Hello everyone!
This is lighter reading than others, but nevertheless it is a story with a moral.
XIX. An Evening at Sullivan's
This was dust that did not make one sneeze.
It twinkled in the muted yellow light; it made children believe in fairies and magic stars that came from wands; it surrounded vintage-clad figures that pored over objects as old as time. Sometimes, men would sit around the old round coffee table in the center, looking like subjects of ancient paintings that gazed at one from behind glass shields, eyes shining in their sfumato brushstrokes.
If truth be told, Sullivan's was more of tea shop and meeting place, and one who lived among books would say that the atmosphere was that of a meeting place for medieval heretics.
The old man – Mr. Sullivan, or Old Dan, a kindly old man who spent his evenings feeding pigeons and drinking Irish whiskey – would sit with his customers, like King Arthur at his tea table, talking about age-old objects, age-old friends and who had more stamps in their collectors' books. A century back an artist would walk in and paint them in deep browns and coppers, with a Rembrandtian light.
Mr. Sullivan was the kind of man who wished on stars. The kind of man that would lean on his age-old cane and mutter that he was born in the wrong century. The kind of man who hated life when numbers added up and everything could be explained. Mystery allows us to live, he would say. Sacriligeous as it may sound, I do pity God. To know everything...is a terrifying thought in itself. Dr. Faustus was a fool...he would talk a lot after a few glasses of Jameson.
In fact, 'customers' was only a name he ascribed to his friends, for they never bought anything, and Sullivan's had not sold anything in a few months. The shop window was merely a window for some, a mirror for others, but nothing of tangible interest. And yet, he did not complain. Mr. Sullivan never needed money. He was the kind of man who buried his face in an old book to inhale its scent; he was the kind of man who thought money came from the devil. He was the kind of man a rich father would disown because he wasted money on books, and not gold.
Would he buy anything himself? No, he would not. Even though he had enough money to buy half the shop's contents. Was it because he disliked old objects, because he did not have a fondness for them? No, oh no, and what an illogical proposition that would be. Old things had always been subjects of his endless fascination with the mysterious; old things were something he had dedicated himself to. But he would not have one in the house.
He loved mystery, and yet he believed it should remain untouched. There is a reason one is wary of the dark; equally, there is a reason one should be wary of old things. He had not acquired this piece of wisdom at his round tea table, where he and his companions seemed to be Arthur and his knights; he had acquired it from a woman.
He had never had any particular opinion on women; he had never married, although no-one knew how many childhood crushes – or perhaps, greater affections – he concealed within his heart. This woman had been old, her English accented, with a young boy – her grandson – and they had entered his shop, the lady quietly trailing behind the boy, wherever he went.
The boy's eyes, he remembered, had grown lighter by the minute, in his childlike enthusiasm and engagement with the unknown; he had left no ancient object untouched, and yet he regarded everything like one would regard an expensive toy, something valuable and yet rather superficial, to be played with and then forgotten. His attitude had changed, however, when he arrived at one article at the back of the shop.
A box of razors.
As he reminisced, he, unwittingly, walked to the back of the shop, and was soon tracing a finger over the fine wooden patterns of the box...The boy had taken each one in his young hands, traced the patterns on their handles, flicked them open, watched how the light played on the blade, the mellow yellow light of the shop...the boy had turned to him, his gaze frank, sincere in that precious childlike way that slips away like sand through fingers as we age, and asked. «Where did you get these from, mister?»
He had smiled. «These were sent to us from Poland. Quite a far-off country, you know, son,» he had then turned to his grandmother. «You see, madam, the inscription on the handle» - he had indicated it to her – «and the box» - that too – «are that of an English master. The story behind these is very interesting: some old descendant of the Knyazes(1) Kalinowsky, left all his posessions in his will to his wife and son, all except these razors. And he died in a strange way, you know – smallpox! In our day...» he had trailed off, staring into space. «Heaven knows why, but he sent them to the Polish Antiques association...they, in turn, sold them to Britain, and they ended up here.»
The woman had run her long, spindly fingers along the handles of the razors, silver, pure, chaste, silver. The young boy had watched his grandmothers hand, mesmerized.
«They're pretty, aren't they, gran?»
The old woman had chuckled, and yet the spark in her eyes remained fierce. «Pretty, but who knows what they carry inside them. Who knows...» The old man's eyes had then been so much like the young boy's, mesmerized, the light from the fireplace dancing in his eyes. She spoke like a fortune-teller, an old Gypsy, a prophetess. Her eyes shone, as if they held the future in their black depths. Perhaps, the old man now thought, her eyes had been blue, or green, but in the muted light of the shop that night, they had seemed coal black.
