, followed as a voice-over of the three ghosts declared in unison, “We’re New York ghosts! And we’re proud to welcome you to the New York underworld!”

“Definitely Oscar-worthy,” Euri remarked.

As postcard images of ghosts holding up beer steins, flying through the Plaza Hotel, and wrapping themselves coyly in bolts of cloth in the Garment District flashed in front of them, LaGuardia began to talk. “New York ghosts come in all shapes, races, ages, and sizes. We’re a diverse afterlife community. But we all have one thing in common —we love the New York underworld!”

“Rah, rah,” said Euri flatly.

“If you died in New York, you automatically received citizenship from its first-class underworld,” LaGuardia continued. “If you had the misfortune to die elsewhere, but resided in the city during a formative period of your life, you can still join us by applying for perpetual residency.”

A relieved-looking ghost in a “New Jersey Girl” T-shirt proudly held up her New York underworld residency card.

“In your afterlife, you’ll enjoy several powers—flying, invisibility, and transmobility—or the ability to move through solid objects such as doors, windows, and walls. Flying is often a challenge for new ghosts, but the city offers free lessons at the Thirtieth Street heliport.”

An image of a dozen ghosts flying shakily in a line over the heliport flashed in the air.

“At night, the city is yours to roam. You will probably find that you will choose to stay in the neighborhoods you frequented during your life, but you can travel anywhere on the island of Manhattan. Keep in mind, however, that you cannot fly over water.”

A shot of a ghost crash-landing at the end of a pier appeared in front of them.

“Haunting is a popular afterlife activity. You are welcome to haunt your living friends or family during the evening hours, but please do not attempt to contact them by participating in séances or other occult rites.”

A still shot of a ghost moving a man’s hand on a Ouija board was marked over with a big red X.

“That stuff is so phony, anyway,” whispered Euri.

“At dawn, you must return to the subterranean underworld by one of the approximately fifty fountains in New York. One of our friendly spirit counters will register both your exit at dusk and your return at dawn.”

A ghost in a Yankees cap held up his clicker for the camera.

“We saw that guy!” Jack whispered.

“If you attempt to stay aboveground during daylight hours, the spirit counters will notice that you have not returned and alert our security team. These skilled and seasoned guards are trained to immediately escort guests belowground who have lingered past dawn above-ground.”

This was followed by a black-and-white photo of the underworld guards standing in a stiff school-photo like line, with Cerberus in front of them. They were a rough-looking bunch with thick necks and enormous fists. But the one Jack found most menacing was a tall, bullet-headed ghost with a bushy mustache and flat blue eyes. He wore a double-breasted black uniform and stood slightly in the foreground, one hand gripping the scruff of Cerberus’s middle neck, the other a nightstick.

“New arrivals often ask why they have to return belowground during the day,” the mayor cheerfully continued. “To answer that question we’ve prepared this short segment on the dangers of staying past dawn.”

The word
REENACTMENT
flashed onto the screen in red letters as a shot of the sunrise gave way to a close-up of a greasy-haired ghost sneaking away from a fountain. As the sun rose, he began to grow paler. His fingers started to disappear and then one of his arms. “Help!” he tried to shout, but the word was cut off as his mouth disappeared. In the next scene, as an alarm wailed, two of the burly guards, wearing what looked like hazmat suits, flew out of the fountain. Grasping the ghost by his remaining arm, they dragged him back into the underworld.

“Sometimes the dead stay out past dawn under the misimpression that they will be able to live again,” the mayor said in a stern voice when the clip ended. “We’d like to remind you that you cannot live again, and it’s a serious offense to attempt it by any means. Rule breakers will be punished to the fullest extent of the law. So if you, or a ghost you know, talks about living again or attempting to live again, we encourage you to call 1-800-ENDLIFE before it’s too late. Professional help is available.”

Jack looked at Euri, expecting her to make a joke, but she was silently picking at her skirt.

