That day, I spent my time in Père Lachaise, wandering along the cobblestone paths, sheltered by the protective shadows of the towering trees that loom over the cemetery. The ancient graves and venerable mausoleums seemed to tell the history of those buried there. Some crypts’ entrances were cracked and ajar, as if beckoning me to enter or suggesting that their occupants had just stepped out for a stroll. Other monumental tombs, decorated with Doric, Ionic, and Corinthian columns, resembled Greek temples, with their stairways seemingly reaching up towards the heavens.
In various secluded spots, solitary visitors could be seen reading a book, sketching a scene, or simply meditating in connection with the deceased. At times, I had the impression that some of them were locals. The place was captivating, enigmatic, peaceful, and safe. One could sense the presence of others. Although I was by myself, I didn't feel lonely or afraid, as though I was surrounded by beings from both this world and the next. I had no idea that, within that space, before the sun set, I would witness something extraordinary.
I was shocked and deeply unsettled to come across the grave of Generalissimo Rafael Leónidas Trujillo Molina, known as the Benefactor and Father of the New Nation. This ruthless killer was the head of a totalitarian regime that persecuted, imprisoned, tortured, and murdered opponents during a thirty-one-year dictatorship that thrived with the support of both Washington and the Vatican. I was unaware that the chief, also referred to as Chapita or the Goat, was resting in that cemetery. I felt a profound revulsion and an intense urge to urinate on that cursed tomb, but I held myself back. I was terrified of being spotted and thrown out of the place. Moreover—although I don’t believe in an afterlife—it troubled me that Trujillo’s long arm might somehow return from the grave to haunt me at night. What an unspeakable nightmare that would have been! Still, above all my fears, if there is any form of existence beyond death and a way to enact the justice that was not served in this life, I hope that this scoundrel is rotting in hell or somewhere equally dreadful.
Chopin's grave calmed my anger and erased the bitter memory left by the dictator's tomb. I thanked him for the Piano Concerto No. 1; the Etudes, Opus 10, numbers 1, 3, and 12; the Etudes, Opus 25, number 1; the music from Les Sylphides; the Fantasie Impromptu; and the Nocturne, Opus 9, number 2. I could picture him in exile in Paris, far removed from his beloved homeland, Poland, which had been brutally subjugated by the Russian Empire during the November uprising of 1830. I imagined him composing the Etudes, Opus 10, number 12, with rage consuming him from within, or the Opus 10, number 3, crying out, “Oh, my homeland!” as tears streamed down his cheeks, while George tenderly stroked his hair to comfort him.
The unfortunate Isadora Duncan does not have a proper grave marked by a tombstone. Instead, she is interred within a wall among many others, in what could be called a mass grave, tucked away in a modest niche that has no epitaph to indicate her resting place. Yet inside this space lie the ashes of a woman who was a force of nature. Isadora, bold, bisexual, and a communist, met her tragic fate accidentally strangled by her long red scarf. Isadora, forever haunted by the loss of her children, Deirdre and Patrick, who drowned in the Seine, and permanently mourning her last baby, who survived only a few hours. Isadora, weighed down by her troubled relationships with Mercedes, Eleonora, Gordon, Paris, and Sergei. But, above all, Isadora, unchained on the stage, unleashing her emotions, improvising and rejecting traditional dance and the commercialization of art, challenging societal conventions as she ran and leaped, dressed in her stunning flowing garments, barefoot and with her hair down, occasionally revealing her breasts.
Marcel Proust couldn't have chosen a more tranquil place to take a break from his tireless quest for the lost time. As I stood before his black marble tomb, which seemed to reflect the essence of his life, I imagined his body lying in a deep slumber, resting at last, at peace, safe from the torments of his reality and his repressed homosexuality.
Yves Montand and Simone Signoret rest together, as it should be. Their romantic relationship was long and tumultuous, and even Montand's affair with Marilyn Monroe couldn’t break them apart. Signoret once remarked that she was not surprised Monroe had become involved with her husband, viewing it as proof of the actress's good taste. She often expressed that it is not heavy chains that bind a couple but rather countless tiny threads that stitch people together over the years. Without a doubt, they shared numerous threads that kept them connected. Their commitment to social justice and the fight for freedom around the world was evident. They took a public stand against the execution of the Rosenbergs, the Vietnam War, the Algerian War, and the Soviet invasion of Hungary during the 1956 uprising. Marguerite Duras characterized Simone as a queen who freed France from its constraints. If life's circumstances ever pulled them apart, death ultimately reunited them. Now, they lie side by side, as if resting at their home in Autheuil-Anthouillet, Normandy.
