I just took out a small consumer loan. I’d had it with the three-hour public transport routine. Lyon to Saint-Laurent-de-Mûre isn’t far — maybe twenty kilometers — but by train or bus it’s at least an hour and a half each way. One day at a time, it’s fine. But six months like that wears you down. I know what I’m talking about.
This morning I passed the Chronopost warehouse. Still in shadow. The trucks were half-asleep, engines off, lights dead. That’s when it hit me : I finally have a car. Not new, nothing fancy, but it starts, it moves, it gets me there and back. That’s all I want from it. I thought again about the loan, the woman on the phone. “Do you have a permanent contract ?” she asked. And I said yes. That felt good. But when I told her what I do, there was this little silence. Nothing big. Just a pause. Then she started asking about the rates. She had questions. I guess they’re not monitored over there. I’m not either. Nobody’s watching me on the job. Not filming me, anyway. Not that I know of.
I park behind the building, on the edge of the slab. The concrete is still wet in places. There’s dew on the skinny grass by the curb. I get out. The ground crackles underfoot like I’m walking on bones.
The building’s a plain concrete block, square, nameless. One long window strip runs across the front, but you can’t see through it. First time I came, I thought I had the wrong place. Inside, it’s clean, cold, functional. Smooth floor, bare walls. Everything echoes halfway. The machines are black, massive, silent. Cremation furnaces. The one I use most often is called Rouge-Gorge. It says so on the plate. First time I saw it, I smiled. I haven’t smiled since.
There are yellow pipes, cables, control panels, green and red buttons, a polished metal lever. Every morning, I change, check the lights, roll the cart, open the door. I place the body. I’m careful with the paws. Always. It’s a habit.
Some days are quiet. Some are full. Small ones, big ones. Mostly dogs. Some cats. Once in a while, something else. I don’t read the names. I mean, I do. But not out loud.
At the end, we seal the urn, label it, slide the sheet inside the box. And we add the small white envelope. Inside, a card. Three seeds. “Plant these in memory of your companion.” I can’t stand that word anymore — companion. Too common. Too sad. Too much.
One time, I opened the envelope. Just curious. The seeds were black. Tiny. I almost kept them. But I closed it up.
I wonder if people actually plant them. If they scatter the ashes under a cherry tree, if they sow and water and wait. If they walk past that little patch of earth every day thinking, This is where Ramsès lies. Or Chiffon. Or Lola.
It gets to me. Not enough to cry. But something stays. On the edge. Like the tufts of grass that grow in the cracks of the slab. You tear them out. They come back.
This morning, pushing the cart, I felt it come again. One of those thoughts you don’t call for, but they show up anyway. For me to exist, to open the door to this furnace — how many generations did it take to get here ?
Then I thought about my father. He’s been with me most days since I started this job. Back when I still took the train, the bus, he used to sit next to me. Not for long. Pretty soon someone would come and sit right down on top of his memory. Driving is better. No doubt.
My mother’s there too, most days. She prefers the viewing rooms. She’ll tap me gently on the shoulder. "That’s good, son. I’m so glad you’re being useful. I’ll sit for a while, don’t mind me." She likes the quieter room, the one with the grey chairs and soft light.
There’s cousin Karl, the twin nieces Astrid and Liliane. Death hasn’t changed them. Still teasing each other, shouting, laughing, running off down invisible halls.
Sometimes I’m just there, in front of the damn furnace, and it’s all of them around me. And more. And more again. A whole train station some days. People dressed in old clothes — some with lace collars, others in rags, others still in animal skins, wooden shoes, old leather coats. They drift. They stand. They look around.
And then there’s the animals, of course. Swarming, restless. Darting through the room like it’s all a game. Pretending to bark, meow, screech, flutter. But they can’t. Not really. Not like the human dead. They don’t speak in your head. They don’t leave words behind. They’re here. But they pass through.