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.