The scene: a vast graveyard to the east of Central Paris, mid-morning. Grey clouds hang tentatively overhead, threatening a relieving drizzle which, unfortunately, never comes.
The protagonist: me, puffing and panting as I crest one of far too many sets of stone steps. I turn and look upon the grim panorama, much of the eerie view obscured by trees, before turning the other way and facing the tombs and gravestones which rise up above me, glowering down from the ridge which raises them above the level of the path. There is no direct route ahead. Sighing, I turn to the left and plod on, following the path as it curves around and joins the tombs on the ridge.
Somewhere, I hear the cawing of a crow. I round the next bend and see it, perched on the dirt path which crosses my neat cobbled one; as I step forward it gives a crow of alarm and flies off, and I am alone. Alas, for just a moment; a flutter of wings, and another crow is just getting settled on a farther distant headstone, its head turned to fix one eye on a point far below, away from the direction in which I am heading.
My goal: one grave in particular, a grave I am certain is up here somewhere! For this is not just a cemetery; this is the Cimitière du Père LaChaise (or the Cemetery of Father Chair, if you want to be a smart alec) where famed poet and writer Oscar Wilde is buried.
As I walk, I begin to wonder: what will the great man's grave look like? Will it be big, black and shiny, engraved with gold lettering? How about a vast, gothic tomb replete with gargoyles and a great, forbidding portal blocked by a gaunt black door? Maybe his will be a majestic statue in the middle of a square, surrounded by rows of graves lying flat as if in worship. Or perhaps it will be a simple white marble headstone, with the words Here Lies Oscar Wilde engraved on it...
And then I reach the great dome of the crematorium and all my hopes die. Surely, here, I am at the end of the procession; there can be no tombs or graves after this, even the ground around it is bereft of headstones.
I check my phone for the time, and sigh again as I discover I am running late. And so, running is what I do. As much as is possible, anyway; what with many of the paved surfaces being uneven cobbled paths, I am forced to slow to a fast walk as I tread carefully along, expecting at any moment to slip and break something. As I make my way towards the entrance, my imagination takes over: would it be ironic if I died in a cemetery? How many others, like me, had potentially broken their neck and expired here, only to have their flesh eaten away by the crows and be nothing more than bone by the next morning?
Eventually I find my way back to the entrance of the cemetery. Beyond the green gates, yawning wide open, I spot Simon, in his suit and glasses, on the other side of the road. Before I leave, I check the map: so close! Had I dared, and gone a little further, followed the path past the crematorium, I'd have been at the grave! It'd only take ten minutes to get back up there again; but that was ten minutes we didn't have. Hell, I was cutting it fine enough already.
I cross the road and greet Simon with a sheepish grin as he turns to me and adjusts his cuffs.
"Sorry I'm late," I say. "I sorta... Climbed the cemetery."
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