'
Tortoiseshell Comb circa 1800. Carved with a heron motive. Implying longevity, purity and a gateway to heaven - NTB 4528' Jackson Taylor completed the green index card, and posted it at the back of a wooden filing drawer. He took the comb and laid it on the table with the other 'recent aquestitions'.
Around him was the collection of Mr Nathaniel T Bliss. The cabinet of curiosities his wealth had, and continued to accumulate, according to his, sometimes fickle, sense of beauty. His representatives scoured the country, buying and selling, and then sending their best purchases to be assessed by the curator of the cabinet - Jackson Taylor. He then presented the most desirable of these, for the approval of Mr Nathaniel T Bliss. There were clearly defined guidelines for him to follow. When first employed, he carried the typed list in his journal, but after five years, they were as familiar to him as the names of his children.
1 Age. Nothing made within the last 30 years
2 Condition. Wear through use is permitted, but not careless damage or unsustainable deterioration. IE: damp/insect infestation/fading/decomposition.
3 Beauty. The artifact must catch the eye and hold it.
4 Size. Is immaterial, though objects for transport IE: boats/automobiles/motorcycles must be scrutinised by Mr Casey Vernon.
5 Price. Immaterial
6 Upon receipt of an unknown object, research can be undertaken, by request, at the Museum of Anthropology. Contact Mr John Lambourne.
7 The first duty of a man is to think for himself
Initially number seven had proved something of a confusion for Jackson. Surely every man thought for himself? How can it be considered a duty? And slowly, under the probing and constant questioning of Nathaniel T Bliss, he began to double check his facts, started to doubt his decision making, and found himself gazing at number seven for reassurance.
Jackson smoothed down his hair and straightened the buttons on his vest. He was standing attentively beside the table, in the entrance to the museum with its totem poles, and Eskimo clothing, its statues, and purses, and weapons, and shells, and just abut anything The Representatives of Mr Nathaniel T Bliss could reap a commission on, should it gain entry into the collection.
Jackson heard footsteps. Towards him marched Nathaniel T Bliss, with Mrs Bliss on his arm. She walked gracefully, wearing a grey twin set and white pants. He was tall, had recently shaved off his beard and moustache, so the skin at the edges of his face were strangely pale. He had quick eyes and the curt manner of a man of success.
"Jackson." He called all his employees by their first name, but it was no gesture of affection. His wife Barbara, how she wish she could have held her maiden name, nodded in response to Jackson's welcome.
"What have we this month?"
"A comb sir tortoise shell, nicely decorated."
Good, good." Nathaniel T Bliss, picked up each object as it was described, and passed it over to his wife.
"A game, sir, played with stones on a wooden board, using these carved holes. We believe it had rules something like chequers."
"More research needed before it goes on display."
"Yes Sir. This is.."
"Is this a music box?" Barbara opened the mahogany box, and turned the key. The tune echoed around the room. When it finished, Nathaniel T Bliss asked what the tune was, and Jackson had to admit he didn't know.
"It is beautiful." Barbara commented.
"The tune or the box?" Nathaniel asked, turning it in his hands, unconvinced. "Does it have age?" Jackson replied that he was unsure. "It's been repaired at some point." His voice held all the concerns of a man who sees no value in the object before him.
"I thought of all the people who must have owned it. No-one has thrown it away, in fact they've gone to the trouble of restoring it. For them, though it is only a mahogany box, with an unknown tune, it was worth keeping." Jackson explained. Guideline number seven, he would have added, if he had the courage. Nathaniel considering this, he turned the key again, speaking even as the music played.
"You like this tune?" He asked his wife.
"Oh yes, it reminds me of something, I don't know. Maybe it was something we heard on a visit to the theatre dear, it's charming." Nathaniel thought a moment, and then relaid the box on the table.
"More research for that too. Without categorising the tune, this box doesn't mean anything to me. But both you and my wife like it, so there's something I'm not hearing. Who knows maybe it's a lost Beethoven sonata?" He laughed and Jackson smiled indulgently, but hesitatingly.
"The comb, the game, this skin painting, the clock, all the rest I like." He extend his arm to his wife, and she slipped her hand where it belonged, and they turned and left. Jackson surveyed the table. He was glad Mrs Bliss had liked the music box, she'd saved it from 're-assignment'. He waited until he heard the outside door close, and then he turned the key and closed his eyes, the better to enjoy the tranquillity Nathaniel T Bliss had no feeling for.
(
For Part One see 'Madigan')
Madame Ito felt the warmth of tears on her cheek, as she stood in the centre of what had previously been her silk shop, and surveyed the emptiness.
The men in the brown coveralls had been disrespectfully noisy. Whistling through their teeth, leaving deep scratchmarks as they dragged display cabinets across the wooden floor. They marched to and fro, carrying armfuls of silk rolls to the green van parked at the kerbside, door flung open, like arms inviting in all her precious belongings.Sometimes a roll would slip through their hands and tumble to the floor, and the clumsy man would kick it all the way to the door, across the sidewalk, and into the road. Madame Ito, in a white tunic top and wide black trousers, stood silent witness as they unscrewed shelves from the walls, leaving dark ghosts of their presence, and deep holes spewing out brick dust, dropping a crumble along the skirting boards. Even the paper light shades had gone, the lightbulbs sparkled too bright, casting angry impotent stars in the ceiling.
The Representative of Nathaniel T Bliss stood at the doorway with a clipboard, checking over his glasses as objects passed him on their way to the van, pushing the glasses up his nose and making a careful note, in tight black handwriting, on the inventory sheet.
