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.