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Death Is Like Paris
Copyright 2011 Christina M. Guerrero
DEDICATION
This is for Jean, Helen, Rae and Anthony.
STORY BEHIND THE STORY
I was researching Paris for a novel, while also going through ... ahem ...
that time of the month and not feeling well. My imagination took this a bit too far
and I had an idea: what if death were like Paris? I started writing,
and this is the first draft, with only a few changes.
ABOUT THE FIRST DRAFT
I was trying to determine how everyone would end up in the same place after death.
Then I came up with the concept of different 'places' which needed special passes.
Since religion is so complex and divisive here on Earth, I decided to make it simple in this story,
reducing it to two simple rules.
I really liked the idea of people from all different eras mixing together,
and hope to expand on that in future drafts.
I also liked the idea of people being only friends in Heaven, something that is mentioned in the Bible.
I've known many very gracious people in this life, and was thinking of them
when I developed the character of the lady.
So far, death is like Paris.
There are acres of those Haussmann buildings here -- the ones with the distinctively-shaped roofs shown in stock photos of the city. No matter how far I walk I haven’t reached their perimeter, so I don’t know how far they extend.
There’s definitely a river here: a sister or perhaps a distant cousin to the Seine. I stood in a dim alley one day and just admired the water, not ready to get close, or fish or swim in it. Unlike water close to cities on Earth, this river’s water is clear and sweet-smelling and appropriate for a variety of activities. The river is also quite powerful, and we’ve been advised to keep that in mind when swimming.
That day, as I watched the river and my fellow Parisians (I think that’s what we’re called), I decided I’d ventured out long enough, so turned and headed toward my apartment, thinking about something my landlord said upon my arrival: “Takes some people a while to get used to the changes. You’ll eventually go to the river and outside the city.”
Yeah, maybe. But right now, I’m still feeling a bit odd. It was strange to go from feeling a little bit sick, to having a feeling it wasn’t just that, to suddenly waking up in a flat in a place that resembles Paris, only so much more. I was surprised. After exploring my new surroundings I found a landlord who welcomed me, and who gave me a large packet, which included forms to fill out and file, several handbooks, and a little booklet of coupons.
So far it’s been a few weeks and I’ve only explored the immediate neighborhood. My area is dim and cool and rather quiet, not too populated. Downstairs and across the street is the closest bistro, where I tried a nibble of regular bread and butter on the first day, but had to stop. On Earth, I was not able to eat either, and the memories were fresh.
“It is okay to eat what you wish here,” said the waiter. “There is no more sickness here. Meaning no more food allergies.”
“I know,” I said. “I looked through the handbooks. I’m sorry. Is there a place that sells gluten-free and lactose-free food and drinks?”
“Yes, mademoiselle.” He gave me directions.
I gave him a few francs for his trouble, having earned the money from a few odd jobs I found almost as soon as I left my flat that first day, and went to the cafe he suggested, where I ate well.
No more sickness? It’s a comforting thought. It was what my Bible had promised on Earth.
“So is this place Heaven?” I asked a neighbor one day.
He shrugged. “You could say that. But everyone is here.”
“Everyone? You mean even people who love evil, death and destruction?”
“Yes. But they live separately from those who don’t. You need a special pass to visit them.”
“Oh. Have you been there?”
“I might go. I know a few people who live there.”
“So what about religion? Both on Earth and here?”
“You have to take a class to get the full story. The one I attended ... I got confused. The teacher was not so good. It was like listening to a poorly-written appliance manual read out loud. Or an advanced algebra textbook. What little I understand about faith here is this: regardless of what you believed on Earth, what you must do here is be kind to your neighbors and assist with the care of your surroundings. If you can’t follow those simple rules, you get sent to that other place where you need the pass. The rest ....” He scratched his head. “I’ll have to take that class again.”
He had moved on after a few days, leaving a note on my door: “Traveling here is less troublesome than on Earth. I’m moving to Scotland. They say it’s much more stunning than it is on Earth. Maybe our paths will cross again.”
Now, as I reminisce about the past few weeks, I wander through the dim streets toward the river. I’ve decided to go to the Left Bank portion of the Pont Neuf, the bridge connecting the southern area of the city with the Ile De La Cite, the little islands in the middle of the river.
When I arrive, I wish I had done so sooner. The late afternoon is clear and sunny, and the air is fresh. Below me, three young naked boys float by on a raft, look up at me and say, “Bonjour!” followed by a group of people on a larger raft. They are all dressed in togas; they probably lived and died here during the time of the Roman Empire or Republic.
There is an interesting thing about this place. People from all eras are here: prehistoric, Greeks and Romans, Middle Ages, Renaissance, all the way to the twenty-first century, when I left Earth. Everyone mixes well, and some interesting businesses have been founded, including a clothing store owned by a recently deceased model and a seamstress from 1500s France.
I watch the water for quite a while. When the light starts fading I return to my flat. It’s early evening and time to wind down for the day.
As I enter the cool dim corridors of my neighborhood, I reflect on an e-mail I read at the local branch of the library. The e-mail contained results of my autopsy: in death as in life I was a medical mystery. No signs of disease had been found. No evidence of unusual ruptures or organic failures; no digestive obstructions; no hemorrhages ... nothing. Manner of death: natural. Cause of death: inconclusive.
I shrug as I climb the stairs to my flat. I was sure something terrible was wrong. Apparently not. Perhaps the doctors were telling the truth when they assured me repeatedly that they could not find anything wrong, despite my complaints about chronic pain.
Once inside, I look outside for a long time onto a large courtyard where children are playing in the twilight; where a medieval French lady is chatting with a prehistoric healer; where several men from several eras are raising big goblets to each other, laughing and chatting boisterously. The lady looks up, as she always does at this time, and waves. I wave back, then step away from the window and think about going to sleep. On Earth, for almost all my life, I had a touch of insomnia, and could not always sleep well. Here, sleep is easily attained, because as the waiter reminded me, “There is no more sickness.”
As I turn off the lights and approach my bed, there is a knock at the door. For a brief moment I think about not answering. Then I turn the lights on and open the door.
It is John Carver, an English butcher who lived in London and died after a trip to Paris in the late Middle Ages.
“Good evening, mistress.”
“Good evening, sir.”
“Those of us presently in the courtyard were hoping to enjoy the pleasure of your company. We were hoping ye would join us for good food and good conversation. Ye were a welcome addition to our crowd a fortnight ago.”
I think about my bed. It’s comfortable and warm. I’m not really tired, though.
I think about the lady. She has been very quiet, like me, yet very refined, not quite like me (I’m polite, but not quite that classy). When I joined the group a fortnight ago, she was extremely pleasant and chatted only about the weather, and the children who were playing happily, and the food. Nothing too taxing, nothing too personal.
“Will the lady be there?” I asked.
“Yes, mistress. In fact, the lady asked if I would inquire about your availability.”
“Oh. That’s nice of her. How lovely.”
“So ye’ll go?” John winked.
“Yes.” I get my key, lock my door and walk with him downstairs. On our way, he greets a few people warmly, and asks if they would like to join us, but they have the surprised look of new arrivals, and just stare at us.
“Perhaps another time,” John says. A few people just nod, and watch as we pass.
In the courtyard, the lady greets me warmly, and introduces me to the prehistoric healer. As we chat about health, and food, and the good-natured noise coming from the slightly tipsy men, I sit back and slowly relax
I stop thinking about the bed, and about sleeping.
I think that I’m not completely fond of death because there were a few things on Earth I left unfinished.
But it’s not too bad.
* ~* END *~*
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