for converts.
‘Can I be of help?’ he said. His voice was resonant, and warm, but his sudden appearance had chilled Cal.
‘Help me?’ he said, floundering.
Are you perhaps interested in purchasing property?’ the other man said.
‘Purchasing? No … I … was just … you know … looking around.’
‘It’s a fine house,’ said the stranger, his smile as steady as a surgeon’s handshake, and as antiseptic. ‘Do you know much about houses?’ The line was spoken like its predecessors,without irony or malice. When Cal didn’t reply, the man said: ‘I’m a salesman. My name’s Shadwell.’ He teased the calf-skin glove from his thick-fingered hand. ‘And yours?’
‘Cal Mooney. Calhoun, that is.’
The bare hand was extended. Cal took two steps towards the man – he was fully four inches taller than Cal’s five foot eleven – and shook hands. The man’s cool palm made Cal aware that he was sweating like a pig.
The handshake broken, friend Shadwell unbuttoned his jacket, and opened it, to take a pen from his inside pocket. This casual action briefly revealed the lining of the Salesman’s garment, and by some trick of the light it seemed to shine, as though the fabric were woven of mirrored threads.
Shadwell caught the look on Cal’s face. His voice was feather-light as he said:
‘Do you see anything you like?’
Cal didn’t trust the man. Was it the smile or the calf-skin gloves that made him suspicious? Whichever, he wanted as little time in the man’s company as possible.
But there was something in the jacket. Something that caught the light, and made Cal’s heart beat a little faster.
‘Please …’ Shadwell coaxed. ‘Have a look.’
His hand went to the jacket again, and opened it.
‘Tell me …’ he purred, ‘… if there’s anything there that takes your fancy.’
This time, he fully opened the jacket, exposing the lining. And yes. Cal’s first judgment had been correct. It did shine.
‘I am, as I said, a salesman,’ Shadwell was explaining. ‘I make it a Golden Rule always to carry some samples of my merchandise around with me.’
Merchandise. Cal shaped the word in his head, his eyes still fixed on the interior of the jacket. What a word that was: merchandise. And there, in the lining of the jacket, he could almost see that word made solid. Jewellery, was it, that gleamed there? Artificial gems with a sheen that blinded the way only the fake could. He squinted into the glamour, looking to make sense out of what he saw, while the Salesman’s voice went about its persuasions:
‘Tell me what you’d like and it’s yours. I can’t say fairer than that, can I? A fine young man like you should be able to pick and choose. The world’s your oyster. I can see that. Open in front of you. Have what you like. Free, gratis and without charge. You tell me what you see in there, and the next minute it’s in your hands …’
Look away , something in Cal said; nothing comes free. Prices must be paid.
But his gaze was so infatuated with the mysteries in the folds of the jacket that he couldn’t have averted his eyes now if his life depended upon it.
‘… tell me …’ the Salesman said, ‘… what you see …’
Ah, there was a question –
‘… and it’s yours.’
He saw forgotten treasures, things he’d once upon a time set his heart upon, thinking that if he owned them he’d never want for anything again. Worthless trinkets, most of them; but items that awoke old longings. A pair of X-ray spectacles he’d seen advertised at the back of a comic book (see thru walls! impress your friends!) but had never been able to buy. There they were now, their plastic lens gleaming, and seeing them he remembered the October nights he’d lain awake wondering how they worked.
And what was that beside them? Another childhood fetish. A photograph of a woman dressed only in stiletto heels and a sequinned G-string, presenting her over-sized breasts to the viewer. The boy two
‘Can I be of help?’ he said. His voice was resonant, and warm, but his sudden appearance had chilled Cal.
‘Help me?’ he said, floundering.
Are you perhaps interested in purchasing property?’ the other man said.
‘Purchasing? No … I … was just … you know … looking around.’
‘It’s a fine house,’ said the stranger, his smile as steady as a surgeon’s handshake, and as antiseptic. ‘Do you know much about houses?’ The line was spoken like its predecessors,without irony or malice. When Cal didn’t reply, the man said: ‘I’m a salesman. My name’s Shadwell.’ He teased the calf-skin glove from his thick-fingered hand. ‘And yours?’
‘Cal Mooney. Calhoun, that is.’
The bare hand was extended. Cal took two steps towards the man – he was fully four inches taller than Cal’s five foot eleven – and shook hands. The man’s cool palm made Cal aware that he was sweating like a pig.
The handshake broken, friend Shadwell unbuttoned his jacket, and opened it, to take a pen from his inside pocket. This casual action briefly revealed the lining of the Salesman’s garment, and by some trick of the light it seemed to shine, as though the fabric were woven of mirrored threads.
Shadwell caught the look on Cal’s face. His voice was feather-light as he said:
‘Do you see anything you like?’
Cal didn’t trust the man. Was it the smile or the calf-skin gloves that made him suspicious? Whichever, he wanted as little time in the man’s company as possible.
But there was something in the jacket. Something that caught the light, and made Cal’s heart beat a little faster.
‘Please …’ Shadwell coaxed. ‘Have a look.’
His hand went to the jacket again, and opened it.
‘Tell me …’ he purred, ‘… if there’s anything there that takes your fancy.’
This time, he fully opened the jacket, exposing the lining. And yes. Cal’s first judgment had been correct. It did shine.
‘I am, as I said, a salesman,’ Shadwell was explaining. ‘I make it a Golden Rule always to carry some samples of my merchandise around with me.’
Merchandise. Cal shaped the word in his head, his eyes still fixed on the interior of the jacket. What a word that was: merchandise. And there, in the lining of the jacket, he could almost see that word made solid. Jewellery, was it, that gleamed there? Artificial gems with a sheen that blinded the way only the fake could. He squinted into the glamour, looking to make sense out of what he saw, while the Salesman’s voice went about its persuasions:
‘Tell me what you’d like and it’s yours. I can’t say fairer than that, can I? A fine young man like you should be able to pick and choose. The world’s your oyster. I can see that. Open in front of you. Have what you like. Free, gratis and without charge. You tell me what you see in there, and the next minute it’s in your hands …’
Look away , something in Cal said; nothing comes free. Prices must be paid.
But his gaze was so infatuated with the mysteries in the folds of the jacket that he couldn’t have averted his eyes now if his life depended upon it.
‘… tell me …’ the Salesman said, ‘… what you see …’
Ah, there was a question –
‘… and it’s yours.’
He saw forgotten treasures, things he’d once upon a time set his heart upon, thinking that if he owned them he’d never want for anything again. Worthless trinkets, most of them; but items that awoke old longings. A pair of X-ray spectacles he’d seen advertised at the back of a comic book (see thru walls! impress your friends!) but had never been able to buy. There they were now, their plastic lens gleaming, and seeing them he remembered the October nights he’d lain awake wondering how they worked.
And what was that beside them? Another childhood fetish. A photograph of a woman dressed only in stiletto heels and a sequinned G-string, presenting her over-sized breasts to the viewer. The boy two
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