drape to put the record back on. From
beside the record player she got her coat and hat.
‘Ralph!’
she called to the back of the store. ‘Ralph, I gotta go out and get cookies for
the builders.’
A
surprisingly loud voice boomed from the back. ‘They want cookies they should
build a bakery.’
‘You
got customers.’ Mrs Torchinsky put on her coat. ‘For a dog.’
‘A dog
I can do,’ yelled the voice. ‘A dog would be good. Bite the goddamn builders in
the ass. Are you people never going to be finished?’
The
question was answered by more banging. Mrs Torchinsky buttoned her coat.
‘My
husband will see to you.’ She turned to go, then turned back. ‘I’m sorry for
your loss. May the dog rest in peace.’ It was very professional. She smiled,
pleased with herself It was fascinating. It made her moustache spread sideways.
She left. I waited for a moment until Ralph Torchinsky appeared. He looked like
an undertaker. He was dressed like an undertaker. He just didn’t talk like one.
But the surface picture was great. In his late fifties, he was kind of
spooky-looking. He had a slight deformity on his back and you couldn’t tell if
it was just a stoop or an actual hump. It pushed his bald head down, as if he
spent all his time making sure clients stayed below in their graves. He wore
fantastically thick spectacles with glass you could have cut from a whiskey
tumbler. Maybe he couldn’t see into the graves at all. Maybe the stoop and the
bad eyes had developed from years of trying to look sympathetic and efficient
at the same time, or maybe he had always had it, I don’t know. He wore grey
striped pants and a tailcoat with an old-fashioned wing—collar shirt. Over the
top of his funereal outfit he had a white lab coat. I wished I hadn’t come.
Maybe he was in the middle of cleaning up some dead person. I was sure I could
detect the waft of something chemical about him. Anyway, he looked the part of
a funeral man but the voice was bad casting. It was much too loud.
‘So you
lost your dog?’ he bellowed. ‘What kind of dog was it?’
‘It
wasn’t actually my…’
‘I hate
this music,’ announced Mr Torchinsky loudly. ‘Why can’t we play anything else?
Forty years I’ve been listening to goddamn organ music. In all those years I
never figured out why people want you to be so goddamn quiet in funeral parlours.
It’s not as though you could wake any of the clients. Band music. That would
cheer people up. I love band music. Sousa. There was a man. Come.’
He
gestured to the curtained arch which led through to the back of the store. I
had suddenly lost my nerve. Seeing a dog dead had been enough. I mean, it had
actually been quite interesting but I didn’t want to graduate to the real
thing. You know, people.
‘Mr Torchinsky…
it’s not even my dog and the thing is…’
‘Come,’
he repeated and disappeared out back. I had too many English manners not to do
as I was told. Through the cloth arch there was a corridor with several closed
doors. Here the dead no doubt lurked, with fixed grins on their lips and
formaldehyde up their noses. At the end of the corridor, double doors led into a
large room where two workmen were sitting drinking root beer. There were bits
of wood and sawdust everywhere.
‘Please
God no one should die before you finish your goddamn soda,’ yelled Mr Torchinsky
as we passed by and out a door at the back. The place wasn’t what I had
expected. Behind the dark store there lay a large open lawn. Beyond it was a
substantial glasshouse which stood like a relic of some Victorian era. Mr Torchinsky
hurried over the lawn and opened the door. I was right behind him. Heat rose up
and hit us as we entered. It was a remarkable place. Far removed from death, it
was awash with life. To say that the place contained birds does not begin to do
justice to the collection in the interior. It was a Santa’s grotto for the ornithologically
inclined. There were birds everywhere.
beside the record player she got her coat and hat.
‘Ralph!’
she called to the back of the store. ‘Ralph, I gotta go out and get cookies for
the builders.’
A
surprisingly loud voice boomed from the back. ‘They want cookies they should
build a bakery.’
‘You
got customers.’ Mrs Torchinsky put on her coat. ‘For a dog.’
‘A dog
I can do,’ yelled the voice. ‘A dog would be good. Bite the goddamn builders in
the ass. Are you people never going to be finished?’
The
question was answered by more banging. Mrs Torchinsky buttoned her coat.
‘My
husband will see to you.’ She turned to go, then turned back. ‘I’m sorry for
your loss. May the dog rest in peace.’ It was very professional. She smiled,
pleased with herself It was fascinating. It made her moustache spread sideways.
She left. I waited for a moment until Ralph Torchinsky appeared. He looked like
an undertaker. He was dressed like an undertaker. He just didn’t talk like one.
But the surface picture was great. In his late fifties, he was kind of
spooky-looking. He had a slight deformity on his back and you couldn’t tell if
it was just a stoop or an actual hump. It pushed his bald head down, as if he
spent all his time making sure clients stayed below in their graves. He wore
fantastically thick spectacles with glass you could have cut from a whiskey
tumbler. Maybe he couldn’t see into the graves at all. Maybe the stoop and the
bad eyes had developed from years of trying to look sympathetic and efficient
at the same time, or maybe he had always had it, I don’t know. He wore grey
striped pants and a tailcoat with an old-fashioned wing—collar shirt. Over the
top of his funereal outfit he had a white lab coat. I wished I hadn’t come.
Maybe he was in the middle of cleaning up some dead person. I was sure I could
detect the waft of something chemical about him. Anyway, he looked the part of
a funeral man but the voice was bad casting. It was much too loud.
‘So you
lost your dog?’ he bellowed. ‘What kind of dog was it?’
‘It
wasn’t actually my…’
‘I hate
this music,’ announced Mr Torchinsky loudly. ‘Why can’t we play anything else?
Forty years I’ve been listening to goddamn organ music. In all those years I
never figured out why people want you to be so goddamn quiet in funeral parlours.
It’s not as though you could wake any of the clients. Band music. That would
cheer people up. I love band music. Sousa. There was a man. Come.’
He
gestured to the curtained arch which led through to the back of the store. I
had suddenly lost my nerve. Seeing a dog dead had been enough. I mean, it had
actually been quite interesting but I didn’t want to graduate to the real
thing. You know, people.
‘Mr Torchinsky…
it’s not even my dog and the thing is…’
‘Come,’
he repeated and disappeared out back. I had too many English manners not to do
as I was told. Through the cloth arch there was a corridor with several closed
doors. Here the dead no doubt lurked, with fixed grins on their lips and
formaldehyde up their noses. At the end of the corridor, double doors led into a
large room where two workmen were sitting drinking root beer. There were bits
of wood and sawdust everywhere.
‘Please
God no one should die before you finish your goddamn soda,’ yelled Mr Torchinsky
as we passed by and out a door at the back. The place wasn’t what I had
expected. Behind the dark store there lay a large open lawn. Beyond it was a
substantial glasshouse which stood like a relic of some Victorian era. Mr Torchinsky
hurried over the lawn and opened the door. I was right behind him. Heat rose up
and hit us as we entered. It was a remarkable place. Far removed from death, it
was awash with life. To say that the place contained birds does not begin to do
justice to the collection in the interior. It was a Santa’s grotto for the ornithologically
inclined. There were birds everywhere.
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