“A law degree does come in handy when you have to register property and a bank account in a dead woman’s name,” he smiled grimly.
“Philippe had already decided on his own funeral arrangements. No church service, no announcement, just a small ceremony among our own at Père Lachaise.”
Only the most famous cemetery in Paris, I thought with awe, remembering a tour my mother and I had gone on that included the graves of Victor Hugo, Oscar Wilde, Gertrude Stein, and Jim Morrison, among others. Philippe—or more likely Geneviève—must have some powerful contacts to have secured a gravesite for him there.
“I would love a cup of tea,” Geneviève said to no one in particular.
“I’ll get it!” I popped to my feet, grateful to be given a task. “Just point me to the kitchen.”
Once there, I lit the gas burner under a kettle and rummaged through the cupboards until I found a teapot, some cups, and a box of tea bags. Framed photos hung on the kitchen wall, and I wandered from one to the next as I waited for the water to boil.
The first was an old black-and-white photo of Geneviève in a wedding dress, being carried in the arms of a tuxedoed man through the front gate of this house. Geneviève’s dress and crimped hairstyle dated the picture from around World War II. They were both laughing in the photo, and looked like any other blissful couple on their wedding day.
The next picture showed the same man outside a garage, wearing a light-colored jumpsuit with grease stains on it. He leaned over a car and gave a thumbs-up, holding a wrench in one hand. His face didn’t look any different than in the wedding photo—still 1940s or ’50s, I was guessing.
I moved to the next photo, which must have been taken in the 1960s—I could tell from Geneviève’s Jackie O hairdo. She looked exactly the same, but her husband was graying and his face was that of a man in his forties. Still . . . they could pass for a middle-aged man and his much younger wife.
But not in the following images. The color photographs made their difference in age increasingly obvious. I leaned in to see an inscription written across the bottom of the most recent portrait: “60 years on the millennium. My love for you will last forever. Philippe.” In the photo the man was sitting in a club chair with one of those metal walkers standing beside it. Geneviève was perched on the arm, leaning over and kissing his cheek as he grinned directly into the camera lens. He looked ancient. She looked twenty. And they looked as in love as they had on their wedding day.
I jumped as the kettle began whistling on the stove behind me. I had forgotten where I was as I became gradually sucked into their history—a history full of love and happiness, certainly, but one that had ended as a tragedy worthy of Homer.
When I returned to the living room, carrying the tray with teapot and cups, Jules was pacing around on his cell phone, spreading the news to their friends. Geneviève sat on the couch with her head on Vincent’s shoulder, staring off into space.
My boyfriend’s eyes were dark as he watched me cross the room and set the tray on a coffee table in front of them. An expression of pain flashed across his face, and I knew we were thinking the same thing. The story of Geneviève and her human husband could one day be ours.
FIVE
WE STOOD IN THE GRAVEYARD, AMONG THE tombstones, forty-some dead people and me. A couple of my fellow funeral-goers had even been in their own coffins, deep under several feet of French soil, before they had been dug out by Jean-Baptiste or another like him who had “the sight.”
As Vincent had explained to me, a revenant-in-the-making sends off a light like a beacon shooting straight up into the sky, visible only to those few revenants who have the gift of seeing auras. And if the “seer” gets to the corpse before it wakes up three transformational days later—if they provide food, water, and shelter for the awakening revenant—a new immortal is born. If not . . . ashes to ashes, dust to dust.
Although Philippe hadn’t met the revenant prerequisite of dying in another human’s stead, Geneviève didn’t take any chances and waited until the fourth day after his death to bury him. And now she knelt by the graveside, swathed in black crepe and throwing bunches of tiny white flowers down onto the casket.
“Thee only do I love,” came a girl’s hushed voice from just behind me. Vincent had left my side to stand next to Geneviève, picking up a handful of dirt and throwing it down among the flowers before giving another mourner his place. I turned to see Violette standing next to me.
“What did you say?” I asked.
“The tiny white flowers Geneviève is throwing—they’re arbutus.” She saw my confusion and corrected herself. “I forgot that they do not teach the language of flowers nowadays. That was a staple of a lady’s education. Every flower has its own meaning. And arbutus flowers mean ‘Thee only do I love.’ Geneviève would be aware of that—that is why she chose them for her one and only love.”