Fancy Shop Read online

  FANCY SHOP

  ‘Could you play it once more, please?’ the old gentleman asked when the record finished.

  ‘With pleasure,’ the girl answered.

  A little while ago he had heard the melody in the street, followed it, opened the door of the junk shop and the bell rang. The Chinese mandarin nodded its hollow head affably, and it was then that the girl appeared. She was just an ordinary girl in a sweater and jeans.

  ‘Why don’t you buy it?’ she asked when he repeated his request.

  ‘Because I don’t have a gramophone.’

  ‘I can sell you the gramophone, too.’

  ‘I would like to buy it, but my room is quite ordinary and it would change the feel, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘You’re probably right,’ agreed the girl.

  ‘Could I come here now and then? I’ll pay you for your time.’

  ‘Come again? Sure, I seldom have any customers. You needn’t pay.’

  ‘Have you been working here long?’ he asked the next time.

  ‘I can’t remember,’ she answered.

  ‘And what can you remember?’

  ‘Nothing. I’ve lost my memory.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Not at all.’

  ‘But surely you remember something. Some insignificant detail.’

  ‘Only that hill ...’

  ‘A hill?’

  ‘... and the clouds.’

  ‘Wouldn’t you like to change your clothes?’ he asked after a time.

  ‘What with?’ smiled the girl.

  ‘There is probably something that will do in that cupboard.’

  ‘What a strange dress! It must be very old.’

  ‘More than two hundred years,’ he guessed.

  ‘What’s its colour?’

  ‘Sometimes it’s blue, sometimes it’s purple, sometimes it’s just dark. Look at yourself in the mirror. It suits you perfectly.’

  ‘I live in fear of that mirror. Sometimes I see strange things in it.’

  ‘Nonsense!’

  ‘Is that me?’ That was heard from the side of the mirror.

  ‘Of course. You trust me now, don’t you? And now the jewels. Open that drawer.’

  ‘What’s in there?’

  ‘A necklace, a bracelet, earrings ...’

  ‘How do they happen to be here?’

  ‘You work here and yet you don’t know what’s in your shop.’

  ‘It’s true. I work here and yet I don’t know.’

  ‘Put them on, don’t be afraid! Diamonds come to life in the light.’

  ‘Why are you looking at me in that way?’

  ‘Lisa!’

  ‘Is that my name?’

  ‘Yes, that’s your name.’

  ‘It doesn’t remind me of anything.’

  ‘Lisa, you have to listen to me.’

  ‘Not today, I beg you.’

  ‘I’ll come tomorrow.’

  ‘Yes, tomorrow.’

  The next day the old gentleman opened the door. The bell rang and the mandarin nodded its head in a friendly manner. But where was the girl?

  ‘Lisa!’ cried out the old gentleman. ‘Where are you?’ Then he went outside and cried again: ‘Lisa!’

  ‘Missy went away,’ called out an old woman behind a flower stall.

  ‘It’s impossible!’

  ‘She seemed to have no intention of coming back. And what a strange dress she was wearing! I could hardly recognize her.’

  ‘Where was she heading?’

  ‘To the main road.’

  From the police report:

  ‘I saw her as she entered the highway. Then she started walking towards the traffic. I blew my whistle but it seemed that she didn’t hear me. The traffic slowed down. The cars carefully avoided her. I knew I had to stop her, but I didn’t. I couldn’t detain an apparition.’

  The motel proprietor:

  ‘I saw her with my eyes, mister. She passed through this place an hour ago. A real beauty! A fairy! When I looked at her I couldn’t help crying. Where did she go? To the hill, mister. And what’s there? Nothing, absolutely nothing. Though a batty old man used to say there was a castle there, but a long, long time ago the clouds took it away with them.’

  ‘I’m late. I’m late again ...’ The old gentleman’s head drooped and he was right, for at that moment the last clouds were drifting away from the hill.

