(there is about a paragraph missing from this right here at the beginning... it's on my computer and I'm borrowing from someone else right now. The rest of this is as follows.)
The cobblestone walkways of the steep, uneven resting grounds are empty this morning, as the very pinks and silvers of dawn peek through beyond the gentle gray rain. I turn the cobbled corner, clearing my view of the new tomb with its odd visitors. As I draw nearer, shedding rain droplets from my umbrella in my wake, the child looks over her shoulder at me, her round eyes full of curiosity and intense understanding, like those of an animal. The two men sharing the black umbrella just to the side of the new finished grave do not look over at me until I join their immediate proximity. They glance at me, but I am admiring the heavy, large-winged angel in stone, a modern futuristic image to stand guard over a man whose mind was ahead of his physical time.
To my great surprise, the little girl speaks first, her voice clear over the falling rain that soaks her street-dusty clothes and hair.
"How very nice to see you here," she offers in polite French, with an edge of mystery. I look down at her, and when I look into her eyes, I find myself fighting to keep focus on her; her gaze is full of visions that are not my own, and I struggle to stay present and try to recognize her.
"A humble admirer," I reply, quietly. "I mean only to pay due respects, especially where others may not."
I am not sure exactly what her reaction to this is; her expression shifts imperceptably as she looks back at the sphinx-like monument in silence. Now I am sure that she is no child, but I cannot recall who she is. My mind is flustered. She has caught me off guard.
I turn my gaze to the grave, watching the rain speckle the stone skin of the memorial. We four mourners are silent for a little while. At last, there is an odd cough from behind us. As one, we turn to look.
He stands leaning slightly to the right, his head tilted a little, or is it merely the angle of the street? The rain falls around him, but not on him; his hair, his fur-trimmed coat are untouched, and his shoes and tailored trousers do not dampen. His gaze is that of an art student regarding a famous painting for the first time with his own eyes; he is absorbing what he sees, and emotions begin to stir within him deep, like frogs at the bottom of a pond in springtime. At first he does not see us, only the angel statue. He looks tired, weary from walking. Slowly, understanding, relief, sorrow and shame dawn in his dark eyes.
My heart aches to see him look this way, but I am motionless and say nothing yet.
The little girl is smiling at him, although he is not looking at us. She marches up to the memorial, stands on tiptoes (she is barefoot) and plants a kiss against the stone. Then she steps back, pleased, and oddly solemn. Oddly and much to my amazement, the two mourning men follow suit, passing the umbrella from one to the other so that each may take a turn to kiss the memorial. I am stunned and intrigued by this show of reverence and affection. I turn to look at the little girl, trying to remember who she is, and see that the ghost has dropped to one knee. The child smiles forgivingly and goes to him, putting her arms around his neck and hugging him.
The two mourning men, sensing a tender moment, move away slowly, down the hill with their arms around each other's shoulders. I hang back, off to the side, and try not to stare, waiting my turn.
The ghost is hugging the little girl to him tightly, his eyes wide and full of gratitude. At last she pulls away enough to kiss him on the cheek and pat his shoulder in a bizarrely maternal gesture. The ghost stares at her, wordlessly.
"Thank you," says the little girl, emphatically, and smiles a little. "You will never really leave us, you know." He nods slightly, reluctantly, and she nods back. "Au revoir," she chirps, kissing him on both cheeks in farewell, and then she untangles herself from him and dashes away down the hill on young legs.
I am left in the rain, standing between the grave of Oscar Wilde and his ghost.
Finally he stands up, slowly, and regards me with dark, emptyish eyes, his sadness beginning to dissolve into acceptance. I look back at him in shy admiration.
"You look familiar," he tells me. "But I have never seen you before, have I?"
"Happens all the time with me," I tell him. "I apologize for the intrusion. I only... wanted to say goodbye." He tilts his head at me, almost thoughtfully.
"So did I," he answers, looking at his memorial. There is a mystic sort of pause, and then he makes a slight face. "Who on earth thought that up?" He nods at the odd angel.
"You don't like it?" I ask, bemused and incredulous. He gives me a sly look.
"It's certainly not what I imagined my memorial would look like..." he observes. I smile, and study the stone angel with its massive wings once more. I remember the gesture of the little girl and the two men, and feel that now it is my turn. I step up, shifting my parasol, and kiss the stone angel firmly on the cheek. When I step back, there is a shadowy imprint of my lips on the stone. Of course -- my lipstick. I move to rub it away with my gloved hand, but the ghost's voice stops me, and I turn to look at him.
He tips his head, studying the face of the angel, and finally nods.
"Leave it," he says softly. "I like the look of it." A slight smile enters his gaze. "Certainly, it makes my plot stand out from the others, don't you think?"
The red splotch does sort of pull focus from the gray world around it, I realize. I smile tentatively at him.
"You'll have millions come here to see you," I promise him. "You'll never be lonely." He smiles sadly.
"If you say so," he murmurs, thinking of someone else, someone not present.
"You will," I insist, and he inclines his head.
"Thank you."
I stand quietly for a moment, then nod slowly in acknowledgement. "Goodbye, Mr. Wilde," I say, with great admiration.
"Goodbye, muse," he answers, giving a slight bow, very dapper.
And so I turn and walk down the hill of the cemetery's cobbled street, away from the heavy winged angel and away from the final resting place of Oscar Wilde. As I walk, I feel the rain begin to lessen, and I feel the eyes of other ghosts blink at me from behind headstones, watching me leave. As I pass through the side gate, the curl of smoke from a cigarette catches my eye.
A woman stands leaning on the gate, as magnificently dressed as a queen of an ancient Roman sort of age, her hair exquisite, a cigarette at her lips. Her eyes, when I look at her, are the eyes of the little girl from the cemetery. She smirks at me around the cigarette, and almost as a reflex from the smirk, I fall into a deep, scraping curtsey. She flicks the cigarette, ashing it, and reaches for my chin with one hand, peering down into my face.
"So. You know me now, dream daughter?" she purrs with great power. I nod slightly against her hand.
"Yes, madame," I answer with some embarrassment and awe. She gives me a more gentle sort of smirk and pats my cheek slightly.
"Good." She puffs on the cigarette bemusedly. "You came to see the ghost of Oscar Wilde?" I nod again. She cocks one hip slightly and pouts a little demurely. "Why did you not come to see me?"
"I... forgive me, madame," I say, stumbling over my words. She flaps one hand at me dismissively.
"I am joking," she says, and offers me a hand to help me up. I take it, and gasp a little at her unbelievable strength and effortlessness. "So, you will stay with me? A vacation. I will show you my perfect nation."
I choose not to object to her light use of the word 'perfect,' and instead simply nod dumbfoundedly. She wants me to stay? She wants ME to see her nation while I stand at her side? Who am I to say no to France? I nod again.
"Thank you, madame, I --"
She flaps her hand again, slipping her arm through mine and leading me out into the streets as sunlight begins to permeate the clouds.
"No, no," she says, around her cigarette, merrily. "You must call me Marianne."
