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.