Visiting a graveyard was not high on my priority list when I first
traveled to Paris. Notre Dame? Yes. The famous Opera House? Definitely. But not a graveyard. Pere Lachaise Cemetery is incredibly famous –
its occupants include Jim Morrison and Gertrude Stein, among other luminaries,
but you wouldn’t know it from looking at it.
Its high concrete walls and barely-paved path don’t scream “tourist
attraction;” instead, they invite those who are already privy to their secrets,
and I was happy to be among that number the afternoon I decided to visit.
The trek to the outskirts of Paris was long and a little sketchy – the only
Metro line was in French, which I didn’t speak, and the neighborhood around the
cemetery was rough. But the cemetery
itself was surprisingly welcoming: its walls might be high, but its entryway is
magnificent, with elaborate wrought-iron gates, and its aisles are filled with
tall trees casting graceful shadows across an abundance of headstones.
The famously lipstick-covered tomb of Oscar Wilde was my quarry on this
beautiful afternoon in Paris, my last day in France. There was no easy path through the cemetery;
instead, I wove through gravestones and statues, hoping I wasn’t stepping on
anyone important and offering up karmic apologies to the dead as I went. When his section number emerged from the
glare of sunlight, I scoured the landscape for the Byzantine angel that guards Wilde’s
grave.
It wasn’t hard to find.
It was, in fact, painfully obvious, its wings rising far above the nearby
graves and its unusual, blunt style a little out of place of the other
Victorian-era pieces that surround it. I
could see where it had been vandalized years before, its magnificent angel
‘package’ destroyed, but one important part seemed to be missing: the
lipstick.
Wilde’s grave is a pilgrimage for
people like me, who love and worship literature and wit. Part of that journey is to offer him a kiss,
leaving a mark behind for all who follow to see. Apparently, part of that process was also
getting your kisses cleaned off, because Wilde’s tomb was clean and polished
through the Plexiglas that now guarded it.
I was not deterred. I spent several long minutes with his grave,
standing in the quiet and isolated aisle of this foreign place. I took my time circling the tomb, reading the
plaque that discussed its restoration a few years ago and asked visitors to
respect the wishes of his descendants.
Eventually, I felt ready to pull out
the lipstick.
Pre-Metro journey, I had spent hours stumbling around downtown Paris,
desperately seeking a cosmetics store, any cosmetics store, to find a color of
lipstick I might actually wear. It wasn’t easy; I don’t like pink, which was
apparently the go-to color of French women, but eventually I found a dark
purple-maroon that suited me. I wanted to be a part of this tradition, but I
also wanted to be true to myself, as Wilde would advise.
The kiss I planted on his Plexiglas tomb was big and sloppy, victim of
far more lipstick than any self-respecting woman should apply. But I paused as my lips pressed against his
grave, feeling connected to tradition and time through this one little
moment.
When I pulled away, I popped open the tube again and signed my name near
my lipstick kiss, a big flourish on the “E” just like I sign it in my
classroom. My students took to calling
me “Equinox” and nothing else last semester, no title or anything, and I wanted
that immortalized – they are, after all, how I learned to love and admire Oscar
Wilde. I am connected to him through my
profession more so than any other way, and I knew I’d be grateful I kissed his
tomb the next time I taught The Important
of Being Earnest.
That evening, I left Paris for Italy.
My French adventure was over. I
may never return to France, and I looked back on that with a little sadness. Before long, my kiss would wash away, just
like hundreds, even thousands, before me.
But for that moment, I was a part of something bigger than myself, the
legacy of language and wit and life that Wilde breathed into his work. I had kissed his grave, leaving a mark like
the one he’d left on me.
I drew a heart too,
still in that same maroon lipstick. I
think he’d like that.
**NOTE: My last name is not actually Equinox :)
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