  BEHIND

  At first I was walking in to the park. Then I realized I was walking out. I discovered this from the fading quietness. My ears would not be so sensitive in the town. Indeed, the echo comes from the town. Looking for a place to stop, I push the handcart more slowly now. The spot should be convenient but quiet because I still have those headaches of mine. Why is it thought that retail only does well next to roads? People are agitated there and in a hurry, while the rows of stalls help concentrate the jumble. It is different here. Besides, you would expect those who aren’t in a hurry to pass through this place. They’re the ones I count on.

  It is time to stop. There, in the open where the path widens. What about the place next to the tumbledown shed? I wonder why they have left it. It spoils the view. It detracts from the harmonious disarray of trees, shades of greenery and even the pragmatic drabness of the road. On the other hand, it’s all right, for I can see some kind of an attraction tucked into it (under the pretentious sign ‘Lost World’). And perhaps it works. The combination of magic shed and newspaper stall is not bad. I pass it and stop. I arrange the newspapers then unfold the metal stool and sit behind the stall. I feel that my presence here lessens the contrast between the shed and the scenery. As if the transition is easier now. I can already hear the diluted, distant noise of the boulevard. The shape of a massive building, quite different from the local architecture, is visible ahead. A soft grey blotch behind a curtain of leaves. Actually, I know this building. Its facade is clearly seen from the boulevard. It overlooks sternly and distantly the convoy of cars crawling or stopped within the knot of the current traffic jam. Its outlines are rounded at the back in a feeling of the harmony of a bygone age.

  A thin swirl of a Viennese waltz unreels from the direction of the shed. A fellow of indeterminate age leans against the door jamb at the entrance. Being unaware of the time elapsed, I am not sure if he had just come or had been there all along, immovable and invisible.

  At last somebody comes along the path. An old couple and a puppy on a leash. They draw closer; the man glances at the newspapers but the old lady is already in front of the shed and he has to go. Then he comes back to leave the puppy with me, just to look after for a while. Naturally I agree, and besides, the little creature is so meek that it doesn’t even make an attempt to pull on the leash, whose end I tie to the handcart. I see the fellow give them the tickets. The old man raises the end of the plush curtain, passes through, and from the inside stretches out his thin, sallow palm to the lady.

  A broad-shouldered man with a grey beard and a cap pulled over his eyes approaches. He lifts the newspapers with the end of his cane to see the other half of the naked woman on the calendar and grunts disapprovingly as he walks off. He passes by the shed but then suddenly comes back and parks himself in front of it. He stares intently and asks for further explanation. He seems in doubt, wheezing and frowning before passing behind the curtain.

  How odd! Weariness and desolation fall from the crowns of the trees. Fresh air makes one feel drowsy. Well, I might not ply a trade, but pleasure often takes a different path. A magpie comes flying to my apple core. It looks at it in disappointment and rises awkwardly towards the high sunlit branches. The sun behind my back is touching the top of the massive grey building. The noise from the direction of the boulevard seems to have completely faded away ...

  The young lady in front of me turns over the thin page
s. She has been doing that for quite a long time, though she might have little interest in the booklet. A rustling and a discreet scent envelop me. I feel cosy as in the old days in the womb. I dare not lift my head. If our eyes meet she might become confused and go away. That makes me only look at her fingers under the booklet: pale, sensually rounded and restless under what seems to be a sturdy cover. Their agitation enhances my fear that everything is coming to an end soon, right now... The fingers gather around the closed booklet. The palm reluctantly places it on the shelf. Then she turns, and easily, like a boat, makes for the young man under the acacia tree. They talk quietly, then he shrugs, comes closer and uncertainly hands me a briefcase and a wrap with the same cool scent. He stops in front of the curtain to let her pass through but then changes his mind and enters first. Her arm resting on his elbow goes in after him and the other one with the open, light palm sweeps in last …

  A cigarette case glimmers before my eyes ... Viennese waltzes ... A woodpecker pecks ...

