The Avram Davidson Treasury (51 page)

Charley lived on the second floor of an old and unpicturesque building a few blocks from the warehouse. On the first floor lived two old women who dressed in black, who had no English and went often to church. On the top floor lived an Asian man about whom Charley knew nothing. That is he knew nothing until one evening when, returning from work and full of muscular aches and pains and resentments, he saw this man trying to fit a card into the frame of the name plate over the man’s doorbell in the downstairs entrance. The frame was bent, the card resisted, Charley pulled out a rather long knife and jimmied the ancient and warped piece of metal, the card slipped in. And the Asian man said, “Thank you, so.”

“Oh, that’s all right,” and Charley looked to see what the name might be. But the card said only
BOOK STORE
. “Funny place for a store,” Charley said. “But maybe you expect to do most of your business by mail, I guess.”

“No, oh,” the Asian man said. And with a slight bow, a slight smile and a slight gesture, he urged Charley to precede him up the stairs in the dark and smelly hall. About halfway up the first flight, the Asian man said, “I extend you to enjoy a cup of tea and a tobacco cigarette whilst in my so newly opened sales place.”

“Why, sure,” said Charley, instantly. “Why, thank you very much.” Social invitations came seldom to him and, to tell the truth, he was rather ugly, slow and stupid—facts that were often pointed out by Mungo. He now asked, “Are you Chinese or Japanese?”

“No,” said his neighbor. And he said nothing else until they were on the top floor, when, after unlocking the door and slipping in his hand to flip on the light switch, he gestured to his downstairs co-resident to enter, with the word “Do.”

It was certainly unlike any of the bookstores to which Charley was accustomed…in that he was accustomed to them at all. Instead of open shelves, there were cabinets against the walls, and there were a number of wooden chests as well. Mr. Book Store did not blow upon embers to make the tea, he poured it already sweetened, from a Thermos bottle into a plastic cup, and the cigarette was a regular American cigarette. When tea and tobacco had been consumed, he began to open the chests and the cabinets. First he took out a very, very tiny book in a very, very strange looking language. “I never saw paper like that before,” Charley said.

“It is factually palm leaf. A Bhuddist litany. Soot is employed, instead of ink, in marking the text. Is it not precious?”

Charley nodded and politely asked, “How much does it cost?”

The bookman examined an odd-looking tag. “The price of it,” he said, “is a bar of silver the weight of a new-born child.” He removed it gently from Charley’s hand, replaced it in the pigeon-hole in the cabinet, closed the cabinet, lifted the carven lid of an aromatic chest and took out something larger, much larger, and wrapped in cloth of tissue of gold. “Edition of great illustrated work on the breeding of elephants in captivity, on yellow paper smoored with alum in wavy pattern; most rare; agreed?”

For one thing, Charley hardly felt in a position to disagree and for another, he was greatly surprised and titillated by the next illustration. “Hey, look at what that one is
do
ing!” he exclaimed.

The bookman looked. A faint, indulgent smile creased his ivory face. “Droll,” he commented. He moved to take it back.

“How much does
this
one cost?”

The dealer scrutinized the tag. “The price of this one,” he said, “is set down as ‘A pair of white parrots, an embroidered robe of purple, sixty-seven fine inlaid vessels of beaten gold, one hundred platters of silver filigree work and ten catties of cardamoms.’” He removed the book, rewrapped it and restored it to its place in the chest.

“Did you bring them all from your own country, then?”

“All,” said the Asian man, nodding. “Treasures of my ancestors, broughten across the ice-fraught Himalayan passes upon the backs of yaks. Perilous journey.” He gestured. “All which remains, tangibly, of ancient familial culture.”

Charley made a sympathetic squint and said, “Say, that’s too bad. Say!
I
remember now! In the newspapers! Tibetan refugees—you must of fled from the approaching Chinese Communists!”

The bookman shook his head. “Factually, not. Non-Tibetan. Flight was from approaching forces of rapacious Dhu thA Hmy’egh, wicked and dissident vassal of the king of Bhutan. As way to Bhutan proper was not available, escape was into India.” He considered, withdrew another item from another chest.

“Well, you speak very good English.”

