Excerpt: The Inconvenient Dreamer

Prologue

It’s twilight when I open my eyes and find myself in the cemetery. I’m lying on the grass, slumped against a bench, and the earth feels cool through the fabric of my jeans. I debated about whether or not to wear them earlier, but now I’m glad of them, and of my oversized sweater, which keeps off the evening chill.

In the second or so that it takes for me to compose myself, I take stock of my surroundings. The mausoleums and sarcophagi littering the road on either side of me are my only companions. I pull myself up, using the bench as a support, and walk over to examine the inscription on the nearest grave, looking for clues to my whereabouts. I can’t really read the inscription because it’s in French, and for a moment my heart does a little hiccup before settling down into a realization of place. Night is falling and cold is coming on, and I don’t speak the language except for ‘oui’ and ‘non’ and ‘merci beaucoup.’ None of these will help me find my way out of here before nightfall. Just what I need: to be stuck in a cemetery in a foreign country. On the bright side, at least it’s not Halloween.

There’s really no choice but to start walking. My boots—trusty, dependable boots—make crunching noises along the gravel path, the sound echoing eerily loud in the dusky silence. I decide upon a direction at random (downhill) and keep walking, trying not to think about the graves lining the walk, and especially trying not to look into the miniature mausoleums. So sue me, I’m afraid something could jump out. The dying light is just enough to cast strange shadows from the monuments, gothic contortions that seem to move even as they’re still, and whenever there is a little more light that makes its way through the tree canopy, it just ends up drawing my eye with a sudden shock to the small stained glass panels set into the back walls of these ornate but dilapidated miniature tombs.

The meow from behind me scares the shit out of me. I turn around with a start, my heart racing, to see a well-fed orange tabby strolling after me down the walkway. I take a deep breath in and shake my head. Honestly. I’ve been in cemeteries before. Granted, not in a foreign country and not at night and never all alone, but still. It’s just a cat.

By the time my breathing is under control, the cat has approached me and is rubbing himself against my legs, scratching his face against the buckles at the rim of the boots. I chuckle at my own skittishness, and bend down to give him a good scratch between the ears. He stands still for a moment before eyeing me strangely and bounding up to perch atop a nearby grave. He rolls over, exposes his belly, then seems to think better of it and walks on his way again. I smile at his antics, but then a light breeze passing through the oak trees causes a cascade of browning leaves to shower down across the path, and I huddle further into my sweater and continue walking onward.

Ten minutes and a few arbitrary turns later, I find my path halted by the presence of a larger iron gate, big enough to drive a car through, but with bars that aren’t big enough to fit oneself through. It’s closed for the night but a map and sign nearby tell me where I am: La Cimiterie Père Lachaise. The art deco metropolitain stop I can see across the street, through the bars of the gate, confirms my mounting suspicion: I am in Paris.

I am in Paris, at twilight, and I am locked inside a cemetery with only a large orange cat and thousands upon thousands of graves and ghosts for company.

It starts to rain and I’m almost not surprised. I dash into the mass of mausoleums, find one with a broken door but a functioning roof, and curl up in the corner furthest from the threshold, with my eyes closed, waiting desperately for the moment when I wake up again.