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'When she had mourned Antony's death in this way, the queen of Egypt crowned herself with flowers and then commanded her servants to prepare a bath for her ...'
Madame Tuvache is sitting on her daughter's bed, telling Marilyn the story of Cleopatra's suicide to help her get to sleep.
'After her bath, Cleopatra sat down to eat a sumptuous meal. Then a man arrived from the countryside, carrying a basket for her. When the guards asked him what it contained, he opened it, parted the leaves and showed them that it was full of figs. The guards marvelled at the size and beauty of the fruit, so the man smiled and invited them to take some. Thus reassured, they allowed him to enter with his basket.'
Red-eyed, Marilyn lies on her back and gazes at the ceiling as she listens to her mother's beautiful voice, which continues: 'After her lunch, Cleopatra wrote on a tablet, sealed it and had it sent to Octavius; then she dismissed everyone except one serving-maid, and closed the door.'
Marilyn's eyes begin to close and her breathing becomes more even ...
'When Octavius broke the seal on the tablet and read Cleopatra's pleas to be buried alongside Antony, he immediately realised what she had done. First he considered going to save her himself, then hurriedly sent some men to find out what had happened ... Events must have moved quickly, because when they rushed in they caught the guards unawares: they hadn't noticed anything. When they opened the door they found Cleopatra lying dead on a golden bed, dressed in her royal robes. Her servant, Charmian, was arranging the diadem on the queen's head. One of the men said to her angrily: "Beautifully done, Charmian!"
'"It is well done," she replied, "and fitting for a princess descended of so many royal kings." As Cleopatra had ordered, the asp that had arrived with the figs had been hidden underneath the fruit, so that the snake could attack her without her knowing. But when she removed the figs she saw it and said: "So there it is," and bared her arm, offering it up to be bitten.'
Marilyn opened her eyes, as though hypnotised. Her mother stroked her hair while she finished her story.
'Two small, almost invisible pinpricks were found on Cleopatra's arm. Although Octavius was grief-stricken at her death, he admired her noble spirit and had her buried next to Antony with royal pomp and splendour.'
'If I'd been there, I'd have made the thnake into pretty thlippers tho Marilyn could go and danth at the Kurt Cobain dithco!' said Alan. The door to his sister's bedroom was half open, and he was standing in the doorway.
Lucrèce swung round brusquely and glowered at her youngest child. 'You - back to bed! Nobody asked your opinion.'
Then, as she stood up, she promised her daughter: 'Tomorrow night I'll tell you how Sappho threw herself off a cliff into the sea and all for a young shepherd's beautiful eyes ...'
'Mother,' sniffed Marilyn, 'when I'm grown up, can I go and dance with boys at the disco?'
'No, of course not. Don't listen to your little brother. He's talking nonsense. You always say you're a lump - do you really think men would want to dance with you? Come on, settle down for some nightmares. That's more sensible.'
Lucrèce Tuvache, her beautiful face grave, is just joining her husband in their bedroom when the emergency bell rings down below.
'Well, we are on duty at night ...' sighs Mishima. 'I'll go.'
He goes downstairs in the dark, grumbling: 'Damn, I can't see a thing. One false step and I could break my neck!'
From the top of the stairs, Alan's voice suggests: 'Daddy, inthtead of moaning about the dark, why not turn on the light?'
'Yes, thank you, Mr Know-it-all. When I want your advice ...'
Nevertheless the father does as his son suggests and, by the glow of the crackling electric bulb on the staircase, he goes into the shop, where he switches on a row of neon lights.
When he comes back upstairs, his wife is propped up with a pillow, a magazine in her hands. 'Who was it?' she asks.
'Dunno. Some desperate bloke with an empty revolver. I found what he needed in the ammunition boxes by the window so that he could blow his brains out. What are you reading?'
'Last year's statistics: one suicide every forty minutes, a hundred and fifty thousand attempts, only twelve thousand deaths. That's incredible.'
'Yes, it is incredible. The number of people who try to top themselves and bungle it ... Fortunately we'rehere. Turn off the light, darling.'
From the other side of the wall, Alan's voice rings out: 'Thweet dreamth, Mummy. Thweet dreamth, Daddy.'
His parents sigh.