Corpses for Sale
“And are you planning to carry on working in the burial services industry?” I ask him, while staring at the floor as if it was the most interesting thing about the situation. Since I arrived, Mr Murphy hasn’t stopped telling me about the dozens of aspects of his job of which I was previously totally ignorant, and describing them to me in the smallest detail. This place is totally, totally surreal – an old building full of latex heads that seem to be staring at me out of their glass eyes as though they were on the verge of asking me if I’m interested in buying burial recess 4B. The atmosphere isn’t really doing much for my concentration, especially since I’ve had to eliminate coffee from my diet, and I can remember so little about all the macabre details he’s been describing to me that I’m just as ignorant now as I was at the beginning.
“My father was a gravedigger, and he started out by helping his father, who was a gravedigger too, just like his father. And my grandfather, who worked in the funeral field for over thirty years, learned the job from his father, who was…”
“A gravedigger,” I prompt him, hoping to finish this interview as quickly as possible.
“No, actually, he was a baker,” he corrects me with an annoyed sniff. “But the back room of his store was very large, and that winter was freezing,” he remembers with a timid smile, as though trying to justify his family’s change in direction.
“And who could blame him?” I comment.
“That casual decision was a very lucky one for we Murphys, as the business never stopped growing. We are one of the leaders in the field now, and we’ve been successfully using the most innovative techniques in thanatopraxy for years.”
“Do people ever ask you to… to…” I stutter trying to find the most appropriate words, while having a hard time not staring at a mummy with the best ash-blonde highlights I’ve ever seen. “Sorry, as I was saying – do people often ask you to slightly modify the skin pigmentation of the corpse before the funeral ceremony?”
“Of course, that’s one of the most requested extra services,” he explains proudly.
“Oh, so that’s an ‘extra service’?”
“Sure it is, just like theatrical representations, costumes, commemorative films, photo albums with the dead, and much more,” he says, and then looks at me with an almost threatening expression and asks, “Didn’t you read our brochure before coming here?”
“Err… it must have slipped my mind.”
“How is that possible?” he replies furiously, clapping his hands to summon over a young guy who is sitting half asleep in the corner. “Milo! Milo! Bring us the special offers brochures! Now!” The boy immediately goes to fetch them from a cabinet at the entrance as I stand there watching, paralysed, still holding my recorder and with the most astonished expression I’m capable of on my face. “You can’t not mention our latest offers,” Mr Murphy resumes, and without waiting for me to reply, he pushes me towards his office. In the room, which is a sort of storage closet with no window, I see a creepy display case full of ceramic vases. “We offer our clients many deferred payment options, allowing them to choose from among the best funerary packages,” he explains. “For example, they can get small loans to buy the most beautiful floral compositions available locally. We were even awarded a prize last year for using gardenias in our funeral cushions.” At that point he looks at me and says: “Since you’re already, ahem, over thirty…”
Thirty what? Thirty pounds? Or does he actually mean thirty years? Great, we have someone for 4B over here!
“You don’t do any sport, your diet is unhealthy and you probably drink too,” he says, accurately describing my life in detail just by looking at me. “I’d say we could plan your payment instalments for the next twenty or twenty-five years, if we exclude the management expenses, which are always paid in advance. That’s our policy,” he explains with a wide smile.
“I see, and I’m very grateful for your offer, but I’ve actually just received some news that might mean I’ll be committing suicide in the next couple of months, so you can understand why I can’t accept.” I slowly try to back out through the emergency exit. “I mean, I may not have enough time to fulfil the whole payment…”
“Well, you could ask someone to be your guarantor.”
“I wouldn’t really know who to ask…”
“You could also consider our new special offer: two corpses for one – together for eternity. It’s become very fashionable among couples lately.”
“That sounds very romantic, but unfortunately…” Great! I’m going to be a spinster even in my tomb! Suddenly my phone starts ringing. “Oh, excuse me, I need to take this call,” I say, glad I’ve finally found an excuse to get out of there. “But I think I have enough information and all the material I need to write the article. I’ll let you know when it’s going to be published, okay?” I say, while walking quickly towards the door, bag in hand.
“What about the pictures?”
