Frozen City
It was a frosty Sunday morning. A thin layer of ice covered the stained glass windows and
piercing cold air spilled through the door cracks spreading into the vast room. I wrapped my
woolen scarf tight around my neck and closed the heavy wooden door behind me. I hastily
paced through the Parisian roads until I reached the imposing iron gates of the PèreLachaise graveyard. The soft morning light danced on the rounded metal bars of the gate.
The glistening effect painted the entrance as a doorway to a magical enchanted world. Such
a beautiful contrast to the morbid reality hidden behind the tall concrete walls. PèreLachaise is a labyrinth tormenting those who are not familiar with its structure. It is
composed by an infinite network of small roads and avenues interconnecting with each
other, carefully organized into specific districts and areas. I see it as a small city of its own,
an architectural structure composed by a mentally insane patient with no sense of direction
but astonishing geometrical skills.
You can instantly recognize the locals from the visitors in Père-Lachaise. The locals, experts
of the territory, with clear maps of the Lachaise structure imprinted in their minds, swiftly
pace across the city to reach the neighborhood where their beloved one’s rest in peace.
Visitors on the contrary, alienated and disoriented by the multifarious roads and routes that
the cemetery has to offer, absently wander in slow-motion. However, it is not the body
language that distinguished the two types of people in Père-Lachaise, but the facial
expressions. The afflicted, grief stricken faces of people who have parts if not all of their
family buried here in Père-Lachaise compared to the gaze of amazement on tourists’ faces
who have never seen such a boundless, imposingly elegant graveyard in their life. I am part
of the locals, intimate with the city, a regular visitor, familiar with every road that stretches
outwards until it reaches the concrete walls.
I am a regular, here once every month without fail for over ten years now. I am accustomed
to the small metropolis, I could sketch it with my eyes closed and give directions better than
a map ever could. I notice every single transition, variation, and development in this
graveyard. Last week Amber Patel’s grave had a new purples graffiti scribbled on the left
side, the stained glass windows of Mr. Lacomb’s shrine had been smashed with a stone,
presumably by drunk teenagers, and Mrs. Chevrié had been brought fresh roses and flower
garlands due to her recent death anniversary.
It was October 3rd, and no matter how cold, fatigued or miserable it made me, I was here. It
was a small gesture, a tribute, I felt compelled to do, to honor his death and to never forget
the loss. As usual I had bought a blend of gracefully arranged carnations and orchids, all in
delicate shades of blues and purples, his favorite colors. I strolled down the stone built
roads with flowers in one hand and my book in the other until I reached the English district.
By then my hands had turned milky white by the overexposure to the frosty air. His grave
was in the outskirts of the city, in Avenue Circulaire 89° Division, but I enjoyed detouring
towards the center before reaching my spot. I would usually encounter old Alfred, nearly in
his 90s by now, lethargically moving towards Mary-Jane’s grave holding three enormous
sunflowers. Many times I had spent my day sitting with Alfred reminiscing about the loved
ones taken away from us. I found comfort in Alfred’s wise words, he saved me many times
during my darkest periods and for that I will be forever grateful. I once asked him about the
three sunflowers. Giving me a crooked smile as tears began to well in his eyes we sat in
silence. While I had never gotten the answer I realized that the silence was the most
powerful answer.
Once I arrived at his grave, I layed down on my knees, neatly placed the flowers next to his
name and for a couple of minutes I breathed; slowly and deeply. I looked up into the sky as
if waiting for a sign, a signal, something. Not knowing what to look for I felt lost and
abandoned. The only person I truly loved and trusted had left this world and in someway my
life had frozen ever since. I was in need of Alfred and one of his talks, however, he was not
there. Alfred never missed Mary-Jane’s anniversary, never, unless it was a question of life
and death. I wasn’t ready to lose him too, my last companion and friend. I slowly picked
myself up from the ground, wiped my tears and walked towards the exit, only to find an
invitation to Alfred’s funeral on my doorstep.