The Knife Sharpener (9)

9.

The inside of Holdingstock Manor was high ceilings and marble. Ancient vases, statues of myth, and art deco posters depicting alcohol and France. A few sun hued orange tabby cats. A butler in rustic bow tie and fitted suit. Scattered on the walls, Helmut saw paintings of a moustachioed man and a lady always in an immaculate ball gown. One portrait of her standing atop a steel dais. She directed soot stained workers back to a factory bathed in sunlight. The workers appeared to be dancing. Shouting out in celebration.

            ‘My grandmother,’ said Carmel. She pointed to the raptured men and women. ‘She gave industry back to the workers. One of the finest Holdingstocks. Beloved of the peons, mechanicals, and Mercuries. She was the first of us to settle Melbourne. Her odyssey from rocky places, drenched in sea smoke, where hard people are bred – it deserves greater telling than what I can give here in this haughty abode.’

            The mansion stretched on. Kept at a perfect temperature with cycled air and long closed French windows in dark stained wooden rooms. Helmut rarely entered these places. It was rarer still for him to be steered into their depths. It was fortressed expanse. Being in a see-through bubble in a desert. Helmut preferred the Wastes out east. Or the degradations of the west. Familiar, smaller places. Everywhere, there were images of Holdingstocks in various states of success and leadership. Lit by lamps and chandeliers. Light reflected in frequent mirrors.

            ‘And your forbearers, Helmut? From where did they hail?’ asked Carmel.

            They kept walking.

            ‘German, I would imagine?’

            ‘Maybe,’ said Helmut. ‘I don’t know.’

            ‘Your knife sharpening – was this an inherited pursuit? It is a peculiar occupation.’

            ‘It is work.’

            ‘At last, an opinion trumpeted. Scarcely blunt, though it may be.’

            ‘Mmm,’ said Helmut.

            ‘You must not let my pontifications be of intimidating character, Helmut, and allow silence a clamp upon your tongue. I will not see you hagridden in the face of my babble,’ she said. ‘It is only that I find my voice a warming companion. With the cruel tidings awash in our streets – all is not gas and gaiters here. The otherworldly noises.’ Carmel kept her long slow stroll at pace through the manse. ‘I am sure you have heard the rustlings of our furthest, discommodious rookeries, edging ever nearer, titillating your drums?’

            There was always a threat, but Helmut kept his business mostly where it was safe. He felt as much danger in the Enclaves as he did whenever he went too far out to help frontier pub chefs.

            ‘I am careful. I sharpen knives. I lock my van. I move on,’ said Helmut.

            ‘Good man,’ said Carmel.

            They reached the kitchen. More marble and gold. Faucets like fauns at play and frescos of St Peter passing judgement on dirty smiling factory workers. There was a large central table made of Tasmanian oak supported by legs carved to be Tasmanian tigers in repose. Helmut saw a ceramic clay tea set already laid out. Old and fragile. Behind it were the knives.

            ‘Tea?’ asked Carmel. ‘I have lavender and smoked sea salt silk all the way from the Republic of Congo?’

            ‘Black,’ said Helmut.

            ‘Of course. I have English Breakfast. Grown and dehydrated sustainably in Manchester.’

            ‘These are the knives?’ asked Helmut. He moved to examine and found them to be well-made unmarked locally forged blades. High quality material, cared for, and balanced. With old worn hard maple handles.

Carmel switched on an electric kettle that looked like it was made of blown glass. She saw Helmut handling the knives. ‘Heirlooms. Like so much else you see, birthrights passed through the family.’

Helmut looked closely at the knives. They had edges. Geoff had done well by these recently. They could be finer. He placed his tools on the Tasmanian oak. The kettle bubbled.

‘You look like a coffee man, Helmut?’

‘This won’t take long,’ said Helmut.’

‘So many defined by their coffee in this city. There goes an espresso. A flat white. A long black taking a soy cappuccino for a wilful jaunt.’ She fiddled with the tea filters and leaves. Helmut took the first knife to his water stone. ‘But me? In July, it must be tea. Real flavour poured personally from the jorum. It helps with the chills.’

Helmut moved onto the next knife.

‘I must tend to my own feeding with Geoff out simmering and stewing somewhere for that competition he remains so narrow mouthed about. Which is not to suggest that I am a subpar cook – no, no, actually I am quite accomplished, but in the midst of daily reveries, where do we find the time? My legacies demand my presence. The spectres of my mother and father need placating – activities to soothe the soul of this manse.’

A small glinting fish boning knife. Sharpened.

‘I have seen chefs devolve in rapturous lyricism in speaking about the value of a fine sharp knife. How they turn numbles into gastronomic sensations belying its palate of unpleasant game and grass root.’

The chef’s knife needed extra work. The wooden handle was stained and soft. Helmut had found his rhythm, putting it to the water stone. Carmel placed a pewter mug of tea beside him. There was a floral fragrance and steam, blended with Helmut’s breathing.

‘Mother said that preparation is the conquest. Thus, before embarking upon preparing my evening’s refreshments, I acted firstly to tend to my tools. Not that the tool makes the craftsmen. But, the perfect tool allows the craftsmen to properly diffuse their gifts. When I plate my fine poultry dinner and seat myself before the flames, I will know that such delicacy was abetted and bettered by freshly sharpened knives.’

Helmut ran the chef’s knife down the water stone a few more times. The pitch was right. The edge was perfect. He was done and sipped on the tea. It was over sweetened and cloying. Not bitter enough out here. Where everything that might be normal was hidden under sugar.

‘I am done,’ he said.

‘Splendid,’ said Carmel. ‘And with such lightning speed.’

Helmut had another sip. It was too much. He placed the mug down next to the knives. Carmel was reaching for something above the stove, her back to him. She pulled a jar down and pulled out a handful of crinkled notes. Much more than usual for Helmut.

‘For your toil,’ she said and dropped it on the table. The notes fluttered.

He picked it up off the table and dropped the money into his lint lined corduroy pants. They felt heavy and full.

‘I will leave,’ said Helmut.

‘Anon, fine man. There is an option for additional employment. If you wish to explore this new twist of fate with which I fork your road?’

‘Yes?’

