ReadFin Literary Journal (Winter 2018)

one of those moments where two negative poles broke the laws
of physics and would rapidly shudder as they neatly snapped
together. She wasn’t interested in buying anything, and this
delighted Charlemagne.
‘What’s your talent?’ Charlemagne always opened up with the
same question to non-customers. It was his attempt at bypassing
the rubbish heap of inane chatter. His opening question was
barely spoken; Charlemagne always began conversations
quietly, but if they went well, he would gradually become more
animated, even boisterous, especially after a glass of cognac.
His initial muttering would often not be heard, but usually
acknowledged with fleeting eye contact, a kind of ‘checking in’.
‘What’s your talent?’ The question came a little louder this
time. Of course, interrogatives like this one are avoided as a
conversation starter because one is immediately dropped in the
throes of identity formation, a private enclave of struggle that,
mostly, we do our best to contain. And, the tears that reluctantly
escape are mostly inappropriate; in fact, many humans have
found a way to suck them back into their ducts, as if reversing
time.
‘Excuse me?’ She, of course, heard what Charlemagne had asked,
but the only proper response was to question; who would ask
such a question? And why? Maybe even, how dare they ask such
a question? But Charlemagne knew a non-customer when he saw
one.
‘What’s your talent.’ This time the question was asserted, not
so loud that the non-customer’s companion would overhear,
but there was no longer any doubt what was being asked, or,
asserted.
And this particular time, the non-customer in question lost face,
and a tear spilled. She hadn’t learnt the skill of tear-sucking, so a
quick swipe of the hand had to do.
Charlemagne watched on impassively. ‘We are given permission
to cry at funerals and airports. That is all. It’s nice to meet you.’
Finally falling into convention, Charlemagne extended his hand
in greeting.
The non-customer took it, lips tight, still gaining composure.
‘I’m Charlemagne.’
‘Hello. I’m Anika.’
‘I have something for you, Anika.’ With that, he disappeared up
the stairs. Anika’s partner had fallen silent, mouth slightly ajar,
not so plucky now. Charlemagne came down the stairs with a 78
in hand.
‘Thank you, but I don’t have a record player,’ Anika said, her
hands pushing the record away before it had even touched her
hands.
‘Then you will need to find one,’ Charlemagne replied, barely a
smile on his lips
Anika looked puzzled, but was game. ‘What would I do with it if I
couldn’t play it on a record player?’
‘Sometimes a tome has a purpose that belies its function.
Perhaps you can hear its song?’ Charlemagne held the 78 up with
two fingers through the centre spindle hole adjacent to Anika’s
ear.
Anika looked puzzled, but she couldn’t stifle a smile.
‘Smiling is permitted here,’ Charlemagne offered, which
caused a smiling eruption for both parties, and in turn, a belly
laugh from Charlemagne. Charlemagne persisted, the 78 still
poised delicately at Anika’s ear. The shop fell silent again, and
Charlemagne, with eyes holding Anika, spoke quietly. ‘Listen.’
Anika submitted, her eyes closing. The shop door opened
with the clanging of bells, and Charlemagne turned around
immediately, his free hand shooing away his new customers,
who, luckily, were aware they’d walked in on something
they shouldn’t have, and scurried away. ‘Keep your focus.’
Charlemagne’s focus came back to Anika, whose eyes were still
closed.
The shop took on a different quality, the outside world
successfully held at bay, and the silence filled the air with a
thickness, like the moment before a storm hits in the tropics.
Anika, ever so slightly, began to sway. ‘Bells,’ she said softly. ‘And
sand…a fire…and a big drum…moonlight’
Charlemagne’s eyes were also closed, so he could not see Anika’s
shoulders move in unison with his head.
And Anika left the store with a tome in hand, and a much
quieter partner. This was one of the times Charlemagne knew
a 78 had to leave; its story could now continue. It was after a
day like this that Charlemagne slept deeply, 12 hours of still
blackness, an oblivion he was rarely blessed by.
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ReadFin Literary Journal