of his imagination.What prevented him from allowing me into his home happened to be, in fact, Signora Porcino, and the five Porcini. The signora was possessed of a jealous streak, and this was his very final last chance. How he was going to explain away his injuries, he simply didn’t know.
He dressed quickly, and I pushed him gently out onto the landing and shut the door. With his powers of storytelling I was confident he would be able to think of something.
I experienced no amorous encounters for a while after this and, indeed, was beginning to come to the premature but nonetheless accurate conclusion that sex was more trouble than it was worth, when I won a prize in a contest that changed the course of my life.
Chapter 11
I kept abreast of Ernesto’s progress with his weeping eyes in a trade periodical we received at work,
Mortician’s Monthly
, and felt no small degree of pride when I saw the photographs of him demonstrating them at such far-flung shows as Tel Aviv and Bombay.
Signora Dorotea, to whom I confessed everything, was outraged by his perfidy, and whenever she saw his picture, made dark mutterings about what she would do to him given the chance. But my recollection of what lay beneath the ill-fitting salesman’s suit filled me with nostalgia.
Then, in the March issue of 1972, which bore the enticing headline, “Live Man Buried in Shocking Blunder,” there was a competition for readers to win a luxury cruise to Egypt, to explore the mysteries of the pharaohs, the pyramids, and then the Sphinx. Signora Dorotea became overexcited and insisted that I enter.
“I know you’ll win it,” she said, “and the man of your dreams.”
I can’t even remember what the questions were now, but they were easy enough, and my answers were, “one liter,”
“wax,” “rigor mortis,” and “decomposition.” With the last part I had more difficulty. I had to write a sentence of no more than twelve words explaining why I deserved to win the cruise. I hemmed and hawed over this one. It was the word
“deserved” that I found particularly tricky. I didn’t feel I deserved anything. I showed my various attempts to Signora Dorotea, who snorted with derision,
“You’ll never win if you put that,” she said.
Then, finally losing patience, she instructed,
“Freda, write this,” then dictated, “I love
Mortician’s Monthly
and share it with all my friends.”
“But it isn’t true,” I complained. “I would never give this magazine to anybody.” However, history was set to prove me a liar.
“Never say never, Freda,” she said, and snatching the coupon from me, mailed it.
Then we waited.
On the closing date, as I was trimming Signor Settebello’s mustache, which had grown bushy since his death, I received a phone call.
“What did I tell you?” screamed Signora Dorotea, lifting me off my feet in a bear hug. “I just knew you would win!” From there things moved fast. Immediately a truckload of promotional products appeared, together with the contest organizer, a photographer, a stylist, and two assistants. I was required to pose in the cold room surrounded by giant bottles of solution proudly displaying the label of the sponsor, Dricol.
I appeared on the cover in the May issue. It wasn’t a bad photo, although I wish I hadn’t agreed to expose quite so much of my legs. Inside there was a wildly exaggerated biog-raphy of the lucky winner, along with equally exaggerated praise for the product. I know because we wouldn’t use it. It turned the flesh of the corpses an unattractive greenish color, as if they were seasick, and the smoke it gave off was poisonous.
Nevertheless I felt proud. I was pleased with the thought that Ernesto, wherever he was now, be it Bangkok or Buenos Aires, would see my image splashed on the front cover and would feel the unbearable regret of knowing he had lost me forever.
Signora Dorotea was over the moon, and convinced herself she had become clairvoyant. She
He dressed quickly, and I pushed him gently out onto the landing and shut the door. With his powers of storytelling I was confident he would be able to think of something.
I experienced no amorous encounters for a while after this and, indeed, was beginning to come to the premature but nonetheless accurate conclusion that sex was more trouble than it was worth, when I won a prize in a contest that changed the course of my life.
Chapter 11
I kept abreast of Ernesto’s progress with his weeping eyes in a trade periodical we received at work,
Mortician’s Monthly
, and felt no small degree of pride when I saw the photographs of him demonstrating them at such far-flung shows as Tel Aviv and Bombay.
Signora Dorotea, to whom I confessed everything, was outraged by his perfidy, and whenever she saw his picture, made dark mutterings about what she would do to him given the chance. But my recollection of what lay beneath the ill-fitting salesman’s suit filled me with nostalgia.
Then, in the March issue of 1972, which bore the enticing headline, “Live Man Buried in Shocking Blunder,” there was a competition for readers to win a luxury cruise to Egypt, to explore the mysteries of the pharaohs, the pyramids, and then the Sphinx. Signora Dorotea became overexcited and insisted that I enter.
“I know you’ll win it,” she said, “and the man of your dreams.”
I can’t even remember what the questions were now, but they were easy enough, and my answers were, “one liter,”
“wax,” “rigor mortis,” and “decomposition.” With the last part I had more difficulty. I had to write a sentence of no more than twelve words explaining why I deserved to win the cruise. I hemmed and hawed over this one. It was the word
“deserved” that I found particularly tricky. I didn’t feel I deserved anything. I showed my various attempts to Signora Dorotea, who snorted with derision,
“You’ll never win if you put that,” she said.
Then, finally losing patience, she instructed,
“Freda, write this,” then dictated, “I love
Mortician’s Monthly
and share it with all my friends.”
“But it isn’t true,” I complained. “I would never give this magazine to anybody.” However, history was set to prove me a liar.
“Never say never, Freda,” she said, and snatching the coupon from me, mailed it.
Then we waited.
On the closing date, as I was trimming Signor Settebello’s mustache, which had grown bushy since his death, I received a phone call.
“What did I tell you?” screamed Signora Dorotea, lifting me off my feet in a bear hug. “I just knew you would win!” From there things moved fast. Immediately a truckload of promotional products appeared, together with the contest organizer, a photographer, a stylist, and two assistants. I was required to pose in the cold room surrounded by giant bottles of solution proudly displaying the label of the sponsor, Dricol.
I appeared on the cover in the May issue. It wasn’t a bad photo, although I wish I hadn’t agreed to expose quite so much of my legs. Inside there was a wildly exaggerated biog-raphy of the lucky winner, along with equally exaggerated praise for the product. I know because we wouldn’t use it. It turned the flesh of the corpses an unattractive greenish color, as if they were seasick, and the smoke it gave off was poisonous.
Nevertheless I felt proud. I was pleased with the thought that Ernesto, wherever he was now, be it Bangkok or Buenos Aires, would see my image splashed on the front cover and would feel the unbearable regret of knowing he had lost me forever.
Signora Dorotea was over the moon, and convinced herself she had become clairvoyant. She
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