The Suicide Shop / Магазинчик Самоубийств

4

'The Suicide Shop. Hello?'
Clad in a blood-red blouse, Madame Tuvache picks up the telephone and asks the caller to hold the line: 'One moment, sir,' and gives change to a woman whose features are distorted by anguish. She leaves, carrying a biodegradable carrier bag that reads THE SUICIDE SHOP on one side, and on the other: HAS YOUR LIFE BEEN A FAILURE? LET'S MAKE YOUR DEATH A SUCCESS! Lucrèce calls after the customer: 'Farewell, Madame,' then picks up the receiver again.
'Hello? Oh, it's you, Monsieur Chang! Of course I remember you: the rope, this morning, wasn't it? You ...? You want us ...? I can't hear' - the customer must be calling from a mobile - 'to invite us to your funeral? Oh, that iskind! But when are you going to do it? Oh, you already have the rope round your neck? Well, today's Tuesday, tomorrow's Wednesday ... so the funeral will be on Thursday. Hang on, I'll ask my husband ...'
She calls to the back of the shop, by the fresh produce display: 'Mishima! I've got Monsieur Chang on the line. You know, the concierge from the City of Forgotten Religions housing estate ... Yes, you do, the one with the Mahomet Tower. He'd like to invite us to his funeral on Thursday. That's not the day when the new sales rep from Don't Give a Damn About Death is supposed to be coming, is it? Ah, that's the following Thursday, so that's all right, then.'She speaks into the receiver again: 'Hello? Monsieur Chang ...? Hello ...?' She hangs up as she realises what's happened. 'Ropes may be basic, but they're effective. We ought to think about recommending them more often. With the celebrations coming up ... Ah, Marilyn, come and see.'
Marilyn Tuvache is now seventeen years old. Indolent and flabby, with long, pendulous breasts, she is ashamed of her cumbersome body. She's squeezed into an over-tight T-shirt, illustrated with a black-edged white rectangle bearing the slogan: LIFE KILLS.
Wielding a feather duster without conviction, she is moving the dust around at the edge of a shelf displaying razorblades for cutting one's veins. Some of them are rusty. A label beside them explains: EVEN IF YOU DON'T MAKE A DEEP ENOUGH CUT, YOU'LL GET TETANUS.
The mother says to her daughter: 'Go to the Tristan and Isolde flower shop and buy a funeral wreath, a small one, mind! Get them to write on the card: To our customer, Monsieur Chang, from the Suicide Shop. He will probably have invited quite a few tenants from the Mahomet Tower, and they'll say: "Our concierge managed not to bungle it." It'll be good publicity for us. Go on! You're always asking what you can do. Then you can take the wreath to the new warden at the cemetery.'
'Aw ... I always get the skivvy's jobs; I'm useless around here! Why don't the boys go?'
'Vincent's inventing in his room and Alan's outside, getting intoxicated on the autumn sunshine. He plays with the wind, chats with the clouds. At the age of eleven ... I don't think he's quite right, that one. Now, off you go.'
Marilyn Tuvache eyes up the man her father is talking to at the back of the shop. 'Why don't the good-looking customers look at me? I wish I was attractive ...'
'You really are plain daft, aren't you! Do you think they come here to flirt? Go on, get going.'
'Why can't we kill ourselves, Mum?'
'I've told you a hundred times: because it's impossible. Who'd look after the shop? We, the Tuvaches, have a mission here! Well, when I say "we", obviously I'm excluding Alan. Now be off with you.'
'Well ... OK ... All riiight ...'
'Poor big ...' Madame Tuvache comes out from behind the counter, her heart touched by the sight of her shapeless daughter leaving the shop. 'At her age I was the same: lethargic, always moaning. I felt stupid until the day I met Mishima.'
She runs her finger along a shelf, collecting a little dust. 'And when I did the housework, the corners were always left out ...'
She picks up the feather duster and resumes her daughter's work, moving the razorblades carefully.

