by Anita Heiss
‘So, I will see you at ten o’clock tomorrow, oui?’
‘Oui.’
The next morning I went to the nominated entrance to the cemetery. The guard at the gate didn’t speak English but tried to keep me company by smiling and laughing until Michel arrived and greeted me with the double-cheeked French kiss, just like we were old friends.
Our tour began immediately as Michel linked his arm through mine as if we were a couple. As if we had known each other forever, as if it were completely normal for him to assume such intimacy with me. I didn’t fight it – I mightn’t want a boyfriend, but that didn’t mean I couldn’t enjoy some attention and male company. In fact, I liked it. I liked being in Paris with my Pâtisserie Parisien guide. I liked that Libby Cutmore was seemingly desirable to men in this city. I may have been there to work magic at the musée, but until that began I was a newly arrived local.
‘The basics,’ Michel said, looking me directly in the eyes. ‘Napoléon opened the cemetery back in 1804, there are sixty-nine thousand tombs, two hundred and fifty famous people and fifteen kilometres of pathways. And about three hundred thousand people are buried here.’
The idea of so many dead people, souls, stories, sadness hit me hard and I automatically thought the area needed one massive Aboriginal smoking ceremony to cleanse the negative or evil spirits.
‘Is there anything in particular you want to see?’ Michel asked. ‘Because it would take days, maybe weeks, to go through here properly.’
‘If it’s not too much trouble, I’d like to see the gravesites of Edith Piaf, Jim Morrison, Chopin, Pissarro and Oscar Wilde.’ There were more, but I’d be happy just seeing those. ‘S’il vous plaît,’ I added as an afterthought.
Michel walked me through what seemed like endless paths with the occasional canopy of trees overhead. It was interesting to see that changes in concrete and landscaping made additions to the cemetery over time look obvious. Tourists and locals alike roamed the grounds like it was a public park, rather than a place where parents, children, friends and yes, even famous people, were laid to rest. I watched school groups file through, some with guides, others looking alone. There were couples holding hands and strolling, as if a cemetery was perfect for a romantic rendezvous.
Suddenly I became conscious of how close Michel was standing to me. Was this meant to be a romantic rendezvous for him? I didn’t even know if he had a girlfriend. He’s got a girlfriend all right, I heard Caro in my head.
‘This is the Garden of Memories where the ashes of people cremated are kept,’ he said. ‘Between twenty and twenty-five people get cremated a day here. It’s the only crematorium in Paris.’
We stopped so I could see the space.
‘This is like a museum, not a cemetery. People come here to look and learn a little.’ He pointed to a site. ‘This is Maria Callas – Aristotle Onassis left her for Jackie Kennedy.’
As we walked, Michel pointed out more graves.
‘Max Ernst, was a prolific German artist, a Surrealist. He died in 1976,’ he said matter-of-factly. ‘And over here is Achille Zavatta, he joined the circus at three and was one of our most famous pantomimes. He committed suicide in 1993. Very sad.’
We kept walking. ‘And over there is Simone Signoret, one of our greatest movie stars.’
I looked at her grave and the fresh flowers on it.
‘She was the first French person to win an Academy Award, for her role in Room at the Top.’ Michel paused as if to give a moment’s silence.
‘Her husband Yves Montand,’ he continued, ‘was an actor too, but also a singer. The songs he crooned about Paris became instant classics.’
The cemetery was extraordinary, so many stories, so much history and yet I was too engaged with the man on my arm to truly appreciate the moment. No-one would believe me when I told them about this tour with a hot local French guy. I felt a sense of sacrilege – I should have been paying my respects to the dead but it was hard to focus. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d had sex, and here was this man holding me close to him, knowledgeable in history, taking time to show me around. How generous. How obviously sleazy, I heard Caro again in my ear.
Michel rattled off more trivia. ‘Sarah Bernhardt slept in a coffin as she prepared herself for death.’
Then some commentary, ‘See the trees planted on the graves here, it is like they are eating the dead.’
