The Suicide Shop (2 page)

‘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
is
kind! 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 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
was
your 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, do 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.’

‘Lucrèce! Can you come here!’

Madame Tuvache appears, opening a door under the stairs at the back of the shop. She is wearing a gas mask, which covers her face and neck. The circular goggles over her eyes and the bulky filtration cartridge in front of her mouth make her look like an angry fly.

Dressed in a white overall, she takes off her latex surgical gloves and joins her husband, who has called her over to explain the needs of one of their customers.

‘The lady would like something feminine.’

‘Won-won-won, won-won-won!’ buzzes Madame Tuvache’s fly face. Then she realises she is still wearing her protective gear, unfastens the head straps and continues, gas mask in hand: ‘Ah, something feminine, well, that has to be poison! It’s the most feminine thing there is. In fact, I was just preparing some in the scullery.’

She unbuttons her overall too, and places her paraphernalia on the counter, next to the cash register.

‘Poison … Now, what do I have to offer you? Would you prefer a contact poison – one touch and you’re dead – one you inhale or one you ingest?’

‘Er …’ says the lady, who wasn’t expecting this question. ‘Which is the best?’

‘Contact poison, it’s very fast!’ explains Lucrèce. ‘We have blue eel acid, poison from the golden frog, night star, elven curse, deadly gel, grey horror, fainting oil, catfish poison … Not everything is here, though. Certain items are in the fresh produce section,’ she says, pointing to a unit exhibiting a large quantity of phials.

‘What about the poison you inhale? What’s that like?’

‘It’s quite simple. You unscrew the top and breathe in the contents of the bottle. It could be spider venom, hanged man’s breath, yellow cloud, evil-eye toxin, desert breath …’

‘Oh, I don’t know what to choose. You’re having to go to a lot of trouble.’

‘Not at all,’ replies Madame Tuvache understandingly. ‘It’s perfectly normal to be undecided. If that’s not for you, if you prefer something to swallow, we have vertigo honey, which reddens the skin, of course, because you start to sweat blood.’

The customer frowns.

‘Briefly, why do you want to end it all?’ Lucrèce asks her.

‘I’ve been inconsolable ever since the death of someone I was close to. I think about him all the time. And that’s why I’ve come here to buy something; I can’t think of any other way to forget him.’

‘I see. Well, I would recommend strychnine. It’s extract of nux vomica. As soon as you swallow it, it makes you lose your memory. That way, you’ll have no more suffering or regret. Then paralysis develops and you suffocate to death without remembering a thing. That one’s spot on for you.’

‘Nux vomica …’ repeats the bereaved lady, rubbing her tired eyes with her palms.

‘But, if you prefer to grieve one last time,’ ventures Lucrèce, ‘you can also make your own poison. Many women like the idea of mulling over their pain as they prepare for death. For example, digitalis: you crush up some foxglove petals in a mortar, which we have in the fresh produce section. You know, they’re those clusters of flowers shaped like drooping fingers, the ones that resemble the limp hands of people overcome by grief. When you’ve obtained a fine powder, mix it with water and boil it. Then let it cool – that will give you time to blow your nose and write a letter explaining what you’ve done – then filter the solution. Put it on to boil again until the liquid has evaporated. This will produce a white, crystalline salt, which you swallow. The advantage is that it’s not expensive: two fifty a bunch! We’ve also got
Strychnos
branches for extracting curare, black holly berries for theobromine …’

Intoxicated by this succession of possibilities, the customer no longer knows what to think. ‘What would
you
take?’

‘Me? I’ve no idea,’ replies Lucrèce regretfully. And the look in her beautiful, solemn eyes becomes fixed, as if she were gazing far ahead of her. It’s as if she’s no longer in the shop. ‘We’re depressed too, and we’d have plenty of reasons to end it all, but we can’t sample our own products or the last one of us to try them would have to pull down the steel shutters pretty fast. And then what would our customers do?’

Madame Tuvache seems to come back to earth. ‘What I do know is that cyanide dries out the tongue and creates an unpleasant sensation. So, when I prepare it, I add mint leaves to refresh the mouth … Those are the extras our business offers. Alternatively, we also have the cocktail of the day! What did I make this morning?’

She goes back to the slate hanging on the window catch. On it is written, in chalk:
SANDMAN
.

‘Oh yes, Sandman! Why didn’t I think of it before? I’m so scatterbrained at the moment. Madame, you couldn’t decide between poisons for contact, inhalation or ingestion. Well, this is a mixture of all three: belladonna, deadly gel and desert breath. So, whichever option you should choose at the last moment, whether you swallow the cocktail, touch it or breathe it in, the game will be up!’

‘Right, well, I’ll take that one,’ the customer decides.

‘You won’t regret it. Oh! I’m so stupid, I was about to say: “You can tell me how you get on with it.” It’s that child who’s driving me mad!’ grumbles Lucrèce, pointing her chin at Alan, who’s standing in front of the rope display with his feet together and his hands on his head. ‘Do you have children, Madame?’

‘I did have one, actually … One day he came here to buy a bullet for a .22 long rifle.’

‘Oh.’

‘He saw everything in black. I could never make him happy.’

‘Well, we certainly can’t say the same about our youngest …’ laments Madame Tuvache. ‘He sees everything in shades of pink – can you imagine? As if there was any reason for such a thing! I don’t know how he does it. And yet I can assure you that we brought him up exactly the same way as the other two, who are depressives just as he should be, but
he
only ever notices the bright side of things,’ sighs Lucrèce, raising a hand that trembles with indignation. ‘We force him to watch the TV news to try and demoralise him, but if a plane carrying two hundred and fifty passengers crashes and there are two hundred and forty-seven fatalities, he only remembers the number of survivors!’ She imitates him: ‘“Oh, Mother, how lovely life is! Three people fell out of the sky and they weren’t hurt at all.” My husband and I have pretty much given up. I can assure you that there are times when we would gladly take some Sandman if we didn’t have to take care of the shop.’

Intrigued, the customer approaches Alan. ‘He’s in the corner …?’

The said Alan turns his curly blond head towards her. A broad piece of sticking plaster hermetically seals the child’s mouth. On the pink plaster, in felt-tip pen, someone has drawn an evil sneer and a tongue sticking out, with the corners of the mouth sloping downwards – making him look like an extremely bad sort.

While wrapping up the phial of Sandman, his mother explains to the lady: ‘It was his big brother, Vincent, who drew the grimace. Personally, I wasn’t terribly keen for him to draw it with the tongue sticking out, but it’s still better than continually hearing him laughing out loud about how wonderful life is.’

The customer examines the sticking plaster. From the shape of the Elastoplast as it sticks to the lips, it is quite clear that underneath the grimacing lines, the child is smiling. Lucrèce hands the carrier bag to the lady. ‘He’s being punished. At school, he was asked who suicides were, and he answered: “People being sued.”’