He died the way he lived: like a fool. That was my first thought when I received the phone call announcing the news. 

Soon enough, I was showered with words of empathy, as befitted my newly acquired status as a widow. I didn’t even need to pretend to earn their compassion. In that circle of high-ranking petty bourgeois executives, dignity was valued above tearful displays. It would have been hard to find anyone more dignified than me.

The funeral director thought it prudent to inform me that the crematorium charged a supplement for hardwood coffins, which required more time to burn. He suggested we opt for a softwood coffin, like pine. He said “we,” a sign of his deep involvement in our family tragedy. 

His name was Mr. Moret. I thought he might have considered changing it. As for the urn, there was a wide variety of models, crafted from different materials, depending on the final destination of the ashes. I chose the simplest and least expensive option: a metal urn, and the scattering of ashes in the garden of remembrance. It was the choice he would have made for me—minimal cost, minimal fuss. 

Then came the task of finding a date and a time slot in the great Coupole Hall. In Paris, it was the finest option, Mr. Moret assured me: the Coupole Hall at Père Lachaise. He waxed lyrical about its remarkable neo-Byzantine architecture, the grandeur of the place—so fitting for solemn gatherings. Besides, it had recently been restored, along with the entire crematorium. It was now listed as a historical monument. I stifled a yawn. 

Would we opt for a religious service? No, sir. No priest, no holy trappings—he was not a believer. I resisted the urge to add that he called himself an agnostic, forever sitting on the fence. The funeral director offered to serve as master of ceremonies, if I had no objection. He had, he assured me, ample experience in organizing secular ceremonies and painting a fair and accurate portrait of the deceased. He spoke as if reading from a brochure. I had no objection. He bore a name suited to the task and the appearance to match. I was eager to see how he would manage to recount his ridiculous death as faithfully as possible, without breaking his solemnity. 

Before that, Mr. Moret wished to discuss the encoffining and the removal of the body. I asked whether my presence was mandatory or optional. He frowned slightly, with a hint of disapproval. Skipping this step, it seemed, was not customary. The presence of family was preferable, he said, once he had recovered his neutral tone—but not mandatory. These were farewell rites, acts of respect toward the deceased, usually honored. He had insisted on the word “respect.” 

Foolishly, I felt compelled to justify myself to a complete stranger, a funeral parlor employee with hollow cheeks and a waxy complexion, squeezed into his tight dark suit. I explained the dear departed’s family, reduced to almost nothing: an only child, deceased parents, half-brothers with no real ties, living at the other end of the planet. All that remained was a bedridden old aunt and her son Patrick, a cousin he was never particularly fond of. We had no children. I told him I had no one on my side either. It was true. I had cut ties with my entire degenerate family. To drive the point home, I trotted out the tired speech of the one who wanted to keep the memory intact. I even uttered the words “living memory” in a fit of rather ridiculous lyricism. 

I bit my lips. He nodded in a show of understanding before casting a discreet glance at his watch. In his small, washed-out blue eyes, I caught a flicker of worry; maybe he had to pick up his little girl after school. Yet he still took the time to sell me, as an optional extra, three tons of flowers that would wither as quickly as my grief. I wondered if his kid got bullied at school for having an undertaker for a father. But maybe he didn’t have a child at all, just a dentist appointment, or a date with a dreary mistress aroused by the scent of death. In the end, I really couldn’t have cared less. 

Céline drove me home, exhausted and starving. I wolfed down a slice of chocolate cake. I went back for a second.

The ceremony took place on a gray, cold February morning. Crows cawed above the graves. A few swooped briefly over the crematorium. It was appropriately grim. 

We arrived very early. We waited in the shadowy corridor reserved for families, surrounded by hushed voices and sniffles. I could hear the strains of Mozart’s Requiem seeping from one of the rooms. I wondered if it was really necessary to pile gloom onto grief. 

Mr. Moret appeared, impeccable in his role as master of ceremonies, dressed all in black with a crisp white shirt, his shoes freshly polished. He shook Céline’s hand, greeted me, and asked how I was feeling. We had already exchanged emails and phone calls. I had given him one CD burned with photos and another labeled “The Great Jazz Classics.” On the cover, names like Billie Holiday, Ella Fitzgerald, and Duke Ellington were listed, among others. With solemnity, Mr. Moret asked me in a low voice whether this music truly reflected the universe of the deceased. I whispered the sad confession that he had no universe, that I had had to make a choice among his scattered tastes, that I had left aside the old Eddy Mitchell songs, sparing us the tales of easy girls with mint-green eyes. I sketched a vague smile that wasn’t really meant for him. A mist of incomprehension clouded his bovine eyes before quickly dissolving. 

