I can smell the earth, Camille, how could I not? My skull is packed with it. But it doesn’t smell smoky down here. It just smells of earth, sometimes damp, sometimes less so.

Maybe it’s just the air. I think someone’s burning dead leaves over by the south-­west entrance. They always do that at this time of year. What does death smell like, Bernard?

Death smells of salt. Have you brought flowers? You know I don’t like flowers. I do appreciate it, though. Did you buy them from Gregorina? Is her shop still there? No, you stole them, didn’t you? You sneaked into the park before sunrise. Regnier will find the cut stems later and make something daft out of them. Put them down. Stroke your fingers over the petals again. It’ll make you feel good. You’re a thief, Camille!

It’s strange, but as soon as you enter the cemetery the weather changes. There’s hardly any wind here, and when it’s cloudy it all still seems bright and spacious. Even when it rains it’s nicer than in town. The rain falls silently and is swallowed by the earth. It’s very quiet where you are.

I’ve long since forgotten what the sky looks like. And it isn’t quiet where we are. On the contrary: it’s full of sounds and voices. There is scratching and gnawing and scraping. And it’s not just creatures. Even the roots are noisy. Sometimes there’s a rumbling, too. The rumbling comes from deep down and slowly swells. You want to curl up and escape it but there’s nothing left to curl, and then it dies away again. There is no silence. Anywhere.

Will you look at that: the weeds are already eating through your tombstone. And it wasn’t what you’d call cheap. It’ll last a few generations, the stonemason told us, do you remember? He had to shout because he didn’t bother turning off the grinder.

He was a crook. Bellowed the whole time, and his face was streaked with marble dust. Crooks and criminals, the lot of them. They bare their gold teeth and wipe their car bonnets and door handles and tombstones with little dust cloths and talk to you about quality and status, and already you’ve fallen into their trap. What are you doing? Stop scraping at the crack. There’s no point, you’ll only break your fingernails. Are they still red, Camille? Are your fingernails still red?

There was one that was even nicer. And more expensive! It had fine reddish veins, and if you placed your hand on it, it was warm, like wood. From Italy. Or Chile? Yes, it was from Chile, a real South American, the stonemason said. Perhaps we should have picked that one.

Leave it, Camille. Do you really think you can do anything about it? It’s just weeds. Weeds and moss. What’s the matter, Camille?

I’m sad.

That stuff is more enduring than any stone, no matter where it comes from or how much it costs. He cheated us, that’s how it is. They cheated all of us . . .