Little Town for the Dead
Reuben wants his photo taken next to Jim Morrison. I want mine taken next to Edith Piaf. We’re in Père Lachaise, a little town for the dead. Sugar-white tombs, fences and shrubbery. All that’s missing are verandahs and jugs of lemonade. Thing is, we have to be back at Gare du Nord for five and it’s already four and, according to the map, Jim and Edith are at opposite ends of the cemetery. We can’t do both. “You visit him, I’ll visit her,” I say. “But who’ll take the photos?” says Reuben. “You’ll have to come with me. Take mine. Then I’ll come with you. Take yours.” There’s no time. I sit down on Bizet, take off a trainer and shake out a stone. He paces to Apollinaire and back. “What if we get the later train?” ”We can’t, Reub. I have to work tonight.” Reuben pirouettes stiffly. He’s mouthing fuck’s sake. “Why don’t we come back in the autumn?” I say. ”Out of the question. I’ll be finishing my MBA in the autumn.” I go to him, touch his shoulder. He shrugs. ”Ouch. Get off. That’s where I had my mole removed, idiot. “Sorry, I forgot.” I goose-step away like John Cleese. He remains motionless. We must be near Edith’s tomb, because I hear her tune in my head. Non, rien de rien, non, je ne regrette rien. But the lyrics don’t come. Instead, I start to sing “Come On Baby, Light My Fire,” and it fits so beautifully. But Reuben doesn’t laugh, or move. Just pulls back his shirt sleeve and checks the time.
Anna Britten is an arts journalist living in Bath, UK. Her short fiction has been published in the Bloomsbury/Asham Award anthology Is This What You Want?, by online journal Eclectica, and broadcast on BBC Radio 4. She has been shortlisted for various other competitions and is currently seeking an agent for her debut novel. © 2008 prickofthespindle.com |
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