Business Card

Translated by Leo Shtutin; Published in Taiwan&Masticadores

For years now, someone’s business card has lain on my desk. How it came into my possession I have not the faintest. I do not recall anybody handing it to me. Nor am I familiar with the name it bears. My efforts to identify its owner have yielded no fruit. I made enquiries, but the name meant nothing to my acquaintances. I scrutinise the card often, curious to whom it belongs. Perhaps some ragman, his eye on my faded frock coat, palmed it off on me at a flea market? Or could a hapless follower of Aesculapius have hoped that I might turn to him for assistance during a bout of the shakes? Why do I not dial the telephone number neatly printed underneath the name? What am I afraid of? Could it be that I am just not desperate enough?.. The day before yesterday I died. My daughter, preoccupied with the funeral arrangements and searching for the requisite ’phone number, plucked the card from my desk. She dialled the number. The call went through to an undertaker’s.