Frankie in Paris (19 page)

I almost stumbled upon another disturbing
statue.
 
It was also a life-size piece,
but this time it was a grown man. He looked like he was dressed in his Sunday
best.
 

His outfit reminded me of the old-timey tuxedo
that my stepfather had worn at his and my mother’s wedding, eleven years
prior.
 
They had had sort of period
theme; Mom wore a purple velvet dress with a hoop skirt, and Dad had on a dove-grey
tuxedo with tails.
 
My dad had even had a
top hat.
 
So did the dead man:
 
his hat lay upside down at his side—someone
had filled it with real roses.
 
They were
velvety red and had a Technicolor glow in the darkness of the coming storm.
 
The statue was patinated, just like the
judge’s head.
 
Although he was covered in
a verdant sheen, he looked so lifelike that I thought he might sit up at any
moment and follow me around.
    

The name etched on his tombstone said that he
was Victor Noir.
 
I would welcome Victor
on my tour of
Le Cimetière du Père-Lachaise
if only he could tell me
where the elusive Mr. Morrison was buried.
 
Out of the corner of my eye, I thought I saw movement from his final
resting place.

“Never mind, Monsieur Noir, you just stay right
where you are!”

I wondered why there weren't any other people
around.
 
Well
,
Dingdong,
 
that is
probably because they all have more sense than you do, to go wandering around a
creepy graveyard during the only dark, wet day in July.

My feet squished into the wet earth. I couldn’t
tell if I had been going north, south, or on my way to China.
 
Hopelessly lost, I wasn't even sure if I
could find my way back
out
of the
place.
 

Trudging uphill, I came to a clearing with a
long wall and a monument standing alongside it.
 

My heart began to pump with a power that I was
sure the occupants of the chain of eclectic graves could hear.
 
This bank of statues was horrifying.
 
They looked like the broken, skeletal frames
of three people—with mouths open and turned down.
 
Their eyes were missing, and in their place
were large, dark empty cavities.
 
Even
lacking orbs, you could tell that they were terrified, tortured, and desperate.

It was a monument in honor of Holocaust victims
from World War II.
 
One of the people was
looking heavenward, seemingly askance.
 
In front of him was another pathetic creature; this one was holding the
third being up, as he had seemingly collapsed.
 
They were frozen like this. Forever.

Someone sobbed, and I crouched in a defensive
position; then I realized that the sound had come from me.
 
In my mind’s eye, I could see these three
victims slowly stand, after years of remaining in their carved positions.
 
They turned to look at me with their hollow sockets,
and began to step from their pedestal, with bony legs and feet, their ribcages
prominent and knobby.

In my hysteria, I couldn't tell if it was
imagined—or if my telekinesis was somehow bringing the statues to life.
 
Drawing my arms up over my chest, I began to
run.
 
I no longer cared if I ever found
whom I had come for.
 
I just wanted
out.
 
Not a practiced runner, my breath
soon became ragged, and a terrible stitch developed in my side.
    

I stumbled between the bounty of stones and
mausoleums, some beautiful and some disturbing, such as the two average
tombstones with arms reaching out of the top of each, so that they could hold
hands for eternity.
 
Ick!

I collapsed on a smooth coffin-shaped block.
 
It was one in a group of many, but it called
to me.
 
I discovered that I was
crying.
 
Tears mingled with the droplets
falling from overhead. I steadied myself with a shaky hand, grasping the cool
marble on either side of me.
  

My blouse was so soaked with precipitation that
it was completely transparent.
 
There I
was, stuck in one of the most famous cemeteries on the planet, competing in my
own private wet T-shirt contest.

Sobs turned into a lunatic's giggles.
 
Looking down at the top of my seat, I saw a
face:
 
not an actual face, but a likeness
of a woman etched into the top of the mound of stone.
 
It was Edith Piaf.

I am
sitting on top of Edith Piaf!
 

I stood self-consciously and apologized.
 
“I’m so sorry, Madame Piaf.
 
I’m lost and I just don’t know what to
do.”
 
Now I was
talking
to Edith Piaf.
 
I am really going bonkers.
“I’ve just
realized that I have managed to get myself into more trouble than Lulu has
accumulated during our whole entire time in Paris.”

The portrait was beautiful.
 
She looked so young, with smooth, white
skin.
 
Her eyes were luminous, and her
lips were shaped in a bow.
 

On top of her grave was a statuette of
crucified Christ.
 
Someone had left a
green apple for her, in addition to an array of flowers.

“I have always been a fan of your music.
 
I could even hear you singing in my head when
I first arrived in Paris.”
 
My voice was barely a whisper.
 
It was almost inaudible beneath the
percussive rain.
 

Although I had enjoyed my time with Madame Piaf,
I needed to move on.
 
First I wanted to
ask for a favor.
 
My teeth chattered, causing
a bit of a stutter.

“Do y-you think y-you could help me g-get out
of here?”
 

