I check the business card again, the shop owner’s black ink scribbled on the back. Tombs and monuments spread farther than I can see, so I’m grateful to have step-by-step directions to the Marteau family mausoleum.
A gentle roll of thunder carries from a distance, and for a moment, I hesitate. Maybe I should leave. What am I doing here anyway? Searching for a tomb? And I still have to go back for my dress. Protective bag or not, I don’t want to expose it to rain.
But even as I consider leaving, curiosity pushes me forward, moving my feet across the uneven stones.
Slipping my hand inside my purse, I touch the cover of the old book, as if to reassure myself it’s there.
Père Lachaise is a tourist site, known not only for its size but for the famous people resting inside its walls. It’s an interestingcontradiction, such grandeur in a graveyard. Beauty and art mixed with reminders of death.
The Memorial to the Dead sits at the end of the main passageway, and the instructions tell me to veer right before reaching the massive stone. As I progress, the side trails grow smaller. They feel more personal and private, tombs and statues closing in on both sides.
I pass a monument surrounded by a wrought-iron fence, bars covered with fresh flowers. The famous tomb of Frédéric Chopin.
A little farther, and I reach the landmark noted on the card. A huge circle of grass with a statue in the center. I walk around to the far side and follow the sign pointing up a slight incline.
The path grows darker the farther I climb, ancient trees looming overhead. Narrow stone steps lead me to a raised plot and a fenced section with a gate. The Marteau enclosure. Secluded and cordoned off, as though they believed themselves superior. Even in death.
Beyond the shrubbery, the mausoleum waits. It’s impossible to miss. Twice the size of any others, with stone steps and pillars gracing the entrance. The name MARTEAU embossed above the doors.
Wind races down the corridor, rattling leaves as clouds swirl above. I step closer to the gate, put my fingers on the handle, and pause to scan the grounds.
No one is in this part of the cemetery, only one older man with his back to me, heading downhill with a withered bouquet.
The handle squeaks beneath my hand. I cringe, glancing around again. Is it illegal to enter a mausoleum? Pushing open the gate, I slip in and ease it shut, squaring my shoulders and trying to look natural. Like I belong.
Hurrying to the vault, I climb three stone steps and press on the doors. I’m almost surprised when they open. Surprised andunnerved. An abyss waits beyond the doors, a dark void smelling of must and decay.
Taking a moment, I question the wisdom of trespassing on a sacred site. Especially one of a powerful family.
But I’ve come this far, so I shove inside and quickly shut the door.
Immediately regretting the loss of light, I fumble in my bag for my phone and its flashlight. One tap and the beam cuts through the black, illuminating carved marble and intricate designs.
But no windows. No light.
“Because vampires can see in the dark.” My voice echoes in the chamber, my self-comforting joke falling flat.
I don’t believe in vampires.
I don’t.
Ignoring my unease, I move around the space. One wall is divided into rectangles with engraved plates. Burial chambers.
Most of them have the Marteau surname, though some of the women have their married names included.
A few small doors have no plaques, still waiting to be filled and marked. The last two are a man and woman, likely the most recently deceased. Pierre Marteau and Lillian Bouchard Marteau.
I trace a finger over the brass plate. Luci’s parents?
Swinging my phone to the back reveals several large structures. I’m not sure what to call them. Caskets or tombs or sarcophagi? Effigies top the containers, stone carvings of the deceased person lying within. These family members clearly ranked a higher status.
The heirs, my mind whispers.
Like Dora.
I take soft, quiet steps to the back, as if I might disturb their rest. Several tombs sit in a line, stretching from one side of thespace to the other. But one, by far the grandest effigy, stands alone in the back.
It’s not until I’m close that I notice a stained-glass window on the wall, centered above the casket. If there’s a window, why is it so dark inside?
