We are in a world not so different from the one you are accustomed to. One where you watch a sunny day (or a grey one) from your window, in a big city (or countryside). A reality in which you dunk cookies in milk and you drink rivers …streams of hot coffee. Nothing would probably catch your attention in this tale, not even the main difference. The main distinction between our world and the one described in this story is that here people don’t want to die. They prefer to send their own unique soul to an administrator, to someone whom easily is going to admire its purity, strength, even post mortem (after death, for not Latinists).
These souls are not an extra- human divine accessory, or the key to an afterlife escalator. No, they’re not even a metaphorical, sensational, inspirational aspect of life, enabling us to wait quiet the end of this life. The feigned unknowning of the soul is like comparing Mars to Earth, nowadays. Sure, a small blue planet would and should be enough, but why not while away the hours compare it to small bubbles of air in a distant part of the Universe? In this sense, the soul here is not simply an idea from ancient books and fables. Here the souls are concrete, real, physical, we would say today. So if it has all these characteristics, if it’s an object just like everything else, why not sell it?
The dealer of souls
Do you need to sell your soul? Here we are, we have the person for you, he’s called S. S. what, do you wonder? Give him a name, ‘cause I find all this madness just for a name useless, personally. The sun is going to rise and set before us every day, there in the sky, with or without a name. However, what is important, the real gift, is the skill you need to be a good dealer. But let’s use a word which has the sort of sound that will instil fear in people. Soul broker. Yes, ‘cause it’s not a common dealer, a salesperson with his small leather bag knocking at the door. He’s one of the few who’s able to understand the value of souls. He can put it on the market with a label on it. S. has many qualities and skills that sets him apart, but he has one thing in common with the other soul brokers: he doesn’t have a soul himself.
Yet, people still die. Death, as life, isn’t mystified here, so death is what it is supposed to be: the end, for your body. M. is mature enough to have wrinkles, young enough to attract a glance in the gym, old enough to have experienced a horrendous divorce. She has the same faith in men as a tree has in a woodcutter. In fact, she left an amazing career, to choose to bury herself in the hinterland. Certainly, for those with a metropolitan background, the hinterland is something between a bucolic place and a lovely soap opera. It could well, but most of the time it is a land populated by unfinished houses and strange characters with too many beers in the veins. In this context, people are less stressed and less eager to die. Anyway, they still die. Dead, defunct, corpses, that’s what M. is dealing with. What sets them apart is that they don’t have life or even a trace of a soul.
How they’ll meet
M. and S. have parallel stories, even though they have some traits in common. In a word, we could say they are complementary to each other. S. is always searching for new souls, M., in on the other hand, concentrates on the soul-less. The two stories will become one when (both for different reasons) they’ll need each other.
Oh, I almost forgot to introduce myself. I’m a narrator and I’m a humble pair of shoes.