It was cold. Not a biting, bitter cold, nor the kind of miserable cold which locks people in their homes, just cold. A new, brisk cold. A cold which makes one walk a little faster and wear clothes a little thicker. Sweater weather. And it was damp. The streets seemed to glitter well into the afternoon, still slick from the morning rain. Pedestrians were careful to avoid patches of red and brown leaves strewn on the sidewalks. The wet foliage was as slippery as ice. The sky was a mix of grey clouds with a few patches of blue, making for an overcast day. Such was the weather of early November in Paris.
To say this weather was miserable would be wrong. There were still plenty of Parisians about and the city bustled with life. The tourist sites were still packed and the café chairs were full. Artists could be seen sketching on the many bridges crossing the Seine, while boats of all sizes sailed beneath them. A wealthy company’s employees could be seen having a late lunch by the river. A well-dressed couple stood on a balcony, smoking, and watching the passerby on the sidewalks below. In a way, everything was as it always was in the City of Light. If there was such a thing as “normal” this was it. But for Helen, nothing was.
Helen didn’t quite know why she was in the French capital. Or at least, she did not have a clear reason to give. Twenty years of age and halfway through her four years of college, Helen was a quiet young woman. Not necessarily shy nor introverted, just quiet. She considered herself a “people person,” but usually preferred listening to others over speaking to them. Sometimes seen as a bit nosy, she craved conversations to listen to. Helen liked reading people through their words and guessing what their stories were – what makes them tick.
Helen was a drifter. She’d float from friend group to friend group at her university, never staying in one place too long. She was a very good student, but usually did not enjoy her classwork. She studied to keep up with her peers, because it was the “thing to do” at her university. Near the end of her second year, Helen learned that many of her classmates were studying abroad in the fall. Following the pack, she asked the study abroad office about her options, and when they recommended France, off she went.
And so the young American ended up in Paris in November. At this point, she had already lived in the city for two months. Keeping her old habits from the United States, she usually just did whatever her study abroad group happened to do. Not to say she didn’t have fun – she enjoyed the nightclubs and bars and outdoor markets. She also enjoyed people-watching, as before, and Paris provided ample opportunities. Helen often found herself wandering to random cafés and cathedrals to observe both locals and tourists. By November, she had become rather adventurous, and on the way back to her little apartment from class, she was studying the map of the Paris metro. Helen had ridden the metro countless times, and this was just a routine trip. Still, she often took a look at the map, just to see what new spot in the city she could head to. Today, as her metro car sailed down the tunnel, Helen’s eyes fell upon the upper-right side of the map, the northeast part of the city. She then noticed an area called “Père Lachaise” – a cemetery. Helen’s train was heading west, to her apartment. But at the next stop Helen got off her train, switched lines, and began to head east.
Helen arrived at the cemetery just as a light rain began to come down. Some Parisians donned their umbrellas and hastily walked down the streets, but Helen didn’t mind the rain. It was cool, and felt good on her face after being in the stuffy metro station. Walking from the busy streets up the steps to the quiet paths of Père Lachaise felt like walking into another world. Sidewalks and pavement were replaced by a maze of trails, and tracts of grass grew between tall, elaborate tombstones. The graves were old, very old, with many dating back to the 19th century. Helen walked off the main path through the cemetery and lost herself in the sea of stone. The graves almost seemed natural, as if they grew in a wild pattern out of the ground. There was very little space between them and the hilly terrain of the cemetery made them seem to roll like waves. Helen couldn’t help but wonder about the lives of those buried beneath her. What secrets did they have? Did they imagine that one day, somebody would be thinking about them like she was? Eventually, Helen returned to one of the main paths through Père Lachaise and kept walking.
