The Suicide Shop / Магазинчик Самоубийств

6

Vincent's emaciated body is swamped in a grey djellaba patterned with drawings of explosives: sticks of dynamite and black ball-shaped bombs with fuses spitting out yellow and green flashes of light. He is twenty years old. The walls of his bedroom are entirely devoid of decoration. As he sits facing a narrow bed, elbows propped on an overloaded table backed up against a wall, a tube of glue trembles in his hand. The Tuvaches' elder son has striking bushy eyebrows and sports a short, spiky red beard. His breathing is laboured and quivering, and his fixed sidelong look reflects the tragedy of his inner torment. Crêpe bandages compress the entire upper part of his head; he still suffers from violent migraines. Brown crusts swell his thick lower lip, the result of frequently being bitten hard enough to draw blood, while his upper lip is very red and delicate. In the middle it lifts into two points, like the scarlet canopy of a tiny circus tent. In front of him on the table lies a strange, macabre model under construction, while behind him, on the other side of the dividing wall, can be heard:
'Da-da, doobi-doobi da-da-da!'
'Mother!'
'What now?' demands his mother from the kitchen.
'Alan's playing happy songs!'
'Oh no, give me strength ... You know, I'd rather have given birth to an entire nest of vipers than bring up that ridiculous child!' grumbles Lucrèce, coming into the corridor and opening the door of her younger son's bedroom. 'Will you give it a rest? How many times have I told you we don't want you to listen to those stupid cheerful ditties? Were funeral marches composed for dogs? You know how much it upsets your brother, having to listen to those cheery songs, and how much it makes his head hurt.' She leaves the room and enters Vincent's, where she's confronted by the debris of the exploded model. 'Oh, well done, you've really done it now!' she says, still talking to Alan. 'Look at this catastrophe your music's caused. You've really done yourself proud this time!'
It's not long before the father of the family arrives. 'What's happening?'
Then Marilyn appears, dragging her feet. All three of them - Lucrèce, Marilyn and Mishima - are here now, surrounding Vincent.
'What has happened,' yells Madame Tuvache, 'is that youryounger son has been up to his usual tricks again!'
'He's not myson,' retorts her husband. 'Myson is Vincent. He's a real Tuvache.'
'And what about me?' asks Marilyn. 'Where's my place in all this?'
Mishima strokes his elder son's bandaged cranium. 'So, what happened? You broke your model?'
'A model of what?' enquires the Tuvaches' daughter.
Vincent sobs. 'The model of a suicide theme park.'
'Of what?'