Mr. Moret was a professional. He briefly reminded me of the proceedings of the ceremony. He seemed pleased with the speech he had prepared based on the details I had provided, along with those from Julie and Christian, the dear departed’s friends of thirty years. I had put him in contact with them, as well as with his secretary and a few colleagues who had known him for a long time. I had given him the phone number of Françoise Prado, a former  “colleague.” I don’t know what had gotten into me. I had even handed over the number of cousin Patrick. I had no idea if Mr. Moret had managed to reach him, if he had caught him at a good moment, between drunken stupors. I wasn’t even expecting him at the funeral. Mr. Moret asked if I wanted to review his tribute. It wasn’t too late for any changes. No, I told him I trusted him. As a conclusion, he kindly pointed out that we needed to strictly observe our one-hour slot in the room, because unfortunately everything was timed, other families were waiting for their turn, you understand, don’t you? 

I understood perfectly.

It was bitterly cold inside the famous Coupole hall. The coffin, displayed at the top of the central aisle, drew all eyes. The last attendees were taking their seats. Mr. Moret stood patiently, waiting at his microphone. About a hundred people had shown up. I recognized quite a few, but many faces were unfamiliar. I found it hard to believe he had so many friends. I wondered if some hadn’t come just to enjoy the absurdity of his end. Céline had seated me slightly to the side, facing the attendees. From my chair, I could leisurely observe the appropriate expressions, ranging from the most hypocritical to the most sincere. Ella Fitzgerald was singing “Let’s Call the Whole Thing Off” in duet with Louis Armstrong, a song I had often enjoyed playing on the piano.

The life of the late Henri Delisle could be summed up quite easily: born in a small village in Burgundy, youth spent in the twelfth arrondissement of Paris with his divorced mother, a French teacher at a Parisian middle school. University studies at the Paris Faculty of Pharmacy, followed by a career in the pharmaceutical industry, rising from simple marketing director to communication director of a major group, until that absurd accident that had cost him his life on the Square of La Défense, at the age of forty-five. A life, all in all, fairly ordinary, if one excepted the circumstances and the cause of his death, which were rather grotesque, not to say laughable. 

The sad realities fell far short of Mr. Moret’s talent. He recounted Henri’s life with a certain pomp, peppered with embellishments. Henri Delisle became that exceptional being who had forged a strength of character despite the absence of a father; he had been a rare intelligence as a student, had pursued brilliant studies thanks to his great abilities and the support of an admirable mother, a grand intellectual, a professor of literature, herself taken far too soon.

It made my ovaries ache to hear such bullshit. I remembered a day spent sorting and tidying when I had come across his old school reports, both from primary school and from middle school. Except for good grades in math, he was average in everything else. And for a kid whose mother was a French teacher, his mediocrity in that subject was downright shameful. But what had truly stunned me was reading the teachers’ comments, repeated over and over on every report card: immature student, plays the clown in class, doesn’t listen, thinks he’s funny, doesn’t like to work, enjoys provoking, irritating student, annoying, unbearable. And the best comment of all: “behaves permanently like a slap-worthy brat!” I had burst out laughing alone, thanking aloud these unknown teachers who, through the ages, were sending me the social proof I needed. Everything had been written there, black on white, for years. I wasn’t crazy; I wasn’t the problem. 

As for his “admirable” mother, the woman I had known was the caricature of the old French teacher frozen in another century. She always made a point of enunciating to the point of absurdity and never hesitated to correct you with a condescending air if you had the misfortune of making the most minor grammatical mistake accepted in everyday speech. The most unbearable thing was that she called herself left-wing while using the n-word when speaking about Africans.

