By Fernando Sdrigotti.
I always knew Bruno was going to die and yet it still took me by surprise when it happened. We’d been told about it decades ago, when his older brother passed away and Bruno missed a few days of school. I mean, the teacher didn’t say that Bruno was also going to kick the bucket but she did mention a congenital disease, asked for compassion or understanding or something equally Catholic. Then someone in our class—I can’t remember who any more— spoke to his father, a doctor, and then we all knew Bruno was also doomed, because eventually his lungs would give out too, just like his brother’s.
Thing is you only go when you have to go and Bruno didn’t die until he was in his forties, when everyone had forgotten about his condition. I had even forgotten he existed but at least I had
the excuse of having spent fifteen years living somewhere else. And I only remembered Bruno when Sergio messaged to tell me about his death. Unfortunately the event coincided with me being back home for the first time in five years and I couldn’t get out of attending the funeral, because after all we were best friends at some point in our lives.
I was last at a funeral down here when my grandfather died. I don’t remember much of it except sitting in a bar in a petrol station with my uncle early one morning. I reckon we didn’t talk that much—we never had much to say to each other. Most likely we just sat there in silence, smoking and sipping weak espresso, keeping each other company, running away from the rest of the family for a bit. Soon after this I left the country—four days later, to be precise. And when some of my other relatives died (including that uncle) I was already living in London and they bury people so quickly in Argentina that I never managed to make it on time before they were six feet under. Such a rush. I know it’s quite hot in this place but they don’t give the dead a chance to get used to the idea of being dead and BAM! down the hole they go.
But better that I could never make it on time—because I can’t make sense of funerals. I can’t understand the need to see the dead stuffed in a coffin, exhibited like a cake, greying and already starting to smell, in order to make the connection between that body and its unavoidable disappearance. Not that I “prefer to remember the dead when they were alive”, as some would perhaps say. It’s simply that I don’t need visual or olfactory aids to make the connection. On top of that, the funeral industry has to be the only industry that’s worse than airlines. They are equally exploitative and usurious, only that instead of banking on our need to get from A to B they exploit our inability to get rid of bodies effectively and independently—a disposal that if you consider it properly is also a way of getting (someone else) from A to B.
I ponder all of this while the taxi is getting close to the funeral parlour. I ask the driver to stop in the previous block, in order to have more time to myself before making my big entrance. I anticipate the greetings and all the comments observing how long it’s been since we’ve been together. The memories. All the small talk. The stupid questions about what it’s like to live somewhere else. Perhaps even an envious remark about this.
I pay for the cab, get out and light a cigarette and walk slowly while I smoke looking around, failing to recognise anything in this area I used to frequent so much. Everything feels terribly wrong. In a way being back always feels terribly wrong—it entails unsettling a well-established order, after all. But this feels worse because it’s a return to a place I no longer recognise, on top of the funeral. As I reach the parlour I can see Sergio and Daniel standing outside; they spot me too and smile.
“Hey,” I say when I finally get to them and we shake hands. “Hey,” says Sergio.
“You look the same,” says Daniel. I feel I should say the same but he must have put forty kilos on since I last saw him. He’s also bald.
“It’s all very different round here now,” I say instead.
“Yes, it’s come up quite a bit,” says Sergio.
“It’s all those cycle paths,” says Daniel and I nod even if I don’t understand what he means by it. He realises I don’t. “They’ve built cycle paths everywhere. Nightmare to drive around here but it’s brought a lot of new people to the area.”
“I see,” I say but I can’t spot cycle paths anywhere.
Sergio and Daniel are both dressed in suits. The best I could manage is an olive green shirt and a pair of grey trousers and black trainers.
“I had no clothes for the occasion,” I say, apologising. “How long are you here for?” asks Sergio.
“Just ten days,” I say.
“Well, it’s good that you came,” says Daniel.
“Yes, Bruno will be happy,” says Sergio. When I finish my cigarette we go in.
†††
The first thing that strikes me when we walk into the funeral parlour is the smell of flowers—it’s overwhelming. Obviously the flowers are here to contain the smell of death. So I guess it’s not really the smell of flowers that overwhelms me but that other smell. There are several rooms in this venue—it’s a bit like a multiplex cinema, only that instead of different screens for different films there are different rooms for different corpses. Next to every door there’s a floral arrangement with the name of the deceased—I spot Bruno’s name straight away because of his stupidly long Italian surname. There are a few people I don’t know standing outside— they all look Italian—they must be relatives. Sergio stops walking and takes both hands to his head.
“What’s up?” asks Daniel.
“We should have brought something, shouldn’t we?” Sergio says.
“Like what?” asks Daniel.
“I don’t know… Flowers… A bottle of wine… Food… Anything.”
“We can send some flowers later,” I offer.
“Later when?” asks Sergio.
“To the burial,” I say.
“That’s too late,” says Sergio. “Wait, there’s a florist a few blocks away from here. I’ll go get some flowers.”
“That’s a good idea,” says Daniel.
“Do you need money?” I ask.
“Yes, I do,” says Sergio.
I get my wallet out but I have no clue of how much Argentine money is worth right now.
“Is this enough?” I ask, waving some notes in the air.
“Yes, that’s enough,” says Sergio and grabs the notes and rushes towards the door. Daniel looks at me.
“Should we go in?” he asks.
“Yes, let’s go in,” I say. “That was my rent back in 2001 that Sergio took,” I add.
“Inflation’s pretty fucked up these days,” Daniel replies.
We Are but Nothing is available directly from Rough Trade Books or in your favourite bookshop.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Fernando Sdrigotti was born in Rosario, Argentina in 1977. His fiction and critical writing has appeared widely online and in print, and has been translated into French, Italian, Turkish, Norwegian, Arabic, Bosnian and Spanish. He is the author of several books, including Shitstorm (Open Pen, 2018), Grey Tropic (Dostoyevsky Wannabe, 2019) and Jolts (Influx Press, 2020). He lives in London. You can follow him on the dying bird app and Substack.
