Oops, weirdness.

I was wandering around Laon this afternoon (as I generally do of an afternoon) when I noticed that the main doors to the cathedral were thrown wide open.  This is very unusual, and I approached them carefully, worried that someone was going to shout something incomprehensible at me in French.  But it appeared that whatever had been going on was over; everyone was slowly trickling out.  I thought it might have been the end of a Wednesday mass or some such thing. 

I was drawn into the cathedral by the sound of the organ, which was going full steam – or as “full steam” as any French organ ever seems to get.  The organists of this country seem to have a unnatural fondness for only-vaguely-melodic mumblings of sound, which, no matter how loudly they may be played, never really seem impressive. 

The organist decided, about three minutes into my sojourn in the cathedral, to prove me wrong.  He started playing a piece that sounded liked it should have been titled “Wrothful Jehovah Smites the Ever-Damned.”  I was caught up in the thunder rolling around in the vaulted ceiling when I subconsciously noticed that the people around me in the cathedral had quieted and were standing to one side of the main aisle.  Fortunately I was as well, because as I looked around, I noticed a casket being wheeled past on a velvet-covered gurney. 

Of course, I was a bit mortified to have stumbled in on someone’s funeral, but I was fascinated as well.  I had never been an outside witness to a funeral – most people haven’t, I would guess – and so I don’t know if it was just the French influence on the ceremony, but things seemed oddly out of kilter.  For instance, although people were quiet and respectful when the casket was immediately opposite them, conversation reblossomed the instant it passed.  Even the people walking behind the casket – the bereaved, presumably – were talking amongst themselves, and laughing, in one case.  Then there was the music.  It didn’t strike me as a benevolent send-off for dear old granddad.  No, had I been constructing an idea of the guy being buried simply from the music, I would have assumed that he was a horrible old lecher who had swindled widows and orphans for most of his life and had spent the other, younger years consorting with the underbelly of society and participating in quite a lot of skullduggery.  (I know it was a guy and a grandfather because a bit later they carried past some of the floral offerings, across which I read, “Pour notre grand-père.”)  And then, for the final, resounding bit of oddity, the pallbearers picked up the casket, carried it out the main doors of the church and loaded it into a silver, “get-away” style van with the funeral home’s name, address and telephone number emblazoned on the side along with a large, bright orange spot.

Still, the organ was splendid.