Also known as: Mărghidan the Autopsist. The thanatopractor. Founder, in his own mind, of a Museum of Death
Occupation: Autopsy technician at the morgue of Witting Hospital. The only thanatopractor in Romania with a master’s degree in mortuary aesthetics, by his own account.
First appears: Chapter 005
Status: Waiting for me. Professionally.
Usually seen with: A small pocket torch, a frame made of his own fingers, and a pair of eyes so extravagantly blue they seem to have been borrowed from someone much younger.
His philosophy of life, as far as I could reconstruct it
Mărghidan believes that death is an aesthetic problem, and that most people solve it badly. You cannot be a fairy in life and an ogre in death. Where he comes from, in Oltenia, you do not die when you please; you die when they please. The blacker it gets, the merrier we ought to be. He has a vivacity so unsuited to the place that he seems to feed, in secret, on the cold and on the stillness of the bodies that come into his hands.
What I think he thinks of me
A masterpiece alive, and divine dead. He examined my face through a rectangle of his own fingers, inspected my right hand with the melancholy of a collector contemplating an object he could not yet acquire, and offered me top billing over Lenin’s mausoleum. He is the only person who has ever been genuinely enthusiastic about my future.
What I think of him
Plump, brisk, elderly. He greeted Baloo with theatrical impatience and me with a professional proposal. Then, when Baloo’s voice finally reached him, he folded in on himself, and became, abruptly, the only person that day who told me the truth: that it would not be easy, that it never is, that there is no shame in screaming or fainting. He showed me my parents in the cheerful cadence of a tour guide who has reached the principal attractions. I hated him for it. I suspect it was the kindest way it could have been done.
Things he said, in the cold
“Any longer, nea Daniel, and I’d have gone on ahead myself! Hung one of those tags on my big toe, written my name on it, and climbed onto a table! All by myself!”
“Andrei! Alive, you’re a masterpiece. Dead… dead you’d be divine!”
“Come to me when you die, Andrei, and I swear… Lenin? His mausoleum? Forget them! You’ll be the star! You! I swear!”
“Because where I come from, in Oltenia, you don’t die when you please. You die when we please!”
“The blacker it gets, the merrier we ought to be!”
“It won’t be easy. It never is.”
“The other room, I mean! Not the other-other side!”
The speech, uncut
The English edition keeps only the beginning. This is what he actually said, before Baloo stopped him. Translated from the Romanian original; not in the English edition.
“I’m telling you, man: you’re the most beautiful specimen that ever walked into this morgue! And I wouldn’t say it if it weren’t true! I’d put you in formalin right now and, next week, exhibit you at a congress of Funerary Aesthetics and Post-Mortem Casuistry. I’d bring the house down! Specialists from all over the world would take selfies with you and murmur in Latin… What would they say? Ah, yes! Forma est fata.”
“When you die, please, die in this position: you’re far too symmetrical to be crammed into the wrong coffin. And mind the pillow under your head… Very important! Veeery important! You’re one eighty-six, aren’t you? If you die now, you’ll be one eighty-eight. Post-mortem relaxation is generous with people. It gives them a few extra centimeters of charisma. Do you know why I’m telling you this? So that you take care of your own corpse. You, not somebody else! Death take you, Andrei! Is this your hair? I’d wash it right now. I have a special shampoo, for deceased hair. Pine and balsamic formaldehyde. Specially for the recently departed! Works miracles! You’re dead, but your hair is full of life!”
“When you’re a corpse, of course! But that’s not what matters now… It’s this hair! Golden highlights. A slight curl. Falls into place by itself. I’d hardly have to do a thing!”
“The mandibular ramus is one to one with the base of the skull. The masseter vibrates when you smile: the eyes narrow, the dimples deepen, and the cheeks… lightly sculpted, textbook angles. I could swear there are thirty-eight degrees between the mandible and the orbitomeatal plane.”
“The complexion? A pigmentation hard to find in these parts. Noble melanin, evenly distributed. I’ve only seen it on Mediterranean cadavers! The French type! Your dermis has the correct cellular density: your fibroblasts have been on good terms with every aesthetic requirement since birth. Irises of a hybrid shade, somewhere between gray and blue. In warm light, an intense blue; in cold light, almost anthracite. The pupil reacts with a slight delay, the gaze a little divergent at rest…”
“Andrei, you’re staring at me as if you’d guessed that I’ve already done your autopsy and kept the whole thing secret.”
“You’re a morphological rarity! Look at these nails! Oval. Translucent. Smooth. Your lunula looks as if it had been drawn with a compass, neither too large nor too timid. They aren’t made of keratin. They’re made of porcelain. With a hand like this, Andrei, I can guarantee you one thing: your corpse will be a star! I’m calling my students to come and see you right now! The ratio of metacarpals to phalanges: geometry. The fingers… long, fine, but with a firm fiber. The distal phalanx of your right index finger is superbly drawn. The dorsal ligaments, almost invisible. May I put them under an ultraviolet light, just a little, to see better? No? Fine! So be it! Aristocratic musculature. Palmaris longus? Perfectly defined. Flexor carpi radialis? Textbook. You’ve never done a day’s physical work in your life. I’ve seen dictators’ hands that didn’t look as well rested as yours.”
“May I take your picture? I’ll shoot you on slide film now, and again afterward…! I’ll lift your cheekbones, put some shadow on the jaw…”
“I’m the only thanatopractor in Romania with a master’s degree in mortuary aesthetics. Restorative art is more and more in demand. You can’t be a fairy in life and an ogre in death. Which is why I want to launch the first specialist magazine. Maybe a competition, too. Or two, if I split them by gender. One would be Miss Post-Mortem and the other Mister Medico-Legal. But I needed a star for my collection. And what do you know! The star has just walked through the door and is standing right in front of me. Oh, God! This face! This face is exactly what I need!”
“And I see you’re quite emaciated. Better and better. If I hadn’t been well brought up, I’d have asked you when you were planning to die. Did I tell you what the magazine is called? Stiff.”
“You all think you’re too alive for this conversation! But you’ll all end up with me anyway!”
Andrei’s footnote: In Romanian, the magazine is called Leș. There is no polite translation.
