“I think it’s romantic,” she said, squeezing herself into my side.
“That too,” I agreed, kissing the top of her head.
The tomb was fairly near the side entrance we snuck through and it was...odd. I’m not kidding. It looked nothing like I thought it would. A seemingly solid slab, the side had a simple winged sphinx or maybe angel, depending on how you looked at it, carved into its side. It was shockingly contemporary in look and feel. Personally, I didn’t like it, not for Wilde anyway. I mean, it was an unbelievably beautiful piece of art but for someone who lived and spoke aesthetics, it was too plain.
“Why is it barricaded?” I asked, running my palm up the glass fence surrounding the tomb.
“I kind of remember reading something about women kissing the sides of the tomb to the point it was deteriorating.”
“Get out.”
“I’m serious. We women can be a bit zealous at times.”
“Is that so?” I teased, tucking her in to me as we perused the cobblestone paths along the tombs.
“If you think that’s bad, you should hear the story behind Victor Noir’s grave.”
“And what’s that?”
“Single women are supposed to kiss his bronzed face, place a flower in his upturned hat, and then proceed to fondle him in his most private of areas.”
I laughed so hard, I startled her.
“No kidding and what does this get these single women?”
She cleared her throat. “A husband...in a year.”
She got exceedingly quiet in that moment and I swear I could feel her blush.
I couldn’t tease her for the myth—it didn’t seem appropriate at the time, I didn’t really know why. All I did know was that I didn’t want to taint what could possibly be one of the most insightfully unintentional conversations I’d ever had. I shocked myself with that thought. January and I had...potential. A slow tingle permeated my stomach.
We walked a long time in silence, ducking behind trees and tombs when we suspected a guard may be approaching. We passed many graves but had no idea who they belonged to, if they were artists of any sort, be they writers, composers, painters.
We stumbled upon Jim Morrison’s grave by accident. The only indication the tomb belonged to anyone of importance was the aluminum barricade cordoning it off. I couldn’t believe how plain it looked as well. Though, the piles of flowers, candles and oddly, pharmaceuticals, were a sight to be seen.
“Thanks for Light My Fire, Jim,” I told him. Although he was an exceedingly talented musician and for that I appreciated him immensely, I didn’t personally care for the guy that much. I read once that he read heavily of existentialism. I’m a proponent of existentialism, but the Kierkegaard version and I tread carefully over those philosophies, especially Nietzche’s. His version, one I’m assuming Jim followed, based on his actions, is nothing but dribble in my opinion, created to justify the whims of immoral behavior. And it was probably the reason Morrison felt the need to experiment with the drugs that eventually took his life. He was looking for fulfillment through "oneself" so he chose a material source like heroin, and as we all know fulfillment doesn’t come that way. I know, I know, deep, right? Not just a pretty face, ladies. Plus, unfortunately, I have a lot of experience in trying to "fulfill oneself." I just ended up unhappy in the end.
A little farther down and to the right, we spotted a brilliant white tomb with a woman draped and weeping over a broken lyre. Many of the tombs belonging to musicians were fashioned with broken instruments, a fitting tribute to their genius, I think.
“It’s Chopin’s,” January told me, running her fingers along the wrought-iron fence surrounding the tomb.
“How fitting that the last grave we see tonight was the poet of pianists,” I told her.
“How is that fitting?” she asked me honestly.
“Uh, maybe because you’re a poet pianist?”
“Oh, hush.”
“January, I’m not buttering you up. I’ll get what I want from you regardless the compliment,” I teased. She feigned dismay and made a move to hit me but I caught her hand, bringing her close. I whispered, “I’m telling you that you are a poet pianist. You have a lot in common with him.”
She stared at me a long while and I let her. “I think that is probably the sexiest compliment I’ve ever gotten and if we were alone, I’d probably jump your bones right now.”
“You tease.” I smiled but looked around me. “January, there’s no one here.”
“Excuse him, Fred.” She told the tomb and made an exaggerated movement with her head toward Chopin’s grave.
“Oh, I apologize.” We heard a noise and January literally jumped on me. “You’re good on your word, MacLochlainn.”