Having emptied the shop, the men went into her private rooms above, banging their boots up the stairs, across the floorboards, turning out drawers onto the bed and going through her intimate belongings with perverted glee, selecting all the Japanese artifacts. Still Madame Ito stood quietly and endured their mocking, until she saw one go by with a wooden box tucked under his arm. She moved forward,
"Not that." The man, surprised by the change from passive statue to active woman, looked quickly to The Representative for confirmation. "It is a present for my husband." The Representative flicked through his inventory list.
"There are no exemptions Madame Ito. All goods and chattels deemed saleable or collectables." He quoted from the contract.
"This is for my husband. A gift from a wife to her returning spouse. He has been away many months."
"And won't be getting back in." The second man pushed around the first, carrying a framed, narrow landscape of Mount Fuji. He made the comment out the corner of his mouth, loud enough for her to hear, and the two labourers laughed, though the first still waited for a descion from the doorway.
"No exemptions." The Representative jerked his head towards the van, and with a smirk the man carried away the music box. Crossing to her, The Representative offered the clipboard to sign away all her memories, all that gave her status, and a living. He pulled from an inside pocket an envelope of notes, the agreed fee. She took it quietly.
"Don't you want to check it?" She shook her head.
He shrugged, knowing she was lucky to find anyone to buy out her bankrupt shop. He also knew the money would do her no good in the short term, if internment of foreign aliens went ahead, without consideration of their allegiance, of where they considered home, of what sense of belonging they had.
Out of habit, his arm moved to tip his hat in leaving, but suddenly he felt no need to offer her this moment of respect, so just turned and walked out the shop, leaving the door open, so she heard the van door slam shut and the engine start, before the vehicle drew away.
Madame Ito slowly walked across the scuffed floorboards and pushed the door closed, feeling the resistance as it clicked shut, before dropping the latch. Then she turned and surveyed the emptiness and felt the warmth of tears on her cheek.
(For Part One see 'Madigan')
"Everyone loves silk." Morgan declared, as he allowed his hand to run along the kaleidoscope of materials. "It makes a pretty woman beautiful, and a rich man poor."
"No discounts Morgan." Hiroko Ito wagged a playful finger at him. She wore a plain emerald kimono with a broad waistband of cream, her hair, immaculately brushed and presented, gleamed with the same glow of the silk she sold.
"Sadly, for you, I'm not here to buy, although this is wonderful." Hiroko moved quickly, extricating the red and golden bolt from it's rack and unrolling it on a long table, the better to show it off.
"You have a good eye Morgan, this is handmade in Japan and exported...." He allowed her to reel off her sales patter, whilst he looked around the shop and its glass topped cabinets. The bolts of cloth were carefully spread around the wooden pigeon holes, to try and hide the fact, there was only a third of the usual amount of stock for sale.
"Mr Ito is not here today?"
She ran a hand along the coolness of the silk.
"You do not wish to buy this?"
"No, Madam Ito, but it is beautiful." As she re-rolled the silk and returned it to the shelf, she spoke softly, her back to him.
"Mr Ito has travelled to Japan. His Father is very ill." Morgan was surprised. He would not travel, with the world in such a colic of fascism and suspicion. She turned back. "His Father is dying." Her voice spoke of duty and necessity.
"That must be very difficult for you." She nodded slowly, acknowledging the truth in his words, then whispered.
"Americans, will not buy from us, we sell to Japanese Nisei for weddings, to the older ladies of the Issei who still are more comfortable in tradition costume. We get by. Mr Ito will return with new stock, more modern designs, I hope, will bring new trade."
Morgan rolled his hat in his hands and, recognising his discomfort, she smiled.
"But it seems, today you come for tea, but not to buy. Come." She indicated the two wooden chairs her assistant had set up beside a small round topped table, where a squat clay teapot steamed, beside bone china cups.
"As ever Madam Ito, you are correct. I need your expertise." He was accustomed to the dry tasting green tea, and passed her the pearl, wrapped in the wrinkled tissue paper. "A pearl, a fine peal, but can you translate the writing for me?" She glanced at the pearl, and placed it on the upturned lid of the teapot, then scrutinised the writing with a small laugh.
"This is Chinese, not Japanese. But I know a little. This, you see here? I think this is a mark of belonging, of the ownership of your fine pearl."
"Is there a name, can you read it?"
"No, this symbol, you see here? this is made up of sounds which spell out the name, but they are not familiar to me." She laid the crumpled piece of paper on the table and took the pearl again." How did you came by it?"
"It was found in this." He swapped the pearl for a red mahogany box, which she laid on her lap to open, and finding it empty, turned the key. The music transported them, one to the other side of the world, and the other, to a dream of childhood. After the last note had detached itself from the tune, they each took a sip of tea, still lost in their thoughts. Madame Ito smiled.
"So you came to sell, not to buy." Morgan spread his hands, as if saying, 'what else would you expect of me?' She opened her palm inviting him to replace the pearl there, which he did. She examined it professionally, then pinched it between two fingers and gave it back to him.
"This pearl, a poor silk merchant will never be able to afford. This box, I like. Mr Ito would like."
"Do you think it is Chinese too?" She shock her head.
"Oh no, the music is Western, the box made in the Western style, though of a good wood, well enough crafted, but not Chinese, definitely not Japanese."
They sipped tea again.
"And so Madame Ito, we reach the question of price."
"This box, with its pearl and its history, is undeserving of financial consideration Morgan. It holds magic in its grain, like silk holds mystery in its threads." And Morgan knew he would be leaving with a roll of red and golden material under his arm.
(For Part One see 'Madigan')
