The Selling Life
The next installment of Cromwell and Boone is about half finished. In the meantime, here's a short freewrite inspired by a comment I heard in a radio interview several months ago.
"We learned how not to be conned, where to find the best prices for bedsheets and computers and oregano." --talking about moving to Mumbai
In the Friendly Bazaar, Joseph leaned forward against his chair, tipping its hind legs into a precarious balance. If he applied his weight at the wrong vector, the chair would fly out from under him and he'd fall into the masses of people. This had happened once before, to laughter and delight, and he'd actually gained a few customers that day. But to repeat that would be an obvious gimmick.
The chair balance was more subtle. People would notice out of the corner of their eyes, and become uncomfortablely fascinated by the tension, the possibily of disaster. They'd look his way, and he'd smile and lean forward just a little more, then return, then do this again, charming them like a serpent. When a buyer came within a few feet, Joseph knew that making the sale was only a formality.
Today had been a good day. He might close a little bit early, so that he could stop at Madame Alaki's and feed the llamas. She'd give him a bar of Noticia Chocolate with Cardamom and Ginger. That evening, he'd produce the bar while the children were playing Circles and Thread, or Beehive Bonnets, or some other game. He'd move it from one hand to the other, sometimes gliding his fingernail against the wrapping, as if he were sending forth clouds of awaremess from some psychic pipe. First one, then another of his sons and daughters would hesitate in their game, would cock a head or sniff the air. Then, suddenly, all three would drop pins or globes or magic chalk and storm him in the most direct assault this area had seen in a century. But he'd hold the treasure high, laughing and taunting, until their pleading turned to begging and he'd have to remind them of their manners. Silence would follow, bright eyes and bare feet following him to the kitchen where Marta would clean a particular knife always used for this game.
First one child, then another, would cut a line in the bar, but not all the way through. Sometimes one area of the bar would be larger than the others, but most often they came out to equal divisions. Joseph then would step to the far end of the table, cry out "Catch the Salime!" and toss the bar up. When it hit the polished metal table's surface, the bar would crack into pieces, hopefully where the cuts had been made--but not always. Quick fingers stopped chocolate bits as they flew outward like dark, jagged water drops.
The largest piece was always walked gravely to Marta, who would take it, nibble a corner and pronounce it "the best she'd ever tasted." If this left the child without a piece, the others would break off parts of theirs and offer them. Then, the ritual complete, all would run to their favorite areas of the house and savor the confection.
Later, Joseph would tell Marta about his day, the angry owner who wanted to raise rents--but then, how many vendor's would leave? She, in turn, would tell him that while he was lazily making money, she was performing all the work that needed doing. He would offer to trade her for a week, and she would ask how he made any profit if he entered so easily into such bad bargains. Joseph would then relent (especially since he knew Marta had grown up selling Barabia Butter, notoriously difficult to get rid of before it went bad), take off her shoes and rub her feet with cinnamon-scented oil.
That night, they'd sleep with their fingers touching. The windows would be open, the aroma of the river's grass calming their dreams.