A brisk wind rolled in, causing her to tighten her scarf around her neck and put her hands in the pockets of her white cloak. Her dirty blonde hair blew in the wind like the falling autumn leaves around her as she kept walking. In the distance, she saw an elderly couple walking slowly and dressed in a fine black. Eventually, the tombstones turned into small mausoleums, probably for the wealthier families of old. By now, they had become worn down, with some of the mausoleums’ stained glass paneling being broken. Others were missing doors, and were full of leaves from autumns gone-by. It is easy to think that this all looked sloppy, but Helen found it charming. It added to the wild, aged feel of Père Lachaise. As Helen kept walking, the light rain of earlier had come to a stop. She then came to a well-manicured clearing on a hill centered around several large mausoleums. It offered a beautiful view of the city including the Eiffel Tower and Tour Montparnasse. The trained eye could also pick out some of the lesser known but still grand cathedrals. Colorful flowerbeds stood in front of the mausoleums, and were flanked by benches. Most of them were still damp from the rain but some Parisians sat down anyways to relax and take in the view. Helen sat down as well and people watched for a few minutes, but eventually grew bored. The view was lovely, but she still wanted to see more of the cemetery. She stood up, and again went off-path and into the maze of tombstones. After quite some time exploring, she let out a yawn, and began to look for a place to sit and read. As the moist leaves and grass folded softly beneath her feet, she came to another smaller clearing among the graves. It contained a simple stone bench below an ancient, thick tree. The view of Paris here was not as expansive as in the other clearing, but it was quaint. Helen brushed some leaves off the small, stone bench, took out a book, and sat down.
It may have been ten minutes. It may have been an hour. Regardless of how much time had elapsed, Helen’s eyes began to feel heavy as the morning coffee she had at her university wore of. She closed her book, rubbed her eyes, and figured she should start heading home. It was then that she felt a presence next to her.
“Mademoiselle?”
Helen opened her eyes to see a man sitting on the bench next to her, about her age.
“Comment vous appelez vous?” the man asked.
“Uhh … Helen.”
Helen’s French was poor, and had not improved as much as she would have liked during her time in the capital.
“Anglais?” she meekly asked.
With a knowing smile, the man nodded.
“Bien sur! My name is Jean, enchanté.”
“Hi…” said Helen awkwardly. “Who is this strange man?” she thought to herself. Helen was not interested in dating anybody, and figured that sitting in an isolated place with a book would send the message. She prepared to tell Jean this, but he spoke first.
“Why are you here?”
The question surprised Helen, but she answered.
“I saw Père Lachaise on the metro map and chose to come.”
“Non, non.” Jean persisted. “Why are you here?”
“Because I like exploring?” Helen responded in an unsure tone.
Jean sighed. “Why are you… here? Mademoiselle?”
Helen felt like she should be annoyed. Why was this man bothering her? But for some reason, she was not. After a brief pause she thought she had it.
“Wait! Do you mean ‘Why am I in Paris?’”
“Hmm…” began Jean with a contemplative look on his face.
“That will do for now Helen.”
The pair sat there in silence for a few moments. Helen was not sure what to think. Then, she looked at Jean again. He was dressed in black. He wore a peacoat which seemed rather heavy despite the cold weather. The coat was accompanied by slacks of another shade of black, and he had a simple scarf of a black and grey checkered pattern. He had a slightly pale face and dark brown hair which was combed to the side. Helen blinked her dark, brown eyes in thought several times. Jean was actually quite a handsome man, but she was still not interested. Seemingly reading her thoughts, Jean broke the silence with a laugh.
“You’re very pretty mademoiselle, très belle. But, that’s not what drew me here, I actually walk this path all the time.”
Helen smiled, then decided to turn the tables on this curious man.
“Why?” She asked with a smirk.
Jean laughed again, then returned to his wide smile.
“Because it makes me feel alive!” he declared.
Jean continued “Look around you. The leaves, the grass, la ville, the birds. You ask me why, mademoiselle, I say ‘why not?’”
Helen and Jean sat there, listening to the wind rustle through the trees, the chirping birds, and the falling leaves. Jean then turned to Helen again. “What do you like to do Helen?”
Helen thought this was rather nosy, but again felt compelled to answer.
“Well, I like going out with my friends, I guess.”
Jean nodded. “So where are they?”
“I just didn’t end up bringing them here.”
“So you wanted to come alone then?”
Helen raised her eyebrows, but then quickly responded.
“I don’t know, I just didn’t bring them.”
“Could you have brought them?”
“…Yes.”
“And you didn’t.”
“I didn’t.”
“So you didn’t want to bring them?”
Helen’s brow furled, her cheeks, having turned rosy from the wind, wrinkled, and her smile turned downwards.
“Why are you asking me all these questions? Don’t you have something better to do?” She snapped at him.
Jean stared at Helen with a somewhat sad look on his face. Then he returned to his slight smile and stared back out at the city.
“Mademoiselle, Helen, why didn’t you bring your friends here?”
She prepared to snap at him again, but then relaxed her face and paused.
“Because, because I didn’t want to.” she admitted.
Without changing his demeanor at all, Jean followed up with more of the same.
“Why?”