  The pecking becomes more frequent. The woodpecker seems nervous … Half-awake, the first thing I see is a round, smiling face. The girl is no longer tapping on the shelf but points to the pram.

  ‘You will keep an eye on him, won’t you? Just for a minute.’

  And she enters the shed.

  I circle my neck and the cold reaches down my back. Dusk will be falling soon but the girl doesn’t come out. A tobacco case, an umbrella, a briefcase and a wrap are laid out on the shelf. The puppy round my feet whines like a child. And what about the pram? The baby waves its limbs and screws its face into a pout. It goes without saying that I’ve got myself into a pretty mess.

  ‘Hey, mister!’ I shout at the fellow over there. ‘Mister, where is the mother?’

  The villain stays mum and pretends he doesn’t hear me.

  ‘Mister, it’s you I am talking to! Don’t play tricks on me. What am I to do with the baby? Call her! Where are the rest of them? They have to collect their things. I cannot wait any more.’

  That guy doesn’t even turn to me. He stands stock-still leaning on the door jamb and looks down. ‘Let’s get this straight, old chap!’

  ‘Hey, you scoundrel! Bring the people back or I’ll drive you mad!’ I gather myself up electrified with outrage.

  The chap turns his head, looks at me in astonishment and sets off down the path.

  ‘Why are you shaking me off, you bastard!’

  I notice his speed is changing.

  When he gets to the corner he opens his arms wide in resignation and disappears behind a barberry shrub. If I want to catch up with him I’ll have to leave the baby and everything else. I start hesitantly. I stop in front of the shed as light comes through a chink in the curtain. I lift it and enter. The premises are larger than they look from the outside. It is empty and reminiscent of a tool shed, but a sloping stepladder penetrates the ceiling. I climb it and come across an unkempt loft where everything is covered in dust: boxes, bric-a-brac, moth-eaten clothes. I walk among them, having a very keen eye. I stop in front of an oblong shape wrapped in canvas. I reach out my arm and the canvas slides down in anticipation of my apprehension. The wooden rocking horse sways lazily over creaking staves. I stare at my old toy and grow cold with fear, for I know I won’t find my way back to the ladder.

  ANABEL, KATHLEEN, GALLO

  ‘Here is your flower.’ Anabel pointed at the album of pressed flowers.

  I gave it to her years ago: a rare orchid from East Asia. Having lost one of its dimensions, it now looked like a tarnished copperplate.

  ‘I’ll give you a prettier one next time,’ said I, staring through the window at the rain.

  ‘I’ll be very sorry if I won’t be able to receive it.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘What you are all hiding from me: that I’m ill and will die soon.’

  ‘Don’t speak so. It is just a temporary condition.’

  ‘Yes, temporary ...’ she repeated, and raised her head.

  Her face looked paler now and the dark circles around her eyes were much deeper.

  On my departure she said, ‘Please do not come any more. I am growing ugly as the illness progresses. I want to stay in your memory as I was during our first days.’

  ‘I’ll respect your wish, though this is hardly likely to be our last meeting.’

  ‘Then some day when you are happy I’ll remind you of me.’

  A smile of a distant memory seemed to pass over her face…

  One autumn day in a strange faraway town, on a weird whim of Kathleen, we were playing at hide-and-seek in the graveyard as it dozed in the late afternoon sun. Her laughter wafted, more and more muffled and distant beyond the darkened stones and high trees. I couldn’t catch up with her, so I waited for her to come back, sitting on a fallen tombstone. All of a sudden I fixed my eyes on the contours of my flower. I went down on my knees and raked up the fallen leaves. A gravestone the colour of meerschaum loomed into view and on it was an inscription: Anabel.

  ‘My dearest, I have found my one, true love. We are going away together. Don’t look for me. It’s no use. I’m terribly sorry. Kathleen.’

  That was the message I received at the hotel. Later on I went to the restaurant at which sea delicacies were served. Sometimes a great misfortune is so absurd that you cannot perceive it in earnest. Not until two days had passed did I understand what had happened. Years went by, the reminiscence still lingered in my mind. Occasionally, at moments of ease, when I was alone or among other people, a pang pierced my heart abruptly and harshly: Kathleen.

