The Suicide Shop / Магазинчик Самоубийств

28

The next morning, Monsieur Tuvache no longer has the strength to get up. His wife tells him not to worry. 'Stay in bed. With the children's help, we'll manage very well. The doctor I've called says that you're having a real nervous breakdown and that you have to rest. I've made an arrangement with Alan's school. He'll miss a few days but it doesn't matter. You know how full of ideas that little chap is.'
'What ideas?'
Mishima attempts to get up: 'I have to mould breeze-blocks, weave ropes, sharpen blades ...'
But his head is spinning and his wife orders: 'Get back into bed! And don't think about it any more. We'll work out how to run the shop without you.'
And off she goes, leaving the door open so that her husband can call. From downstairs in the shop, Monsieur Tuvache hears imagination preparing for an orgy of activity in the bright light of day. Lucrèce and Marilyn come up the stairs.
'There, my dear, take the basket and go and buy three legs of lamb, some oranges and bananas ... and some sugar too! I'm going to prepare it in the old way, and I'll follow Alan's advice as well. It doesn't matter if the lambs didn't commit suicide. It doesn't change the taste. Ernest, would you help me to get rid of all this? So, Vincent, will the first ones be ready soon?'
Mishima detects an odd smell in the air. 'What are you making?'
His wife arrives with a plate, enters the bedroom and answers: 'Crêpes.'
'You mean ... mourning crêpe?'
'Of course not; don't be silly! The sort of crêpes you eat, of course. Look, Vincent pours batter into the frying pan with the ladle. He designs them in the shape of a skull and leaves holes for the eyeballs, the nasal cavities and the spaces between the teeth. And then, see? He pours in the batter crosswise, in the form of two crossed bones, like on pirate flags.'
'Do you serve them dusted with cyanide?'
'Oh, very funny! I think you need to rest now,' says Lucrèce, leaving the room.
They all bustle about, passing each other in the corridor, like butterflies scattering madness at a whirling ball. At lunchtime, orders are shouted out: 'Two portions of lamb - Lucrèce! Three crêpes - Vincent! Marilyn, would you please go and shake the hand of the gentleman downstairs? Crêpes: two with chocolate and one with sugar.'
'Lucrèce!'
'What now?'
Madame Tuvache enters the bedroom again, wiping her hands on an apron. Her husband, who is horribly tense, asks her: 'What is this place turning into? A restaurant?'
'No, you silly thing, because we're going to have music too!'
'Music?! What kind of music?'
'Alan has some friends who play ancient instruments. I think they're called ... guitars. And besides, that boy's remarkable, you know. He cheers up the victims.'
'What victims?'
'The customers.'
'You call our customers victims? But, Lucrèce ...'
'Oh, everything's fine. I don't have time to argue.'
She goes out again leaving him to a melancholy waltz and vertigo; Mishima seems to be looking though a haze of vapour. Sitting in his bed, wearing a kimono jacket with a red X under the solar plexus, he looks like some oriental thinker ... Chaos churns in his mind and heavy mists swim before his eyes.
Alan passes the room and stops. 'How's it going, Dad?'
What large eyes the child has, this friendly healer of human anxieties. His adored schemes in which unknown treasures sparkle. And his fireworks, his outbursts of joy, which bring laughter to the dumb, shadowy skies of the City of Forgotten Religions.
Something escapes from Mishima's throat like a song that has lost its way. The child goes away.
Monsieur Tuvache would like to get up but he gets tangled in the sheets like a fish struggling in the mesh of the net. He can't manage it, and drops his arms onto the bedcovers.
He can feel the metamorphosis, attributes it entirely to Alan. He knows that now everything at the Suicide Shop has been altered by the skilled little alchemist.