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.