The North American traveller visiting this Buenos Aires landmark will promptly realize that the Recoleta Cemetery is not so much a cemetery in the sense that we understand the word in our own Protestant Republic, but rather necropolis built according to the baroque tastes typical of the Catholic oligarchies of the south. Even more valuable than the real estate in Buenos Aires' Recoleta barrio - where the gente decente live in conformity with Baron Haussmann's ideals of urban planning - is the right to be buried alongside the father's of the nation and their legion ne'erdowell offspring. The names on the mausoleums read like the index of streets at the back of a city map. Mitre, Lavalle, Sarmiento and Pueyrredón all lie in Recoleta; their tombs maintained at public expense and largely ignored by the tourists who want to see Evita.
The government of Argentina, although at times prone to fruitless expenses, cannot afford to maintain all of the tombs in Recoleta, and the vast majority are the responsibility of the surviving family. It is the unfortunate tendency of oligarchies, however, to shrink with the passage of time. As more of the nation's great families disappear, their mausoleums in Recoleta fall into utter disrepair. The directors of the cemetery, in a fine display of Christian charity, take it upon themselves to close the doors that fall open with padlocks or zip ties, but little more. It is a wonder that the place doesn't completely reek of putrefaction (more on this later), but this unstoppable decay somehow suits the aesthetic of Recoleta. It reflects the encroachment of bourgeois pragmatism into traditional feudal superstition (or perhaps the manifestation of a latent infection - Buenos Aires having been a smugglers port long before it became a viceregal capital).
But what of the families whose resources remain such that they are able to care for the final (or at least, current) resting place of their antecedents? The task falls to a special group of men, who ensure that the cobwebs are brushed out of the corners, the handles of the coffins stay shiny, the priceless Byzantine mosaics are intact, the stray cats don't shit all over the place, and the hundreds of other jobs that maintain the crypt as a symbol of the family's eternal prestige get done. Much as so many of the cemetery's residents were no doubt used to a complete complement of domestic servants in life, they are looked after in death for however long the family fortune lasts. The families do not tend to pay these workers well, but somehow, I do not think that many visitors to Recoleta are offered the same special tour that it was my pleasure to enjoy today.
I was wandering the cemetery today, you see, when I saw a very singular looking man emerge from one of the tombs. I was quite surprised to see someone coming out of a crypt, especially, to be perfectly frank, someone with such an indian aspect about him that I didn't imagine very many relatives were buried in Recoleta. He caught me looking at him, and made a face that suggested a certain displeasure at the fact. I decided to play dumb, and I asked him what was down there (obviously, the only answer is "a bunch of dead people"). He motioned over to a worker in blue coveralls, and then asked me if I wanted to find out for myself. I took another look at the man. He had gold jewelry, big shades, American jeans, and a big mustache. I had met the godfather of the crypt-keepers. He was very clearly relishing my hesitation in answering.
He took me aside -
"Make sure you give a nice tip so this guy can get a sandwich. Nobody's responsible for what happens to you when you're down there."
Now, I know certain of my relatives have read this blog and charged me with a certain naïveté, that perhaps I've gotten myself into things better left alone. To them I say this: accepting this offer might have been the closest I'd ever get to meeting Nicolás Francomano, and I was not about to let the opportunity pass me by.
The man in the blue overalls was a friendly enough sort, considering he spends most of his time with dead people and stray cats. He told me to follow him, because he wanted to show me a nice one. We walked down the alleys of the cemetery until we came to a white marble mausoleum. He unlocked the doors and motioned for me to follow him down into the first level of the crypt. There were sixteen coffins in all, in niches in the walls.
Each coffin is lined with steel, my guide explained, with two valves that prevent the accumulation of gasses from causing an explosion. These valves have some sort of chemical filter, that neutralizes the odor of decomposition and by the time they no longer function, the body doesn't really smell that bad anyway. He also told me that as more and more members of the family die, they make room in the crypt by taking out some of the older ones and cremating them, or putting the bones in an ossuary. Thank god that he didn't take me to see the ossuary, located underneath the floor of the lowest level of the crypt.
As my guide took me down into the bottom level, we had to light a candle to see. The bottom of the crypt is practically identical to the upper, but creepier because of the darkness. I hesitated on the last few steps down into the crypt.
"Don't be a coward. They're not going to bite."
He showed me a picture of Jesus at the back of the tomb, and explained to me that recently the painting had needed restoration. The family had had it flown to England to have the work done, and only recently returned it to it's place in the dark where only he would see it once a week. I felt sorry for the painter, but, fortunately, he's probably dead too. I asked him how often people from the family came to visit, and the answer was hardly ever. Looking around at the marble floors and the paintings on the walls, it wasn't that hard to imagine that their house looks fairly similar, anyway.
I was somewhat relieved when he offered to take me up to the chapel. Fascinating as the crypt may have been, I was ready to see sunshine. It was a wonderful feeling walking back up and out of the tomb, considering that a lot of people don't get to come back out once they go in. Since the place was designed for people of average height 200 years ago, the ceilings are a little low. My guide warned me not to bump my head and fall, because they'd put him in prison if I did. Naturally, I obliged his request.
He showed me the chapel, which was lovely, but which doesn't really stick in my memory, probably because it wasn't full of the deafening silence of hundreds of dead bodies slowly moldering for all eternity.
I slipped the guy a 20 peso note, and high-tailed it back into the world of the living as fast as I could. I can go back and see Evita some other time.
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