‘My dear friend, Oscar de Valle requires the services of a knife sharpener. He telegraphed me in some distress asking for my personal chef. But Geoff, as talented as he is, would not be capable of the perfection Oscar demands. You, however? Helmut, you may be the individual of exceptional craft he desires.’

‘I will see him tomorrow. It is getting late,’ said Helmut looking to his watch. It had ticked over four thirty.

‘Alas, he requires service immediately. And it is only to tend a singularly, and single, crucial knife of his. I quite selfishly placed my own culinary delights, and desire to observe your expertise, ahead of his. He cries still, though, for assistance,’ said Carmel. ‘Also, Oscar pays exceptionally well. You could surely apply – how do you say … penalty rates for this later call?’

Outside the window, Helmut could see the darkening red of the late afternoon.

‘Where?’

‘A step across to Windsor. He is hosting friends at his Church of Violentiam Movetur Sidus. A ridiculous name for a campy little pursuit that he insists is not a cult.’

It was not too far. Work in winter was always quieter.

‘Okay. I will go.’

‘You will find no disappointment, Helmut. Just a simple job with a fair stumpy at its conclusion.’

The butler appeared in the doorway to the kitchen. There was an automatic musket hanging across his back. Helmut picked up his tools.

            ‘If I could offer you a stirrup-cup, I would. But you must away to reach Oscar in timely fashion. Young Jeremiah will show you out. I must prepare my poultry,’ said Carmel. She reached into a drawer under the table and came out brandishing a meat hammer.

The Knife Sharpener (8)

8.

The road became a wide clean avenue behind the gate. Newly paved. The lines of the nature strip and the positioning of elms straight line geometry. White, pink, and red roses peeked over fences. Artful imported cacti. Huge gothic gates. Neil Diamond’s ‘America’ was playing on Helmut’s cassette. On the boats and on the planes / They’re coming to America.

            As the Toorak Militia had warned him, the avenue tilted upwards steeply. The Toyota panel van groaned. Crawled up the slope. Helmut kept his foot down. He knew the old automobile was going to give up on him soon. It was low fuss serviceable and had served him well. Helmut had got it cheap from a sheriff near the Vermont Wastes. Probably confiscated property from one of the gangs far out east. Some bad stains in the interior initially. Viscous red and oily black. But the engine and wheels were fine. Practical. He would need to head out to another fire auction soon.

            At the top of the hill he arrived at Holdingstock Manor A neo-classical mansion with an immense front garden behind an imposing ornamental wrought iron. The gate opened for Helmut automatically as he drove up. There were flamingos in the garden, wandering between stone bird baths below fairy housing. Fairies with clipped wings and long faces lounging on little porches. The long driveway to the front of the mansion wound around the edges of the garden. The flamingos and fairies watched him passively. Helmut could smell fresh fertilizer washed in lemon bleach.

            He pulled up at the front door. The Toyata panel van’s breaks creaked and the exhaust puttered to a standstill. Helmut exited the vehicle. Slid the stiff side door open to grab his tools. He locked the van and walked to the front door. Pulled up his slacks and scratched at his waist. The archway door was enormous. Heavy and polished burnished gold. He pulled a cord hanging from the ceiling. Heard a resonate gong from deep in the house.

            A brisk, tall lady in lavender velvet opened the door. Her hair was an untidy bow. Makeup smeared slightly to the left. Rose incense wafted out of the front door. Dim candles lit the entry on two tall podiums.

            ‘Yes?’ she asked.

            ‘Geoff sent me.’

            ‘For the knives?’

            ‘Yes.’

            ‘Did he? Marvellous. Such a splendid creature, reserving his most messianic thoughts for his mistress! He had touted the imminent arrival of one like you,’ she said. ‘And, you, kind man? What is your name?’

            ‘Helmut,’ he said.

            ‘Like the headwear!’

            ‘No –’

            ‘Wonderful. The Ministry proclaims that we are but a stackhat away from safety ever on. It is all over the telegraphs,’ she said.

            Helmut itched slightly in the chill mid-afternoon winter air.

            ‘Tell me truly now, dear Helmut. A knife sharpener, you say. A pursuit befitting a contemporary Zeno of our fine de siècle. How is it to resist the clarion call of blacksmithing your own blades to find such obviously sapient pleasure in your enterprise bonded to the final product of another?’

            He needed a cigarette.

            ‘I mean no obscure classist offense. Not at all. I find awe in your stoicism. You must be composed of iron,’ she said, looking Helmut up and down. ‘I do natter! Presumptions upon theories, seated aside guesswork, both gracelessly tottering. It is only that I find your quiet quite assuming, Helmut. For, yes, you assume correctly. My wealth is as honest as the length of a day. I can conceive of your discomfort then. But, rest, please. I am no snaggletoothed slattern given to bugling my significance as though governed by my baser humours. I am a Holdingstock. Carmel, to be more exact. When her finest rum was less than a heeltap staining his crystal, my mother bloviated that we must not blight our elegacies with ill-advised boasting.’

            ‘Where are your knives? I will sharpen,’ said Helmut. There was a slight wind blowing across the porch.

            ‘Straight to the point. Cheeky blackguard. I should have seen such foliage directly through the trees. A smattering of moist lichen amidst cold dry mountains,’ said Carmel. Her eyes remained still. ‘And there I go, getting my metaphors mixed. Honestly, who looks upon a fiergenbeam hardwood of bark and leaf, and muses of “mountains”?’

            Helmut fidgeted. His arm was getting sore from holding his tool box.

            ‘My mother said that there is a great deal of power in reserved, indefatigable men.’

            In the background, there was a sound of a peacock coo. Maybe, a big cat grinding its teeth. Helmut never understood the appeal of these places. Sparse occupants in vast territories. Drove them deranged. Yet, here, the upper crust watched over everyone else.

            Carmel was transfixed for a moment. Mouth slightly open, hands clutched together in front of her breast in a steeple. ‘Please. Enter,’ she said. ‘I will take you through to the galley.’

The Knife Sharpener (7)

7.

The Toyota panel van rattled along tram lines. He was headed east out of the city. There were a lot of old elms and children in private school costume. A few of them were smoking tailored cigarettes and flirting. They clutched at immense bottles of soda. The streets were lined with SUVs. Enormous concrete fences. Wide boulevards. And hills. Up high, he saw the Yarra, surrounded by desiccated gum trees and gravel pits. The old bike path fenced in and illegal to trespass on.