“Ugh, why do you keep asking that? Do I
need a reason for everything I do?”
“Non!” Jean erupted. “Ce n’est pas correct! You only need one reason.”
“And what’s that, Jean?” Helen asked with a smirk.
“We will get to that.” he answered quietly.
Helen rolled her eyes. Just then, the wind picked up slightly. A few leaves blew off the top of a large white tombstone to Helen’s right, and she tightened her cyan patterned scarf.
“This isn’t very fair Jean, I just realized that you have not told me one thing about yourself. Why do you get to ask all of the questions?”
Jean raised his eyebrows and slightly nodded his head.
“Oui. You may be right Helen, so ask me.”
As much as she did not want to admit it, Helen was intrigued by this odd French boy dressed in black, and did not quite know where to begin.
“Where were you born?” she asked.
“France! Bien sûr!”
“Oh shut up, you know what I meant. Where in France?”
Jean chuckled, “I grew up in Saint-Denis, just north of here, mademoiselle.”
“And how old are you, Jean?” she pressed on.
“Helen! Don’t you Americans know it is rude to ask such things?”
“You’re one to talk.” she shot back.
Jean grinned. “J’ai vingt-deux ans. I am twenty-two years old.”
“Old man.” Helen mocked him.
Jean turned away from the woman in white and looked once more at the city in the distance.
“In a way, Helen. In a way…” he muttered.
Then, after turning back towards her, he regained his composure.
“Mais, what is wrong about being ‘old,’ mademoiselle?”
Helen smirked yet again. “Oh come on, it was a joke. You’re twenty-two. And I just meant that when you’re old you have less time in front of you, that’s all.”
“Hmm…” he mused.
“What, can’t think of a way to question me, Jean?” Helen laughed triumphantly.
“Peut être! But don’t worry, I have thought of a way now!”
Helen rolled her eyes for what seemed like the thousandth time, but below her eyes was a soft smile.
“Why is having more time alive a good thing?” he calmly asked.
“Seriously?” she replied. “Dying does not exactly sound fun.”
“C’est vrai. It is true. But what of those who are living, but also dead?”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
Jean stood up and walked in front of Helen, blocking her view of the city as the light from the sun snuck through the clouds and formed a shiny rim around his figure. He then pointed to a worn-down, grey tombstone with ivy branches creeping up its sides.
“Who do you think is buried there, mademoiselle?”
“I don’t know.”
“Do you know whether they had a good life?”
“I just told you that I don’t know! And how can you know Jean?”
“Je ne peux pas. Of course, I can’t. But that is not the point. If the person underneath this grave did nothing with their life, and hated every second of it, would it ending really bother them?”
Helen paused and thought about this question.
“I guess not…”
“Oui.” Jean said confidently, “Alors, a longer life is not always a good thing.”
“That’s too simple.” Helen retorted. “There are plenty of people who may not love their lives, but they don’t want to die!”
Jean’s eyes lit-up. “Exactly, mademoiselle! Exactly Helen.”
Helen’s brow furled again and she cocked her head.
“I still don’t really understand what you mean.”
Jean continued. “If you don’t love your life, but don’t want it to end, then why not make your life better? Why not make it something you love?”
The two stared at each other for a good period of time. The wind blew their scarves in unison as Helen’s dirty blonde hair became increasingly messy. Above them, two birds danced together in the air, jumping between the branches of the bare trees and chirping joyfully.
“Jean, do you love your life?”
The words escaped her mouth before she thought them through, and now Helen waited anxiously for an answer.
Jean squirmed briefly on the bench, and once again looked longingly at the city skyline. He then turned back to Helen with a soft smile on his face.
“Yes, mademoiselle. You can say that I do. Et toi?”
“And me?” Helen asked.
“Yes, do you love your life?”
“I guess I’m happy enough.”
“Pourquoi? What makes you happy?”
Helen laughed. “You already asked me that Jean! Are you becoming forgetful in your old age?”
Jean laughed as well, and shook his head. “Non, non. I asked you what you liked to do. Now I’m asking you what makes you happy. It is different.”
“How so?” Helen opined.
“Helen, j’aime un tasse du café. Coffee is my favorite, but the drink alone doesn’t make me happy. The full experience does. I smell it first. I sit on the comer at le café and watch the people go by. I relax and drink it slowly. That makes me happy.”
Helen nodded slowly, then thought back to what she said earlier.
“I didn’t bring my friends here because I didn’t want to.”