“Dieu réunit ceux qui s’aiment” reads the inscription on the tombstone marking Edith Piaf’s grave. She was born into extreme poverty in 1915. Her parents abandoned her at a young age, and her maternal grandmother took her in. Later, her father sent her to live with his mother, who ran a brothel in Normandy. During that time, the prostitutes took care of her. At the age of sixteen she began singing on the streets of Paris to earn a living. At seventeen she fell in love with Louis Dupont and gave birth to their daughter, Marcelle, who tragically died of meningitis when she was only two years old. Due to her street performances, Edith was unable to care for her daughter, so Dupont looked after the child until her death. The love of her life, married boxer Marcel Cerdan, died in a plane crash in 1949. In 1951, Piaf was involved in a severe car accident that left her with a broken arm and two fractured ribs. Following this incident, she struggled seriously with addiction to morphine and alcohol. Her condition worsened after two additional car accidents. In 1952, she married Jacques Pills, but they divorced four years later in 1956. In 1962, she tied the knot again, this time with Théo Sarapo (Theophanis Lamboukas). Piaf passed away in 1963 from liver cancer at the age of forty-seven. She is buried alongside her husband Théo Sarapo (Theophanis Lamboukas) and her daughter Marcelle. Although her life was far from a “vie en rose,” and despite the hardships, she became a cultural icon and the most beloved popular singer in France.
“Ici repose Colette” serves as a succinct epitaph, with a simple and precise name. Yet, Sidonie-Gabrielle Colette was not simple at all. She led a complex and controversial life. She did not shy away from her romantic relationships with women. During World War I, she turned her husband's mansion into a hospital for the wounded and was honoured with the grade of “Chevalier de la Légion d'honneur.” In World War II, she stood by her Jewish friends. Colette authored nearly 50 novels that explored sordid conflicts within love relationships, marked by intimate and explicit dialogues. She was a member of L'Académie royale de Belgique and served as president of L’Académie Goncourt, becoming the first woman to be admitted to that institution.
The monument housing Oscar Wilde’s remains is decorated with kisses, hearts, and graffiti: “You haven’t lived if you haven’t loved”; “You wanted to light up the world with your words”; “Frida t’aime Wilde”; “Banbury salut Oscar”; and “Amare non significa guardarsi l’un l’altro, ma guardare insieme nella stessa direzione,” among many others. Wilde, who asserted that art is neither moral nor immoral but simply well-made or poorly made, paid a high price for his audacity. He was sentenced to two years of hard labour for gross indecency due to his homosexual relationships, particularly with Lord Alfred Douglas. While in prison, he penned the lengthy letter “De Profundis,” in which he reflects on his spiritual evolution through his hardships, serving as a bleak counterpoint to his earlier hedonistic philosophy. After his release, he moved to France, where he composed “The Ballad of Reading Gaol,” a long poem about the brutal reality of prison life. He died in Paris at 46 years old, in abject poverty.
“Merci, Gilbert. Ton public ne t’oublie jamais,” his fans reassure Gilbert Bécaud. This thought filled me with a pleasant feeling as I thought of Nathalie, the girl with hair as white as snow. The last day I saw her, we were talking in her university room about Moscow, the plains of Ukraine, and the Champs Elysées. We then decided to go to Café Pouchkine for some hot chocolate. We parted with a look full of nostalgia. She promised that one day she would come to visit me in Paris, where I would be her tour guide. She never did, and I have never seen her since. I often wonder where she might be right now. The grave also brought me a sense of peace by reminding me that l'important, c'est la rose. Even when we walk alone in the vast city, facing the wind, overlooked by others, and feeling vulnerable; when it's difficult to make a living; whenever we feel like mere performers without a glimmer of hope for the future; when go about with a grieving heart, what truly matters is life itself, that flower that dances suspended in time. Crois-moi! Merci, Gilbert!
At the end of the day, physically exhausted but rejuvenated in spirit, I took a seat on a bench near what would be my final stop—the grave of Sarah Bernhardt. Many revered Sarah La Divine and considered her the most renowned dramatic actress to have ever existed. Much about her life remains shrouded in uncertainty and mystery, as she had a penchant for embellishing and distorting the truth. Alexandre Dumas, son, often referred to her as an extraordinary liar.
