It took me by surprise when they told me I was dead. The least I can say is that I wasn't expecting any news of this importance regarding my life, or the lack thereof. I wasn't expecting their call either, two middle-aged men wearing suits, ties and broad, friendly smiles. The taller of them, with his thin metallic glasses, was the one who spoke to me; the other, who was carrying a black leather briefcase, looked slightly uneasy, his eyes wandering around the room, from the couch to the bookshelves to me, and then, as though he was ashamed of looking directly at me, back to the bookshelves.

I motioned for them to sit down and asked them to explain themselves, expressing my reservations. I had been living (or had I?) my usual day-to-day routine, I told them. Wake up, eat, read the paper, scan through the job ads (as I was currently unemployed), maybe play the piano for a bit, light a cigarette and stare at the window, smiling at the passers-by, get a can of tuna from the basement and make a sandwich, maybe read some more... such was my life.

But, they pointed out, had I talked to anyone in the last week? And what was that smell which pervaded the house, if not the scent of rotting flesh? Still, I had some problems with their theory.

"And, assuming for a moment that I'm dead, how on earth are you guys talking to me, arguing with me?"

The taller, younger man shrugged, made a motion with his hands, and sat back.

"That," he said, "is the crux of the problem."

He paused for a second, took a deep breath, and went on saying that it was too complicated to explain now, but that I would certainly understand when the time came. I felt almost sorry for him; wasn't I making his job harder? I looked at him, alarmed, thinking of stories I'd read or heard of ghosts and vampires ...

"So, in short, you're telling me that I'm a ghost?" I asked, abandoning with a noticeable effort (and temporarily, I hoped) my belief in an understandable, rational world.

But no, that wasn't it, he assured me--the man's smile broadened--, there was nothing supernatural, nothing hard to understand even, I was simply dead. It happens to everyone.

To make a long story short, they convinced me. The other man opened his briefcase and showed me all the documents that proved, unmistakably, that I was dead. My heart had failed during my sleep, two weeks before. It was reassuring to hear that my death had been, according to the doctors, virtually painless. That could account for me not even noticing it, I thought.

They also told me that my family had been already notified and that my older son, Marv, who would have inherited all my fortune and possessions, had been found dead five days before, shot at close range in the back of his neck, lying in a pool of blood with the gun thrown on his back. His younger sister, Annalisa, was the chief suspect, but the police had been unable to find any evidence against her.

The news failed to affect me as much as I would have thought, and I motioned the man to make it short. This was all part of the world I was leaving behind, as he doubtlessly understood. They both nodded.

By the time the talk was over, the atmosphere had lightened considerably and we were talking almost as friends. The shorter man, the one with the briefcase, had visibly found his self-confidence, and was not only looking intently at me but even telling me about his own life, his daughter's problems at school, and how he suspected that his wife was cheating on him at the very moment. I felt pity for him, as he stared at me with his eyes wide open.

The other man gestured it was time to go, and I followed them.

It was only much later that I realized something was wrong. I'd been dead for two weeks, or so they said. If they'd known at least for five days, at the time poor Marv was shot (otherwise, why would he have been shot? he, a doctor, was known for his extremely peaceful way of life, had no enemies and little money of his own), how come they hadn't come to collect the body (that is, me) earlier? And, more importantly, since when did the dead get an official visit to notify them of their own passing? If the government's bureaucrats had taken over these functions, wouldn't I have read about it in the papers?

It was too late now, though. During the funeral, the neverending funeral --had they ever stopped to think how boring it would be to the dead?--, I heard Annalisa's peeping voice, and for a moment wanted to stand up and laugh at them all. I almost smiled, thinking of the uproar that would ensue, but somehow I couldn't find the strength to do it. Docilely, I kept my eyes closed.