My last priority for the City of Lights was the pilgrimage to the Tomb. No, not Napoleon’s. Been there, done that. This is something important.
There are some weird scenes in the goldmine that I shared with the Lutt-creature. I have to work on my feelings about this. It required a trip to the 20th Arrondissement and a visit to the Père Lachaise Cimitere. It is easy to get there by Metro by taking the number two or number three trains since there are two stations immediately near the entrances on Boulevard de Ménilmontant. Some folks prefer the Gambetta station on Line Three, since that permits you to enter the burial ground near the tomb of Oscar Wilde and then walk downhill to visit the rest of the cemetery.
Père Lachaise Cemetery was opened on 21 May 1804. Napoleon, who by then was ruling as absolute king, issued an Executive Proclamation stating that “Every citizen has the right to be buried regardless of race or religion,” and supported the right to internment for all, regardless of whether they were legally in France or not. Wait, I might be mixing that up with something else.
At the time of its opening there was no Metro and the cemetery was considered to be like Dulles International: too far from the city, and there was not much demand. The owners of the burial ground thus came up with a marketing strategy and with great media coverage and hoopla arranged the disinterment and transfer of the remains of Jean de la Fontaine and the playwright Moliere for grand state funerals.
It was a lovely day to visit- cool but sunny- and taking the gave some above-ground stretches to see some of Gay Paree’s less famous districts, increasingly being populated by North African immigrants. I debarked at Gambetta and saw an old woman in an apron near the entrance with a folding tale.
I tried in my broken French to ask where Jim was. “Pardon, Madame, Ou est la Tombe de le Jim Morrison?”
To which the old lady responded by holding out her hand and asking for dix francs pour le plan du cimitere. In addition to Oscar Wilde, who was exiled from England for gross indecency, I noted the location of the tomb of Félix Faure, who shares a funerary tale similar to the late Nelson Rockefeller, the last known Republican Governor of New York.
Félix was president of France from 1895 until dying in office in 1899. His presidency is famous for the Franco-Russian alliance and the despicable affaire Dreyfus. It was not the anti-Semitic scandal for which he is known today.
He died after suffering an apoplectic episode whilst in bed with his mistress, Marguerite Steinheil. Rumors swirled that he had passed on while receiving oral sex from her. While the actual event is unknown, as is that of Governor Rockefeller’s last moment on intimacy with a female aid, it has become an famous example of Executive Privilege.
His tomb shows him on his back, draped presumably in the flag of France, though of course it could be his sheets. Contemporary politician George Clemenceau gave Faure the epitaph ‘Il voulait être Céwar, il ne fut sue Pompée,’ which can be translated either as ‘He wanted to be Caesar, he ended being Pompey’ or ‘He wanted to be Caesar, he ended being pumped.’
We could have found the grave we were actually looking for just by following the day-glo spray paint on the side of the headstones of famous non-rockers. The casual sacrilege to the momunments of the other dead was jarring.
At the grave there was an interesting scene. There was a small crowd of young people hanging out, not saying much, just being there. The faint smell of marijuana was in the air.
There was one hippy; or at least whatever it is that long-haired kids are these days. The tomb was a simple granite block with the name “JIM MORRISON” carved on the front. There were scraps of paper with poems piled on the stone, and flowers, of course.
Not his full name and no dates and no quote. That was quite nicely taken care of by the graffiti artists on every available piece of rock in the immediate line of sight. I am torn by my feelings about our strange times in that decade and the symbol of this man lying beneath us.
His music had moved my feet and stirred my soul. He was a dark genius with the voice of a gruff and caustic angel.
I remember the day the reports came of his death in 1971. Janice had died, Jimi was gone and these things seemed to happen in threes, like Jack, Bobby and Martin. Jim was entitled to burial at Pere Lachaise because he had passed, like Marat, in the bathtub inside the city limits. He was initially buried in an unmarked grave. When the cemetery management placed a simple marker on the site it was stolen. The same thing happened to a bust of Morrison placed on a simple gravestone.
Despite gazing at the stone for some time, it appeared that no stunning revelation will come; it was just a time of Strange Days. “So long, Lizard King,” and we walked away.
They tell me that much later, in 2008, the cemetery had hired a guard to ensure that visitors to Morrison’s grave did no more damage to it or other tombs. Now a simple block of stone bears the message, in Greek, ‘According to his own daimon.’
That day, the sun shone bright on the acres of intricately cut grey stone and the neatly-aligned streets of the city of the dead. We got back on the Metro and headed back to the old city, looking for some place to get a drink. I was pretty confident we were going to find one.
Vive la France!
Copyright 2014 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com
Twitter: @jayare303