Le cimetière du Père Lachaise

Le cimetière du Père Lachaise closes at 5:30, when it’s at its best, when the darkness of the crypts and tombstones rejoins the darkness of the night.  We had planned to go on Sunday, my last full day in Paris.  But Saturday night bled into Sunday morning, and at 7:30 AM, we were sitting on a terrace eating croque madames and French fries, washed down with pints of Heineken, as the sky moved from sable to pewter to honey, a couple of blocks away from the Bastille. 

We took a cab back to my friend’s apartment in the 18^th.  The cabbie was playing French rap, and we slid through the early morning streets, the only people out being those who hadn’t yet slept like us or those who wake up early on Sundays, the exact moment when the counterweight and the batten pass each other, one heading up and one heading down. 

We lay down at 9:30, and then woke up at 3:30 in the afternoon.  We showered and dressed and headed to Metro Ternes. We rode along line 2, a calm female voice stating the name of each station twice, a free pronunciation lesson.  Blanche. Anvers. La Chapelle. Belleville. Père Lachaise. 

We got off the metro at 5:05, walking along the 20 foot wall that surrounds the cemetery, a slight bite in the breeze that felt appropriate for November 2^nd, the sky a light slate, crinkled oranges and browns crunched and rustled on the concrete.  Scarves were ubiquitous.  We entered and headed straight for the map, intent on paying our respects to the Lizard King.  We scanned the names, familiar ones popping out, Apollinaire, Eluard, Pilaf, Proust, Wilde. 

We found Jim’s area on the map and took to the curvy roads. Crows squawked and perched as if rented. We kept walking but couldn’t find his grave.  We spotted a cat that was slinking deeper into the graves off of the main path.  We thought maybe Jim was leading us to his resting place, but the cat ended up ensconcing itself in a bush.  We kept going and eventually we found Jim, his grave a bit tucked back, fenced off, and strewn with flowers, right next to a tree covered in wads of chewing gum.  I took a picture with my phone that needed editing and more exposure.  The fading light was perfect for ambiance, but deadly for photography. 

We noticed a man in his thirties or forties, right up against the fence, a guitar on his back and headphones in his ears, a pensive look.  I assumed he was listening to the Doors, and wondered what song…Light my Fire? Break on Through to the Other Side, The End? The Music’s Over? The Crystal Ship?  The man asked my friend in French if we’d stand guard for him while he hopped the fence to replace a picture of Jim that had fallen down in the leaves.  She agreed and asked him if she could take a picture of him.  He said D’accord.

He unslung his guitar from his back, took it out of the case, and hopped the fence with an unlit cigarette in his mouth.  He picked up the picture, and slid it under his guitar strings and posed, a French Johnny Cash.  My friend took the picture, and the man placed the picture of Jim back in its rightful place and whispered a few words.  The revving of a moto and a blue light broke through our mini wake, and we heard a loud and frustrated voice.  The man hopped right back over the fence, said an obligatory Pardon, and he walked away. 

I wondered whether this was the first time that he’d been shooed out of the cemetery.  It was now 5:45, and almost completely dark.  The bells were tolling a last call.  We exited the cemetery and walked back to the metro station, to head towards Belleville for dinner.  As we boarded the train, we saw the man one last time, headphones back in, guitar back in its case and on his back, bound northwestwards along line 2. 

My friend posted the picture on her instagram. It was in black and white and looked like a poster, so we thought it was going to be a big hit. Sometimes her selfies get over a hundred likes.  This picture only got twenty-seven.