The classical music faded out and was replaced by the sound of waves crashing on a beach. LaGuardia’s voice became solemn. “One day, when you have resolved all the problems that troubled you during your life, your stay with us will come to an end. You will move on to Elysium, the realm of eternal peace and happiness.”

“ELYSIUM!” chanted a chorus of disembodied voices over the crash of the waves. One of the ghosts in the audience sighed.

“In the meantime,” said the mayor, “we want to assure you that the New York underworld protects you from acquiring new problems after death. Although you may hear stories about the living venturing into the underworld and creating new problems for the dead, these are only stories. No living person has ever entered into this realm.”

Jack turned to Euri. She shifted uneasily.

The ocean noises faded away and the classical music resumed. “Once again, we’d like to thank you for choosing to die in the greatest city on earth.”

As a final montage of New York ghosts giving the thumbs-up flashed in front of them, and the violins struck up in an ear-piercing finale, several of the ghosts broke into awkward applause. Then the speakers went dead, the lights flickered back on, and everyone seemed at a loss. A little old ghost with a wisp of white hair jutting from his head and a pair of wire-frame glasses shuffled into the rotunda. “Okay, movie over,” he grumbled. “Any questions?”

“Ask him what they’d do to a liv . . . you know, a person like me.” Jack whispered.

“No!” Euri said.

Jack knew it was something bad—Cerberus hadn’t exactly wanted to play fetch with him. “I’ll ask myself, then.”

Jack started to raise his hand, but Euri yanked it back down. “They’ll figure out who you are....”

“No questions? Everyone know everything?” the old ghost asked the crowd.

“Then ask for me,” Jack pleaded. “You’re the one who led me here.”

He made a motion to raise his hand. “Okay!” Euri hissed, quickly raising her own.

The old ghost squinted at her through his glasses. “A question, okay. What is it?”

“I know that no living person has ever gotten into the underworld but, uh, what would happen to them if they did?”

The old ghost shook his head so that his wisp of white hair waved. “You’ve heard too many stories, young girl. Never happens.”

“Yes, but . . . but what if it did happen?”

The old ghost sighed and pulled a small, well-worn book out of his front pocket. “Live people coming in,” he muttered, flipping through the pages. “Okay, let me see. Flight accidents and liability; maximum occupancy of fountains . . . Aha. Here it is.” He stopped flipping and began to read aloud as he traced his finger down the page. “‘Regulation 41.5a. No living person has ever entered into the realm of the dead. But if they did, they would be fed to the flesh-eating three-headed dog that guards the underworld.’”

Jack swallowed so loudly that he was certain everyone heard. But the rest of the ghosts didn’t seem to notice. The old ghost slammed the handbook shut, which released a small cloud of dust. “Any other questions?”

When no one answered he drifted off. The rest of the recently dead began to file out of the rotunda, several attempting short bouts of flight. “So,” Euri said when they’d left, “feel better now?”

Jack glared at her. “You knew about the guards and the dog, what they would do to me. You knew, and you still had me come.”

Euri looked hurt. “I’ve given you an opportunity. You said you wanted to find your mother. There’s still a good chance you can. Come on, Jack. And besides, except for your eyes, you really look like one of us.”

“Thanks,” he said gloomily.

She squeezed his hand. “Come on, let’s go see Professor Schmitt. He’ll help you find your mom.”

But as she led him out of the rotunda, Jack swore he heard Cerberus’s paws tapping on the marble floor.

They floated into a catalog room, past a living guard tipped back in his chair asleep, and toward another door. Above it, Jack noticed an inscription:
A GOOD BOOKE IS THE PRECIOUS LIFE-BLOOD OF A MASTER SPIRIT, IMBALM’D AND TREASUR’D UP ON PURPOSE TO A LIFE BEYOND LIFE
. They passed through a wood-paneled foyer and then turned right into an enormous room. Hundreds of the dead sat at rows of tables quietly reading. Dozens of others hovered just under a ceiling mural of billowing clouds blowing across a blue sky.

