Things You See in a Graveyard (Rachel)

[The Exodus]

OOC: Tristan and Rachel! BIC:

Tristan Vidal

The funeral service itself had gone off without a hitch. It was a routine matter: mourners came into the funeral home, there were tears, Tristan handed out Kleenex and directed people to the guest book, and then he drove the body out to the cemetery for burial.

And now, his hunk-of-junk hearse was up to its old tricks. No matter what he did to it, it would not start. He’d already taken it in for inspection three times in the last two months.

Costs more than it’s worth, he thought bitterly, slamming the hood shut. They’d have to buy a new one and soon.

He’d called Solange to ask her to come and jump him or drive him back to the funeral home, but she wouldn’t be there to rescue him for another hour at least because they had a consultation scheduled and someone had to run casket prices with a grieving widow.

Stupid car.

Tristan pushed himself up onto the hood to sit. He called a tow company and they wouldn’t be there for two hours. Gwen didn’t have a car and Torben’s advice had been “Did you check the gas gauge? E means empty.” He was out of people to phone for help – he wasn’t speaking with his uncle and hadn’t spoken with him all month. That wasn’t changing on account of a dead hearse.

It was otherwise a nice enough day. The snow had thawed and spring was beginning to reshape the cemetery. Green poked out of the ground cheerfully and the eerie silence was punctuated with bird-song and the sound of children at play across the street. The sun even decided to come out. Its warmth soaked through Tristan’s head-to-toe black suit, making the prospect of sitting out here a little less awful.

He leaned back so that his back and shoulders rested against the windshield. Tristan shut his eyes. He rather liked the cemetery. For others, it held nothing but sad memories. And while Tristan had laid loved ones to rest here, he’d also forged a friendship with the groundskeeper that spanned over the whole duration of Tristan’s career as a funeral director. In this cemetery, too, he and Solange had gotten their start as a couple. It was a special place, one worth respect, but not sadness. Tristan stretched and groaned. If it took either Solange or the tow company longer than two hours, they might arrive to find him fast asleep.

He just really hoped no other funeral directors had burials scheduled here this morning. If he got caught sleeping on the job – on top of his hearse – he’d never hear the end of it.

[RaeRae]

Rachel Scott

The Cemetery-not one of Rachel's usual haunts, a smirk graced her lips at the thought for a fleeting minute. However her 'boss' had told her plenty of famous people died in Paris, there had to be a couple in a Cemetery somewhere right? She told Rachel to find some and write a couple articles about them, about how they died, heck why not do a mini series of articles of how the industry of death even worked in Paris. Rachel didn't know who would be interested in reading something like that, but hey if Margie was willing to pay her for it Rachel was up for it.

Currently she was juggling writing in her notepad and looking up important dead people from Paris on her phone, and hunting them down in the rows and rows of tombstones and trying to keep her jacket from falling. Now, Rachel loved her job, loved the searching and the discovery, and the people. However at the moment, she was bored. Bored for the first time in years with her job. Dead people were kind of interesting, but Rachel was so much more interested in the living, in the now...now the dead and gone. Why couldn't she have been told to do an article on some notorious criminal? That sounded much more enticing.

Her attention was distracted by someone slamming something. Aftegr walking a bit she discovered it was someone and their car, or she assumed it was the man's car since he seemed to be the only one around. Moving closer she raised an eyebrow, was he sleeping? Well she didn't want to distrub him but...was that a hearse? Did he work here or something? Rachel glanced around the seemingly endless tombstones, thinking she should've gone to the catacombs instead, and then gave in.

She quietly made her way over to the man and cleared her throat a bit. "Excuse me..." He looked rather content, Rachel hated to disturb him, but there was no way she was going to be able to finish verifying this list of names she had before sundown, and Rachel refused to be in the graveyard after dark. She was not wasting her entire day in this part of Paris and she was not going to dedicate more time than was necessary to it.

[The Exodus]

Tristan Vidal

The sound of someone clearing their throat and speaking got Tristan to open his eyes. He nearly fell off the hood of the hearse as he scrambled to stand, though. Everything about him was too long, too gangly—his legs and arms moved helter-skelter and his hair fell into his eyes. When finally, he was standing, Tristan could see what – or rather, who – had startled him.

To his dismay, she was neither Solange nor the tow company.

He pulled himself up to his full height and studied the stranger. She had long, brown hair and big, brown eyes. She also looked almost as surprised to see him as he was to see her. Tristan readjusted his suit jacket. At least the woman didn’t look like any of the other funeral directors Tristan knew. They were a small bunch, French funeral directors. Those Tristan did know were, for the most part, third- or seventh- or whatever- generation funeral directors and they usually gave him the same, skeptical look, upstart that he was.

