Market Forces
There is a market stall just behind you. Don’t look now – most likely you wouldn’t see anything. And if you did – well, I’m not sure it’s the kind of thing you should see.
It’s much safer if I describe it for you.
It’s a small booth, covered with a material that looks like old sackcloth. The counter is about halfway up; it’s a narrow shelf, made of a pale, unvarnished wood, and it holds the seller’s wares.
They don’t look very enticing. They consist of about a dozen vessels made of greyish clay. They are curved at the top and taper towards the base: they look like the little jars you’ll see in the Egyptian rooms of the British Museum, the ones that were used to store the body parts of the dead. Each one is stopped tightly with a wad of dirty cloth.
It is the stallholder himself who would catch your eye.
He is a pale man, deathly pale. So pale, you can see the blue veins running underneath his skin. He stands perfectly still, and if it weren’t for his eyes, you might think he was some sort of sculpture.
His eyes are dark and glistening. The irises are so large that there is practically no white around the edges: but you can tell from the reflected light that he is looking around, his gaze darting from side to side as he watches for a customer.
He is sizing you up right now. I told you not to look.
He is interrupted by a man approaching the stall with quick, determined strides. You would say he is in his twenties from his appearance, but you wouldn’t be entirely sure that you were correct. He walks with his head to the ground: he looks worn out, poor soul.
In his hand, he carries a jar identical to the ones on sale. He puts it down heavily on the counter.
‘Good-day, sir,’ says the stallholder. He inclines his head slightly. His movements are mechanical: they are like those of the fortune-telling automata you would see in old fairgrounds and penny arcades.
‘Don’t you remember me?’ the customer replies.
‘Of course, sir,’ says the stallholder. ‘I never forget a customer.’
‘Then you know why I’m here.’
‘My goods,’ says the stallholder, ‘are never faulty. So I would assume, sir, that you are here because you have not found my product to your satisfaction?’
‘No,’ says the customer, curtly.
‘Let me see,’ says the stallholder. He reaches beneath the counter and pulls out a thick volume bound in pale leather. He regards his customer carefully, and then opens the book in the middle and begins to turn the pages. They are made of thick parchment which crackles as he handles them.
Finally he stops, presses down a leaf, and reads a line or two.
‘Nine hundred years,’ he says, and whistles. ‘You took your time, sir.’
‘I’ve been trying for at least a hundred,’ the customer replies. ‘But you weren’t here.’
The stallholder shakes his head.
‘I’m always here,’ he says. ‘I was here when it was all fields. I was here when it was a market square. Then it was a housing estate. Today there’s some sort of party going on. Tomorrow the bulldozers will be in, and it’ll be something else again. I’m always here, though. ‘
‘Then why couldn’t I find you?’
‘My opening hours,’ the stallholder replies, ‘are not entirely regular. You’ve got to be quick.’
He returns to the book, and runs his finger along the lines.
‘Now, sir, I wonder if you could produce a receipt.’
The customer rummages in his pockets. He pulls out a yellowed scroll, tied with a ribbon and sealed with a blob of red wax. He hands it to the stallholder, who breaks the seal with one swift motion of a long, sharp fingernail, and unrolls it.
‘Yes,’ he says. ‘This all seems to be in order.’ He looks more closely at the bottom of the paper. ‘I gave you a good price, too, if you don’t mind me saying so, sir.’
‘Can I have my refund?’ the customer asks impatiently.
The stallholder lifts a single, bony finger in the air.
‘Terms and conditions,’ he says. ‘Terms and conditions. Might I ask why sir is requesting a refund?’
‘I’m tired,’ says the customer. ‘I am so, so tired.’
‘One might have hoped nine hundred years of unbridled youth might have given sir more profound insights,’ the stallholder laments. ‘Is there nothing else you have learned?’
The customer pauses and thinks for a couple of minutes. Finally, he speaks.
‘Things,’ he says, sadly, ‘can always get worse.’
The stallholder claps his hands with glee.
‘Excellent. Now, let me see - ’
He pulls out a large round leather bag. It makes a heavy chink as he sets it down on the counter. Without taking his eyes off his customer, he puts his hand in and takes out a small bronze coin.
‘Your refund, sir.’
The customer stares at the object in the stallholder’s palm.
‘Is that the original coin I paid you with?’ he asks.
The stallholder nods. ‘I never spend my profits, sir.’
‘Why not?’
‘The profits are not important. The point of this stall is not to create a demand for life, sir. Quite the opposite. I have found that a certain amount of eternal life, judiciously applied to a population creates – well, a demand for my main line of work.’
The customer doesn’t reply. He is still gazing at the coin. Gently, gently, the stallholder begins to close his fingers around it. The customer lunges forward and snatches it from the stallholder’s hand.
The customer staggers back as his hand begins to dissolve around the coin. Then his arm begins to melt, his torso, his head, his legs. All turns to vapour, as the coin falls to the floor and rolls away.
There is just the stall now, and the stallholder. He is looking me straight in the eye, as if he is asking me a question.
Perhaps one day soon, I shall go to him and ask for my refund. But not yet. Not yet.
***
© Copyright N. P. Boyce 2010
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