29
'The door!'
Mishima has ordered that the bedroom door be kept shut. In bed, he switches on his TV (3D - with integral sensations) in time for the evening news. He presses one of the many buttons on a remote control.
A female presenter materialises in the room. At first as translucent as a veil, she becomes progressively clearer.
'Good evening. Here is the news.'
She announces nothing but ultra-pessimistic shit. At least there's one person who doesn't disappoint Mishima.
She looks real; seated there on a chair with her arms folded, you would think she was actually in the room. By leaning to right or left, you can see her in profile. Mishima can smell her perfume, which he finds too heady. He diminishes its intensity with the use of his remote control.
The presenter crosses her long, attractive legs. Monsieur Tuvache is not so keen on the colour of her skirt. He swaps its colours round by pressing on the zapper. He clicks a cursor to bring the chair closer to him. The presenter is now by the pillows, as though she is seated at the bedside of a sick man. If Monsieur Tuvache stretches out his hand he can touch her, feel the fabric of her skirt, which he can push up above her delicate-skinned knees. While she is talking, he could also unbutton her blouse if he wanted, but he's not in the mood for that. He listens to her.
Relaxed, leaning forward and with one elbow on her thigh, she whispers the news to him in the manner of an intimate conversation. Gone is the declamatory, solemn tone of the television of yesteryear. The presenter's low, slightly tired Italian voice is beautiful:
'This morning, in the Siberian province, the dictator of the universe, Madame Indira Tu-Ka-Ta, opened a vast complex of eight hundred thousand chimneys six hundred metres tall, which will - we hope - repair the ozone layer round our planet. But I don't believe it,' the presenter says.
Mishima shares her opinion.
'All the experts think that this decision ought to have been taken as early as the twenty-first century,' she goes on, 'and that it's now much too late. Madame President is, however, convinced ...'
'Of course,' says Mishima.
'... as she declared in her inaugural speech. And now, watch out, it will feel as if we are in the middle of this vast territory dotted with ozone chimneys. It is very cold there. Cover yourselves up.'
Mishima's bed is suddenly right in the middle of Siberia. He feels the icy wind, pulls up the covers, sniffs the damp, frozen peat. And, everywhere, very tall chimneys are blowing ozone into the sky. The smell of this gas pricks his eyes a little. Monsieur Tuvache reaches one hand out of bed and touches the ground. It's a long time since he's felt the texture of grass that, when you stretch it, cuts into your fingers a little. He looks at his hand, which shows no sign of injury.
Suddenly Siberia leaves the bedroom. The presenter reappears on her chair. Blonde Marilyn enters, wearing a rippling Spanish gown. She is even more beautiful than the woman on the TV. Her cemetery warden is with her: 'Good evening, Father.'
Monsieur Tuvache's daughter walks through the light that constitutes the presenter. 'It smells like a perfume factory in here,' she says, sitting down on her father's bed.
He turns off the TV. Click!
'Father, look at the beautiful bouquet Ernest gave me. He picked flowers from the tombs while he thought of me. Ah, l'amour, as the French would say.'
'La mort?'
'L'a-mour... Oh dear, you're not cured at all! You'd feel much better downstairs in the shop with us. You'd soak up the atmosphere with the garlands and the Chinese lanterns - that would put you back on your feet. Do you want me to bring you a pancake?'
'Only if it's stuffed with poisonous mushrooms ...'
'Oh, Father, you old devil. Look, I'll leave my bunch of flowers from the cemetery on your bedside table. Don't wait for Mother before you go to sleep, because she'll be coming to bed late. Tonight we're going to live it up in the fresh produce section.'
'Live it up?'