The Knife Sharpener (27)

27.

‘What’s the matter? What happened?’ asked Nichola. She bent down to Helmut. Pulled him back to standing by his elbow. The knife still in his hand. Shaking. Noise in the room buzzed almost inaudibly as the numerous screens flickered and distorted.

            ‘Do youse know the knife, Mr Helmut?’ asked Chance.

            Helmut shook his head. Nichola felt sweat along his arms. He was unsteady. Ripples of muscle tension and release went through him.

            ‘Intrestin,’ said Chance.

            ‘I don’t know,’ said Helmut. ‘Never, before.’

            ‘The odds of youse two comin together,’ said Chance, pointing at Nichola and Helmut. ‘Then that there knife, too. Ya wouldn’t think it possible. But ‘ere we are. It’s only an intsy-bitsy lil’ world, dear Melbourne, ain’t she?’

            Nichola studied Helmut. He was looking at the knife. An old chef’s knife. Plain. Well made. Surely, nothing more. His grip was tight around it. Though it appeared to be causing him pain. Generating an energy in the usually sombre still man. Helmut was moments away from tearing. Bouncing out of his skin. All his calm washed away.

            Instead, he handed the knife to Nichola. She took it from him warily. Nothing. It felt like a knife. Light and balanced. Helmut slouched. A weight removed. The screens in the room steadied. Resumed playing. Chance scratched at his chin. Swayed a little on his undersized, underused legs. Turned around.

             ‘You knew that was going to happen,’ said Nichola. Chance was wandering back to his chair, breathing hard.

            ‘Suspected so,’ he said. ‘Not many knife sharpeners ‘round bouts.’

            ‘What does that have to do with it?’

            ‘Most things,’ said Chance, sitting. ‘Specially when it comes to the knife.’

            ‘Could be sharper,’ said Helmut. Certainty in a whisper.

            ‘Exactly,’ said Chance. ‘A sharpener – a Carer always knows.’

            ‘Who?’ asked Nichola. ‘Knows what?’

            ‘That the knife could be sharper, Nicky,’ said Chance. ‘See, our mate, Mr Helmut, ‘ere, he’s a Carer, I reckin.’ He paused. ‘Iser,’ he said. ‘If it weren’t for that name – I’m sure in my foggies, I ‘member hearin bout someone like you, Mr Helmut. Might’ve been you. Out in the Wastes. Did some work. Enhanced some implements. Bit of blood out of that. Few scraps. Disputes. Usual gang brawls, hey.’ Chance sank back into his chair. Helmut watched, unmoving. There was still tension in him.

            ‘Good Carers,’ said Chance, ‘and I reckin, you’ve gotta fine one there Nicky if he is who I think he is – they’re drawn to tools like that ol’ knife.’ He massaged his legs. ‘Explains a bit bout this union of youse two, when yis thinks bout it. Ya pa put youse onto that piece –needed to make sure it was used proper. Mr Helmut was pulled to it by somethin beyond him. To you. That knife. Like magnetism, ya know? He was always gonna hit the metal.’

            ‘Holdingstock sent me,’ said Helmut.

            ‘Course she did. Just ‘nother cog in the machine, Mr Helmut. ‘Nother twist of the upper crust thinkin they have control. A say in how these affairs go.’

            ‘What do Carers do?’ asked Nichola. Helmut had shifted in her perception. Perhaps not grown but changed. His history, unremarked on in the van but for his vague asides, had developed unexpectedly. She had known there was something there. She felt vindicated for not letting it go. And, now, worried about what it could mean to her. The mission. Did he need taking care of?        

            ‘Make tools sing,’ said Chance. ‘They’ll fix up a spoon so it does more than move somethin from yis bowl to ya mouth. More than measure ingredients. All that, too. That knife, yeah, is probably fine to slice vegies. But a Carer, they’ll dig into that spoon, refine it, hollow it out, balance it up. They’ll make that spoon able to move time and space. Weigh out life and dribble it on death. Scoop air and molecules into a takeaway box.’ He looked to one of the screens. A camera on an empty street. A motoboy appeared driving slowly. ‘A carer could make a fork dip into the world like spagbol, spin around, and pull it out, neat packaged to nibble on. Gift it to a god.’

            ‘I – I’ve never heard of that,’ said Nichola. ‘Seems impossible. Like magic.’

