A Gentleman’s Agreement

It was a warm summer day. Sunbeams tickled the faces of passersby like invisible feathers. Two pairs of men’s feet marched rhythmically along an asphalt path edged with newly laid curbstones. Their shoes, polished to a mirror shine, reflected now a flash of sunlight, now the travelers’ own animated faces, now the featureless outlines of people hurrying toward them, their vacant stares suggesting zombies.

The men approached a dismal building that looked even darker and gloomier in the bright sunlight than it really was. Equally dejected people crowded around it. In fact, its visitors seemed to do nothing but gather in little clusters and deliver doleful speeches to an accompaniment of sniffling and sobbing. They were at their customary business even now, oblivious to the loveliness of the day.

Meanwhile, the two men in gleaming shoes confidently crossed the threshold and headed down a long corridor toward the elevator. One of them—the one in dark glasses—began briskly whistling a cheerful, life-affirming tune. His peculiar behavior was neither a protest nor a challenge to society; it was more a gesture of desperation, an attempt to shut out an oppressive reality with… something that was its opposite.

These spirited trills might have delighted even the most discerning connoisseur of artistic whistling, but they nevertheless clashed with the deathly silence reigning all around. Even the few people coming the other way walked softly, almost soundlessly, and tried not to speak; if they did exchange a word or two, they whispered.

The whistler’s companion turned his head and glared at the disturber of the peace. The man ignored his piercing look. Having failed to elicit the slightest response, the guardian of propriety stopped short. His companion came to a halt after him, like an obedient dog on a tight leash.

“Stop that! You’ll whistle all our money away! Besides, show at least a little respect for the inhabitants of this pious establishment!” the moralist ordered irritably.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to offend anyone. My nerves must be getting to me. It’s not every day I visit a place like this. It’s so gloomy in here…” the whistling enthusiast said in his defense.

“You know, there are times in life when you need to adapt to your circumstances instead of adapting them to suit yourself. Don’t you think this is one of those times?”

“I admit it: my attempt to lift the mood was a failure.”

“And I hope I’ve finished ruining yours?”

“Yes, everything’s fine now. As you can see, I’m standing here with a sour face, in perfect harmony with my surroundings,” the wit said softly, arranging his features into a mournful grimace.

“Excellent. Hold that feeling, and let’s move on.”

They turned a corner, walked to the end of the hall, and boarded the elevator. After descending to the basement and walking another few yards through the gloom of a narrow corridor, they found themselves in a spacious room flooded with bright, cold light. It was damp and chilly. Enormous racks with sliding shelves projected from the wall opposite the entrance. On the whole, the room resembled a wine cellar, though what it stored was by no means bottles of fine vintage.

At the door, the visitors were met by a short, lively, middle-aged man. An enormous, elongated nose stood out against his reddish, slightly swollen face. It looked so absurd that it resembled a carrot stuck crookedly by some clumsy hand into a snowman’s spherical noggin. His hair stuck out in every direction, as though he had just survived a powerful electric shock or played Einstein in an amateur production. Admittedly, the “great scientist” gave off a moderately pronounced odor of stale liquor. Nor did his dirty blue coat, bloodstained in places and fitted with once-white protective sleeves, quite suit the role.

“We-e-elcome,” he managed, then walked over to one of the racks and pulled out a massive shelf, drawing a corpse from the belly of the refrigerated chamber. It was a lean man of forty. The deceased’s skin was so smooth, pink, and velvety that it might have aroused the envy of most living devotees of a healthy lifestyle. His face expressed serenity, if not tender delight. Presumably the departed soul was pleased with its present accommodations. The rosy-cheeked dead man radiated waves of positive energy with his entire being. It seemed that any moment he might spring joyfully from his shelf in this anatomical museum, offer those present a muscular—if somewhat shriveled—hand, and greet them with a respectful bow.

As if by prior agreement, the fellows in the shoes lowered their heads and began to admire this work of mortuary cosmetology, fashioned by the hands of a brilliant, if slightly hungover, master.

“Oh yes, he’s truly magnificent!” exclaimed the man in sunglasses, the first to break the silence.

“You’re right,” the other agreed after a brief pause. “As our mutual acquaintance used to say: beautiful is inanimate flesh.”

“I remember, I remember that acquaintance of ours—a complete psycho! But damn it, there’s something to his philosophy!” the first man put in.

“I’ll go you one better: all philosophers are a little nuts.”

“Doc, are you sure he’s dead?” the man in the glasses asked.

“He certainly is now,” the pathologist joked. To prove his point, he lifted the covering, tore open the stitches, and spread the edges of an enormous incision in the corpse’s chest and abdomen, demonstrating the complete and irrevocable absence of internal organs.

“Just look how nice and clean he is inside. All fresh and treated. Aren’t you, my dear?”

“Oh God, please, no more!” the moralist pleaded. First he covered his eyes to avoid watching the eviscerator rummage delightedly inside the dead man’s belly, as though checking a suckling pig for freshness. Then he clapped a hand over his mouth as well, lest his recent breakfast spill onto the floor.

“A little makeup. No magic involved,” the wizard in the blue coat hastened to reassure his dumbfounded guests, withdrawing his hand from the depths of the deceased and seasoning his assertion with a hiccup, presumably to lend it greater conviction.

The man in the glasses finally removed them, gently covered the corpse with a blanket, and, bending reverently toward its ear, said:

“Goodbye, Goodheart. You lived a short but very eventful life. There was grief in it, loss, disappointment, but all of that pales beside what you felt when you brought people joy. Rest easy, you one-man celebration. I hope you won’t be too offended if I’m not at your funeral tomorrow. Forgive me, but it has to be this way.”

Receiving no answer and taking his interlocutor’s silence for consent, the mourner removed a hefty gold chain from his own neck and placed it around the corpse’s. This ritual offering complete, he approached the pathologist and gave a businesslike order: “Well, Doc, let’s get started.”

The master shook his mane approvingly, pulled on a pair of latex gloves, and reached for a tray of instruments.