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‘Oh,’ she said. ‘So lovely.’
She rolled it between her palms, warming it up. Above their heads, giant horse chestnut trees spread their limbs wide, the better to shower their gifts on a congregation who could hardly care less. Or maybe the dead lay there watching, Claire thought. Maybe they waited all year, watching the new leaves in spring, watching the tall candles of flowers form and fade away, then waiting all summer for the leaves to turn and the seeds to fall. There would be worse ways, she thought, to spend eternity.
Claire tucked her conker away in her jacket pocket. They walked on. While the miniature streets were tree-lined, Claire noticed that they lacked lampposts. There were no lights at all, except the flickering blue and red flames of battery-powered plastic candles.
‘It must be terrifying here at night-time,’ she said.
‘Or peaceful, maybe. Any more interesting facts?’
‘When Napoleon opened the place, it wasn’t a great success. It wasn’t Catholic, and it was a hike out of town, so nobody wanted to be buried here.’
‘Nobody ever wants to be buried in a brand-new graveyard.’
‘Exactly, so he had a couple of celebrities dug up and re-buried here.’
‘Jesus. You have to hand it to him for ingenuity.’
‘Wait, it gets better.’ She held a finger on the page of her guidebook. ‘The remains of Abélard and Héloïse, star-crossed lovers in the 12thcentury, were finally reunited here, at Pére Lachaise. You must admit that it’s romantic.’
‘Romantic?That’s gruesome.’ Ronan raised his arms in a dramatic pose and adopted a deep, theatrical tone. ‘Héloïse, darling! I’d hardly know you without your nose.’
She laughed. ‘It worked, though. There’s a waiting list now, to get in here.’
‘How does that work? I mean, when you die, you die. You can’t exactly be waiting around for an opening?’
Claire laughed out loud again, then shushed herself. It seemed defiant, to be deriving so much entertainment from death. It was a harmless defiance, and she knew it, like sticking out her tongue at the whole scolding world. It felt like an enormous relief.
They strolled along, Claire reading aloud, Ronan putting a hand to her elbow, guiding her over and through the gnarly roots of bone-fed trees. They had conjectured that a leisurely circuit would, eventually, lead them to the famous graves. They hadn’t counted on the metropolitan scale of the place, nor the haphazard layout, nor the fact that those dead celebrities were neither flagged nor signposted. They got a headstone and no more, like everybody else.
Claire was wondering whether stalking dead celebrities was a form of madness when Oscar Wilde’s tomb rose up before them in the form of a gigantic, winged figure – an angel maybe – towering above his neighbours. The Egyptian-styled monument seemed designed to demonstrate that a man could stand out from the crowd, even in death. It dazzled, glaring white amid all the elegant French greys.
‘It’s hideous,’ said Ronan mercilessly. ‘What’s it supposed to be?’
‘Flamboyant, I suppose, like he was,’ she said. ‘It is fairly bad, alright, isn’t it?’
‘He hardly designed it himself, so I suppose he can’t be blamed for it.’
‘No. It was carved in England. The French customs officials refused to accept it asartand slapped a massive tax on it.’
‘They had a point.’
They walked around it, looking for a good angle.Forlorn,Claire thought – that was the word. Of all the graves they’d walked past – and over – this was the first that had made her feel sad. It stood apart from the peaceful dignity of the others, craving attention.
‘They put up that glass barrier a few years ago to stop people leaving lipstick kisses on it.’
‘That’s a shame. They could only have improved it. You’d feel a bit guilty, wouldn’t you, that he’s here, all alone?’
‘Not in Ireland, you mean?’
‘He’s not at home here, you know?’
It was just like Ronan, Claire thought, to want to make death easier for Oscar Wilde, to want to offer the man some sort of retrospective protection.
‘I had a little nun teaching me in fourth class,’ said Claire. ‘Sister Francis. She was this kind, gentle woman, you know, too good for this world. On Friday afternoons, she would tell us to fold our arms on the desk and put our heads down.’
‘Lámha trasna,he said, miming the action.’
‘That’s it. And she would read to us from a big book of Oscar Wilde’s stories for children. She had this lovely melodious voice, completely spellbinding, and she had the knack of making the words come to life.The Selfish Giantwas my favourite. I still have a picture of that garden in my head, all the trees bursting into blossom, and the giant holding the boy in his arms. It felt like time away from reality, sitting there, just listening. She made it feel holy, like religion.’