“They think they have light deprivation,” Euri said, gesturing toward several who seemed to be sunning themselves.

She pointed to the other end of the reading room. “Professor Schmitt’s usually at the back.”

As they passed over rows of tables, Jack noticed a cadre of ghost librarians sailing up to a balcony filled with bookshelves and then zooming down to drop books into the hands of readers. A short ghost with a handlebar mustache caught one of them, opened it up, and pointed to the first page. “See here!” he cried, handing it to a skinny, big-toothed ghost who reminded Jack of a horse. “The latest copyright date is this year. I’m still in print.”

“So what?” said the horsey-looking ghost. “The important thing is the last time someone took you out. Look, no one’s checked out your book. Someone checked out mine last week. You’re not exactly flying off the shelves, old boy.”

The handlebar mustache grew red in the face. “This generation fails to appreciate me, is all.”

Euri rolled her eyes at the two writers. “Too bad their egos didn’t die with them.”

Jack laughed, but he felt a little sorry for the handlebar mustache.

“Professor Schmitt’s not like the others,” Euri mused aloud. “He reads other people’s books, new writers. Even though he died over a century ago, he’s . . . I don’t know . . . less dead.”

“Why hasn’t he moved on yet?” Jack asked.

Euri shrugged. “Some people move on almost as soon as they get here. For others it takes a long time. They’re waiting.”

“For what?”

“An answer that allows them to move on, or . . .” Euri’s voice drifted off. “Look,” she said, “there’s Professor Schmitt.” She pointed to the farthest table in the room, where a white-haired ghost hovered just above his chair, tracing the lines of a book with his finger. “He knows eight languages,” she said in a voice as reverential as Jack had heard her use.

As they floated down to the table, he noticed that Professor Schmitt’s spine was bent. “He’s a hunchback,” Euri whispered. “If Elysium is fair, he’ll be six feet tall.”

“What did you say he taught when he was alive?”

“Classics, I think.”

A fellow Classics scholar—certainly Professor Schmitt would help him find his mother. But before Jack could say anything, Euri flew over to the old man and touched him gently on his deformed back. “Professor Schmitt?”

The professor looked up from his book. His neck was long and gave him the appearance of a turtle poking out of its shell. “Euri, my dear! The most beautiful girl in the underworld.
Voulez-vous parler en français
?”

“
Non, merci, professeur.
I want to introduce you to someone.
Mon ami
Jack.”

The professor shifted so that he was facing Jack. His pale gray eyes studied Jack’s for several seconds. “Euri, how did you meet this young man?” he finally asked.

“Oh, I just met him after he got off the Circle Line. He died this morning. . . .”

“I’m a, was a, Latin scholar,” Jack added, trying to change the subject. “I was translating the
Metamorphoses
before I died. But
tempus edax rerum
. Time devours all things,” he said, translating the phrase for Euri.

“Omnia tempus revelat,”
said Professor Schmitt.

Time reveals all things. Did the professor know he was alive?

But the old man smiled kindly and patted the seats next to him. “Euri, as you might guess from her name, is a great fan of the Orpheus myth,” he said. “We read it together in French a few years ago. What can I help you children with?”

Jack pulled the Viele map out of his backpack and handed it to him.

“We’re trying to find Jack’s mother—if she hasn’t moved on yet,” Euri explained. “Just before Jack died he found this map of the underworld rivers with her name on it. We think it’s a clue. We’re hoping you can tell us something about it.”

Professor Schmitt opened the map and flattened it out. “Aha,” he said. “This wasn’t meant to be a map of the underworld rivers, Euri. It’s Mr. Viele’s water map.” He traced the green streams with his finger and then coughed gently as if beginning a lecture. “In my century, the city of New York was growing at a fast rate. There wasn’t enough fresh water in those days, and the drinking water was often polluted and carried diseases like cholera and malaria. Viele was an engineer. He felt that builders needed to be more responsible where they built, so as to not contaminate the water supply. So he studied all the maps and drawings ever made of Manhattan, and from them he constructed this master map showing all the streams and rivers that ever existed on the island—both those above the surface and those underground. It’s the only map showing Manhattan as it was when only Indians lived here, when it was just hills, marshes, and trout streams.”