“I’m sure Luke has taken all the photographs he needed to – right, Luke?” I say, peering around for the photographer only to find him staring blankly at a wax model of a group of dead people dressed up as punks. He nods rapidly in agreement and starts gathering up all his equipment as fast as he can. He manages to be the first out of the door while I’m still trying to untangle my earbuds. Finally, I manage to put one of them in my ear.
“Err… hello?” I answer just as they are about to hang up. “Hello?” I repeat louder, while I open the door of Luke’s station wagon, thus avoiding having Mr Murphy tell me everything about the special offers on mahogany coffins.
“Sam? Can you hear me?”
It’s Dave.
“Hey – yes, I hear you, what’s up?” I’m so anxious that I can barely breathe. It’s the first time I’ve heard from him since he asked me to help him. I’ve glimpsed him walking through the corridors of The Chronicle a couple of times, but he’s always been too busy to talk to me.
“Is this a bad time?”
“No, I just finished interviewing Mr Murphy, and now I’m heading back to the office.”
“I see. Did the interview go well?”
“Sure, it was very… interesting,” I reply.
“Right. Listen,” says Dave, changing the subject and clearly not interested in my sensational discoveries about the business successes of Murphy & Son. “The article about that musician who specialises in funeral songs, what was his name… Oxy… Ozzy…? Anyway, that’s been cancelled. Do you remember his name?”
“No, I don’t have a clue, sorry.”
He babbles something that I don’t understand, and then resumes talking clearly. “Anyway, the guy took off to Libya before Margaret could talk to him. He apparently heard that they found some ancient instrument or something… So there’s some space to fill for next Friday, and Tom suggested we could put a short piece in about that pageant.”
“Do you mean Beautiful Curvy?”
“Yes, the Curvy thing. Are you still interested in it, by any chance? You’d only need to gather some information about it to fill up the Culture and Events page. I can’t wait until tonight’s meeting, I need an answer from you right now and I can’t find Margaret anywhere. So what do you say? Will you do it?”
“Will I do it? Of course I’ll do it! That would be great, really. I can hardly believe it…” I babble. Can you believe it? Me, finally having the chance to write a whole article! It’s not going to be on the front page, of course, and it’s nothing important, I know, but it will have my name on it! For the first time my name will be printed in The Chronicle! And who cares if it’s not on the Foreign News page?
“No! I need it by tonight!” I hear him shouting at someone in his office before he asks me, “What did you say? Sorry, but I’m dealing with Jessie and Albert at the moment and I don’t have much time. So will you take care of it?” I guess he didn’t hear a word of my ridiculous rambling speech.
“Sure, no problem.” Now that I’ve digested my bewilderment, I can feign a bit of professionalism and answer calmly, as though it was no big deal.
“Good,” he replies tersely. “It’s five now – can you be there by nine?”
“There where?” I reply, with no idea what he’s talking about.
“What do you mean ‘where’? At the Ritz.”
“To do what?”
“Sam…” He breathes noisily. “Tonight they’re selecting the jury for the contest. The TV will be there. I thought you knew about it!”
“Err… I thought we weren’t going to be covering the event any more, so I’d stopped keeping up to date with Beautiful Curvy news,” I explain, mortified.
“Whatever,” he says. “I don’t really have time to discuss it with you right now, you’ll have to gather the information you need by yourself. Do you think you can manage that?”
“Give me twenty minutes and I will know everything there is to know about the pageant and tonight’s event. Don’t worry, I can handle it. And I’ll be there by nine.”
“Are you sure?”
“Absolutely!”
“Ok…” he mumbles thoughtfully. “I’ll have someone deliver your press pass to the door.”
“Thanks, I’ll write you a great article,” I say, letting my enthusiasm get the better of me, only to meet the usual wall of indifference from him.
“Great, but don’t go crazy. A couple of comments from the guests and a summary of the event will be fine. I don’t think you’ll be able to meet Adam Graham in person, but if you get the chance, get a couple of quotes from the judges. They’ll definitely be easier to reach than the organiser of the event himself.”
I shouldn’t let it get me down because I know these things are unimportant to him, but this is a huge opportunity for me. And on the other hand, I can’t really sulk with my boss just because he’s not as passionate about curvy models as I am. I decide to take a deep breath and count to ten, and then answer him. “Whatever you say – it’ll be ready by tomorrow anyway.”
“Ok, let me know.”
“Sure,” I say. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow, Dave.”
“Huh? Yeah, sure… bye, Sam.”