            Helmut wanted a coffee, but he was short on time. The van was already struggling in the suburban slopes. He smoked his Champion instead and tapped ash out the window. He never ventured this way unless he had too. The unappealing sweat stains and unravelled pony tail drew judging eyes.

            The area was filled with mansions and upper Ministry. Also, real estate mogul, stock broker types. Corporates. Affluence. Penthouses with their own jetties and yachts on the Yarra for river parties. The money that Brian Fangman always desired walk into his restaurant. Most of it was old money.

            This was Geoff’s area. He charged premium to fix gluten free dinners for the wealthy in the Enclaves. Light on toxins and fructose. Better for the gut. All naturally sourced ingredients. Breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Prepared with his Boeker German steel blade. The Munich Monk. Sometimes he gave lessons when his clients felt suddenly interested in pursuing a new craft. This was particularly profitable. His clients would have this epiphany regularly and need whole new instructions about how to scramble an egg. Geoff would help them prepare and sharpen their knives. Usually mass produced, left too long in the block. But every now and again he would come across a rare collectable left to rust on a drying rack next to the kitchen sink. Then he would call Helmut.

             He reached the main platinum gate to the Toorak Enclave. Either side ran a long wall topped with barbed wire that glinted, freshly polished in the mid-afternoon sun. Helmut wondered who had that job. He waited for the gate to be opened for him.

            Inside the gatehouse he could see two members of the Toorak Militia. They were attired in their usual light pink polo shirts and white slacks. Clean shaven and blond tips in their hair. They slowly emerged from the gatehouse, customised TEC-9s slung over their shoulders. Exchanged quick, bored glances with one another. One went around behind the van. The other came to Helmut at the driver’s side window.

            ‘Hello there, partner,’ said the Militia.

            Helmut nodded and waited.

            ‘What’s your business?’

            ‘Business,’ said Helmut.

            ‘Uh huh. What kind?’

            ‘Knife sharpening.’

            ‘Yeah?’

            Helmut waited.

            ‘Xavier! Our man is a knife sharpener. Here on knife sharpening business.’

            The other Militia came around to the driver’s window. He was shorter and less hinged. There was a slight twitch at the corner of his mouth. An eagerness for confrontation that Helmut was familiar with. And wary of.

            ‘A knife sharpener? How about that? A man of trade, Charles,’ said Xavier.

            ‘Don’t think I’ve met a knife sharpener before,’ said Charles.

            ‘A lot of skill in sharpening knives. I’m sure.’

            ‘Not an occupation I much think about, to be honest.’

            ‘There’s a lot of knives out there.’

            ‘Absolutely.’

            ‘Didn’t know that there would be enough blunt ones that we’d need a special sharpener for them.’

            ‘They might not be blunt. They could just be sharper, you know?’ said Charles.

            ‘But a whole trade?’

            ‘I don’t know, Xavier. Never done one myself. Couldn’t be very hard though.’

            ‘Sure. Maybe,’ said Xavier, stroking the strap of his gun. ‘Is it hard work? Sharpening knives? Here? In Melbourne?’

            ‘I drive. I sharpen. It’s work,’ said Helmut.

            ‘I’m sure it’s much closer to art, though.’

            Helmut stayed quiet. Charles licked his lips.

            ‘Don’t be so modest, mate.’

            Helmut looked at Xavier. He pulled out a pre-rolled Champion cigarette and lit it.

            ‘Who sharpened your knives, Charles? Like, back in the day?’ asked Xavier, looking to his comrade.

            ‘No idea. Probably, chef,’ said Charles.

            ‘Yeah, same here,’ said Xavier. ‘Though, I remember this time when daddy tried. He was trying to use his hands again. Something like that, anyway. Trying out gardening. Model making. Cooking. One night, he was making spaghetti sauce. But when he tried to cut into a tomato, it splattered everywhere. He decided the knife wasn’t sharp enough and started using one of them sharpeners you get in the block. He got into this kind of rhythm when he was doing it. Flashing the knife back and forth along the sharpener really quickly and looking very impressed with himself. Then he slipped and that newly sharpened knife cut right down into his forearm. Splashed blood onto the tomato on the cutting board. We couldn’t tell the blood apart from the juice. Daddy never did it again. He just went out and got a new knife. Then hired a new chef.’

            Helmut smoked and waited.

            ‘So,’ said Xavier. ‘Who’s paying for a knife sharpener today?’

            ‘Geoff sent me.’

            ‘Geoff, the private chef?’ asked Charles.

            ‘Yes.’

            ‘We like Geoff,’ said Charles.

            ‘Always brings us a little snack on his way through,’ said Xavier.

            ‘Truffle and Old Ford stuffed pine mushrooms.’

            ‘Wagyu skewers.’

            ‘King prawn and Berkshire pork money bags.’

            ‘I love those money bags,’ said Xavier. He looked up at Helmut, who blew cigarette smoke into the air. ‘They’re delicious. You ever have one of those money bags?’

            ‘I am seeing Carmel Holdingstock for Geoff,’ said Helmut.

            The two Toorak Militia looked at one another. Their TEC-9s hanging limply by their sides.

            ‘Madame Holdingstock?’ asked Charles.

            ‘Yes,’ said Helmut.

            Xavier looked over the van. ‘Are you sure, Charles, that this can get up the hill to Holdingstock’s?’

            ‘It is steep.’

            ‘Almost vertical.’

            ‘Highest point in the Enclave,’ said Charles.

            ‘Horrible if it broke down halfway.’

            ‘Not sure if its breaks would stop it rolling all the way back down the hill.’

            ‘True. This model is notorious for its shitty breaks.’

            ‘Particularly, as they age.’

‘It’d smash right into our gate,’ said Xavier, edging back to the driver’s window. He looked up at Helmut. Through the haze of cigarette smoke. ‘There would be a great deal of damage. I would hate for you to lose your lifestyle. Not like the knives come to you.’