He waited for my reaction but I hadn’t been listening and was too embarrassed to admit it. I smiled stupidly. He sighed and continued with the tour.
‘This is Victor Noir.’ He pointed to a horizontal statue of a man. ‘It is a long story, but he was a journalist, murdered when trying to organise a duel between Pierre Bonaparte, Napoléon’s nephew, and another journalist. History has it that when Noir informed Bonaparte of the duel, Bonaparte slapped him in the face and then shot him. Over a hundred thousand people attended the funeral and this statue is meant to represent him having been shot.’
The statue was stretched out on the tombstone, looking as if it had just fallen dead. I put my hand over my mouth, slightly shocked.
Michel gave me a flirtatious smile. ‘There is a myth that claims rubbing his zipper will enhance fertility, bring a better sex life, or, even a husband within the year.’
I looked at the statue closely and could see where many women had rubbed. Not only did I have no desire to rub the crotch of the statue of a dead man, I wasn’t remotely interested in being fertile or fertilised while in Paris, or meeting a husband.
We continued to walk and I strained not to take my camera out. I didn’t want to look like a tourist or to treat such a sacred place as a museum.
‘And here is Oscar Wilde.’
I couldn’t help myself – I had to take a photo. Moving closer I clicked and exclaimed, ‘There’s lipstick marks all over his tomb!’
‘Yes, are you going to kiss it too?’ I wasn’t sure if Michel was urging me on or checking that I wasn’t going to.
‘Absolutely not! His tomb is sacred and, hopefully, heritage listed.’
‘It is heritage listed, oui. He is the greatest man to ever live. And the kisses are a desecration of his grave.’ Michel was suitably angry as he spoke.
‘I agree!’ I knew how to show respect without defacing property. Working in the arts you learn to admire without touching. It was something I tried to teach the schoolkids who came into the NAG on tours.
Michel became more serious than angry. ‘Most people think I’m being dramatic when I say that, but I think it’s disrespectful. Would you go and kiss any other stranger’s gravesite? Someone who wasn’t in your family?’
I looked more closely at the tomb. ‘I can understand the need people might feel to pay homage, that makes sense to me, but …’ I didn’t get to finish my sentence before he cut me off.
‘I am a man who knows how to pay homage, to demonstrate my love, even for a great man like Oscar Wilde. But I think there needs to be boundaries.’ Michel was waving his arms in fury, but I understood the passion he was expressing.
We continued to walk and Michel eventually went back to being my friendly, knowledgeable tour guide.
‘And here is Frédéric Chopin, the great composer. A mask was taken of him on his deathbed. Many buses with Polish people come here to pray and sing at his grave all the time.’
I was amazed at how much Michel knew about the people buried there.
‘Why don’t you do this professionally?’ I asked. ‘Be a tour guide?’
‘I like to just come here and think, to get ideas, to dream, to be at peace. It is not work for me. I like to share the stories with my friends, and other people I like.’ And there it was, the flirtatious French style that Caro had warned me about one minute and told me to enjoy the next. I got immediately nervous. It was only day four, I couldn’t be getting excited momentarily or otherwise about a bloke in Paris and certainly not while I was walking through a cemetery with the spirits of dead people.
Wanting to
break Michel’s gaze, I asked, ‘Someone told me Jim Morrison’s grave is the most visited site here. Is that true?’
‘Yes,’ he said, leading me in the direction of the spot where the legendary American rock star had been laid to rest.
‘See the fence?’ He pointed and I looked accordingly. ‘It has to be bordered off because of security. There are even cameras on his grave because people steal items from it.’
I took another photo quickly.
‘And the second most visited gravesite is Edith Piaf.’ He ushered me further. ‘She was known as the woman who sounded like a little bird singing in the streets of Paris.’
‘You are a fan too?’ I asked him.
‘Oui. Her life was singing and men, not money. I write songs and I like women, and I am not motivated by money, so we are kind of alike, Piaf and me.’
I wondered what kind of songs Michel wrote and what his singing voice sounded like as he continued to talk.
