The Suicide Shop / Магазинчик Самоубийств

20

Marilyn Tuvache poisons through her sweat, at least that's what she says. She shakes customers' hands. 'Death salutes you, sir.'
One scrawny, desperate young man with a mischievous look, the only customer in the shop and standing right in front of her, is surprised - 'Is that all? You think that'll be enough?' - while Marilyn slips the fingers of her right hand into a fleece glove, to make her palm sweat.
'Oh yes, yes,' she replies with aplomb. 'My lethal sweat will have penetrated your pores and soon you will be ...'
'Can't I have a little kiss from Death too?' the other demands.
'Fine, a little kiss, yes.'
She bends forward, and leaves the sensual imprint of her lipstick on one cheek. The customer shows his disappointment. 'No, but, I meant there, on the mouth, with the tongue and the saliva, like you did before ... It's so I can be really sure.'
'Oh no, that's finished ...' The curvaceous blonde sits up on her throne, in her lamé dress. 'Because now I am engaged to the cemetery warden,' she confesses, blushing and fluttering the lashes of her heavily made-up eyes.
The customer, telling himself that he never has any luck, goes to pay at the checkout: 'How much do I owe?'
'Twelve euro-yens.'
'Twelve?! Blimey, some people really earn a good living ... They shake your hand and they've earned twelve.'
'Yes, but afterwards you're dead,' justifies Monsieur Tuvache.
'Well, I hope so! At that price ...'
And the customer, whom everything disappoints, leaves, pushing through the little metal tubes of the skeleton that tinkles on the door. Back in the shop, Monsieur Tuvache shakes his head, uncomfortable. Five o'clock on the dot! In the cuckoo clock, the wrecked headless lime-wood figure of the Grim Reaper, which is still stuck between the doors, splutters as he shakes the blade of his scythe, embedded in a mouldy apple. 'Cuck-!'
Mishima lifts his head and comments: 'That clock's ridiculous now ... And, in any case, nothing here works properly any more.'
The radio switches on: 'Catastrophe! The regional government promises terrorist attacks by our suicide comma-' He switches it off. 'That radio's starting to get on my nerves too.'
'But, darling, you're the one who wanted us to programme it so that it would come on automatically at news time and go off automatically as soon as the songs and variety shows came on. You said that for the custom-'
Lucrèce, sitting anguished at the cash register, chews her lip and wrings her hands in anxiety, because she really wanted to hear the rest of the news to find out what was happening.
Her husband, handsome as a Roman emperor even though he is semi-bald, looks closely at Marilyn at the back of the shop. Wearing her polar fleece glove, she is carelessly flicking through the pages of a women's magazine in the fresh produce section. 'What we're doing isn't honest. My ashamed ancestors must be turning in their graves. And to think that in addition we're now selling comical carnival masks ... This shop used to have quality; now it's looking more and more like a stall selling jokes and novelties.'
'But it's so that people can die of fright ...'
'Yes, yes, Lucrèce! And who exactly is going to die? A heart patient on the way out of hospital? They may impress a susceptible cemetery warden, but apart from that ... You know as well as I do, people buy them from us to amuse everyone at birthday parties.'
'Perhaps they die laughing when they blow out the candles ...'
'Well, of course, you always have to be right, don't you? And also, if you think I haven't seen you, as soon as my back is turned, sorting through the sweets in the light from the window ... I'm certain that there isn't a single poisoned one left in that jar! When I go down to the cellar, I can hear you offering handfuls of them to the children, and wiping their eyes with a handkerchief. I hear you telling them: "It'll be all right, it'll be all right. Now be good and go home to your parents. They must be worrying about you." No, no, everything's falling apart and even you are standing in my way, my poor Lucrèce. And I know when everything started to go wrong! Why, oh why, did we want to test a condom with a hole in it? What's that, sellotaped to the cash register in front of you?'
'A postcard from Alan, which came this morning ...' replies Madame Tuvache nervously.
'Let me see. What picture has he chosen? A hologram of a bomb, good ... Oh, but, of course, he had to draw a smile on it!'
'Oh yes?'
'Hadn't you noticed it, Lucrèce? Before, you would have noticed it ...' continues Mishima, postcard in hand, going down into the cellar towards a sack of cement used for making the drowning or defenestration breeze-blocks. 'Oh, that child; I hope they can sort him out for us ... or that he'll be a martyr.'
Lucrèce, eaten up inside, chews on her fingernails as she gazes far into the distance.