Ernesto Mortez had a morbid sense of humour. Everybody said. I had heard about the trick, but the mechanics of it remained mysterious. Something to do with the airways, the lungs, the vocal cords, the way he pressed on the chest.
I knew, but I wasn’t prepared. First, he took me to his office. It was a narrow room with a blacked window and a forty watt yellow light. There was a kettle. He flicked it on without asking. He poured water on Nescafe. He threw a bag at me. I grabbed it, then noticed the red stains on the paper. Raspberry jam. “Doughnut,” Mortez said, with sudden aggression. He spooned some CoffeeMate. “Eat,” he said. I pushed the doughnut into my mouth, catching the jelly on my chin.
“You’re here for the ceremony,” he said. “But I got something to show you first.” He stood up and motioned towards the next room. There were heavy PVC strips in the doorway. As he pushed through, the smell rushed out. Chloroform, bleach, formaldehyde, sweat, Febreze. I retched, swallowing hard. The fresh chemicals couldn’t hide the vile odour. Bad meat.
Mortez was now standing on a crate in the centre of the room, next to the wheeled table. He looked like he was about to burst into song. He looked like a wedding cake figurine.
“This is Luciano,’ he said, gesturing extravagantly towards the slab. Lying on the silver tray, there was a body, a man, naked with no blanket, mouth open. “Would you like to hear Luciano sing?”
“I … I…”
I couldn’t think what to say. I expected this, but I was shocked. It was something to endure.
Mortez started towards the slab, and then scuttled backwards and off to the side. Now he was spreading his arms and hopping from foot to foot. He wasn’t playing. He looked possessed. Suddenly he jumped towards the corpse. In a beetle-like movement, his body started jackknifing. He was pushing down on the man’s chest, singing in a reedy voice. “And now,” he said, “you will listen.” His hands were a blur, pushing on the chest, pulling down on the chin. He hopped backwards, landing like a gymnast, making a sudden incision in the neck with a scalpel.
At first I heard nothing. There was a faint whistling, a loud silence, then I heard it: a muffled moan. Was it the body, or was Mortez throwing the sound across the room? I couldn’t tell. I didn’t want to think about it. “Luciano is a bit shy today,” Mortez said, pulling a sheet over the body. “But you… You are ready to sing.”
Mortez took my hand, sending a sudden jolt through my lower arm. He led me to a cream-coloured door on the far wall, and twisted a wheel to release the latch. As he opened the door, a cloud of icy air spilled into the room. He pulled out a metal shelf. “This is for you,” Mortez said. “You shouldn’t have to wait too long. And don’t worry. Everyone says goodbye too soon.”
Raw and chilling. Great job!