Père Lachaise worked in education, but he owes his fame to his side job as confessor to Louis XIV. He lived with a pack of Jesuits in a large house on the east side of the city. The revolution not only made short work of the monarchy, but also of the Catholic Church's real estate. Napoleon had the Jesuits' vegetable garden ploughed up and turned it into a public cemetery. It is only a fifteen-minute walk from my apartment, and I pop over there every now and then to visit Proust and Oscar Wilde. If you get lost—and that is a pleasure among the large old trees—you sometimes bump into Chopin, or Modigliani, or Jim Morrison.

     One afternoon, as I was looking for the exit, it occurred to me that the cemetery is so famous that if you ever want to be buried there yourself, you have to think ahead a bit. I assumed there would be a substantial waiting list and that it was high time to put my name on it. I hoped you would be able to indicate a preference. I could, after my death, live with idea of having Proust or Wilde as a neighbor. Or with Edith Piaf; she’ll probably keep her mouth shut in the evenings now. Preferably not Morrison; I’ve always thought he was a pretentious loudmouth. Most of all, I would like to lie next to the Mur des Fédérés, in a corner of the cemetery, where the last Communards gathered in late May 1871 after their attempt to turn Paris into something socialist had failed. They held out to the last man against the government army. That was heroic, and practical too. They could be buried right there on the spot.

     The cemetery’s office is on all sides surrounded by gravestones, so you can get used to the idea. And there is no waiting list. At first, I misunderstood that. For a moment, I thought you could just knock on the gate when the time came. That seemed a reassuring thought to me, and of course, it was too good to be true. The official on duty, a friendly man who gave the impression that he often talked with people who think about death, explained that you had to call to ask if there was a spot available. One may only call if one lives in Paris, he said—which seemed quite logical to me at a municipal cemetery—and if one is dead. In French, you can get away with that; “on” is much more versatile than one—so he didn't understand why I had to hold back my laughter. A waiting list, he concluded, would be unfair. Every citizen, rich or poor, famous or obscure, must have the same chance. During our conversation, he received three calls and had to turn people away each time.

     ‘Do you ever have funerals here?’ I asked.

     'Certainly, monsieur‘,’ said the official proudly. ‘Many families have thought about the future and have a grave with some space left. And sometimes someone who calls gets lucky; that happens too. Moreover, there is always room in our crematorium.’