            ‘But it is, Nicky. Magacians, the lot of em. Yet, I doubt there’s more than a handful of em left. Ministy weeded out a bunch. Stood ‘gainst their order. Don’t care for things they can’t put a helmet on, if ya hear me. Back before I civilised him, ya pa might’ve tracked a few down, given em the rough ride of his cricket bat.’

            The faintest tightening of Helmut’s jaw. Then gone. The acts of her father always followed her. His will. Nichola always said he had no influence, just presence. But here she was.

            ‘The gold rush in the Wastes, that did a number on the Carers too, I reckin. Couldn’t resist that raw material bein mined outta there. Gold spatulas to scrap a man’s soul out. Golden bowls to bung it into. Them gettin messed up in that – probably did a number on firin up the gangs, I heard. Like Mr Helmut there could’ve worked his magic on one family’s cutlery. ‘Nother family hears. Gets the jealousies. Starts shit. You see how this ends, yeah? Not civil folks out there, Nicky. And if they couldn’t get a Carer, no one gets a Carer. The point is, you ain’t never heard of Carers, cos they ain’t got profile. Ministry started buryin them. The Wastes, as it usually does, filled the hole in.’

            ‘Is it true?’ Nichola asked Helmut.

            He stood still. Staring. ‘Mostly,’ he said.

            ‘You’re a … Carer?’

            ‘Yes. Once.’

            ‘You can do what – what Chance said. To, like, kitchen stuff.’

            ‘Not for a long time,’ said Helmut. ‘I don’t know anymore.’

            ‘And the Wastes? You and the other Carers helped cause that? You said you were a cook out there.’

‘I lied. The Wastes – we were trying to make a change. Find an answer.’

            ‘For what?’

            ‘Never learned the question.’

            ‘And you stopped looking? Asking?’

            ‘Yes. Too much disorder. Try to forget. Move on.’

            ‘So, you just sharpen knives?’

            ‘Yes.’

            ‘Are you good at it?’

            Helmut nodded, ‘the best.’

            ‘But you don’t Care for these knives?’

            ‘No. Just sharpen.’

            ‘Did you know there was something special about this one?’ asked Nichola waving the knife. Chance observed from his chair, still massaging his legs.

            ‘No. Only that it was old. That people want it,’ said Helmut.

            ‘And when you touched it –’

            ‘It was unexpected. Never before.’

            ‘My dad. Did you – did you have interactions with him?’

            Helmut held silence. Then, ‘not, intimate.’

            Chance held up his hand. ‘I may interrupt. Family is a distraction to the big pic. So, allow me. Your pa found out bout that knife, Nicky. He heard bout it from a Carer.’

‘Why?’

‘He’d been looking to start things anew, yeah? Not just the rebellious behaviours no more. Had a bigger vision. You know how he was – always tryin to make it better. Make it work. And ya know he had his means of gettin info. He heard bout this knife. Heard it can slice the threads of society. Give us our freedom, right? A tool to leave them – Ministry, Holdingstocks, that fuckin Church – up there. And we get it all to ourselves down ‘ere. But there ain’t no down, if there ain’t no up if up is cut loose and floats off into fuckin space. There’s just this.’

            ‘Why would that Church want it then?’ asked Nichola.

            ‘Well, what I said, ain’t all that that knife can do, Nicky. Kinda depends on who has it,’ said Chance. ‘The Church figure different. Different intentions. Probably call this – howdoya say –’

            ‘Heresy,’ said Helmut.

            ‘That’s the one.’

            ‘Dad could’ve just taken it.’

            ‘That was the plan, Nicky. Bunch of robed geezers – gee whiz, they would’ve had Buckley’s if he’d gone in swinging. But, Ministry got to him first,’ said Chance. ‘Maybe they got whiff of himm at that Church of Violent Crumbles. Worded their mates. Pulled the strings.’

            ‘Do you know what they had it for?’

            ‘Nup. But judging by ya pa picked up, it woulda been for somethin terrible boring and plain terrible in general.’

            Nichola held the knife out to Chance. ‘You say this makes things better. Free. Dad believed in it. Why don’t you just use it now?’ asked Nichol. ‘Why didn’t they?’

            Chance leaned back. Put his hands behind his head. ‘Cos we need him,’ he said, pointing Helmut. ‘He’s gotta Care for it proper, first.’