Tristan cleared his throat and smoothed his tie down. If she was some local director’s granddaughter, Tristan was about to become the laughingstock of the local industry. Not that he wasn’t already, with his long hair, tagging habit, American degree… Come to think of it, compared to the somber old geezers who dominated the field, Tristan was a total rebel. It was a wonder he got any business.

“Yes. Hi. How can I help you?”

[RaeRae]

Rachel Scott

She knew she shouldn't have bothered him, he didn't look annoyed...but he was probably waiting for someone or something to that effect. Rachel tilted her head a bit, he was dressed in a suit but he didn't look sad, and he had the hearse...so he must be familiar with the cemetery right? Well she was going to find out. "Yes. Hi. How can I help you?"

"Sorry for bothering you." Rachel started out. "But, I was wondering...I mean, I'm going to just guess here and say that you know the Cemetery pretty well?" She ran a hand through her hair and glanced down at the list in front of her before looking back up at the man. "Could you help me find some of these names? If they're even in this Cemetery?" Did she really want to admit why? Well he was going to ask anyways. How often was it that someone came along asking for help tracking down dead people?

Rachel silently cursed Margie before speaking again. "My boss is wanting me to write a couple pieces about the, erm, famous people that died here...and to get a bit of understanding about how the funeral business and all works, so...I just need to verify this last handful of names that I have." Even if he could just point her in the right general direction that would be a start.

[The Exodus]

Tristan Vidal

Now that he was standing upright, Tristan could observe the world – and the stranger – properly. She hadn’t been at the most recent funeral; she also didn’t look like anyone he knew. It put some, if not all, of Tristan’s fears to rest. For now, no one was going to jump on him for being unprofessional.

"Sorry for bothering you," the woman said. Tristan shrugged; it wasn’t a big deal. "But, I was wondering...I mean, I'm going to just guess here and say that you know the Cemetery pretty well?"

If it wasn’t for the broken-down hearse behind him, Tristan would have asked how she could have possibly known that. Instead, he gave a little nod; he knew the cemetery better than “pretty well”. He knew most of the cemeteries in Paris; some “pretty well” and others, like Montmartre, very well. The hearse was a dead giveaway that Tristan worked in the funeral industry; it wasn’t such a leap to say he knew the lay of the land.

The stranger looked away from Tristan for a moment to study a piece of paper in her hand. Tristan wondered if she was here to pay a deceased relative respect. His chest twinged familiarly; not pain or sorrow. Understanding.

"Could you help me find some of these names? If they're even in this Cemetery?" the woman asked.

Tristan started to nod, but the woman spoke again.

"My boss is wanting me to write a couple pieces about the, erm, famous people that died here...and to get a bit of understanding about how the funeral business and all works, so...I just need to verify this last handful of names that I have."

Tristan stopped mid-nod. And instead, he stared. A journalist? He’d almost agreed to help a journalist? He could hear a voice that sounded a lot like Torben dryly say, “Good going” in the back of his head. Tristan wasn’t a fan of journalists. When he’d first opened Vidal Funeral Home, they’d flocked to his doors, curious about the industry, wanting to dig up some dirt on the gullible new guy. The one journalist who’d written a story on the place painted a picture worthy of a horror film. Blood, gore, mystery. He’d vowed not to give anyone the satisfaction. Not when they’d added a crematorium to the business; not when famous people requested their services. Not even after Tristan and Solange passed the first national inspection. They ran a respectable business and didn’t need muckrakers turning them into The Addams Family.

“If you’re looking for famous people,” Tristan said without looking at the list, “Check out Cimitiere de Pere Lachaise. Jim Morrison and Oscar Wilde are buried there.”

Of course, here, you could find Dumas, Degas, Stendhal… Heroes of French art and literature that wouldn’t exactly be replaced by expatriate artists. But judging by the woman’s American accent, she might be more interested in Morrison or Wilde. Tristan came around the front of the hearse again and popped open the hood in a last-ditch attempt to look busy. He couldn’t believe that he hadn’t pegged her for a journalist as fast as she’d pegged him for a funeral director. She didn’t look particularly like a mourner. Tristan knew what mourners looked like. Grief was distinct; it dripped off the mourner in a way that you could practically feel.

He pushed up the sleeves of his suit jacket and the white shirt underneath it. There were about a zillion hose things and machine things under the hood of the car. It looked like a shitty mock-up of the circulatory system. And if it had been an imitation of the circulatory system, Tristan would have had the hearse up and running in no time. But he didn’t know cars. Not well enough to even guess which was the main valve.

And the woman was still there. Tristan looked over at her, blue eyes wide with exasperation. He wasn’t getting this car running and he wasn’t getting rid of her that easily.