FIVE
How the Raven Looked for the Dove
We left the fires behind us
We followed a carriage track,
And I'll never see my brothers,
But perhaps they made it back.
"RAVEN, OWL, AND I"
When Daniel had first started working around University and Dale in St. Paul, many years ago, children had thought he was an ice-cream man because of the bell on his truck. They were disappointed when they found out he only sharpened knives, but he won them over. He told them jokes and made coins vanish and by now he was part of the neighborhood. They waved as he came by and he waved back, ringing his bell.
Dumpy Mrs. Holgrim came out of her lower duplex, wearing a dirty white apron like a uniform and holding out today's worthless pieces of cutlery along with one good French chef's knife that she'd been given as a present and didn't know the value of. He pulled the little truck up to the curb and put the parking brake on. He didn't turn off the engine because it had trouble warm-starting. By the time she had reached him, he had picked out the appropriate grade of stone and put some oil on it. She smiled her yellow teeth at him and handed up the knives. He put the first one, a cheap little vegetable knife, on the stone and began to work before he'd even greeted her. Then he said, "How are you today, Mrs. Holgrim?"
"I'm fine, Daniel. Robert's home with a cold, and I'm sure he'll give it to the girls, but there you are."
"Indeed, Mrs. Holgrim."
"How are you, Daniel?"
"Oh, I'm always fine." Mrs. Holgrim nodded, believing it because that was how she thought he always must be. Daniel said, "A poultice of garlic on his feet will cure the cold, Mrs. Holgrim."
"Really?" She looked skeptical. Daniel didn't press the issue. He returned the vegetable knife and started on an equally worthless paring knife. They made small talk for a while, then, as he began to work the steel of the chef's knife, her one good cutting utensil,he said, "You know, Mrs. Holgrim, if I may say so,if you were to learn to use a butcher's steel, you could keep this in fine shape without having it sharpened nearly so often."
Mrs. Holgrim's blue eyes, which were still very pretty, opened wide. "Really, Daniel?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Why haven't you told me this before?"
He returned the knife to her and accepted two dollars per knife plus a one-dollar tip. He wiped his hands on his shirt, the oil blending into the moss green. "Because, Mrs. Holgrim, then you wouldn't have needed me to sharpen your knives for you."
Her mouth dropped open, closed again. She seemed to think about getting angry, but finally said,"Then why are you telling me now?"
"Because I won't be here."
"Won't-where are you going?"
"I'm not sure. I won't know until the driver comes,but I think it's somewhere in the midwest. Ohio, I believe. Or Indiana."
"You don't know?"
"No, I only know that it is time to pick up my fiddle and find my brothers. Good afternoon, Mrs. Holgrim."
Daniel continued down the street, ringing his bell.
Scarf wound tight around my head
To keep hair from my eyes;
My knife would cut deeper
Then I could realize.
"RAVEN, OWL, AND I"
"… And the captain told me, 'My whole crew's a bunch of yo-yos.' Well, I didn't give it another thought until we were halfway back to the States and we hit an iceberg. The ship sank." Pause. "Sixty-five times." There was some scattered laughter as the large comedian shook his head sadly, and crossed the stage.
He stopped in front of a small, attractive woman at a front table. He puckered his lips obscenely for a moment, then said, "Hey, cutie, wanna go halfsies on a baby?" This got more laughs than the ship joke had.
The gypsy, who had forgotten his name, sat in back, wondering how he'd gotten there. He found little humor in the comic, J. J. McNair, yet he appreciated the skill of the storyteller. He admired the comedian's timing and ability to read the audience.How? Why did he know these things when he couldn't remember his own name? He remembered being called "Little One," but that wasn't right. And how had he gotten here? The last thing he could remember clearly was performing a ritual over his knife,to purify it. He knew it had worked, but why had it been necessary?
The comic was saying, "I'm a great lover, honey. I am. Really. I taught myself." A bit more laughter. "I bought a complete sex manual and I've been following it. I'm up to page eighty-three. It says, 'Get a partner.' " He raised his eyebrows lewdly while the audience laughed, more at the woman's obvious embarrassment than at the jokes.
McNair wasn't bad. It was not a sort of storytelling the observer was used to, yet it made him unaccountably homesick. Homesick for-
For-
A voice, that's all it was. A melodious, half-drunken voice that told stories with an ironic bite to them, for all their seriousness. Tales of fairies and heroes, and he, the "Little One," had listened eagerly and believed them. He remembered the champing of horses,the ringing of the bridle loops like the tinkling of the zils of the tambourine. He remembered the black horses, and a black coach.
Yes.
And he had learned from that voice. He had learned that if you make a promise, you must always carry it out, or else you might have to behead the cow with one horn who had always given you food when you were starving. Yes, you must always keep your promise.
What promise had he given, then? And who was he? Gypsy, that's what they called him. The name came back with a certain sense of relief. That wasn't his name, but it was one of them. There were other gypsies, he knew that, but he was the Gypsy. Yes.Now, if he could only remember the promise, and to whom it was made, and if he could only find his brothers. He needed them for-
For-
The comedian was now in front of a group of middle-aged women off to the side of the tiny stage."I understand one of you ladies is going to have a baby." When they looked confused, McNair added,"I haven't decided which one yet." More laughter.More, decided the Gypsy, than it deserved, but that was because he had the crowd now. All of them, he thought, except me. And that isn't his fault, it's because I don't fit in. I don't belong here. I'm not one of them. I'm-
I'm-
He stood up and made his way to the door. The comedian said, "Hey, buddy, I didn't leave when you showed up." The Gypsy didn't begrudge him the laughter.
The street did not look familiar. It was crowded,and it was evening, and there were lights everywhere racing up and down the buildings, and it came to him as a revelation that these lights were to attract his notice, that they were intended to draw attention to themselves and away from the other lights. As he stood there, a black-and-white police car crossed by in the traffic opposite, and he pulled himself into the shadow of the building from which he'd issued. Memories returned of entering it for just that reason. He had gone this way, aimless, after the purification, because it was empty and deserted. And then, as the sun fell, people emerged from everywhere, as if they sprouted from the sidewalk, and he'd felt the trapped animal fear, and then he'd seen the police car and ducked into this place.What was it called? "Tiny's," that was it. But what reason had he to fear policemen?
Yet, he did have a reason. He knew that and believed it. He felt for his knife, hilt tucked into his waistband beneath his shirt, and the cold feel of the grip brought a freshness, and a certain clarity. Here,take this, little one. I don't need it. That voice! The same as from the stories. Tears welled up in his eyes,though he could not say why.