I could have sworn I was alone at the edge of the cemetery with only the Divine Sarah for company. Yet, from the empty space, a voice suddenly emerged that startled and frightened me.
“C’est un endroit extraordinaire et beau, n’est-ce pas?” —said the voice.
There he stood in a place that just seconds earlier had been empty. I needed a moment to collect myself and determine if this figure before me was real, rather than a product of my imagination, or even worse, a ghost that had inexplicably crossed the boundary between his world and mine. Judging by his hunched back and wrinkled skin, I would guess he was around ninety years old. The weariness and disillusionment reflected in his eyes suggested that he had lived longer than he would have preferred.
“Oui, c’est vrai,” I confirmed after verifying that he was indeed real.
“Avez-vous visité les tombeaux d’Édith Piaf et Henry Salvador?” he inquired. Although I wasn’t familiar with Henry Salvador, I recalled seeing his name on one of the tombstones near Piaf’s.
“Oui, j’y suis allé. C’est un tombeau très beau. I love the two sculpted hands on the tombstone, joined together as if in prayer.”
“I feel the same way,” he said in agreement. “Piaf was an exceptional woman, incredibly sensitive. I truly enjoyed her music, as well as Salvador's.” At that moment, I realized that Henry Salvador must have been a musician or singer.
“Just the other day I walked by Rue de Belleville 72, the house where she was born, in dire conditions,” I informed him.
“That’s correct,” he acknowledged. “She endured a lot; she didn’t have an easy life. But she managed to persevere, rise above it, and become the person she was.”
“Je viens souvent ici pour me familiariser avec la mort,” he continued. “I’ve been around for a long time. All my family—my parents, siblings, relatives, and friends—have passed away. I’m the only one left. I’m the next in line. That’s why I spend so much time reflecting on death, as I know it's drawing near. What happens when we cross that threshold? What do we become when Charon ferries us to the other side of the Styx? I don’t have the answers, but here, one can feel peace, harmony, and tranquility; there is no sense of fear. This leads me to believe that death may not be as dreadful as it seems. Perhaps it is a transition to a higher level of existence, freeing us, as they say, from the constraints of our physical body. Or maybe, after all, it’s simply an eternal dream, a liberation from the hardships of this life.”
He never revealed his name to me, so I decided to call him Thierry. As we spoke, my imagination took me on a journey to figure out what his life must have been like. I found it intriguing that he mentioned parents, siblings, relatives, and friends, yet did not refer to a wife, children, or grandchildren. I speculated that perhaps he had never married, that he had no descendants, that he had never known love, or maybe he fell for someone who did not return his feelings. I also entertained the idea that he might have experienced a reciprocal love that ended in betrayal or that he loved someone who loved him back, from whom he was forced by circumstances to part ways.
Was Thierry enlisted in the French army at the onset of the Battle of France? How old was he? In May of 1940, the Wehrmacht launched its offensive with a blitzkrieg, breaking through the Ardennes and bypassing the Maginot Line. Over the course of six weeks of fierce combat, 90,000 French soldiers perished. Did he witness the deaths of his brothers and fellow division members, blown to bits by the German artillery?
The French leaders capitulated to the German forces on June 24, 1940, following the evacuation of the British Expeditionary Force from Dunkirk. The French army was disbanded. Did Thierry join the resistance? Did he lose loved ones in the Oradour-sur-Glane massacre? Did he fight for France during the Algerian War? This conflict was characterized by extreme violence, with both the French army and the FLN (Front de Libération National) perpetrating torture, murders, executions, and massacres.
When I came out of my daydream, I noticed Thierry laughing at some story he was telling. He then bid me farewell, wishing me the best of luck. My eyes followed him as he walked away among the gravestones, keeping him in sight until he vanished into a mausoleum. That was the last time I ever saw him.
They announced the closure of the cemetery, and as I left, I felt a bit disoriented and unsure if what I had experienced was truly real or merely the work of my imagination. As I walked away, I wished I had asked someone to take our picture, aware that his likeness would inevitably fade from my memory over time. Yet, in retrospect, I believe it was for the best. In my mind, his image remains vague and mysterious, and as time goes by, it will evolve, much like the portrait of Dorian Gray. A photograph would have ruined that air of mystery. I also wonder how shocked I would have been if, upon seeing the photo, I discovered that Thierry was absent from the spot where he should have been.
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© Translated from the Spanish by William Almonte Jiménez, 2026
© Spanish title: “La Tumba de Sarah Bernhardt”
© William Almonte Jiménez, 2011
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