“Instructed in tutorial fashion by late the Oliver Blunt-Piggot, disgarbed shaman of a Christian fane in Poona.” He lifted the heavy board cover of a very heavy volume.

“When was this?”

“Ago.” He set down the cover, slowly turned the huge, thick pages. “Perceive, barbarians in native costume, bringing tribute.” Charley had definite ideas as to what was polite, expected. He might not be able to, could hardly expect to buy. But it was only decent to act as though he could. Only thus could he show interest. And so, again, ask he did.

Again, the bookman’s pale slim fingers sought the tag. “Ah, mm. The price of this one is one mummified simurgh enwrapped in six bolts of pale brocade, an hundred measures of finest musk in boxes of granulated goldwork and a viper of Persia pickled in Venetian treacle.” He replaced the pages, set back the cover and set to rewrapping.

Charley, after some thought, asked if all the books had prices like that. “Akk, yes. All these books have such prices, which are the carefully calculated evaluations established by my ancestors in the High Vale of Lhom-bhya—formerly the Crossroads of the World, before the earthquake buried most of the passes, thus diverting trade to Lhasa, Samarkand and such places. So.”

A question that had gradually been taking the shape of a wrinkle now found verbal expression. “But couldn’t you just sell them for
money?
”

The bookman touched the tip of his nose with the tip of his middle finger. “For money? Let me have thought… Ah! Here is
The Book of Macaws
,
Egrets and Francolins,
in the Five Colors, for only eighty-three gold mohurs from the mint of Baber Mogul and one silver dirhem of Aaron the Righteous… You call him Aaron the Righteous? Not. Pardon. Harun al-Rashid. A bargain.”

Charley shook his head. “No, I mean, just ordinary money.”

The bookdealer bowed and shook his own head. “Neighboring sir,” he said, “I have not twenty-seven times risked my life nor suffered pangs and pains innumerable, merely to sell for ordinary money these treasures handed down from my progenitors, nor ignore their noble standards of value. Oh, nay.” And he restored to its container
The Book of Macaws, Egrets and Francolins
. In the Five Colors.

A certain stubbornness crept over Charley. “Well, then, what is the cheapest one you’ve got, then?” he demanded.

The scion of the High Vale of Lhom-bhya shrugged, fingered his lower lip, looked here and there, uttered a slight and soft exclamation and took from the last cabinet in the far corner an immense scroll. It had rollers of chalcedony with ivory finials and a case of scented samal-wood lacquered in vermillion and picked with gold; its cord weights were of banded agate.

“This is a mere diversion for the idle moments of a prince. In abridged form, its title reads,
Book of Precious Secrets on How to Make Silver and Gold from Dust, Dung and Bran; Also How to Obtain the Affections; Plus One Hundred and Thirty-Eight Attitudes for Carnal Conjuction and Sixty Recipes for Substances Guaranteed to Maintain the Stance as Well as Tasting Good: by a Sage.
” He opened the scroll and slowly began to unwind it over the length of the table.

The pictures were of the most exquisitely detailed workmanship and brilliant of color on which crushed gold quartz had been sprinkled while the glorious pigments were as yet still wet. Charley’s heart gave a great bound, then sank. “No, I said the
cheapest
one—”

His host stifled a very slight yawn. “This is the cheapest,” he said, indifferent, almost. “What is cheaper than lust or of less value than alchemy or aphrodisiacs? The price…the price,” he said, examining the tag, which was of ebony inlaid with jasper. “The price is the crushed head of a sandal merchant of Babylon, with a red, red rose between his teeth: a trifle. The precise utility of that escapes me, but it is of no matter. My only task is to obtain the price as established—that and, of course, to act as your host until the stars turn pale.”

Charley rose. “I guess I’ll be going, anyway,” he said. “I certainly want to thank you for showing me all this. Maybe I’ll be back tomorrow for something, if they haven’t all been sold by then.” His heart knew what his heart desired, his head knew the impossibility of any of it, but his lips at least maintained a proper politeness even at the last.

He went down the stairs, his mind filled with odd thoughts, half enjoyable, half despairing. Heavy footsteps sounded coming up; who was it but Mungo. “I thought you said you lived on the
second
floor,” he said. “No use lying to
me
; come on, dumbell, I need you. Earn your goddamn money for a change. My funking car’s got a flat;
move
it, I tell you, spithead; when I say move it, you
move
it!” And he jabbed his thick, stiff fingers into Charley’s kidneys and, ignoring his employee’s cry of pain, half guided, half goaded him along the empty block lined with closed warehouses where, indeed, an automobile stood, somewhat sagging to one side.