I had gotten lost in the labyrinth of my thoughts. Mr. Moret was continuing his grandiloquent speech. Now, he was speaking of those who had known Henri Delisle well in his professional circle. They could testify to his human qualities, his simplicity, his kindness. Many had shared the experience of working alongside him, from Merck Laboratories to Sanofi, and then Glaxo. They were all there today to pay tribute to him, both former and more recent collaborators, united by the same feeling. They had lost one of their own, a colleague or a boss, who had the rare gift of knowing how to delegate because he trusted those who worked with him. By working by his side, everyone could feel useful, recognized, and appreciated at their true value, beyond the usual hierarchy.

Bullshit. Henri wasn’t particularly kind. What people mistook for kindness was simply indifference. I have never met anyone who cared less about everything and everyone. However, he was manipulative enough to grant his attention when he expected something in return. Very good at compliments and skilled in screwing people over. He delegated only to offload himself as much as possible. His greatest talent was getting others to work. The less he did, the better he felt. 

When I met him, he was still just a little marketing director. He would leave for the office around eleven o’clock and come back before five. I eventually asked him, without malice, if he worked part-time. He didn’t. Not officially. Here’s how a typical day unfolded: after a long morning lie-in, he would head to his office on Avenue Marceau to sort through his mail, do two or three small tasks, and give a few instructions. Then he would leave for lunch at a very chic and very expensive restaurant, invited by the head of an advertising agency vying for a contract to launch a new product. He would swing by the office again. That’s when Françoise Prado would come into the picture and the day would start getting interesting. 

I never really understood what Françoise’s exact position was, apart from booking hotels and conference rooms once or twice a year for seminars. The outlines of her role were as vague and ambiguous as the relationships she entertained with the successive CEOs. The Botoxed blonde from the department often fell in love with a wallet. But Françoise was above all addicted to power. We called her “Madame Pompadour,” because she always enjoyed the favor of the highest decision-maker of the moment. She had his ear, and probably other parts of his anatomy as well, which granted her considerable influence. She could have someone fired if she really wanted to, just as easily as she could secure advantages for one of her courtiers. Henri was one of them. She was fond of him. She laughed very loudly at his schoolboy jokes. He admired her for her scheming, mistaking it for intelligence. She had nicknamed him “Riton.” After lunch, Riton was admitted into the circle of those who played cards. Recreational meetings Françoise organized in her office, with other equally overwhelmed colleagues. Generally, he limited himself to a single poker game before packing up, to avoid getting stuck in rush hour traffic. 

The arrangement lasted a few years before people at the top started to stir. A new boss, less susceptible to La Pompadour’s charm, came in to clean house. Many were fired quickly. Henri was given preferential treatment: he was invited to resign in exchange for a fat check.

The master of ceremonies had already moved on to another chapter of praise, the one about the man of amiable character, a joyful man, always ready to laugh, with a great sense of humor. That was the memory he had left with his loved ones, with all his friends, especially Julie and Christian. They knew Henri so well, this Henri who had kept his childlike spirit, funny and mischievous. Together, they had gotten up to all kinds of antics back in their student days. He had been best man at their wedding, godfather to one of their children, he had been for them, more than a faithful friend, a true brother, and on and on. 

Ah, the famous friends of thirty years! I had sat through so many dinners listening to them rehash their old World War I stories for the thousandth time. I had heard it over and over again, the story about how, back when they were still students revising together in the countryside, Henri and Christian had placed Julie—already six months pregnant—onto the farm’s animal scale just to weigh her! Absolutely hilarious. And remember this one? And that one? The same anecdotes surfaced systematically, as if they had nothing else left to say to each other. The thirty-year friends had taken over the microphone to regale the audience with the hilarious tales they had shared. 

In their wake, Françoise Prado came forward to tell her own. The assembly loosened up; the atmosphere was almost festive. Françoise cheerfully recalled the seminar in Turkey where they decided to leave the hotel for a more intimate dinner in a nearby village. It was so cheap, laughably so, that Henri had exclaimed, with a grand theatrical flourish, “Come on, the bill’s on me!”—which had greatly amused everyone, given his legendary stinginess. In her telling, Henri became charming even as a miser. La Pompadour had a real gift for winning people over, even at a funeral. 

On another occasion, in another country, they had roared with laughter watching him gorge himself on a green, gelatinous, absolutely disgusting cake. He went back for fourths. He even asked for it again at breakfast the next day. No one knew what it contained, not even him. It was always like that with Riton; he adored the sweetest, most revolting things. And then there was the time when Riton had bravely caught a little snake slithering between the lounge chairs. During his scuffle with the reptile, he had flung it into the pool. Total panic—everyone screaming and scrambling out of the water, and one girl even lost the bottom half of her swimsuit. 