            Helmut took a last draw on his cigarette and released the smoke. The Toorak Militia were always a menace. A bunch of rich kids playing dress up, doing their community service, and waiting for their family fortunes. They didn’t usually cause trouble like this though. He flicked the butt past Xavier’s head, then leaned across to the passenger’s side and opened the glove box. He grabbed a small bag filled with Waste gold that he kept for occasions like this. When he had to deal with security and Tolls. He handed it to Xavier.

            Xavier opened the bag and looked inside. He nodded to Charles. ‘Let him through,’ he said. Charles entered the guardroom. The gate began to open.

            ‘Have a fine day, sir,’ said Xavier. ‘Madame Holdingstock – a delightful woman. Hard to understand, sometimes. Very rich, obviously.’ He smiled and the blonde tips in his hair quivered. His hands were still on the Tec-9.

            Helmut drove through the gate. He watched the Toorak Militia. Charles waved.

The Knife Sharpener (6)

6.

He fetched the tin box from the back of the Toyota panel van and unpacked his work table. Set up outside a submarine window that looked into The Wasatch. A cigarette was caught between his teeth. Helmut brushed ash from his t-shirt. A demure waiter brought him coffee in a ceramic bowl. There were artful chips on its rim and an image of a leaf in a storm in the silked milk. The chefs followed after with their knives and cash. Brian came last, his Kato tucked safely along his arm.

            The chefs’ knives were arrayed on the plastic table in front of Helmut. A mixture of carving, boning, paring, butcher, chef blades. He opened the box. A whiff of oil. He took his flat algae green water stone block from within. Also, a small torch, magnifying glass, a cleaning cloth, polishing powder, a little bit of sandpaper strapped to a piece of wood. Helmut locked the stone into its holder and picked up the first knife. He began.

            A sign on the side of the building displayed the usual liquor licencing laws. Bright, easy to see. Rarely really followed.

            He smoked and sipped the coffee. Ran a tidy paring knife made of German steel back and forth across the water stone.  Smooth strokes with the slightest hint of force that followed the same line and angle each time. It made a rough wet grating sound. He checked the blade for imperfections with the light and magnifying glass. There was a slight dip near the handle. A scratch along the flat side near the maker’s mark. He brought the knife back to the water stone and began to cut back the steel to level out the dip. He worked away the scratch with the sandpaper. Then checked again. Perfect. Quick polish and the next knife.

            Below the liquor licencing signs was the Stackhat Statute: Patrons are permitted to enter the venue only under the condition that they comply with the Stackhat Statute at all times. Failure to wear a Stackhat while in the venue will result in penalties exceeding $25,000.

            Helmut saw them in The Wasatch at low tables covered in fake kangaroo skin. Leather seats. All wore orange stackhats. They drank espresso martinis from tea pots. It was the end of lunch service. There were full glasses of Côte du Rhône. Plates of desiccated chocolate. Delice de Bourgogne melted and smeared with cracker crumbs. Suits and dark knee length dresses. Collars all round. Suitcases stashed at feet. Phones were near at, or in, hand. Loosened neutral coloured ties. Members of business and Ministry. City types. Long way from the industry out west over the bridge.

Between them were waiters in black and white, wine cloths over their arms as they balanced trays. In the background. They eyed spare fifties left strewn across the tables.

Another knife. A quick job to find an edge in experienced hands.

Another knife.

Curious glances from The Wasatch. Eyes that are never quite looking out, but looking out all the same. Around phones, food, and wine. Red stained and chocolate stained lips. They watched the knife sharpener working in the alley while they snack. Their chatter muted by the wall between them. Helmut smoked and sharpened another knife.

He worked his way methodically to the Kato. He could see the masterful craft of the Thousand Thousand Cuts Master. Particularly careful now. The patrons of The Wasatch were starting to rise and leave. Some made their way to the atrium bar that cannot be seen from the alley to continue to quaff vodka soda. Others passed the mouth of the alley chatting in slur and smoking Treasurer Black cigarettes. They will not head back to the office. Helmut made the first stroke of the knife along water stone. A long smooth movement. The sound was without echo and was pure. A faint scratching hiss. From the door of the kitchen Brian watched with his Swedish sous chef. Helmut ignored them and methodically ground the steel to an edge. The weight was balanced heavy, unusual for Japanese blades. But usual for Kato, who was inspired by the heavy Austrian blades of his youth in the Swiss Alps tending sheep. Helmut checked the edge. It was hard to see in the alley light but was still there. Polish and back to the stone.

The Wasatch emptied. The blade was ready.

Helmut rose and walked over to Brian. He held the Kato across his palms. There was sweat on his forehead. Armpits freshly stained wet. Cool in the July breeze. His ponytail had come unloose. Handed the knife to the chef.

‘This will handle your creature.’

Brian tested the edge and came back bleeding.

‘You’re a special man, Helmut. Perfect.’

Helmut packed up his equipment and checked his phone. There was a new message from one of his regulars. Geoff, private chef.

Hola Helmut. One of my clients needs her knives worked. Im outta town. You free?

Ok. Where?

As he got back into the Toyota panel van, Helmut felt his phone vibrate.

Great man. Thanx. Her name is Carmel Holdingstock. Lives at Holdingstock Manner in the Toorak Enclave, yeah? Hard to miss.

Yes. Tell her I’m there soon.

He turned the ignition. Barry Manilow and ‘Copacabana’ was playing on the cassette.

The Knife Sharpener (5)

5.

Helmut found a way into the city through the train crossing and tram line choked outskirts. Plenty of taxis and dark cars, but not as many as usual. He saw pedestrians in overcoats, plugged into headphones with mobiles out. Eyes down. Not much looking up. It was quiet but for the sound of motors and city bustle, electric grids and that low urban pulse. Absent of much human chatter. A clean cement and tar smell mingled with heated metal. Sterile, though metallic.

            The Toyota turned down an alley edging into the CBD. Pulled up in a short-term parking spot, near shadows from the building. A few signs about where and where not to stand. A lot of rules around here. Faint piss in the air. Ghostly, though. Long washed away. Helmut pushed open the door of the van. It made a bone breaking whistle fighting its poorly tended hinges, cracking to an abrupt halt. Needs oil again. He stepped out with a new rolled Champion. Headed towards the renovated pub on the corner bearing a neon sign: The Wasatch Front. He lit his cigarette with a match. A line of people were waiting out front, given yellow stack hats by Maori security when they entered. Throbbing bass from within.