Not sure if I was making my request of Jesus or
Edith Piaf, I bowed my head and began walking away.

Suddenly, I felt more lighthearted than I had
in days.
 
I wasn’t even frightened by a
tomb that looked as though it had been broken open, with a green head, torso
and arm sticking out from below the earth.
 
The arm extended into a hand with long fingers which were holding a
rose.
 
Okay, now that's just weird.
    

That was the exact moment that I decided that
when I died, I just wanted a plain headstone, with my name, birth date and date
of death on it.
 
Nothing else.
 
No head sticking out of it, no dead child
laid out across the top.
 
No macabre
angels crouched and ready to pounce.
 
Simplicity is key.

***

The rain flounced like silver streamers.
 
The water had even penetrated my sturdy
boots.
 
My teeth clapped together, and my
muscles began shuddering uncontrollably.
 
I needed warm, dry clothes, pronto.
 

My purse made a sloshing sound as I almost
tripped over a knotty tree root.
 

A steady wind had been born from the breeze.
 
Branches whipped around overhead, lifting my
hairdo up into a wild coxcomb.
 
Straight
ahead, I saw some graffiti spray painted onto the side of a tomb.

Crooked, black letters spelled J.M. with a
giant arrow pointing to the left.
 
J.M. must mean Jim Morrison
!
 
The rain was running through the cobblestones
in rivulets, forming little streams through the rocks, as I excitedly followed
the arrow.
 

A bit further down the street, I saw another one.
 
No letters this time, but the paint was the
same.
 
I turned the corner and watched
for more clues, which
  
I easily found.
 
More arrows.
 

I followed the series of triangular marks until
I arrived at my journey’s end.
 
I had
found him.
 
James Douglas Morrison.
 
1943-1971.
 
There was a small picture of his face after the dates.
 

I remembered my brother telling me that there
used to be a statue of Jim’s head, but that some demented fan had stolen
it.
 
In front of the stone was a square
carved into the ground and surrounded by what looked like cement.
 
I think it was supposed to house a garden,
but it was filled with flowers, full bottles of whiskey and other liquors,
cigarettes, letters, and various other allegiances to the man who was called
“The Lizard King” and had sung songs like "L.A. Woman," "Light
My Fire," and "People are Strange."
 
I decided—after recently witnessing so many
bizarre shrines for the deceased—that people are indeed strange.

An orange candle was balanced on top of the
marker, with dried wax making a curvy pattern through Jim’s name.
 
I wanted to bring some of that wax to my
brother.
 
Using my fingernails to peel a
strip of it off , I plopped it into my wet purse.
 
I was no better than my dirt-stealin' granny!

My
grandmother
.
 
Is she
worried about me?
 
Is she lying in bed,
befuddled by unfamiliar soap operas, listening to the patter against her
window?

***

Like she'd read my mind, Lulu stepped into
view.
 
She was soaking, her hair stuck
against her face.
 
And there was a
penny-shaped bruise on her forehead.
 
It
was obvious that she had tried to cover it, but it stood out, round and purple
against her pale skin—and made me feel like a world-class jerk.
 
In place of the white wicker flats were black
rain boots.
 
They were far too big for
her and reached almost to her knees.

“Where did you get the galoshes?”
 

“François loaned them to me.
 
He told me that a storm was coming.”

I should
have listened to François.
 

Lulu put one mis-sized, wader-clad foot up on
Jim's grave and posed, hands on hips.
 
She had a lot of spirit.
 
But so
did I:
 
in the end, we were a perfect
match.
 
Two of a kind.
 

Me without the ice.

“I’m so sorry, Lulu.”
 
I reached out my hand and took her much
smaller one.
 
Pulling me close, she
kissed my cheek, almost slipping on the wet muddy grave.

“Please don’t give it another thought,
Francis.”
 
One step further away from
calling me Francesca—I was proud of her.

She unfolded a map which had the name of our
location on it.
 
Why didn’t I think to buy a map of the cemetery?
     

Because I had a lesson to learn, that was
why.
 
Thank
you, oh Cosmic Universe, for being such an awesome teacher.
 

Although I could’ve done without the rain.

“I think I know how to get us out of here,”
 
Lulu proclaimed.
 
“There is one more stop that we need to make
on our way back to the hotel.”

The dry tunnel, which was the Metro stop at the
exit for
Père
Lachaise
Cemetery
, wasn't challenging to find, if you had a soggy map.
 
We sat silently, waiting for the train to
come.
 
And we sat silently, as it pulled
away from the station.
 
When we reached
the Bastille Market, Lulu tugged at my hand and led me out of the car.

Besides the waterworks, the market was exactly
the same as it had been on our second day in France.
 
The man who had invited us to the
real French party
was flirting with a
gaggle of ladies, so we easily avoided the detection of his onion-scented
booth.
 

We found the spot:
 
The Doc Marten Mecca.
 
