the white-painted living room to wait.
Joe was in a black suit. I was no expert on clothing but I
figured it was new. It was some kind of a fine material. Silk,
maybe. Or cashmere. I didn’t know. It was beautifully cut. He
had a white shirt and a black tie. Black shoes. He looked good.
I had never seen him look better. He was holding up. He was a
little strained around the eyes, maybe. We didn’t talk. Just
waited.
At five to ten we went down to the street. The corbillard showed up right on time, from the dp6t mortuaire. Behind it
was a black Citroen limousine. We got in the limousine and
closed the doors and it moved off after the hearse, slow
and quiet.
‘Just us?’I said.
‘The others are meeting us there.’
‘Who’s coming?’
‘Lamonnier,’ he said. ‘Some of her friends.’
‘Where are we doing it?’
‘Pre Lachaise,’ he said.
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I nodded. Pre Lachaise was a famous old cemetery. Some
kind of a special place. I figured maybe my mother’s Resistance
history entitled her to be buried there. Maybe Lamonnier had
fixed it.
‘There’s an offer in on the apartment,’ Joe said.
‘How much?’
‘In dollars your share would be about sixty thousand.’
‘I don’t want it,’ I said. ‘Give my share to Lamonnier. Tell him
to find whatever old guys are still alive and spread it around.
He’ll know some organizations.’
‘Old soldiers?’
‘Old anybody. Whoever did the right thing at the right time.’
‘You sure? You might need it.’
‘I’d rather not have it.’
‘OK,’ he said. ‘Your choice.’
I watched out the windows. It was a grey day. The honey
tones of Paris were beaten down by the weather. The river was
sluggish, like molten iron. We drove through the Place de la
Bastille. Pre Lachaise was up in the northeast. Not far, but not
so near you thought of it as close. We got out of the car near a
little booth that sold maps to the famous graves. All kinds of
people were buried at Pre Lachaise. Chopin, Molire, Edith
Piaf, Jim Morrison.
There were people waiting for us at the cemetery gate. There
was the concierge from my mother’s building, and two other
women I didn’t know. The croque-morts lifted the coffin up
on their shoulders. They held it steady for a second and then
set off at a slow march. Joe and I fell in behind, side by side.
The three women followed us. The air was cold. We walked
along gritty paths between strange European mausoleums and
headstones. Eventually we came to an open grave. Excavated
earth was piled neatly on one side of it and covered with a
green carpet that I guessed was supposed to look like grass.
Lamonnier was waiting there for us. I guessed he had gotten
there well ahead of time. He probably walked slower than a
funeral. Probably hadn’t wanted to hold us up, or embarrass
himself.
The pallbearers set the coffin down on rope slings that were
already laid out in position. Then they picked it up again and
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manoeuvred it over the hole and used the ropes to lower it
down gently. Into the hole. There was a man who read some
stuff from a book. I heard the words in French and their
English translations drifted through my mind. Dust to dust,
certain it is, vale of tears. I didn’t really pay attention. I just
looked at the coffin, down in the hole.
The man finished speaking and one of the pallbearers pulled
back the green carpet and Joe scooped up a handful of dirt. He
weighed it in his palm and then threw it down on the coffin lid.
It thumped on the wood. The man with the book did the same
thing. Then the concierge. Then both of the other women.
Then Lamonnier. He lurched over on his awkward canes and
bent down and filled his hand with earth. Paused with his eyes
full of tears and just turned his wrist so that the dirt trailed out
of his fist like water.
I stepped up and put my hand to my heart and slipped my