            Walked with bent knees and flat feet. Stiff and bow legged from driving. Down another smaller alley. At its rear, a heavy door and some bins already overflowed. Two white coated chefs were sitting on milk crates, smoking. One Asian and one French.

            ‘Yo, Helmut!’

            ‘Bonjour!’

            ‘Our knives missed you, man.’

            He nodded at them, smoked, and continued to the door. Behind, a massive kitchen was heaving. Hot and charred meat. Oil and smoke. Sweet bitterness and sweat. Helmut stepped in still smoking and a chef in a black jacket with a tall toque blanche approached. A burnt, cut, and calloused hand grips Helmut’s. His face was young, neatly bearded, with critical eyes and a high forehead. A large chef’s knife, Japanese steel with a polished wooden handle, was tucked into his belt. Blade bare. Nonchalant dare to cut his leg. Brian Fangman. Occupation, head chef of The Wasatch Front Bar & Grill.

            ‘You know you gotta put that out, Helmut.’

            His voice was mid-west US.

The cigarette spat and crunched below his heel.

            ‘How’s things?’ asked Brian.

            ‘They are ok. I drive. I sharpen.’

            ‘Good, man. Good. I need exactly that. Gotta get my big bad girl back to slicin, man.’

Brian pulled the knife free and flashed the blade before Helmut. Beautifully made. Thin, delicate, balanced. Still sharp. Could be sharper. The edge was too visible. The length of the blade must disappear as if first cutting into air, then becoming lost in it. Severing oxygen. A few discrete Japanese characters identified it as a Hiroshi Kato blade. Hiroshi Kato, The Thousand Thousand Cuts Master hidden away with his steel, rustic forge, gardens of tsubaki and mistresses on a hill outside Kyoto. Not many of his knives out here. Not many of his knives anywhere anymore.

            ‘She needs to perform. I’ve got somethin real special planned.’

He turned back into the kitchen.

‘Over here. I’ll show ya.’

            They negotiated chefs and burners. Brian quickly tasted a thick yolk coloured sauce. They walked to another door at the other end of the kitchen. Yanked it open. A sucking sound of air release and a blast of cold. Into the walk-in fridge.

            A skinned and headless sasquatch hung on a heavy-duty meat hook. Over six feet and blackened dry aged. Smaller with less moisture in its flesh. Smaller now that it is dead and not robbing campers of their hotdogs and chocolate. Lines of sinew and muscle around pockets of fat purpose designed to protect the beast from the coldest alpine weather. On the shelves there is produce and cheese and four vats of different stock. A mound of butter in the corner. The floor was roughed up steel stopping slippage.

            ‘Beautiful, yeah? Finest stock. Free range. Shot in the Rockies. Imported at some fucken cost, I’ll tell ya.’

Brian slapped the carcass, swinging it around in a small circle. The slap didn’t echo. It was short and sharp and wet.

‘Not frozen, mind you. No siree, not at all. Transported him just a bit chilled like this right to my front door. Servin him up for the Ministry dinner tomorrow night smoked and grilled with turnips, carrots, potato fondant and a mountain man jus of thyme, rosemary oil and blood stock,’ said Brian.

His sips were smacking. Creativity juicing. Helmut, impassive and quiet, gazed at the upside-down beast before him. His breath was coated in a crystal layer of frost. The stains under his arms were beginning to freeze.

‘But to carve this monster, Helmut, to cook it like it deserves to be cooked, the cuts need to be fine. Like surgical fine. It’s tough, all sinew and muscle.’

Fangman ran his hand down the flanks of the sasquatch, gripping and releasing. Testing.

‘My knife has to be at her finest, her sharpest to get through its thicker ligaments,’ said Brian, brandishing the blade. Exclaiming the point. He slapped the carcass again sending it swinging on its hook.

‘Just this one?’

‘For me, yes. Though some of my other chefs would like your tender loving care.’

‘Bring them to me.’

‘The usual fee?’

‘For them, yes. Yours, a bit more.’

Helmut pointed to the sasquatch gently rocking.

‘The blade needs to hold. That will blunt the blade.’

‘Whatever you need. This dinner needs to be my masterpiece. I heard Matilda Olinda is cooking at the Carlton border in the old wine rooms tomorrow night as well. She’s doing something crazy. I can’t have her distract my guests. Steal them. The Ministers, the money – they’re good business, Helmut. You know. You do their knives? Out round Hawksburn and Toorak, yeah?’

‘Sometimes,’ said Helmut. ‘Cheap factory knives.’

‘Yeah, man. But fancy, yeah?’

‘Impractical.’

‘They don’t care bout that. You know they’d dump you for a shiny, knife sharpening machine? The next pretty piece of equipment that they see in their Socials. Tailored specific for them and their shitty knives,’ said Brian. ‘Bunch of em are distracted by shiny things.’

Helmut stood and saw a pile of finely diced turnips in the corner of the cool room. Uninterested, but patient.

‘Now, don’t get me wrong, Matilda has talent. Crazy, unhinged kinda talent. But it’s all a show. Gastronomic gymnastics, Helmut. This,’ he slapped the sasquatch again, ‘this, is what matters. The produce done well. She can carry on with her search for god in cooking all she likes. I have him here, bout to be smoked and served with a fucking excellent sauce.’

The Knife Sharpener (4)

4.

He wore stained corduroy beige slacks, with a frayed leather belt, a few shredded notches short of ripping, tucked under an overflowing belly. A white crew neck t shirt, covered in yellow sweat and brown gravy stains. Patchy facial hair and one eye drawn into a narrow slit. A hand rolled Champion cigarette dangled from the corner of his thin-lipped mouth. Slight odour: tobacco, musk, and steel.

            He sat behind the steering wheel of a rust beat Toyota panel van and played Neil Diamond’s ‘Girl, You’ll Be A Woman Soon’ on fuzzy cassette. A dilapidated air freshener hung from the rear view mirror and empty fast food wrappers covered the floor of the passenger side. He held the accelerator at an unremarkable 75 kilometres an hour. Not sure if it will go any faster and certainly unable to afford to go any slower. Industry, outer west Melbourne suburbs, and warehouses pass by. A few milkbars peeling at the façade. A few stop signs. Not a lot of traffic lights. Not a lot of traffic out here but for some semis and old sedans.