“Get the goddamn jack up; what’re you dreaming about? Quit stumbling over your goddamn feet, for cry-sake; you think I got nothing better to do? You think I do nothing but sell greasy stoves to greaseballs?
Move
it, nipplehead! I want you to know that I also own the biggest goddamn shoe store in Babylon, Long Island. Pick up that tire iron!”

I
NTRODUCTION BY
E
THAN
D
AVIDSON

When I was fourteen, I lived with my father, Avram Davidson, in the town of Richmond, California. I picked up his copy of
Ellery Queen,
and read the Edgar-nominated story “Crazy Old Lady.” As was often the case when I read his stories, I didn’t quite understand the ending, so he explained it to me.

At that time, Richmond was a boring, lower-middle-class suburb. Avram shared a house with a blind man.

Avram liked to move every few months, and I became accustomed to living with all sorts of people. Most of these people had something unusual about them. In this case, it was a physical disability. Others had psychological problems. One was even a crazy old lady. Even when he lived alone, he sometimes brought in homeless derelicts or confused young people. Avram was sometimes irritable. But he often also displayed quite a bit of compassion.

Eighteen years have passed. The number of people who are poor, elderly, and live in bad neighborhoods has increased tremendously. Richmond today is a violent, crime-infested slum town. Toward the end of his life, Avram found himself living in another slum. This one was in Bremerton, Washington. He was robbed in his home by two men who must have seen him as eccentric and very vulnerable, much like the woman in this story.

The story provides no real answers. It does provide a vivid and insightful description of the problem. This, it seems to me, can only help. As Avram might have said, “Could it hoyt?”

CRAZY OLD LADY

B
EFORE SHE BECAME THE
Crazy Old Lady she had been merely the Old Lady and before that Old Lady Nelson and before that (long long before that) she had been Mrs. Nelson. At one time there had also been a Mr. Nelson, but all that was left of him were the war souvenirs lined up on the cluttered mantelpiece which was never dusted now—the model battleship, the enemy helmet, the enemy grenade, the enemy knife, and some odd bits and pieces that had been enemy badges and buttons.

The enemy had seemed a lot farther away in those days.

But the shopping had been a lot closer.

Of course it was still the same in miles—well, blocks, really—it just seemed like miles now. It had been such a nice walk, such a few blocks’ walk, under the pleasant old trees, past the pleasant old family homes, and down to the pleasant old family stores. Now not much was left of the way it had been.

For one thing, the trees had not had sense enough to adjust to changing times. Their branches had interfered with the electric power lines and their roots had interfered with the sewer lines and their trunks had interfered with the sidewalks.

So most of the old trees had been cut down.

That was quite a shock and no one had prepared the Old Lady for it. One day the old trees had been there as always and then the next day there were only stumps and branches, bruised twigs and leaves and sawdust. And the next day not even that.

A lot of the old family homes had been, so to speak, cut down too, and most of those that had not been cut down had been cut up and converted into multiple dwelling units. It is odd that somehow families do not seem to feel the same about dwelling units as they do about homes.

And as for the pleasant old family stores, what had happened to them? Mr. Berman said, “There’s hardly anything I sell today that they don’t sell for less in the supermarket, Mrs. Nelson. The kids don’t come in the way they used to with a note from their parents, they just come in to steal. I used to think my boy would take over when I’m gone but he came back from Vietnam in a box, so what’s the use of talking.”

Where there had been a lot of storefronts with either changing displays, which were interesting, or the same familiar old displays, which were comforting, now the storefronts were all boarded over.

The supermarket was where there hadn’t been a supermarket—strange that it wasn’t built where all the boarded-up stores were; strange that the pleasant old empty lot with its wild flowers had to give way to the supermarket, and now the children played in the street instead.

But that was the way it was. Prices may have been cheaper in the supermarket in the long run, but the prices had to be paid in cash and there were no deliveries, no monthly bills, no friendly delivery boy who thanked you for a fresh-baked cookie.