A Piece of Life(1)
The bell tinkled gently on the corner of the door when Victor opened it, and again a moment later as it closed, accompanied by the low hiss of the pneumatic anti-slam mechanism. The shop was quiet otherwise. Rows of waist-high shelves filled the room, their chipped white paint offering the last line of defense for the tired old wood that peered from beneath it. The thick yet not unpleasant smell of things long unmoved, of yellowed pages and brittle binding glue, hung in still air. In the window display an ancient rocking horse bearing the proud scuffs of a thousand imagined journeys watched with its meticulously hand-carved expression of stoic bravery the passing of hunched and hurried figures in the world on the other side of the glass.
There didn't appear to be anyone working. Victor worked his way towards the register counter where a dusty glass display case dully refracted the sunlight from the window onto the side of a dented but probably functional toaster with a round white sticker upon which someone had scribbled "3". The case was held shut with a copper clasp and kept secure with a small padlock. Victor leaned over it and scrutinized its contents. A pile of knives of varying sizes and purposes occupied the bottom shelf, and on the shelf above it an assortment of small decorative spoons were carefully arranged. He squatted down and peered at the knives.
His nephew Isaac was something of a knife collector, and even at the tender age of sixteen had already amassed an impressive variety which he loved to display and talk about at every opportunity. Isaac's eyes always lit up when Victor gave him a new one. Isaac seemed to understand: A knife has a personality. It has a story, a history, and even a destiny. A knife might spend its days in the gnarled hands of an old man, methodically peeling statues of horses from within their wooden wombs or trimming excess line from fisherman's knots, the blade dwindling slowly in acquiescence to a hundred thousand draws across a whetstone. Another might shine in the hands of a master chef while yet another is forgotten, slowly rusting in the back of a kitchen drawer. For these, any presence of blood is an unfortunate side effect of a wandering mind. Others are crafted for more sinister purposes.
Isaac would be happy with anything, Victor knew. A large ornamental blade caught his eye for a moment, but it's purpose was inscrutable other than as decoration and he quickly dismissed it. Thoreau's disdain for useless brick-a-brack resonated in his mind.
"...I was terrified to find that they required to be dusted daily,
when the furniture of my mind was all undusted still,
and threw them out the window in disgust (2)."
Three pieces of limestone. No; a knife without purpose would not an adequate gift make. Nor would a broken one. Here was a folding knife with rust spots, here was a hilt knife in a sheath with a pommel that was clearly loose. Several were the result of shoddy craftsmanship and cheap materials, one was missing a rivet. Chipped handles abounded. Victor's hope dwindled rapidly. There were a few knives in the back of the shelf that he couldn't get a good look at from his vantage point, and he cast around again for an employee who might open the case for him. None appeared. Victor gambled that whoever worked there wouldn't mind if he went around to the back of the counter for a better look.
Motes of dust swirled in the light from the window as he stepped around a many-tiered shelf full of snow-globes and music boxes. As soon as he came around the back of the counter, he saw something that looked promising. It was a fixed-bladed knife with a polished black handle and silver rivets. The pommel and hilt were silver as well and elegantly crafted. He couldn't see the blade. If the blade was in good condition it would be perfect. Victor stepped over to the body on the floor, and bent down to take hold of the handle. He gave it a good tug but it was lodged in something. He put his foot on the small of the dead woman's back, gripped the knife with both hands, and yanked as hard as he could. The body lifted a little before the blade came free, and thudded back down stiffly when it finally slid out.
Victor wiped the blade off on the corpse. It was in excellent condition. A little dried blood was caked at the hilt, but he knew he could wash that off later with a little soap and water and the steel would shine again. It would be as good as new. He looked around briefly for a sheath, but didn't hold out much hope for it. He had some leather working materials in his flat and was handy with them; he would make the sheath himself. He could easily have it finished by Thursday.
Isaac would love it.
In the absence of a price-tag, Victor gave it a guess that seemed fair and left a few bills by the register before he pocketed the knife in his coat and turned for the door. The light from the glass case had trekked from the toaster to a lower shelf containing a gorilla that had been carved from a coconut. He hadn't noticed it before. Victor added two more bills to the stack on the counter. The bell tinkled gently again as left the shop and stepped out into the street, coconut gorilla in hand. The sun was getting low.
1. The term "A piece of life" is in reference to "The Sundog Trail" by Jack London. It is a story within a story, both of which have no beginning and no end. Something about that concept has kept me fascinated ever since I read the story for an English class in high school, so I thought I'd give it a go. This is that go, for what it's worth.
2. The quote is from Walden, by Henry David Thoreau. I've always considered that work to be a lovely example of how a guy can build a shack out of used lumber and then look down on people from within it.