«It's only a box of razors, madam,» he had said, waving his hand. It cast a fleeting shadow across the glistening silver.
The woman had looked up, her eyes black and shining, like glass beads. Her expression was sardonic, her mouth twisted in a mirthless half-smile. She had quietly moved around the table on which the razors lay, and had stood close to him, so close. She wasn't a tall woman, her head coming up to the base of his neck. She was so close, he could feel her breath on his collarbone. He had thought, then, remembered, a game the servant girls had played in the yard of his home when he had been a child– Old Witch. A row of girls stood with their backs turned...the 'old witch' would sneak up on them, and they had to run before she approached close enough to touch them.
«Just a box of razors...you live so long among old things, you know everyone of them like your five fingers...» she had trailed one of hers across the collar of his shirt. Her accent had turned out to be stronger than he had first noticed. She rolled her r's. «And yet you know nothing...are you foolish enough to believe that objects keep nothing within them? Have you never wondered why two violins made by the same technique, the same instruments, but by different people, always sound different? Why jewels can bring tragedy...»
He had been lost for words, so he settled for shaking his head, standing so close to her, so close to her clairvoyant-like eyes. He did not remember her blinking, not even once.
«As you say these razors came from Poland, let us start there. Do you know the story of the treasures of the Radzhevils?»
«Yes, I heard of them. They were Polish Knyazes...the treasures, they were...»
«Lost, yes. But that's not the point. What I meant, was...do you know the curse of the Radzhevil treasures?»
Once again, he had contented himself with shaking his head.
«Well, you see, there was a parure in posession of the Radzhevils: a pair of earrings, a necklace and a brooch. It was intended to be given as a present to the brides of the firstborn sons...well, one of these sons fell in love with a kholopka. Do you know what that means?» She had not waited for a response from him, and answered her own question in a whisper, that could have been part of the crackling flames in the hearth. «A serf!»
He had frowned, his expression confused. «So?» he had asked. Her eyes had widened, the veins in her neck bulged, and she shook him by the shoulders. Now, standing by the table with the razors, he could still remember the feel of her claw-like hands on the flesh of his arms.
«Obviously,» she had continued in the same whisper, «his parents did not bless their union. So young Radzhevil jumped from the topmost tower of his palace, and the kholopka...she drowned herself. But before she drowned herself, she cursed the Radzhevil dynasty...and the treasure along with it.»
He had remained glued to the spot, staring at her, and so she had decided it fit to continue without waiting for his comment.
«Ever since then, everyone who gained posession of even one item from the parure, was unhappy in love. Every one!» She had paused. «The curse ended, only, when a direct descendant of the Radzhevils assembled all three items of the parure...»
«But that is...it's just a story, a legend...» and yet, his heart had said differently. Did he not believe in everything being possible? In legends and myths being stories circling small morsels of truth?
«Believe what you may. But mark my words – never take any old object unless you know it's history.» She had laughed then, walking away from him, making towards the door, hand in hand with her grandson. «In the end, you are none of my concern. But, still, if I were you, I would trace the history of those razors...their last owner died of smallpox, you said?»
He had remained speechless for a long time after that, and his friends had wondered what was wrong with him, for he took no part in their conversation that night, and saw them off at night with a distant expression upon his face.
He had not, despite himself, believed the woman at first. It was easier to believe in random fairytale creatures and myths than in stories that might affect one. And yet, despite himself, he had researched into the razors' past.
Josef Kalinowsky had died of smallpox soon after he had acquired them from a close friend of his, Maryla Kobylanska, whose husband had died in a car crash that happened as they were leaving the antique shop. The antique shop informed him that the razors had arrived there during the time of the Soviet Union, when the Cheka had confiscated them from an illegal emigrant from Hungary, who had then been killed by a firing squad. The Hungarian, in turn, had bought the razors from an Englishwoman whose husband had died of a tetanus infection after trying to shave with one of the silver knives...During the time of World War 2, it had been in the posession of an English family, whose daughter fell in love with a young man, a son of a servant of the household, whose education had been paid for by that family, and who was later falsely convicted of rape and sent to battle, where he died of septicemia...In fact, he had managed to travel back in time as far as to learn of a young English count in the times of Queen Victoria, who had been brutally killed by a mob...a young count who had bought the razors in an auction on Fleet Street...
Never take any old object unless you know it's history.
As he walked away from the box of razors, he thought, that if he had a son, that would be a piece of advice he would pass on.
But for now, all he could do was talk at his round tea table, and make children that passed by believe Arthur and his knights were immortal, and lived in an antique shop.
1 «Knyaz» - a royal nobility rank. Can be translated into English as Duke; some translate is as prince, though not all knyazes were in ruling families; royal princes were often called «Grand Duke» - «Velikiy Knyaz».