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<\/p>\nBy Fernando Sdrigotti.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
I always knew Bruno was going to die and yet it still took me by surprise when it happened. We\u2019d 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\u2019t 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\u2014I can\u2019t remember who any more\u2014 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\u2019s.<\/p>\n
Thing is you only go when you have to go and Bruno didn\u2019t 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
\nthe 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\u2019t get out of attending the funeral, because after all we were best friends at some point in our lives.<\/p>\n
I was last at a funeral down here when my grandfather died. I don\u2019t remember much of it except sitting in a bar in a petrol station with my uncle early one morning. I reckon we didn\u2019t talk that much\u2014we 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\u2014four 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\u2019s quite hot in this place but they don\u2019t give the dead a chance to get used to the idea of being dead and BAM! down the hole they go.<\/p>\n
But better that I could never make it on time\u2014because I can\u2019t make sense of funerals. I can\u2019t 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 \u201cprefer to remember the dead when they were alive\u201d, as some would perhaps say. It\u2019s simply that I don\u2019t need visual or olfactory aids to make the connection. On top of that, the funeral industry has to be the only industry that\u2019s 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\u2014a disposal that if you consider it properly is also a way of getting (someone else) from A to B.<\/p>\n
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\u2019s been since we\u2019ve been together. The memories. All the small talk. The stupid questions about what it\u2019s like to live somewhere else. Perhaps even an envious remark about this. <\/p>\n
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\u2014it entails unsettling a well-established order, after all. But this feels worse because it\u2019s 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. <\/p>\n
\u201cHey,\u201d I say when I finally get to them and we shake hands. \u201cHey,\u201d says Sergio.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou look the same,\u201d says Daniel. I feel I should say the same but he must have put forty kilos on since I last saw him. He\u2019s also bald. <\/p>\n
\u201cIt\u2019s all very different round here now,\u201d I say instead.<\/p>\n
\u201cYes, it\u2019s come up quite a bit,\u201d says Sergio.<\/p>\n
\u201cIt\u2019s all those cycle paths,\u201d says Daniel and I nod even if I don\u2019t understand what he means by it. He realises I don\u2019t. \u201cThey\u2019ve built cycle paths everywhere. Nightmare to drive around here but it\u2019s brought a lot of new people to the area.\u201d <\/p>\n
\u201cI see,\u201d I say but I can\u2019t spot cycle paths anywhere. <\/p>\n
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. <\/p>\n
\u201cI had no clothes for the occasion,\u201d I say, apologising. \u201cHow long are you here for?\u201d asks Sergio.<\/p>\n
\u201cJust ten days,\u201d I say.<\/p>\n
\u201cWell, it\u2019s good that you came,\u201d says Daniel. <\/p>\n
\u201cYes, Bruno will be happy,\u201d says Sergio. When I finish my cigarette we go in.<\/p>\n
\u2020\u2020\u2020<\/strong><\/p>\n The first thing that strikes me when we walk into the funeral parlour is the smell of flowers\u2014it\u2019s overwhelming. Obviously the flowers are here to contain the smell of death. So I guess it\u2019s not really the smell of flowers that overwhelms me but that other smell. There are several rooms in this venue\u2014it\u2019s 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\u2019s a floral arrangement with the name of the deceased\u2014I spot Bruno\u2019s name straight away because of his stupidly long Italian surname. There are a few people I don\u2019t know standing outside\u2014 they all look Italian\u2014they must be relatives. Sergio stops walking and takes both hands to his head. <\/p>\n \u201cWhat\u2019s up?\u201d asks Daniel. <\/p>\n \u201cWe should have brought something, shouldn\u2019t we?\u201d Sergio says. <\/p>\n \u201cLike what?\u201d asks Daniel.<\/p>\n \u201cI don\u2019t know… Flowers… A bottle of wine… Food… Anything.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWe can send some flowers later,\u201d I offer.<\/p>\n \u201cLater when?\u201d asks Sergio.<\/p>\n \u201cTo the burial,\u201d I say.<\/p>\n \u201cThat\u2019s too late,\u201d says Sergio. \u201cWait, there\u2019s a florist a few blocks away from here. I\u2019ll go get some flowers.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cThat\u2019s a good idea,\u201d says Daniel.<\/p>\n \u201cDo you need money?\u201d I ask.<\/p>\n \u201cYes, I do,\u201d says Sergio.<\/p>\n I get my wallet out but I have no clue of how much Argentine money is worth right now. <\/p>\n \u201cIs this enough?\u201d I ask, waving some notes in the air. <\/p>\n \u201cYes, that\u2019s enough,\u201d says Sergio and grabs the notes and rushes towards the door. Daniel looks at me. <\/p>\n \u201cShould we go in?\u201d he asks. <\/p>\n \u201cYes, let\u2019s go in,\u201d I say. \u201cThat was my rent back in 2001 that Sergio took,\u201d I add. <\/p>\n \u201cInflation\u2019s pretty fucked up these days,\u201d Daniel replies. <\/p>\n <\/p>\n We Are but Nothing<\/i><\/b> is available directly from Rough Trade Books<\/a> or in your favourite bookshop.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n ABOUT THE AUTHOR<\/strong> Not that I \u201cprefer to remember the dead when they were alive\u201d, as some would perhaps say. It\u2019s simply that I don\u2019t need visual or olfactory aids to make the connection. On top of that, the funeral industry has to be the only industry that\u2019s 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\u2014a disposal that if you consider it properly is also a way of getting (someone else) from A to B.<\/p>\n Read an exclusive extract from Fernando Sdrigotti<\/strong>‘s new book.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":2,"featured_media":113175,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"ngg_post_thumbnail":0,"footnotes":""},"categories":[5],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-113172","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-fiction"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/113172","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/2"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=113172"}],"version-history":[{"count":11,"href":"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/113172\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":113185,"href":"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/113172\/revisions\/113185"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/113175"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=113172"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=113172"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=113172"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}![\"\"](\"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/wp-content\/uploads\/2023\/04\/IMG_7971-1024x576.jpg\")
<\/p>\n
\nFernando Sdrigotti<\/a> 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<\/i> (Open Pen, 2018), Grey Tropic<\/i> (Dostoyevsky Wannabe, 2019) and Jolts<\/i> (Influx Press, 2020). He lives in London. You can follow him on the dying bird app<\/a> and Substack<\/a>.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"