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They turned around to look for a cab, and the empty lot was gone.
In its place, sandwiched between the two tenements, was a little shop. It was a one-storey affair, with a dingy facade, and its front window completely grayed-over with dust. A hand-painted line of elaborate script on the glass-panel of the door, also opaque with grime, proclaimed: MOHANADUS MUKHAR, CURIOS.
A little man in a flowing robe, wearing a fez, plunged out the front door, skidded to a stop, whirled and slapped a huge sign on the window. He swiped at it four times with a big paste-brush, sticking it to the glass, and whirled back inside, slamming the door.
“No,” Da
Co
“There’s no insanity in my family,” Da
“We’ve made a visual error,” Co
“Simply didn’t notice it,” Da
“If there’s crazy, we’ve both got it,” Co
“Must be, if you see the same thing I see.”
Co
“Don’t play with me, woman,” Da
She nodded soberly. “Right. Empty lot?”
He nodded back, “Empty lot. Clothesline, weeds, garbage.”
“Right.”
He pointed at the little store. “Little store?”
“Right.”
“Man in a fez, name of Mukhar?” She rolled her eyes. “Right.”
“So why are we walking toward it?”
“Isn’t this what always happens in stories where weird shops suddenly appear out of nowhere? Something inexorable draws the i
They stood in front of the grungy little shop. They read the sign. It said:
BIG SALE! HURRY! NOW! QUICK!
“The word u
“Nervously,” Co
A tiny bell went tinkle-tinkle, and they stepped across the threshold into Mohanadus Mukhar’s shop.
“Probably not the smartest move we’ve ever made,” Da
It was cool and musty in the shop, and strange fragrances chased one another past their noses.
They looked around carefully. The shop was loaded with junk. From floor to ceiling, wall to wall, on tables and in heaps, the place was filled with oddities and bric-a-brac. Piles of things tumbled over each other on the floor; heaps of things leaned against the walls. There was barely room to walk down the aisle between the stacks and mounds of things. Things in all shapes, things in all sizes and colors. Things. They tried to separate the individual items from the jumble of the place, but all they could perceive was stuff... things! Stuff and flotsam and bits and junk.
“Curios, effendi,” a voice said, by way of explanation.
Co
Mukhar was standing beside such a pile of tumbled miscellany that for a moment they could not separate him from the stuff, junk, things he sold.
“We saw your sign,” Co
But Da
The little man stepped out from the mounds of dust-collectors and his little nut-brown, wrinkled face burst into a million-creased smile.” A fortuitous accident, my children. A slight worn spot in the fabric of the cosmos, and I have been set down here for... how long I do not know. But it never hurts to try and stimulate business while I’m here.”
“Oh, yeah,” Da
“Oh!” Co
Da
Aladdin’s lamp.
Well, perhaps not that particular person’s lamp, but one of the ancient, vile-smelling oil burning jobs: long thin spout, round-bottom body, wide, flaring handle.
It was algae-green with tarnish, brown with rust, and completely covered by the soot and debris of centuries. There was no contesting its antiquity; nothing so time-corrupted could fail to be authentic. “What the hell do you want with that old thing, Co
“But Da
“How much?” he asked Mukhar. He didn’t want to seem anxious; old camel traders were merciless at bargaining when they knew the item in question was hotly desired.
“Fifty drachmae, eh?” the old man said. His tone was one of malicious humor.” At current exchange rates, taking into account the fall of the Ottoman Empire, thirty dollars.”
Da
He started toward the door, dragging his wife behind him. But she still clutched the lamp; and Mukhar’s voice halted them.” All right, noble sir. You are a cu
“Jesse James at least had a horse!” Da
“Fifteen!” Mukhar yowled. “And may all your children need corrective lenses from too much tv-time!”
“Five; and may a hundred thousand syphilitic camels puke into your couscous,” Da
“Not bad,” said Mukhar.
“Thanks,” said Da
“Bloodsucker! Heartless trafficker in cheapness! Pimple on the fundament of decency! Graffito on the subway car of life! Thirteen; my last offer; and may the gods of ITT and the Bank of America turn a blind eye to your venality!” But his eyes held the golden gleam of the born haggler, at last, blessedly, in his element.
“Seven, not a pe
“Eleven! Eleven dollars, a pittance, an outright theft we’re talking about. Call the security guards, get a consumer advocate, gimme a break here!”
“My shadow will vanish from before the evil gleam of your rapacious gaze before I pay a pe
“My death is about to become a reality,” the Arab bellowed, tearing at the strands of white hair showing under the fez. “Rob me, go ahead, rob me; drink my life’s blood! Ten! A twenty dollar loss I’ll take.”
“Okay, okay.” Da