            His name is Helmut Isa. Occupation, knife sharpener. Mobile and on call. Tools of his trade firmly strapped down in the rear of the van, wrapped in velvet and stashed carefully in a tin box.

He checked his old cracked flip phone Samsung for the next set of chefs in need. En route. Put it down and scratched his thigh with crust thick nails.

            The soggy filter of his nearly finished cigarette was stuck to some stray whiskers growing from a deep dimple. Helmut cranked the window down and flicked the moist butt to the street. He drove on. Swiped his pants of scattered ash with the back of a scar crisscrossed hand. Clamped back onto his large 7/11 coffee. Still hot from ten minutes ago. A sip and momentary contentment in bitter burnt beans.

            Another Diamond song, ‘Cherry, Cherry.’ Oh, gonna show me tonight, yeah. Fingers on the wheel loosen, tap a little. His knuckles creak and dust falls to the van floor. On down the road. Exhaust fumes mix with factory fumes and it’s all a kind of concrete grey. A clean shaved homeless man in a clear plastic rain coat, hood up, swigs a longneck in paper and waves. Closed factories that once made cardboard and tin cans.

Over the bridge he could see commerce and silver. Skyscrapers of straight lines shivered in flashes of sunlight between low hung clouds. Artful minimalisms of glass and steel that house excesses in the billions. Here was the convergence of all radial lines. The end of all roads. Around him, there are more cars. Sedans and coupes and SUVs. Clean and reflective with tinted windows. Then the motoboys weaving traffic on scooters and dirt bikes, deliveries on their backs.

            Another Champion cigarette is balanced on his lip. Tim Buckley playing on cassette. All the stony people | Walking ‘round in Christian licorice clothes. 1973 live recording. The track buzzed and murmured. The panel van mounted the beginning of the West Gate Bridge, slows back to 55. Helmut took his hand off the wheel to tap ash into an empty coffee cup.

A series of texts on his Samsung:

Need ya at The Wasatch

OK. 3pm.

His digital clock behind oil smeared glass on the dashboard reads: 1330. It should take him a half an hour from here, depending on post long lunch traffic in the outskirts of the CBD. Few too many Burgundy’s and cars crawl in suspicion of the undercover constabulary.

An ivory BMW pulled up beside the Toyota to overtake. Helmut could see the driver wearing leather gloves, Ray-Bans, and a blue suit. How he sits back, easing the automobile through the crowded bridge one handed. The passenger, likely corporate, maybe political, behind blacked out windows. See Helmut’s reflection: a balding scalp with a loosely tied ponytail and drawn cheeks. Teeth clamped down on his cigarette. The sunshine reminds you of concreted skies. The BMW pulled away and flowed into the lane ahead, full of other BMWs and a few Mercedes. Not many semis coming in on a Thursday.

The work waits for him.

The Knife Sharpener (3)

3.

‘Haven’t seen Paul in yonks,’ said Bohemian Bob.

            Nichola watched the man across the road. His steps were unsure and uneven as he swayed back and forth. First heading towards Dandenong Rd and leaning on a shuttered Asian restaurant. Then reversing back in the direction of South Yarra past a well-lit X-rated bookstore. She had never seen a silver robed person enter the building.

            ‘How do you know who he is?’ asked Nichola.

            ‘His resplendent accoutrement. Never takes it off.’

            ‘It could be someone else wearing it.’

            ‘Nah, not a chance. It’s like his personal uniform, sayin who he is and where he belongs. Like my eye patch used to do,’ said Bohemian Bob. ‘Also, Paul is a spindly fella. A bit of torso. A lot of arms and legs.’

The silver robed man across the road was sitting on the ground in front of the X-rated bookstore. His knees were wrapped up by his protruding elbows and long forearms. High enough to nearly cover his face. Nichola couldn’t deny that he was certainly unusually long limbed.

‘Beanstalk bastard. Have a look at him, will ya? I wonder where he’s been?’ asked Bohemian Bob, slurping at his beer and checking his black digital watch. ‘Nearly time to head out, love. Gotta chase the hour on down the street. Cheeky bugger always creeping on.’

‘How do you know Paul?’ asked Nichola. She was still doubting the veracity of his claims. It could be Geoff under that silver robe. He’d arrived at 4:15pm. Although she wasn’t sure if Geoff was quite so skinny and knobbly. The silver robed man across the street was struggling to rise. A few orange tanned women and men in yoga pants and puffer jackets, accompanied by three terriers in Versace alpaca sweaters, gave him a wide birth as they yakked there way down the footpath. Their noses wrinkled through the botox.

‘He used to occupy that very seat of yours, Nicky. Come in all silver sparkly and the like, inhale a few, talk endlessly about outer space mostly. Couldn’t even get a word in. Me? I know right? Verbose fella. Passionate about his role in that Church of his,’ said Bohemian Bob, pointing across the road to the building. ‘I remember one night he met me after his congregation and followed me down Chapel. Might’ve been one of the last nights I saw him, too. Dunno. My brain could be making a foggy rumour out of the whole affair. I think he appeared when I was most of the way to Toorak Rd.’

The silver robed man had managed to get to his feet. There was a frantic jerk to his motion now. A marionette movement of hurrying away but trapped on the same stage.

‘He say anything else about his Church?’ asked Nichola.

‘Not much that I can bring to mind, love. I was properly carouselling Chapel by then, succumbed to the froth fever,’ said Bohemian Bob, finishing the last dregs of his beer. His knees audibly creaked over the stoner rock on the speakers as he stood. ‘I don’t think he was having fun there anymore. I get that. You know how I hold fun at a high premium. Paul was just rambling about apocalyptic changes to the doctrine. “Not the spirit of it. We were community,” he was saying.’ Bohemian Bob dwelled for a moment. ‘Might’ve been saying. There’s a lot of voices up here, Nicky,’ said Bohemian Bob, tapping on his stackhat.

Kent and Todd, still in their black and silver robes, ran out the front door of the building. The silver robed man spotted them and tried to take off down Chapel towards South Yarra. His legs buckled and he fell two steps past the X-rated bookstore. Quickly, Kent and Todd surrounded the fallen figure and hurled him up by the crook of his elbows. His hood tumbled off his head, revealing a pinched face with a huge nose.

