Part 9 (2/2)

There were so many monuments, large and small, they almost seemed to be on top of one another. I could make out the names on dozens of them just from where I was standing.

”Even if we get to the right spot, how are we going to find him?” Tim asked. ”There's so many different headstones.”

”Look,” said Bonnie quietly.

On the wall of a mausoleum someone had spray-painted JIM and a little arrow pointing to the left. Tim drew in his breath in awe.

”That's vandalism!” I said, outraged.

Bonnie linked her arm through mine. ”The rules aren't quite the same here, man,” she said. ”Don't you feel that? Can't you feel all the thousands of people who have been here to pay their respects to Jim?”

I knew that Bonnie meant ”feel” like the animal psychic meant it when she investigated the moods of people's pets on Animal Planet. I was a Writer. I didn't consider myself of the Psychic Ilk. I was of the Verbal Ilk. But I did suddenly feel like crying and singing at the same time. I wished Jake were here to see this.

”I heard they have to send police here on Morrison's birthday and the anniversary of his death every year,” said Tim, ”because the crowds come and they don't want to leave Jim.”

”I've heard that too,” said Lewis.

Where did these people hear all these things? I had not come across anything like this in Star magazine.

Bud and Chaz remained back on the cobblestone path, chatting together and throwing little fake sucker punches at each other, as we picked our way through the graves in the direction the spray-paint arrow had pointed.

”This is creepy,” said Janet. But she kept up with us.

”There it is, people,” said Bonnie suddenly.

We stopped.

In front of us were a rectangular grave and headstone, surrounded by a low iron fence. A plaque read: JAMES DOUGLAS MORRISON 19431971 My first thought was that the place was totally covered with litter, but when I took a closer look, I realized all the objects on the grave had been placed there with care.

There were candles, wine bottles, flowers, even little framed pictures of Jim Morrison. He had a moody, beautifully angular face framed by loose brown curls. We stood around the grave, looking down in silence.

”You know, I read somewhere there used to be this cat that hung around the grave all the time,” said Tim.

Boy, get this guy started and it turns out he has a lot to say.

”And everybody called the cat Jim. You'd come to the grave, and Jim would appear from behind one of the other headstones and start meowing and rubbing your leg.”

”I don't like cats,” said Janet. An irritating, irrelevant comment if I ever heard one.

”Where is it then?” I asked, looking around.

”Some fan took him home, in, like, the eighties, they say,” replied Tim.

Bonnie suddenly began to sing softly.

This is the end Beautiful friend...

It didn't really surprise me that Bonnie had a lovely voice. It DID surprise me when first Tim, then Lewis began to sing along with her.

I made a mental note to get a Doors CD when I got home. Clearly, this was a phenomenon I needed to investigate more thoroughly.

”People, I'm getting the heebie-jeebies!” cried Janet.

I wasn't happy she'd interrupted the moment, but to be honest, I had goose b.u.mps up and down both arms too.

”We should go,” said Lewis.

Bonnie was still humming, her eyes closed, one finger lightly touching the headstone. She had one of those half Buddha smiles on her face.

I looked around at our little group. And a strange little group we were. A Future Corporate Executive, a Reincarnated Medieval Queen, a Francophile, a Computer Geek, an Until Recently Silent Sibling of a Celebrity, and a Writer. I had a feeling this was the moment I would most remember when I pa.s.sed them in the hall after we were back at school.

”On to Edith Piaf, then,” Lewis said, brandis.h.i.+ng his Sidekick.

Janet gave a little whoop of happiness.

”Step right this way, ladies and gentlemen,” said Lewis.

And we followed him, like obedient little lambs, through the city of the dead.

Ten.

It was almost a completely perfect outing. Almost. We were heading through the gate to go back to the metro station when Charlotte realized with dismay that she'd left her camera behind.

”I know exactly where it is,” Charlotte said. ”I put it down right next to Oscar Wilde.”

It figures Charlotte would have become distracted at Oscar Wilde's grave. I suppose it had been my fault, completely. She had tried numerous tactics to get me to walk away. But I had been so completely overcome with awe, I hadn't wanted to leave the grave at all. I kept staring at it, trying to imagine him, Wilde himself, with that Brain and those Hands that had written all that stuff of greatness, right there in the ground below me. And I couldn't help remembering the last thing Wilde supposedly said before he died. It was ”Either that wallpaper goes or I do.” A genius even as he took his last breath. Who was I kidding? With or without Paris, I was no Oscar Wilde, and never would be. I stood, caught in his spell. Charlotte actually had to walk away to provoke me into leaving. But she had left her camera behind.

Oops.

”You guys go ahead,” I said. ”I'll go back with Charlotte for the camera, and we'll meet you outside the gates.”

I remembered exactly where the Big Monument was. Unfortunately, it was clear on the other side of the cemetery, which was a bit of a hike.

”A little exercise will be good for us,” I said to Charlotte as we trotted briskly up the main cemetery road.

”Lily Blennerha.s.sett, you have evolved since we came to Paris,” Charlotte said.

I gave her a brilliant smile but saved my breath for important things. Like breathing.

”Finding out about this cemetery, figuring out how to get us all here, that's really great. You're finally taking some responsibility for yourself.”

I beamed again. I loved it when Charlotte was proud of me. But I couldn't help thinking at the same time that I'd become exactly what I'd said I would never become. A Simple Tourist.

”Doesn't it feel good? Don't you feel better about yourself?” Charlotte asked.

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