‘The story goes that she gave a watch to a man to tell him it was time to go. Then one night she invited all her exes to a restaurant and they all had the same watch on.’
I laughed. ‘Is that true?’
‘I don’t know, but it’s a great story.’
‘It sure is, I’ll have to tell my girlfriends back home.’
‘Will you tell your boyfriend that story too?’ he asked with a sly smile.
‘There’s no boyfriend,’ I offered, before realising I should’ve lied to save the next thing from happening.
‘No boyfriend for such a beautiful, intelligent woman? This is surely a crime.’
He pulled me close to him, his hands firmly on my waist.
‘We shall solve this mystery by going back to the pâtisserie and I will make you the best baguette in Paris and we will sit on my balcony in the sun.’
‘Oh, Michel, thank you so much for the offer, but I have to do some work this afternoon.’ I wasn’t going to go back to Michel’s house. I didn’t even know him, but I knew he wanted more than lunch.
‘Ma chérie,’ he said as he pulled me closer and I could feel his own baguette growing against me.
It made me weak, it had been a long time since I’d been that close to any fella, let alone one with a grasp of history who wrote songs and served the best coffee in the world. But there was no way anything was happening.
‘Really, Michel.’ I pulled myself away. ‘I am so grateful, merci beaucoup, for the wonderful tour, but I do have to do some work today.’
I had to lie, what else could I say that would make sense to him? He walked me back to Mama’s Shelter and I stood under the cold running water in my tiny shower and wondered if this was what life in Paris was going to be like when I wasn’t working.
I thought it would be uncomfortable going to my pâtisserie the next day, so I found a new one on the corner to the left of Mama’s Shelter and closer to my own apartment. The one thing I didn’t want was drama with a bloke having just arrived in Paris. I didn’t leave Canberra and my life of man-fasting to come to Paris for a man-feast. Michel was a blessing in some ways, it reminded me of what it was like to be desired by a man, but I wasn’t interested in a repeat of my dramatic and destructive past.
I woke on Sunday still tired. I lay in bed for a few minutes, thinking about moving into my apartment. But with only two suitcases it wasn’t going to be that difficult. I packed everything and checked out of the hotel early enough to test out the time it would take for me to get from the 20th to the musée so I would be prepared for work the next day. I left my cases at reception and Christian the concierge offered to walk me the five minutes it would take to the apartment. Just the offer made me fall in love with Paris that much more.
I walked to the Métro at Alexandre Dumas and got the #2 train to Nation. Then I took the #6 to Bir-Hakeim in the 15th arrondissement and made my way to quai Branly. I walked past the Australian embassy on rue Jean Rey and then the Eiffel Tower. I envied the Australian diplomats and the view they must have from their offices.
As I faced what was to be my new office for the next five months, I couldn’t believe my own life and how lucky I was. I stood in awe of Aboriginal artist Lena Nyadbi’s creation on the musée’s façade. The size of the work – Jimbirla and gemerre (spearheads and cicatrice) – rendered into the wall expressed the vastness of the creator’s own country. I looked forward to starting my day, every day, with such inspiration. I thought about the first time I had seen that image on the page back at the NAG. I was momentarily breathless.
I looked at my watch. It had taken me only forty-five minutes in total. I boarded a #76 bus back to rue de Bagnolet and sat marvelling at the ability of the driver to manoeuvre the huge tank through small streets, often only an inch away from parked cars. I was glad for the air-conditioning on the bus, and guessed that it would be better to be above ground than below it on the subway on a hot day in the heart of summer.
As we turned corners, I looked at different businesses along the way. From the window I gazed at the boucheries and considered becoming a vegetarian, but the French even made the word ‘butcher’ sound sexy. I saw motorcycles on the streets – Yamahas, Kawasakis, Harleys – but I’d never heard of the Motul brand.
I was grateful there was an announcement of each stop accompanied by a rolling red electronic sign at the front of the bus. I read and listened at the same time, hoping it would improve my French, even slightly.
