TRAVEL VIGNETTE : SECOND PLACE

Maria Smyth

— Leo Tolstoy , The Death of Ivan Ilyich ( 1818 – 1910 )

I never go to cemeteries except at funerals during interments , but in the spring of 2012 , I was in Paris , France , and a friend had said , “ You ’ ve got to go to Père Lachaise Cemetery . Be sure to visit Frederic Chopin ’ s and Oscar Wilde ’ s graves .”

I was a bit dubious about going . Might it be too morose ? Anyway , who wants to think about death in the springtime ? My half-sister had just recently died of breast cancer , and I was thinking about death anyway . Spontaneously , I boarded the metro to the cemetery .

I breathed deeply as I entered the gates of Père Lachaise , and the sweet smell of lilacs filled my nostrils . My eyes were saturated with the lush green grounds and the blue sky above . My ears were filled with joyful singing of birds . I started to relax .

Around the corner , I spotted a French grave digger with his shovel . He was wearing a French sage green beret over shoulder length black hair . Our eyes met and he smiled .

“ Bonjour , Monsieur ,” I smiled back . “ Do you speak English ? What should we see ?” I asked . “ Follow me ,” he said in English . The first grave he took me to was that of Frederic Chopin , the famous Polish composer . Strewn at the base of Chopin ’ s headstone were dozens of vases filled with fresh flowers . On the top of the headstone was a white sculpture of a female with her head mournfully bowed .

In halting English , the grave digger communicated , “ Chopin is half French and half Polish .” He shook his head and said , “ You know , Chopin ’ s heart was cut out and buried in Warsaw . Both countries wanted a piece of him .”

Following him to the next grave , he pulled back a white tarpaulin . I never would have looked down without him there . To my amazement I saw piles of caskets stacked on top of each other , a precarious teetering tower .

He explained , “ I am taking out old caskets to make room for new caskets .”

The last tomb the grave digger showed us was of the Irish poet , Oscar Wilde . An older woman appeared , flamboyantly dressed in a black mini dress . She took out a stick of lipstick and pressed it hard onto her mouth and slathered it with gobs of red lipstick . She stepped forward and kissed the tomb leaving a large flaming kiss for Oscar .

The grave digger exclaimed , “ See how his fans love him ? Oscar was charged in England with indecent homosexual acts ; but now people accept and love him .”

It was dusk and the sky was turning a soft pink colour , which gave the cemetery a peaceful glow . I fumbled in my purse and took out a handful of bills and stuffed it into the grave digger ’ s rough hands and smiled at him .

Leaving , I thought to myself maybe Tolstoy was right , “ there is no death ” after all .

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