Saturday September 7th, 2017, blue sky, twenty-three degrees, 10:30 a.m. Funeral of Fernand Occo (1935–2017). Oak coffin. Black marble headstone. Vault in which Jeanne Tillet, married name Occo (1937–2009), Simone Louis, married name Occo (1917–1999), Pierre Occo (1913–2001), Léon Occo (1933) are buried.
A wreath of white roses, ribbon: “Our sincere condolences.” A wreath of white lilies in the shape of a heart, ribbon: “To our father, our grandfather.” On the coffin, red and white roses, ribbon: “The War Veterans.”
Three funerary plaques: “To our father, to our grandfather. In memory of this life of loving you and being loved by you”; “To our friend. We won’t forget you, you are forever in our thoughts. Your fishing friends”; “You are not far, just on the other side of the path.”
Around fifty people are present, including Fernand’s three daughters, Catherine, Isabelle, and Nathalie, and his seven grandchildren.
Elvis, Gaston, Pierre Lucchini, and I are standing beside the vault. Nono isn’t there. He’s getting ready for his marriage to Countess de Darrieux, taking place at 3 p.m. at Brancion town hall.
Father Cédric gives an oration. But it is not only for Fernand Occo that our priest addresses God. Now, every time he speaks to Him, he brings Kamal and Anita with him in his prayers, “Reading from the first Epistle General of John: Beloved, we know that we have passed from death unto life, because we love the brethren. He that loveth not his brother abideth in death . . . Hereby perceive we the love of God, because he laid down his life for us: and we ought to lay down our lives for the brethren. But whoso hath this world’s good, and seeth his brother have need, and shutteth up his bowels of compassion from him, how dwelleth the love of God in him? My little children, let us not love in word, neither in tongue; but in deed and in truth.”
The family asked Pierre Lucchini to play Fernand Occo’s favorite song during the interment. The one by Serge Reggiani called “My Freedom.”
I can’t seem to focus on the words, beautiful as they are. I think of Léonine and of her father; I think of Nono slipping on his young groom’s suit and Countess de Darrieux knotting his tie; I think of Sasha travelling the waters of the Ganges; I think of Irène and Gabriel saying “tu” to each other in eternity; I think of Eliane, who went off to run around the garden of her mistress, Marianne Ferry (1953–2007); I think of Julien and Nathan, who will be here in less than a hour, I think of their arms, their smell, their warmth; I think of Gaston, who will always fall, but whom we will always pick up; I think of Elvis, who will never want to hear any songs except those of Elvis Presley.
For a few months now, I’ve been like Elvis, forever hearing another song, the same one. It covers all the rest, all the murmurings of my thoughts. It’s a song by Vincent Delerm that I listen to constantly, and that’s called: “Life ahead of you.”