“What would a living person use it for today?” asked Jack.

“I’ve been told by newer ghosts that builders still use the Viele map to decide where to put down foundations for new buildings, to check whether they’ll be prone to flooding. So a lot of people probably have this map. I’m not sure what it can tell you about your mother.”

Euri looked disappointed. “So there’s nothing unusual about it?”

Professor Schmitt looked around him and then lowered his voice. “Well, there is something I’ve heard.”

“What?” Euri and Jack whispered in unison.

“Let’s talk away from here.” Jack and Euri followed Professor Schmitt over to a secluded corner of the reading room.

“There are those who say that the living have used this map to help them break into the underworld,” he whispered, staring at Jack. “The Viele map shows all the rivers and streams, the ones that no longer exist, the ones that are dead. But those streams and rivers still exist in the underworld. There are stories that say if the living cross them, they can sneak in.”

“I thought that’s never happened,” Jack interrupted. “In the ‘Now That You’re Dead’seminar they told us—”

“—the official line,” said Professor Schmitt, handing him back the map. “There are reasons why they don’t want the dead to believe that it’s possible for the living to come in and contact them. For one, it would make it harder for them to move on if they thought a living person might break in and find them. Accepting death— and the end of contact with the living—is an essential step to moving on.”

Jack’s mouth felt dry. His father had the Viele map. Perhaps he had just been working on a dig that involved knowing where all the city’s water sources were. But why then was his mother’s name on the map? It seemed more likely that his father had been one of those living people—that he had sneaked into the underworld to visit his mother after she died. This would have made it harder for her to move on. “So all that the living need in order to sneak in is this map?” Jack asked.

“Oh no,” said Professor Schmitt. “They’d have to have a golden bough as well.”

“A golden what?” asked Euri.

“The golden bough,” said Jack. “It’s what allows Aeneas, the founder of Rome, to visit his dead father. When Charon, the ferryman, sees that Aeneas has the golden bough, he lets him into the underworld.”

“Very good, Jack,” said Professor Schmitt. He pulled a small book out of his pocket and handed it to him.
“Scientia est potentia.”

“Knowledge is power,” Jack translated. The book was a thin volume with a cloth binding and no title on the cover or spine. He opened it up.
The Unofficial Guide to the New York Underworld
was handwritten on the first page.

“This will help answer your questions,” Professor Schmitt explained. “Read it and make sure you stay as far away as you can from Clubber.”

But before Jack had a chance to ask who Clubber was, the hall echoed with snarls. Jack looked over his shoulder. Two enormous guards were standing at the front of the reading room, the three-headed dog lunging on its chain. “I hate that dog,” said Euri. She smiled but took a step back, pulling Jack with her. “We better go.”

“Wait,” said Professor Schmitt, handing him back the map. “There is a way to find out if your mother’s still here and where you might find her, if that’s why you came.

When did she die?”

“Eight years ago.”

“He smells something,” one of the guards shouted.

“We really need to go,” said Euri. She yanked Jack toward a small door at the back of the reading room marked
EMERGENCY EXIT, 5TH AVENUE
.

“Wait!” Jack cried, dragging her back to Professor Schmitt. “How do I find her?”

The guards began to march down the aisle toward them. Two of Cerberus’s three mouths were frothing.

“There are records, Jack, of everyone here. Talk to Edna Gammon. She keeps the ones for that year. She haunts the St. James . . .”

But before Jack could catch the next word, Euri yanked him backward. He passed through the wooden emergency exit door, and his hand slipped from Euri’s. Clutching the book, he fell back, tumbling down a flight of stairs.