  Circumstances sent me to a strange faraway town in the south. During the daytime I was drawn into the maelstrom of car horns and a chanting language that makes one nervous, while floods of people swayed at the foot of the enormous shining buildings in its rhythm.

  I had an asthma attack during the night. I thought it was due to the air in the room, and half-dressed, staggering, I went out of the hotel. I was getting worse. I leaned against a wall. At that moment a group in fancy dress appeared in front of me from the street opposite. It seemed they thought I was drunk because they closed round me, sticking their tongues out at me, making faces and jigging about in a kind of a carnival dance. I became almost physically conscious of their presence. I was suffocating. I felt I was dying. Then I made a desperate attempt to shout out the name of my malady and I passed out.

  The next morning I woke propped up against the wall. The fit had passed. I went back to the hotel. I received the following letter there:

  ‘My dearest, last night I saw you pass out shouting my name. You pronounced it as if it was torturing you more violently than your malady. I decided you should know the truth. You remain my greatest, one and only love. I have always had that feeling, even at the moment I sent you that ill-fated message, but I knew that feeling was doomed to be destroyed by the desolation of the dreary weekdays. Therefore, I decided to preserve it by any means.

  Once more, farewell!

  Kathleen’

  Gallo was a clerk at the only bank branch-office in the town. He was never late for work, he didn’t have his meals at his desk, and he didn’t put himself forward for promotion. Thus he met the requirements for an ideal employee. The thought of soon being pensioned off did not bother him, although he lived alone. Only the trace of an obscure, blurred apprehension fleetingly crossed his face.

  As dusk was falling one Sunday, Gallo was sitting on a bench in the park, lost in a reverie that he could not make sense of.

  ‘Hello, Gallo! What are you gawping at?’ a familiar voice startled him.

  ‘I am watching the clouds.’ Gallo tried to determine his state. ‘Look how beautiful they are.’

  ‘You call them clouds?’ the fellow cried out. ‘They are pathetic compared to the faeries above the gulfs in the South Seas. You know, I was in the navy in my younger days and I know about these t
hings.’

  ‘Do you?’ Gallo whispered and became lost in thought.

  From that day on he changed. He became scatterbrained. He made mistakes. He was late for work. The manager was at the end of his tether.

  One day he did not come to work at all. A message arrived on the next day:

  ‘Mr Manager,

  I am leaving. Please forgive me.

  Eugene Gallo – a hunter of clouds.’

  ‘Poor man,’ the manager said to himself at that sign of derangement.

  Thereafter no one saw anything of him.

  A tramp could be seen now and then in the harbour quarters of Maracaibo, Paramaribo and Veracruz. Sometimes he watched the sky all day long. That upset the prostitutes and annoyed the sailors, but soon everybody got used to the lunatic. Sometimes they even invited him to the bar, and sitting there with a glass of rum in front of him he spoke long and dreamily about the clouds above autumn gulfs, clouds above red sunsets, clouds above winter sunsets of bluish light. Every tale has its end. After a typhoon, an old stubbly man in shabby clothes was found at the beach, half-buried in the sand. The corpse was stiff, but the eyes were as if still alive, looking for the transparent blue highway of the cloud convoys in the sky.

  ‘Wretch!’ exclaimed the fellow I was telling the story to. ‘Still, it was best that he had no family of his own.’

  ‘Yes,’ said I, ‘but sometimes minor actors forget the script and anxiously act out states born out of the recollection of our impossible dreams.’

  THE HAND

  I felt it creeping across my stomach. Then it slid along my chest. A nasty feeling – like touching a snail. I kept still, lying with closed eyes. One minute it stopped, the next it slowly progressed. It seemed to think I was asleep. When it got close to my neck, I leapt up and switched on the lamp. The bed was empty. However, I knew I had averted mortal danger. I was sure of it.