At the end of her hilarious series of anecdotes, the audience was on the verge of applauding, as if she had just performed a stand-up comedy set. The master of ceremonies had chosen that moment to launch the slideshow, not knowing what it contained. Every photo echoed the prankster side of Riton, the eternal joker, the one who had kept his child’s soul. Perfect timing. There was Henri standing on a chair at a stiff garden party, with two pairs of cherries dangling as earrings and a clown nose. Soft chuckles from the audience. Henri in a brassiere, seated with friends before a platter of charcuterie, sporting a giant pig’s snout made of silicone. Soft chuckles from the audience. Henri at a party on a houseboat, flashing a victory sign behind a bald man’s head, a cap on his own head that read: “tipsy fireman.” More chuckles. Throughout the slideshow, not a single photo where he wasn’t playing the class clown.

I had warned Mr. Moret that the ceremony could very well end without a word from me. I wasn’t sure if I would have the strength, the desire, or even the need to speak. But when our eyes met at the end of the slideshow, I barely hesitated. I wheeled myself forward, alone. Before letting me go, Céline had rested her hands on my shoulders. I felt the encouraging pressure of her touch. My companion had become my only true friend. Mr. Moret adjusted the microphone to my height. I still didn’t know what I was going to say. 

I began by thanking everyone for coming to this farewell ceremony. My voice rang out over the microphone, and at first, I didn’t recognize it. But what struck me most was the unease that drifted across the room. So I took my time, letting them get used to my presence. I swept the audience with my gaze. Cousin Patrick had managed to come. He sat in the front row, his eyes red and swollen. He seemed genuinely moved, and I felt a pang of sorrow for him. He must have been remembering the summer holidays of their childhood spent in Saint-Bris, when they still had things to share: marble games, long bike rides through the vineyards. If only he knew how deeply Henri had come to despise the little accountant he had become. If only he knew how Henri used to mock him when he was drunk, slurring his words, stumbling around. 

Julie gave me a small, compassionate smile. Christian offered a discreet nod. Always so perfect, so charitable in their good Catholic way. My eyes lingered on Françoise, in her little black dress with its plunging neckline. It reminded me of the day Henri had told me, roaring with laughter, how she had flashed her new breast implants to all the men at the office to show off the success of her surgery. Today, she sat demurely beside her husband. Because yes, Françoise was still married to the man with whom she had had two children. I had met him only once, at a cocktail party: a discreet, gentle, and charming hospital radiologist—the complete opposite of his wife, who lived for attention, seductive with men, vicious with women. Her unrestrained tribute inspired me.

“Thank you, Françoise, for speaking about his sense of humor. That’s often what people remember about him—the way he could turn everything into a joke. No one has mentioned the way Henri left us, yet it’s a death that suited him so well, and maybe he’s laughing about it himself, wherever he is… 

Henri was exactly what you’ve just heard and seen in the images: playful, mischievous, irreverent. Personally, I truly discovered his prankster side on the day of our wedding, during the cake-cutting. Of course, I didn’t expect him to be such a joker as to throw a huge slice of cake right in my face! It was unexpected but so hilarious! Makeup, hair, dress—ruined, but still, it was funny! Especially when he ran off immediately afterwards! That was Henri—slightly mad, a little immature, a hint of Peter Pan syndrome. And he owned it. In fact, he never wanted to grow old; he couldn’t even imagine himself aging. One evening, in the middle of a dinner with friends, I heard him declare, ‘I can’t picture myself with an old forty-year-old woman!’—and he was forty himself. Fortunately for me, I was only thirty! And what’s funny is that, despite our age difference, I had already found myself reminding him, more than once, that I was not his mother! 