‘That’s Paul’s proboscis, alright,’ said Bohemian Bob. He looked down at his sweater and pulled at a loose thread. The two black and silver robed men hauled Paul back into the building. Nichola could almost hear his whimpering. There was no muscle or fight in the man. A couple of Chapel St tramps nearby ignored the whole scene. They hit their goon sack and asked a trio of Southside hipsters eating burgers for a smoke.

‘Time to jostle onwards,’ said Bohemian Bob.

‘Ok. See ya, Bob,’ said Nichola.

A few motoboys stood up and made their way to the entrance of the bar. Bohemian Bob removed his orange stackhat and left it in the communal bucket.

He turned back to Nichola. ‘I don’t know much bout your interest in them over there, love, but as I’ve said before, they’re a harmless bunch. Middle of the road people trying to find their rock to get off. Get a little freaky. A bit noteworthy in an otherwise unspectacular existence.’

‘They just dragged your mate Paul back into that building. Their Church,’ said Nichola.

‘So, they’re a bit kinky? Don’t worry your emotion on them, Nicky. Leave em be. Nothing to be done,’ said Bohemian Bob. ‘Tell you what, come with me down Chapel. Give this stuff to your memory and let it lie. I’ll tell you all about that time I got lost in Forest Hill. Got out just before the Wastes. We’ll have a good old time.’

‘No thanks, Bob,’ said Nichola. ‘I’ll probably see you tomorrow.’

‘Sure?’

‘Yeah.’

Bohemian Bob bumbled out of the bar, half looking at Nichola. ‘Righto,’ he said and disappeared in a circle of motoboys, seeking the Windsor Station pub that was always his next stop.

Nichola watched him go and drank her cider. She turned back to the building. She had gone down the alley to its right a few times. It led to a fenced, gravel pit carpark that backed onto a gully where the Sandringham train line ran.

She had always thought that there was only the one entrance and exit to the building. To this Church.

But, maybe?

She dwelled on her mission and waited for it to get dark.

The Knife Sharpener (2)

2.

On Chapel St, the legend of Bohemian Bob bordered on myth. He was the Mayor of Chapel St. The Royal Vagrant Roamer. The Wig Wearing Wafting Wanderer. The Effusively Inebriated Gentleman’s Storyteller. His bar hopping, timed to arrive at each overlapping happy hour as he galivanted from Windsor to South Yarra, was a nightly performance. Behind him, Bohemian Bob would leave a trail of empty glassware, exhausted bar tenders, and cross-eyed motoboys. Everyone would extoll the virtue of his tall tales. No one could quite remember the details of what he said.

            Nichola had high hopes when she first arrived at the bar that the Chapelian Baron of Bar Bouncing would be able to tell her all about the activity across the road. Everyone always said, no one knew Chapel better than Bohemian Bob.

            That was probably true. He was an endless chatterer. A kind of social nexus that attracted anyone and everyone. Hipster angels waiting to ascend to Revs for their nightly prayers. Middle management still not sure of their role in the middle, secretly suspecting they were actually somewhere down the bottom. South Yarra fashionistas doled up and held together by plastic and mystery adhesive. All were drawn into the beer-soaked orbit of Bohemian Bob. His was a conquest of spirited braggadocio, strung together by the unalterable rhythm of his movement down Chapel, buttressed by an enormous capacity for fermented yeast beverages.

            Bohemian Bob was like a friend. A good old-fashioned drinking buddy in the tradition of old mate at the pub. Leans over and gives up a political opinion. Utterly stereotypical in its content and context. Never an invitation to an argument. Just a request for a spirited discussion about the foibles of whatever issue everyone agreed was a bit shit.

It helped that he had a news broadcaster’s voice. A counterintuitively rational rumble sprinkled with a touch of that reassuring Australian larrikinism that made Bohemian Bob seem like he perpetually fell in the middle of any issue. The deft tone of his rhetoric relaxed those around him. They were in good hands. While also subtly cementing the unbreaking ritual of his wandering. To listen to Bohemian Bob was to be taken back to a nightly habit of watching the news. The nightly habit of imbibing with your footy short wearing buddy. The Chapel St Chaplain.  

             Bohemian Bob was the man people listened to realign and identify their own sociohistorical patterns. Their need for self-reassurance and nostalgia. Plus, he could turn a story. About what he saw, thought, believed, had experienced. None of it particularly consistent. From waxing lyrical about the public transport system. To speaking of being terrified of Tram Sprites on the 78. Warring with the Conductors. He had apparently dined at, and been disappointed by, the finest restaurants in Melbourne. Once, he served as a fairy hunter out in Ferntree Gully but missed Prahran and the wild days of the Alma Park Market too much. His politics were ambiguous. His sense of social justice largely centred around the right to a good time and having enough money to do it.

            But Nichola had come to learn that much of the lore of the Totalled Titan was carefully self-curated. Most of the stories about him could be traced back to his own telling. And though he was an unending talker, there was very little inquisitive about him. Bohemian Bob certainly knew of any permutations that happened along his beloved Chapel. He never failed to point out an unexpected oddity. A late or early tram. A fellow barfly missing from his usual spot. A venue about to fail paying its rent. He just never felt any desire to pursue the causes behind them. It was why he never questioned the robed figures entering the building across the street. They were just another part of his odyssey.

            ‘How long have you been doing this, Bob?’ asked Nichola.

            ‘Doing what, Nicky?’

            ‘Your thing. This nightly Chapel St crawl.’

            ‘Oh, I’ve lost count. At least since the Northside Delinquency,’ said Bohemian Bob. ‘Did I ever tell you how I used to work up there once? Sold boutique, personalised eye patches out of a stall near The Tote. Reckon I still got some feedback loops in my bloodstream. Not enough to be properly dangerous, but definitely buzzing.’

            ‘Eye patches?’

            ‘Oh, they were all the rage. Very symbolic for them kids. Something about being so committed to their views they were one eyed. They always liked em to be red for some reason.’

            ‘I see.’

            ‘I wore one too. A tidy little beige and purple number.’