I looked at the Juliet Monument at Bastille, which commemorated the July 1830 revolution, before spotting L’Opéra Bastille – the modern opera house – that I first saw on my ‘touristy’ days. I was pleased I was getting my bearings. I was becoming a local.
I squeezed close in my seat as if it would make a difference as the bus sat within three lanes of traffic with only two lanes marked on the road. The French really are crazy drivers, I mumbled under my breath. I stared out the window and saw young people peddling their bikes alongside the bus and thought them incredibly brave.
I got off before Mama’s Shelter and treated myself to lunch at L’Abribus. I’d walked past it so many times the last few days and each time was inspired by the locals eating and drinking, although I wasn’t so inspired by the smoking. Lots of people still smoked in Paris and that disturbed me. Perhaps they didn’t have massive anti-smoking campaigns like we did.
I went inside the restaurant, and ordered the penne au fromage, the crème Brûlée à l’orange and a glass of red. The space had wooden chairs and tables and benches with red paper placemats. There was a funky wine bottle display and the ceiling was two shades of blue with yellow circles. The service was average, but I liked that I could sit in a groovy place that was close to my soon-to-be new home.
The lunch crowd finally found its way inside and in no time at all there was a father and baby, a lone French traveller reading a guidebook and two businessmen. I finished my meal and walked past the pâtisserie – pretending not to, but most definitely looking to see Michel. I couldn’t. I headed back to the hotel.
Concierge Christian helped drag my cases around the corner to my new home in rue Saint-Blaise, a little street that looked like it belonged in a small town in the country, not in Paris. I loved it the first time I saw photos of it online, and now I was finally moving in.
‘Welcome, Mademoiselle Cutmore,’ the old man said. ‘Cutmore’ had never sounded more elegant than how he pronounced it, more like Cootmurrrre. ‘I am Dominic Robert.’
I shook Monsieur Robert’s hand before he and Christian carried my cases up to the second floor to my tiny studio apartment. I knew it was going to be small but it was more obvious when the three of us and my two huge cases tried to enter at the same time. Nevertheless, it was modern and clean and I loved it. It had one of those pull-down beds that hid in the wall, creating a living room during the day and a queen-size bed at night. I had visions of it flying up into the wall while I was asleep on it.
The apartment walls were stark white, in contrast to the dark of Mama’s Shelter
, and I could smell the fresh paint with the slightest of breaths.
‘Is it okay?’ Monsieur Robert asked. ‘I repainted the front door and the bathroom door because the last tenant made many marks when they moved out. It is not toxic paint, there is no more lead in paint,’ he reassured me, even though I hadn’t even considered the toxicity of paint.
‘It’s fine. You did a good job,’ I said, knowing the need to praise the work of a handyman. Monsieur Robert puffed his chest out with pride.
The kitchen cabinets were designer red, the appliances stainless steel and the kitchen table and two chairs were chrome. It was a funky pad hidden in such a traditional-looking building. The bathroom had been renovated and the white walls and vanity matched the tiny blue-tiled shower recess. There was no bath, but I knew I could manage. With water preservation an issue in Canberra for so long, I’d become used to having really quick showers anyway.
Monsieur Robert was talking me through the broadband internet access and the garbage collection days, but I was already thinking about where I would put my books and clothes and other bits and pieces that I had in my case. I was planning on heading back to the markets for the linen tablecloths I’d seen. I liked the flat-screen TV, although I didn’t imagine spending much time watching it.
‘I love this place, Monsieur Robert, it feels like home already,’ I said.
‘Please call me Dom, everybody does.’
‘Thank you, Dom, please call me Libs, everyone back home calls me that.’
Dom smiled like a father, the father I hadn’t had for most of my life. I had a fleeting moment of homesickness and missing my dad, and wondered what he would have thought of his only daughter moving into the 20th in Paris. I couldn’t even imagine him saying ‘arrondissement’ without a cigarette stuck to his bottom lip.
‘I will let you settle in now. I will leave these forms for you to sign, please, and you can bring to me. I live in apartment four on the first floor.’ He put the papers on the kitchen table.