A different purveyor was there this time, which
was a relief.
 
I was sure that our
awkward exchange from days ago would have been remembered.
 

“There were two pairs that I wanted.
 
Red ones and black ones.
 
I hope they’re still here.”

“You pay for one pair, and I’ll pay for the
other.”
 
A peace offering.

“Thank you.” I had never given a more sincere
and heartfelt thanks.

Sitting on top of a tall stack of boxes was a
pair of tall black boots.
 
I counted the
holes:
 
One, two, three ...
there were twelve of them.
 
I squealed out loud.
 
After all, these had pretty much been my
reason for visiting the country.
 
My
raison d'être
.

***

Less than two hundred dollars later (this was a
deal, believe me), I was the proud new owner of two gorgeous pairs of
boots.
 
I beamed:
 
we hadn’t bothered bargaining.

Lulu explained that I should probably wear a
pair on the airplane so that I would only have to claim one pair at
customs.
 
I didn’t quite understand the
whole process, but I was going to trust her.
 
She had been through it all before:
 
even if it had been forty years ago.
 

I spied a record booth when we were about to
leave the market.
 
I personally mostly
listened to cassettes, because you could make mix-tapes, something that I
really liked to do.

But Rich loved vinyl.
 
His record collection could put some pretty
serious collectors to shame.
 
Hundreds of
singles and albums, neatly labeled and categorized—now at least partially in
alphabetical order—were stacked along his bedroom wall.
 
He had begun collecting them when he was only
ten.
 
If I could find one that he didn’t
already have, then I would have the perfect gift to bring home.

Lulu followed me, still wearing François’
rubber galoshes, as I started at the first row of boxes and flipped quickly
flipped through the records with the tips of my fingers.

“What are we looking for?”
 
she asked.

“I’m not sure yet.”

There were lots of French albums, of
course.
 
Loads of old classics, but
nothing rare.
 
From time to time I would
come across Edith Piaf’s face.
 
I
silently thanked her in my head for sending Lulu to
Père-Lachaise
.
 
I would thank Jesus
later, too—just in case it had been His doing.

Halfway through the ninth carton, I found the
perfect album.
 
It was one of Rich’s
favorite punk bands, from the 1970’s,
The
Clash
.
 
I knew he already had the
album, but the cover was in near-mint condition.
 
He'll
totally love this!

The teenage boy who was manning the booth named
an outrageous price.
 
I made a
counter-offer.
 
He brought the amount
down, but only a few francs.
 
I suggested
a lower number.
 
Lulu clapped her hands.
 
The boy caved, took my money, and handed me
the record.
 

“You did it,” Lulu smiled, “I
knew
you could do it!”

I have to admit:
 
it felt good to know that I had been in
charge, if only for a few seconds.

***

While we were on the Metro, I pulled the album
out of the jacket.
 
It was the
wrong record
.
 
Someone had placed a children’s album in the
vintage punk sleeve.
 
Frère
Jacques
was the first song on the list.
 

I shook my head at my own stupidity, guessing
 
Rich would have to live without a
souvenir.
 
Or maybe I could pick up a
T-shirt or a ball cap at the airport.
 
What a lame gift for the love of your life
.

We arrived at the hotel, and I let Lulu go in
ahead of me, the oversized rain boots flopping around her short legs.
  

I needed to call Rich.
 
I told her I’d be close behind.

Even though I knew I would see him the next
day, I missed him so much that it was almost physically painful.
 
His voice was the only available cure. I
opened up the little phone booth and stepped inside.
 

Peeking around to make sure no one was looking,
I dialed without my fingers, because my digits had still not lost all the
numbness from the cold—and I can do it quicker that way, anyway. He picked up
on the first ring.

“Richie.”
 
It came out in a snivel.
 
Damned tears.

“Frankie, are you alright?”
 
I could tell that he had jumped to his feet,
as if he could leap through the receiver of the phone to comfort me.

“I’m fine.
 
I’m really, really fine.
 
I just… I
can’t wait to get home.
 
I miss you like
crazy.”

“I miss you, too,” he said, “Grampy wanted to
pick you guys up, but I wrestled him for the honor.”

“You did not wrestle my grandfather.
 
Liar.”
 

“Okay.
 
I
didn’t really wrestle him, but he wanted to be there, and I had to do a lot of
convincing.
 
It didn’t occur to me until
after that I could have invited him to come along.”
 
Humor engulfed his wonderful calming voice,
like a fuzzy sweater.

“That’s alright; we’ll see him when we drop
Lulu off.”

“And after we drop Lulu off, I’ll have you all
to myself.”
 
I couldn’t wait to look into
those baby blues.
 
Wrapping my arms tight
around myself, I made believe they were his.

“Is there anything that I can bring you from
beautiful Paris, France?”
 
I asked, more homesick for him than ever.

“The only thing I want you to bring me from Paris, France,”
he said, “is you.”

***

And that’s exactly what I did.