Philip informs her, as they stroll through the Père Lachaise cemetery on a sunny spring day soon after they meet.
A veritable history lesson among the seventy thousand graves, he says.
They have taken the métro and walked down the boulevard de Ménilmontant; outside the entrance a woman is selling flowers. Philip stops and buys Nina a bunch of red carnations.
Hand in hand, they walk up and down the avenues of tombs, reading off the names out loud to each other: Marcel Proust, Édith Piaf, Honoré de Balzac, Oscar Wilde …
In front of the elaborately carved mausoleum that houses the remains of Abélard and Héloïse, they pause for a moment. The tomb is surrounded by an iron fence but is littered with flowers and bits of paper that have been thrown inside.
I read in the guidebook that those pieces of papers are letters to Abélard and Héloïse written by people who want their own love to be requited, Nina tells Philip.
And I read that those are not Abélard and Héloïse’s remains, Philip answers.
Cynic.
And with one sure, swift gesture, Nina tosses the carnations inside the mausoleum. The flowers clear the iron fence and land squarely on top of the carved prone figures of the lovers.
Good throw, Philip says. Then, taking her in his arms, he adds, Your love is requited. Is mine?
I’m hungry, he also says before she can answer. Let’s go and have lunch.
Over the years, they have visited the cemetery several times. Each time, they walk down different avenues, look at different tombs: Colette, Richard Wright, Simone Signoret, Félix Nadar, Max Ernst …
The walks in the cemetery inspire them—perverselyperhaps, in the face of so much death—with a kind of childish hilarity. They tell jokes, play games: Which is the most ornate tomb? the most tasteless? their favorite?
Philip’s favorite is the highly polished, black marble tomb shaped like a triangle, of S?deq Hed?yat, a Persian writer who committed suicide.
Nina’s favorite is the tomb of the Armenian general Antranik Ozanian.
He looks like Vittorio De Sica. The mustache.
I thought you didn’t like mustaches, Philip says.
I like the statue of the horse, she says.
Instead of following the others, Philip’s horse puts his head down and resolutely begins to eat the grass. Philip is afraid of horses. And horses sense his fear and take advantage of him.
Pull his head up! Give him a kick! The cowboy leading their group on a trail ride yells at Philip.
Nina has persuaded Philip to spend the week of Louise’s spring break at a dude ranch in Arizona.
Louise wants to go. And it’s a change, she says.
Nina is riding a lively pinto named Apple. Right away, the cowboy notices her seat, her hands.
I see you’ve ridden before, he says.
Louise, also, rides well.
Philip’s horse, a big sorrel gelding, refuses to move and the cowboy trots over on his own horse and, determined, he cracks his whip over the sorrel’s hindquarters. Jerking his head up in surprise, the sorrel bolts forward and Philip loses his balance. To keep from falling off, he grabs at the pommel.
Dad! Louise says, before she starts to laugh.
Turning her head away so that Philip cannot see her, Nina, too, laughs.
Keep him moving, the cowboy tells Philip. Shorten your reins, keep his head up.
Show him who’s boss, Phil, the cowboy adds.
Few people call Philip Phil.
Did Iris?
My darling Phil.
Mon petit Philippe
—Nina thinks of Tante Thea. Generous and kind, she takes Nina and Philip to the theater, to the ballet, to expensive restaurants. She takes Nina shopping. When Tante Thea dies, she leaves Nina her diamond pin in the shape of a flower.
When did she last wear the pin? Nina tries to recollect. To a black-tie dinner honoring one of Philip’s colleagues, a Nobel laureate in physics.
Tell me again what he won it for, Nina asks as she tries to open the safe.
For the discovery of asymptotic freedom in the theory of the strong interaction.
For what? Say that again. And is it
A veritable history lesson among the seventy thousand graves, he says.
They have taken the métro and walked down the boulevard de Ménilmontant; outside the entrance a woman is selling flowers. Philip stops and buys Nina a bunch of red carnations.
Hand in hand, they walk up and down the avenues of tombs, reading off the names out loud to each other: Marcel Proust, Édith Piaf, Honoré de Balzac, Oscar Wilde …
In front of the elaborately carved mausoleum that houses the remains of Abélard and Héloïse, they pause for a moment. The tomb is surrounded by an iron fence but is littered with flowers and bits of paper that have been thrown inside.
I read in the guidebook that those pieces of papers are letters to Abélard and Héloïse written by people who want their own love to be requited, Nina tells Philip.
And I read that those are not Abélard and Héloïse’s remains, Philip answers.
Cynic.
And with one sure, swift gesture, Nina tosses the carnations inside the mausoleum. The flowers clear the iron fence and land squarely on top of the carved prone figures of the lovers.
Good throw, Philip says. Then, taking her in his arms, he adds, Your love is requited. Is mine?
I’m hungry, he also says before she can answer. Let’s go and have lunch.
Over the years, they have visited the cemetery several times. Each time, they walk down different avenues, look at different tombs: Colette, Richard Wright, Simone Signoret, Félix Nadar, Max Ernst …
The walks in the cemetery inspire them—perverselyperhaps, in the face of so much death—with a kind of childish hilarity. They tell jokes, play games: Which is the most ornate tomb? the most tasteless? their favorite?
Philip’s favorite is the highly polished, black marble tomb shaped like a triangle, of S?deq Hed?yat, a Persian writer who committed suicide.
Nina’s favorite is the tomb of the Armenian general Antranik Ozanian.
He looks like Vittorio De Sica. The mustache.
I thought you didn’t like mustaches, Philip says.
I like the statue of the horse, she says.
Instead of following the others, Philip’s horse puts his head down and resolutely begins to eat the grass. Philip is afraid of horses. And horses sense his fear and take advantage of him.
Pull his head up! Give him a kick! The cowboy leading their group on a trail ride yells at Philip.
Nina has persuaded Philip to spend the week of Louise’s spring break at a dude ranch in Arizona.
Louise wants to go. And it’s a change, she says.
Nina is riding a lively pinto named Apple. Right away, the cowboy notices her seat, her hands.
I see you’ve ridden before, he says.
Louise, also, rides well.
Philip’s horse, a big sorrel gelding, refuses to move and the cowboy trots over on his own horse and, determined, he cracks his whip over the sorrel’s hindquarters. Jerking his head up in surprise, the sorrel bolts forward and Philip loses his balance. To keep from falling off, he grabs at the pommel.
Dad! Louise says, before she starts to laugh.
Turning her head away so that Philip cannot see her, Nina, too, laughs.
Keep him moving, the cowboy tells Philip. Shorten your reins, keep his head up.
Show him who’s boss, Phil, the cowboy adds.
Few people call Philip Phil.
Did Iris?
My darling Phil.
Mon petit Philippe
—Nina thinks of Tante Thea. Generous and kind, she takes Nina and Philip to the theater, to the ballet, to expensive restaurants. She takes Nina shopping. When Tante Thea dies, she leaves Nina her diamond pin in the shape of a flower.
When did she last wear the pin? Nina tries to recollect. To a black-tie dinner honoring one of Philip’s colleagues, a Nobel laureate in physics.
Tell me again what he won it for, Nina asks as she tries to open the safe.
For the discovery of asymptotic freedom in the theory of the strong interaction.
For what? Say that again. And is it
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