“Oui.” acknowledged Jean.
“I came here because I like exploring.” said Helen.
“Bien sûr. But, does it make you happy?”
“I don’t know…”
Jean once again shook his head, but nonetheless retained his soft smile.
“You do know, Helen, you’re just thinking about it too much. Pretend I’m not here, close your eyes, and listen.”
Helen closed her eyes, and there was silence, at least at first. But then, she started to hear things. The sound of the wind, the birds, the creeking trees, the car horns of the city in front of her, the water dropping from the remaining tree leaves onto the ground, her own breath. She was in Paris, exploring a beautiful cemetery on an overcast day. She was alone, and wanted to be alone. Then, she remembered that she was not completely by herself, but that was ok. Helen opened her eyes to see Jean’s patient face.
“I am happy.” she admitted to him.
Jean nodded “I know.”
Another few minutes of silence passed by. Sometimes the pair’s eyes met. Other times they both looked at the horizon or at the tombstones and trees around them. Then, Jean spoke again.
“Helen, you said you didn’t want to bring your friends here. Pourquoi?”
Helen grinned and shook her head. “You just don’t stop do you? ” she teased.
Jean responded calmly. “Do you want me to?”
Helen again cocked her head, albeit with an even wider grin this time.
“Why didn’t I want to bring them here? you
already found out Jean, I like to explore alone.”
“Je comprends, I know. But don’t you like them?”
“Of course I do! Do you not believe me?” she snapped.
“I do believe you, mademoiselle. You like them. But do they make you happy?”
Helen paused, took a deep breath, and thought about the years of her life. She thought about every group she was a part of, and every person she got to know. She read people quite well, but never added any of those threads to the fabric of her own life. Many friends she made over the years brought her joy. They intrigued her and engaged her but she never dug deeper. Others, who she found quite unappealing, if not annoying, remained in friend groups with her, and she never spoke up about it. Helen then realized that there was no clear answer to Jean’s question, and gave the most honest answer she could.
“Sometimes.” she said “Sometimes they do.”
“Is sometimes enough mademoiselle? Is it
enough for you?”
“No.”
Jean again stood up, this time walking behind the bench, and gesturing with his black-cloaked arm at the endless jungle of stone making up Père Lachaise.
“All of these people had lives. Each of them had there own stories which are now over. Et toi, Helen? Yours is still going. It is up to you to write it. You asked earlier whether you needed a reason for everything you do. You only need one, mademoiselle: your own happiness.”
A shocked Helen sat completely still on the bench, staring at the man in black surrounded by graves.
“That’s it?” she asked meekly.
“Mademoiselle, you only have one life before you end up here. That’s everything.”
A warm cup of coffee on a cold morning. The sound and chill of wind. Friends, good friends, with whom she could share her thoughts. A big map with lots of things to see. Listening to strangers’ conversations and learning of their lives. The patter of rain on a windowsill one hears after sleeping in. The smell of cigarette smoke blowing from a street party a few blocks away. The list went on and on in Helen’s head. All the things which brought her happiness but which she never acknowledged until now. The things which mattered more to her than what any group or society or culture said. And of course, at the end of that list, there was the newest addition. Jean. Him. He made her happy, Somehow, she just knew it, and it didn’t need explaining.
The woman in white tumed towards the man in black with a confidence and contentness she had never known in her life.
“Jean, I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I like you.”
“I like you too Helen.”
“Something about you…” she continued, “ I don’t know what it is, but you just seem to understand… life.”
Jean laughed, and a wide grin grew on his face.
“How ironic…” he whispered to himself.
Helen moved closer to Jean on the tiny bench. The wind died down, the birds went quiet, and the distant car horns stopped beeping. It was as if the world shrunk to two people on a bench. Helen leaned in, her face closer to Jean’s than ever, and she closed her eyes. Jean moved closer as well, but he did not have Helen’s blissful composure. His mouth curled into a slight, sad smile. His eyes began to water, and his brow furled. Jean then looked wistfully at Helen…
As their lips were about to touch, a gust of cold wind blasted Helen in the face. She quickly pulled back and yanked her coat inwards. Her eyes shot open in bewilderment. Jean was no longer on the bench next to her. The woman in white quickly stood up and spun around, looking for the French boy she never expected to like. But it was to no avail. All Helen could see was tombstone upon tombstone sheltered beneath the ancient trees, leaves being blown across the sky by the autumn winds, and the setting sun over the city of Paris.