I can see a few of you smiling—especially the women. Yes, Henri had a childish side. And he had a child’s tastes, too. He could devour some green, gelatinous cake or drink Coca-Cola with foie gras without batting an eye! He could eat nasi goreng at every meal without ever getting bored, like during our first big trip together, to Bali. Though maybe that had more to do with that little flaw already mentioned: his legendary stinginess. Nasi goreng was the cheapest dish on the hotel’s menu, so Henri made sure we ate nasi goreng for ten straight days. The funniest part happened after a long walk under the hot sun. I remember we were exhausted, parched, and lucky enough to find ourselves standing in front of a luxury hotel. I imagined we would go in, relax in the shade of their exotic garden, and sip a cool drink. But when we reached the entrance, with two magnificent doormen in traditional attire, Henri asked them if we could buy some small bottles of mineral water at the bar—and how much they cost. They answered in English: five dollars. Less than five euros. You’ll laugh—Henri tried to haggle directly with the doormen! Of course, it didn’t work. Still, he went inside to buy the water anyway, because we were dying of thirst. I waited for him outside. It was only years later that I found out the whole trip—tickets and hotel—had been a gift from a service provider. He had saved every possible cent on the extras. That was so Henri. Funny, isn’t it?”

Also quite amusing, that story about the fight with a snake—I didn’t know it; amusing because Henri was not really the fighting type, even if he did enjoy provoking people just for fun. I think of that car he blocked from overtaking on a national road, three times in a row, and the angrier the driver got, the more amused Henri became. I had told him several times to stop his stupid, dangerous game, but he wouldn’t listen. Eventually the car managed to overtake, only for the driver to block our way a few hundred metres ahead and force us to stop. And then the man got out, furious, ready for a fight. I don’t know why, instinctively, I got out on my side, hoping to calm things down. I walked toward him, arms open in a gesture of peace, but Henri—Henri stayed inside the locked car, and there I was, alone, facing a very angry man. 

Don’t worry, that time it ended well, the man eventually drove off and nobody got hurt. Things played out differently the day of the accident that cost me a year in the hospital, the use of my legs, and two fingers gone. Henri hadn’t been drinking, the weather was fine, the highway was clear, and he wasn’t tired either. We were coming back from vacation. It wasn’t a simple accident, not just bad luck. Maybe you think this isn’t the right day, the right time to bring it up. It’s been five years already and I didn’t die, you’ll say. I didn’t die, but my former life was buried, because Henri, once again, wanted to have a bit of fun. I even heard, “You’re lucky it’s your left hand—at least you’re right-handed!” Some of you said it to me, maybe just to have something to say… 

I never gave another piano lesson, never played again in a single jazz club. And yes, it’s true, as someone kindly pointed out, I wasn’t some international concert pianist, I wasn’t Yuja Wang, but I had a life I loved. If I had been that renowned pianist, I’d never have had the extraordinary luck of meeting a little marketing director on the loose in a little Latin Quarter club. And all this because Henri the jerk wanted to prove himself to another jerk driving just as fast as he was. All that for the thrill of overtaking each other at a hundred and sixty kilometres an hour, tailgating to scare each other. All that for a dick-measuring contest. The funniest thing is, he got away with a few broken ribs, while I also lost the only baby I’d managed to keep inside me. 

I don’t feel like mourning your Riton. He got the end he deserved, a clown’s death. Slipping on a banana peel—only he could have given us such a grotesque finale! So let me laugh a little more.”

The room emptied out to the last person. They all left with stunned faces. As they departed, Julie and Christian shot me daggers, Françoise bolted for the exit. Only Patrick came up, looking bewildered, to ask if I needed anything before loudly blowing his nose and slipping away without waiting for an answer. I watched them go with satisfaction. In the end, I had managed to lose all dignity, with great pleasure and immense relief. 

In the Coupole hall, there was no one left but Céline and me—and Monsieur Moret, taken aback, pale as death. It was too late to give him a funereal touch-up. Men in black lifted the coffin to carry it to the cremation room in the funeral van. The entrance was at the back of the building. We just had to walk around on foot. Céline began quietly pushing my wheelchair along the path that led there, without a word, her expression triumphant. We were about to witness the final journey of the late Henri Delisle, from the hearse to the furnace, heated to over 800 degrees—I’d read that somewhere.  I wondered as he burned away whether the bad memories and regrets would finally be consumed too.

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Lilia Mahfouz is a French author based in Paris. A laureate of the Society of Dramatic Authors and Composers Writing Prize, her fiction has appeared in French literary journals including Zone Critique, Marginales, and Rue Saint Ambroise, as well as in American and British magazines such as Fjords Review and Fiction on the Web. Her work has also been featured in Flapper Press, praised by its founder Elizabeth Gracen, former star of the multi-million-dollar cult series Highlander.