The local cemetery unveils a loyalty card with stackable points, funereal goodies, and a raffle for a prime‑view crypt. Black humor in the shop window, clenched jaws behind the scenes: the business of eternity is spelled out in ebony letters.
Neon posters on the gate: “Stay with us, we’ll take care of the rest.” At the counter, they stamp the cards with a little coffin ink pad, while a monotone DJ tests a 100% silence playlist for the inauguration. For every headstone purchased, a collector hourglass is thrown in: “Time is wicker,” promises the brochure, with a smile that’s seen better days.
“We’re targeting a stable, loyal clientele with little inclination for returns,” states, dry‑eyed, Armand Charnier, the cemetery’s director. “Loyalty is our core business: we reward those who stay a long time. A very long time.” According to him, the Platinum card includes an annual cleaning “with a regret brush” and an eternal lamp with adjustable brightness, for endless nights that lack pep.
Among the living, neighboring shopkeepers choke out a jaundiced laugh. The florist notes a rush on immortelles (everlastings) “because they hold up better for the points program,” while a Sunday jogger swears he was chased by a promoter in a black tie offering him a referral. “I just slowed down a bit, they handed me a form,” he pants, out of breath and out of superstitions.
Management insists that “everything is done with commercial dignity,” but the line for the goodies — shovel pin, crepe tote bag, ruler marked in weeks — already snakes to the columbarium door. Next up, a “Black Memorial Friday” announced by moonlight: spectral discounts, chic‑vault ambiance, and that hand‑stitched slogan that itches where nothing grows back: “Here, we never lose the customer.”
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