At the bottom of the staircase leading to the apartment, next to the fresh produce section, a waistcoated waistcoated Mishima is giving his sales pitch to a taller, muscular man:
'If you're asking me for something original and virile, I'd say: seppuku, commonly known as hara-kiri - but that's slang. Now, I don't recommend it to everyone, because it's quite an athletic task. But you're a sturdy fellow; you're surely athletic, aren't you? What is your - Forgive me, if you've reached this stage I should have asked - What wasyour profession?'
'Gymnastics teacher at Montherlant High School.'
'There you go, just as I thought!'
'I can't stand my colleagues or my pupils any more.'
'Dealing with kids can be difficult sometimes,' acknowledges Mishima. 'For example, our last child ...'
'I thought about petrol or napalm.'
'Ah, a nice immolation in the indoor play area, that's not bad either,' agrees the shopkeeper. 'We have everything you need for that, but, frankly, seppuku ... Anyway, I'm not pushing you to spend money; it's your decision.'
The PE teacher weighs up the two options: 'Immolation, hara-kiri ...'
'Seppuku,' Monsieur Tuvache corrects him.
'Does it require a lot of equipment?'
'A samurai kimono in your size. I must have an XXL left, and of course the tanto. People make a lot of fuss about it but, look, basically it's a rather short sabre.' Monsieur Tuvache speaks dismissively, removing from the wall a white - and actually rather long - weapon, which he places in the customer's hands. 'I sharpen them myself. Touch the blade. It goes through you like butter.'
The gym teacher contemplates the glinting blade and frowns while Mishima reaches into a cardboard box for a kimono jacket, which he spreads out in front of him.
'My eldest son had the idea of sewing this red silk cross onto it, to indicate where to aim the sabre, because there have been times when people aim too high, at the sternum, and it won't go in, or too low, so it goes into the belly. And, apart from severing your appendix, that doesn't do anything for you.'
'Is it expensive?' enquires the teacher.
'Three hundred euro-yens, the lot.'
'Oh! Really? Can I pay by -'
'Credit card?' asks the shopkeeper. 'Here? You must be joking - you might as well suggest a loyalty card while you're at it!'
'The thing is it's an investment.'
'Ah, of course, it's more costly than a can of napalm, but, after all, it'll be your last expense ... Not to mention the fact that seppuku is the aristocracy of suicide. And I'm not saying that just because my parents called me Mishima.'
The customer hesitates.
'I'm afraid I won't be brave enough,' confesses the depressive teacher, feeling the weight of the tanto. 'You don't do a home service, you?'
'Oh no!' replies Monsieur Tuvache indignantly. 'We're not murderers, you know. You have to understand that's prohibited. We supply what is needed but people do the deed themselves. It's their affair. We are just here to offer a service by selling quality products,' continues the shopkeeper, leading the customer towards the checkout.
And, carefully folding the kimono, which he slips into a carrier bag with the sabre, he justifies himself. 'Too many people do an amateurish job. You know, out of a hundred and fifty thousand people who make the attempt, one hundred and thirty-eight thousand fail. These people often find themselves disabled in wheelchairs, disfigured for life, but with us ... Our suicides are guaranteed. Death or your money back! Come now, you won't regret this purchase, an athlete like you! Just take a deep breath and go for it! And anyway, as I always say, you only die once, so it ought to be an unforgettable moment.'
Mishima puts the PE teacher's money into the cash register then, as he hands him his change, he adds: 'Wait a minute. I'm going to tell you a trick of the trade ...'
He takes a good look around him to check that nobody is listening, and explains: 'When you do it in your dining room, kneel on the ground and that way, even if the blade doesn't go in very deep ... because it's going to sting a little ... if you're on your knees, you can just fall onto your stomach and that'll push the sabre in up to its hilt. And when you're discovered, your friends will be really impressed! You don't have any friends? Well, then, it'll impress the medical examiner who'll say: "This fellow didn't pull his punches!"'
'Thank you,' says the customer, overwhelmed at the thought of what he has to do.
'Don't mention it - it's our job. Glad to be of service.'