            ‘Did you have a particular view you were serious about?’

            ‘Yeah, nah. More that I went through a bit of a phase of trying to imitate them Northside kids whole rebel cool, tearaway thing. Bit laissez faire, but not, you know? Didn’t really work on me. I was lacking the conviction. I did look dashing, though. I wore that thing on and off for a few years. It was good for secretly acknowledging Northsiders fleeing Ministry who’d wander over to my side of the river – like a secret handshake kinda deal. Also, scared off the Tram Sprites. They thought I was a pirate. Flamboyant and fierce.’

            Nichola watched another robed man walking up Chapel towards the building. This one was very tall, very heavy, bespectacled, and white haired. He wore expensive black loafers under his robes. While he waited to be let in, Nichola made another note in her book: Kent, 4:55pm. Bohemian Bob, still at the quieter beginning of his evening, contemplatively slugged at his beer. She suspected he liked the quiet of her company for a few moments before heading off to the next bar at 5pm. The motoboys were getting restless. Most of them would soon be on the roads for their dinner service. The others would escort Bohemian Bob for the duration of his evening. At least, as far as their own tolerances took them. Their relationship to the Cardinal of Chapel bewildered Nichola. No one really understood the motivations of the motoboys.

            She lifted her cider to her lips. It was nearly time to go. From her notes she could see that only Tom and Gertrude were missing. They wouldn’t be far away. The robed figures rarely came after five. They never arrived at the same time on consecutive days. They always entered one at a time and waited a minute between entering. They always had to wait for the door to open. There was only one door. They always wore black and silver robes with the hood down.

The simplicity of their behaviour infuriated her. It stood in direct contradiction to the complexity of their nefarious task. It made clandestine entry into their building seem impossible.

            ‘Well, well, well, if it ain’t Paul,’ said Bohemian Bob.

            Across the road a lank man in an entirely silver robe lurched around the corner of the building. Bohemian Bob was pointing at him. Nichola could see that the robe was splattered with dirty water and mud. Otherwise, it shimmered. His arms were held stilted to his side and his head swivelled looking up, down, and across Chapel St.

She didn’t know how Bohemian Bob was able to identify him. His hood was up. They couldn’t see his face.

The Knife Sharpener (1)

‘One of the most poetic facts I know about the universe is that essentially every atom in your body was once inside a star that exploded … We are all, literally, star children, and our bodies are made of stardust.’

            Lawrence M. Krauss – A Universe From Nothing

1.

It was happy hour. The bar was full of motoboys waiting for their dinner deliveries and middle management wearing loose suits and orange stackhats. Hands were occupied by pints. The vibe was muted. Chatter relegated to quiet pleasantries. Make It Wit Chu seemed to be playing on repeat over the speakers.

            Nichola sat on a stool in the window. It had become her usual spot over the last month. She nursed a cider and stared at the squat grey building across Chapel St. Her drink was getting warm and flat. She didn’t care. She never finished it. A leather notebook lay open on the elevated stained bench she leaned into. It was propped open by her left hand. Her right adjusted her stackhat to sit a little further back on her short brown hair.

            From an alley to the right of the building a man in a black and silver spotted robe came around the corner. He was middle aged, flabby, and grey haired. Nichola saw that he wore white New Balance sneakers under his robe. In her notebook, she quickly jotted down the arrival time – 4:45pm – for the man she had given the alias, Todd.

            She watched Todd ring a doorbell next to the building’s front door. He scratched his armpit while he waited to be let in. People ignored him as they walked past. A skeletal woman in a matching black and silver robe, who Nichola had named Patty, emerged from the same alley. On seeing Todd, Patty stopped and waited at the corner. They didn’t acknowledge one another. Nichola made a note of the time of her appearance also.

            After a short wait, the door opened for Todd, who disappeared inside. Patty stood at the corner for a minute before strolling to the door and ringing the doorbell. Nichola had long ago observed that there were no cameras over the door. There were only a few small blacked out windows facing onto the street and a peephole in the door itself. She had never seen any electronic surveillance. Even in the carpark at the rear of the building. But, then, in her sneaking around, Nichola had only ever found the one entrance. There were no other doors besides the one she had been watching for a month. All the windows were boarded up.

            The front door opened for Patty. It was 4:47pm and happy hour was due to go for another hour and thirteen minutes. Nichola sipped her cider. She still had no idea how to get into the building. A month long stake out and nothing to show for it.

            As he did every night around this time, Bohemian Bob came and sat down next to Nichola. He guzzled at his pint and followed Nichola’s gaze across Chapel St. He wore his usual torn footy shorts and thick yellow woollen jumper. There was a slight sourness to his scent, but also a rich cologne. Nichola never quite knew how to differentiate the two smells. She side-eyed the ill-fitting toupee slipping around under his stackhat.

            ‘Nichola, lovely, they call it happy hour,’ said Bohemian Bob. He leaned close enough to tap stack hats. His breath was beer and mint. ‘Cheer up, this ain’t the end of the world or nothing.’

            He drew on his pint, then slammed it on the bench, leaving only a mouthful sloshing around the bottom. A motoboy in a white motorbike helmet, slipped free of his comrades and quickly replaced the near empty glass with a fresh pint.

            ‘You stress too much staring at that old, ugly building all the time. It’s rubbing off on me vibes. Good ol Bohemian Bob will tell you again: they’re just a bunch of frustrated uptown spooks who like to play at fancy dress. It’s a bit nouveau riche. I bet ya they’re probably swinging. Car keys in the pot. Nasty linen on a springy bed out the back.’

            Bohemian Bob always changed what he thought they were doing in the building. Antique dealing, board game nights, watching movies, group TV binging, wine appreciation, shooting porn, haberdashery, taxidermy. None of it astounded his imagination. He didn’t understand, nor ask about, Nichola’s obsession with the building. Bohemian Bob espoused his theories and carried on.

            For her part, Nichola never bothered to tell him about what she actually knew of the building. All the rites and the dangerous beliefs of the individuals inside. Bohemian Bob wouldn’t have cared. This was only the first bar in his own Chapel St pilgrimage. Nichola was a part of his ritual. Whatever the black and silver robed middle aged people were doing in that building did not concern his pattern of chasing discounted intoxication.