Black

Armed with my morning coffee and a flicker of optimism, I open the newspaper, only to find myself drifting almost immediately into the supplements, where a series of articles on grief counselling, funeral rituals and mortality statistics awaits me. That can wait.

The doorbell rings with insistence. Outside stands a woman of indeterminate age, the sort one imagines stored by the dozen in provincial warehouses. I suppress my anti-Jehovah reflex, as she is not dressed in the cheerfully synthetic uniform of some local fashion chain.
She is clothed entirely in black. Jet-black shoes, a long, neat coat cinched at the waist, everything pitch-dark, as though she has been dipped in tar. Her face is pale, but not unhealthy. The gold-rimmed glasses look as if they have been borrowed from a public-broadcast presenter. Beside her stands a glossy black bag, large enough to hold several catalogues. Something in me suggests they are not holiday brochures.
“Good morning. Are you Mr Charmant?”
“No,” I say. “I might be charming, but that isn’t my name.”
My mood, I notice, can take a knock today. Hers less so. She looks blank. Or do I detect a hint of uncertainty?
“I’m from DELA,” she says, as if this should explain everything and allow the conversation to continue indoors. “This is number 352, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” I say. “But what exactly have you come to do?”
“I’m here for the appointment,” she replies hesitantly. Perhaps my question strikes her as odd. One does not usually ask an ice-cream man what he sells. Suddenly I am the one required to clarify matters.
“I’m not Mr Charmant.”
She consults her form once more.
“Lion Charmant, model yachts, number 532,” she says, mildly reproachful.
“That’s further along,” I say.
She lifts her bag and takes a step back. She nods with the solemn expression of an undertaker lowering a coffin chosen from her catalogue by means of a grave lift. Once more she peers hopefully past my shoulder, as if expecting to glimpse a deceased person after all.
Only then do I notice a strip of yellow measuring tape protruding from her pocket. With dignity, she walks away.

On the table the supplement still lies open. I begin reading the article on grief processing.