Souviens toi

I’d never been to La Cimetière du Père Lachaise in all my visits to Paris. Most of my friends went in high school and made a beeline to Division 6, Plot 30: Jim Morrison. I never felt quite the same pull to Mr. Mojo Risin,’ so spent my time elsewhere in Paris. It’s not that I don’t like old cemeteries. In fact, being the youngest of a big Italian family, I’ve spent quite a lot of time in them over the years. I’d wander through the very oldest sections, tracing my fingers over the 18th century script and the sad angel faces. I tended toward the morose as a little girl and cemeteries fed my imagination. They made my heart bleed a little in that delicious way you write poetry about. The ancient inhabitants spoke to me, though long dead and forgotten, and I made secret promises to them. 


I will remember you.


The day I finally decided to visit Père Lachaise, heavy, gray clouds hung low over the city, threatening rain. It was indeed the perfect gothic setting, and the morose little girl in me squealed with delight. Today is the day. I brought my Nano filled with a fitting soundtrack, my digital camera and an official “Plan Illustré” dutifully notated with asterisks beside the names of my must-sees, among them Piaf, Callas, Colette, Wilde, Bernhardt, Chopin, Bellini, Bizet, Molière, Modigliani, Camus. Yet, as soon as I entered, I was drawn off my asterisked route by the beautifully ghoulish sepulchers—little houses lining the streets of Necropolis, each more lovely than the next, each trying to outdo his neighbor. “Here,” they beckoned, “over here. Come visit me.” I was dizzy for reading all the names, so many names, so many souls. “Remember me,” they whispered. 


Yes, I will remember you.


Before long, I was lost in the great expanse of graves, and in my own fantasies. Joan Sutherland sang in my ear as I wandered somberly, inhaling the smell of moss, mold and wet earth. Up the winding paths I walked, through the endless rows of little homes of the dead. As I turned up one of the paths, a huge black crow swooped in front of me and perched on the roof of Baron de Guillerville’s sepulcher, his feathered black frame outlined against the gray sky. He glared down at me, the intruder. It was too perfect. I wanted to reach for my camera but dared not take my eyes off the vision for fear of the moment evaporating into fantasy. Is this real? I stood frozen until—tap, tap, tap! A strange sound broke my “reverie Poe-esque.” Tap, tap, tap! It echoed through the thick, damp air. Tap, tap! Where is it? It was coming from above. No, from the right. Tap, tap. It was all around me. Tap. Tap. Tap, tap! I pulled off my headphones. What is it? Was a soul trying to open the door of its little stone house? Tap, tap. Here I am. Tap. Come help me. Tap, tap, tap, tap!


I followed the sound and came across Colette, to my surprise. I paid my respects and snapped a shot. Tap, tap! Followed the sound; found Félix Fauré’s bronze likeness sleeping peacefully atop his stone. Tap, tap, tap! The tapping lured me away. Down the path I went, turning my collar up against the damp; the path turned as well. Tap, tap! I passed the ruins of a Grecian-style grave, its once proud and elegant columns now toppled by time and the roots of a nearby tree. I paused and gazed upon the sad and beautiful marble rubble and remembered those who lay below.


I remember you.


On I walked, following the tapping sound, and came upon a grave covered in flowers, candles, notes in Polish. It was Chopin. They are finding me, I thought. It had to be so; I had surely lost my way long ago (although I still clutched the cemetery map, now soggy from the mist). Tap, tap, tap! The sound again, stronger now.


Tap, tap—Jane Avril. Tap, tap—Molière. Down this hill, up that hill; I wandered seemingly without aim, yet finding my way, grave by grave. Tap, tap, Bernhardt. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.


Then I saw it. From inside an ancient sepulcher, a man emerged. I gasped at the sight of him; he laughed at me, seeing my surprise. He had come out into the open to take a break—from tapping. Tapping the name of a newly interred member of the family. Tapping a new name into a 150-year-old, decrepit stone house of the dead. It looked neglected, but no, it was used—rusted doors, faded inscriptions and all. Not forgotten, still used generations later. Still and always.


I remember you.


I smiled at him and peeked at his handiwork, a loopy 18th-century-style script that could have been chiseled at any time. How wonderful, I mused, how perpetual. Just then, my Nano changed over to Callas. Yes, I must see her in the Columbarium where the ashes of the cremated reside. I paused a moment to find my bearings; without my tap-taps to guide me I was on my own. But no matter, I could see the gray wall of the Columbarium ahead through the trees. I rounded the corner and entered the massive plaza. Hundreds upon hundreds of square plaques, two stories high, lined the walls like a tile patchwork quilt. I searched and searched, up and down. Where is she? My eyes fell on Dora Gray Duncan. Isadora had found me but no Callas. Where is she? 


A family of mourners crossed my path. I became aware of an acrid smell that made me cough a little. Then much more. What is it? Why can’t I breathe? The air became thick and smoky. My eyes started to burn. What is that? I turned from the wall of plaques toward the plaza and saw a thick column of smoke rising out of a tall chimney. It was the ashes of the mourners’ loved one rising heavenward. The sight of the black smoke billowing into the gray sky was more than I could bear. The chilling visual brought thoughts of darker times, darker people. I looked back at the mourners to soften the moment. Yes, this is good. This is spiritual. I searched on for Callas, very aware of the chalky taste of ashes in my mouth. They are in me. We were one, in that moment, living and dead.


Remember.


Giving up on finding Callas, I started down the stairs from the plaza when I saw a door that opened into a dark underground passage. Could she be down here so far from the light? As I entered into the darkness, a wall of moldy, dank air hit me like a cold slap. She can’t be down here. But she was down there, in that musty, cold place. In the dark, my Callas. I stared in disbelief at the quiet, elegant plaque while her voice sang Bellini’s “Casta Diva” in my headphones. She is here. On the plaster below the plaque, someone had scrawled in blue ballpoint, Maria te adoro. Another: We will always remember you.


We will always remember you.


I began to sob. Quiet sobs poured out of me in spite of myself; I could barely stifle them. Was it Maria’s humble, dark resting place that brought me to tears? The plume of ashes, a long day of graves—or was it something more? Was it the humanity death, of the desperate need to be remembered with marble monuments? Or was it my own fear of being gone and forgotten?

Will I be remembered? 


Wiping my eyes, I entered into the daylight once more, the question still weighing on my mind:  Will I be remembered? I wasn’t a Colette or Callas. I’m not Oscar Wilde or Edith Piaf. My name will probably never appear on a cemetery map; no strangers will come and put fresh flowers on my grave generations after I am gone. 


Will I be remembered? 


As I walked along the cemetery’s Avenue Circulaire, the sun appeared, pale yellow behind the dense clouds. The hazy light brought granite and marble sparkling to life, and broke the gothic spell. Suddenly, I saw people wandering all around the grounds, some tourists, some family of the dead. Funny, I hadn’t noticed them before. They, like I, had come to honor those passed, to remember them in their own way. And they will always come, year after year. 


I thought of a young girl, 150 years from now, running her fingers over my inscription, tracing the letters, L-I-S-A. Perhaps she will be a kindred soul, tending toward the morose, and she will hear me whispering to her, “Remember me.”


And she will.