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late.

4
    Robert’s Birthmark
    The immaculate lawn stretching from the white room to the station was all but empty. A lone figure sat in a wheelchair at the edge of the grass, hidden behind an enormous sign adorned with the words C ATHERINE D UMAS . At first, the newly dead thought the man was aflame, but as they drew close they saw that the acrid smoke swirling out from behind the sign emanated from the stout cigar jammed between his lips.
    Before the 9,568 inductees had the chance to voice their disappointment at the well-manicured lawn, which, despite the assurances offered at the orientation, was barren—no friends, no relatives, no acquaintances, no lovers—they heard a deep male voice call to them from the far end of the path. “Welcome to one and all. We’d appreciate it if you could board the multi-wheels so that we can take you to your new homes on Circle 21 in the city of June 2001. The multi-wheels will depart in ten minutes. We request that you not push; twenty multi-wheels await you. As your guide, I’d like to wish you a bon voyage and a pleasant death.” A second or two later, a stampede began, the herd of people charging toward the blue vehicles at the far end of the lawn. The guide, standing in front of the vehicles, brought the megaphone to his lips and announced through a spreading smile that there was “No need to run. And, please don’t step on any bodies.”
    Only Ben stayed put. Rather than ignore the cigar-smoking cripple like everyone else, he looked him over carefully until, feeling the warmth of Ben’s curious stare, he called out in a thick French accent, “You are going to miss the bus.” Ben smiled apologetically, sorry that he had not listened to Marian and found the time to learn the language of lovers. But then, his eyebrows perking up at the sound of his own voice, his lips opened, and he said, in perfect French, “ C’est d’accord .”
    A moment after the newly dead stormed the twenty-wheeled multies, they set out, leaving a wave of roiled air behind them. Ben took an admiring look at the tracks—the multi-wheels were a strange crossbreed of bus and train, with special rails and smooth humps that mysteriously rose each time the multi-wheels approached, pushing the surging vehicles forward at the speed of dueling race cars. A moment later they were part of the horizon and Ben was alone with the cripple, who shifted in his wheelchair, pulled a gold box out from under him, opened it, and offered it to Ben.
    Ben nodded his gratitude, but said, “I don’t smoke, and anyway it’s your last cigar.”
    The smoker curled his upper lip and returned the box to its place. “You’re right,” he mumbled in a charred voice, “and congratulations on your reasoning.”
    “Excuse me?”
    “You didn’t take the cigar because it was the last one. If there’s one thing I hate, it’s people who refuse for the wrong reason.”
    “What reason is that?” Ben said, eyes fixed on the strange birthmark on the smoker’s left nipple.
    “Cancer…,” the cripple said, wheezing out a laugh. He spread his arms out to either side of his chair and said, “You only live once.…”
    Ben joined the burst of laughter.
    The smoker shook his hand, “Robert.”
    “Ben. Can I ask you something?”
    “You want to ask why no one came to greet you and the others?”
    “How did you know?”
    “It’s simple, mon ami. I’ve been coming here every day for ten years. Ten years of shock, day-in, day-out, on the newly dead’s faces. The speaker promises, but doesn’t deliver. You have no idea how big this place is. Who’s going to make it to the lawn within two hours? Don’t forget, people are busy and they usually don’t hear or pay any attention to the PA system. In ten years, I’ve seen maybe six emotional reunions. Six, friend, that’s it. And between us, all six were relatives of terminally ill patients, if you get my drift.…”
    “You said you’ve been coming here every day? For the