The Suicide Shop by Jean TEULE Page B

are really terrible.’
    ‘Shh.’
    Mishima and Lucrèce, standing side by side by the razorblade rack with arms folded, silently observe their son, who is attempting to flog a mask to this customer, of whom they can see nothing but her waist less back, and her fat bottom, and her legs like fence-posts. They have a glimpse of the ugly features of her inelegant face reflected in the mirror of the white mask as Alan holds it out in front of her.
    ‘Smile. What’s happening to you is normal. I’ve often heard people here say that they began by not being able to look at themselves in shop windows any more, then that they tear up the photos of themselves. Smile, people are looking at you!’
    ‘I’m covered in spots.’
    ‘Anxiety spots … When you are more relaxed, they will go away.’
    ‘My colleagues think I’m stupid.’
    ‘That’s because you lack confidence in yourself. And that makes you awkward, makes you say the wrong things at the wrong time. But if you gradually reconcile yourself with the reflection in this mask and learn to love it … Look at her, this person in front of you. Look at her. Don’t be ashamed of her. If you met her in the street, would you want to kill her? What has she done to be hated so much? What is she guilty of? Why isn’t she loved? If you start to feel friendly towards this woman yourself, maybe others will follow suit!’
    ‘Good grief, all that for a hundred euro-yen mask! I must admit he has a good sales pitch though, and he really puts his back into selling,’ says Mishima appreciatively.
    The disconcerted young woman looks to right and left.
    ‘Have I made a mistake? I am in the Suicide Shop, aren’t I?’
    ‘Oh, forget it, forget that word; it doesn’t lead anywhere.’
    ‘Why is he saying that?’ demands Alan’s father, frowning.
    ‘Life is the way it is. It’s worth what it’s worth! It does its best, within its limitations. We mustn’t ask too much of life, either. Nor should we want to suppress it! It’s best to look on the bright side. So leave the rope and the disposable revolver here. The way you are at the moment, stressed out and in a panic, you’ll fire into the slip-knot. Anything could happen. You’ll fall off the stool and break your knee. You don’t have pain in your knee, do you?’
    ‘I have pain everywhere.’
    ‘Yes, but in your knee?’
    ‘No, fortu—’
    ‘Well, so much the better! Carry on like that. And may your knee make efforts to carry you back to your tower, with this woman’s face on the mask. If you don’t do it for me, do it for her. What’s her name?’
    The customer opens her eyes and looks at the mirror. ‘Noémie Ben Sala-Darjeeling.’
    ‘That’s a pretty first name, Noémie … Lovely Noémie. You’ll see; she’s nice. Take her mask home with you. Smile at her, she’ll smile at you. Take care of her, she needs affection. Wash her, dress her in nice clothes, put a little scent on her so that she feels more at home in her skin. Try to accept her. She will become your friend, your confidante, and you will become inseparable. How you will laugh together! And all that for a hundred euro-yens. It’s really not expensive. Go on, I’ll wrap her up. I’ll entrust her to you. Take the greatest care of her. She deserves it.’
    At the sound of the till opening, Mishima laments: ‘He could at least have billed her for the rope and the revolver as well …’

    ‘Come on, choose a sweet from the jar,’ smiles Alan.
    ‘Oh, aren’t they …?’ asks the customer.
    ‘Oh no! Off you go. Goodbye, lady who doesn’t even have pain in her knee!’

26
     
     
    When Lucrèce looks straight ahead, her fingers linked on the top of her head, her bent arms make the shape of an eye, with her head as the pupil. On either side of her ears, inside the space left by her arms, the wall behind her gleams like the white of the eye. Madame Tuvache becomes one large fixed eye atop a woman’s torso.
    ‘See you again, sir.’
    Alan, who