The Shopkeeper Prefers Marionettes

For Theo

Two hundred and twenty-seven small dolls sit inside the shop window. They gaze out onto the street. No two are alike. They sit in rows, the tiniest at the front of the window, the larger ones at the back.

Now, it is past the middle of the night. A breeze cools the emptiness. On the street is a child's plaything. A breeze pulls the strings.

In the apartment above the shop, the young man cannot sleep. The moon is behind cloud and he is uncertain of its phase. Here, under the cloud, the street is cold. It is spring. There are warm days. There is a new moon. There is a waning crescent, visible in the mid-morning sky. Now, tonight, it is cold and the hidden moon is hard. It sits behind the cloud. The young man does not know the sky well enough to say the moon is there or the moon is there.

Small dolls sit inside the shop window. They gaze out onto the street. Now, it is past the middle of the night. The moon is behind cloud. Two hundred and twenty-seven small dolls sit inside the shop window. The static detail of dolls bores the shopkeeper. He prefers marionettes. He prefers the awkward illusion of movement. The magic of the disappearing filament fascinates him. He studies the methods that allow the range of motion and the subtlety of gesture. He recognizes, however, that the collecting of dolls is more profitable.

The shopkeeper dies in his shop. It is midday. A customer finds him, still, in his chair. All around him, on the desk, on the floor, on the shelves, are dolls and marionettes. Everything in the store is dusty. It is midday and a breeze blows in from the open door.
This night, as most nights, the young man keeps the window open. His room is cold and he must sleep. He works in the early morning.

Light brings warmth. Small dolls sit inside the shop window and gaze out onto the street. It is sunrise and below the window a dark cat flicks its tail. The sun and the cat are the only active measures of time. There is no life here. There is only quiet passage. Dolls sit inside the window. Light brings warmth. The blue sky pales.

The young man sits on the edge of his bed. The window is open. A bird squawks. Now, the young man remembers how the shopkeeper unlocks the shop door and how he places a wedge to keep it ajar. He remembers kicking out the wedge, upon the shopkeeper's sudden command, to keep out the coming rain. Now, it is sunrise. The young man must prepare for work.

Small dolls sit inside the shop window. They gaze out onto the street. In the emptiness of the early morning, the breeze no longer pulls the strings.

One day, after the death of the shopkeeper, the young man sees a tiny red ant on the fraying collar of a bus passenger's coat. Another day, he sees a golden centipede on a policeman's broad belt. At a formal dinner, he sees a red worm across an emerald cufflink.

One morning, after the death of the shopkeeper, the young man looks at the eye of a doll in the shop window and notices a dark tear that seems to streak the eye paint. He looks again and the darkness flutters up and away. A moth draws his attention. The young man stands in front of the shop. Darkness settles at the edge of this moment as a calm water. It is quiet and still. The water laps, a gentle sound in the dim. That shallow water, yellow and black, soft, rolls out and away.

Two hundred and twenty-seven small dolls sit inside the shop window. They gaze out onto the street. No two are alike. They sit in rows, the tiniest at the front of the window, the larger ones at the back. They gather dust and they pale in the light.

After the death of the shopkeeper, strangers visit the dark shop. They often stand for an hour or two. They often return again and again. They do not expect the shop to be open. They merely stand and stare at the front of the shop. There, on the street, illusions appear. One day a picture of two women appears. One is older and holds the arm of the other. Another day, a sabre. Another day, a perfect pine. After a few days of no image, suddenly a large red bowl. The pictures sometimes remain in place for days before they disappear. Each illusion seems to occur only once.

Now, it is early morning, and the young man closes the door behind him. He turns and sees someone in front of the store. The young man grips his hands behind his back and bows his head and slowly walks toward the stranger. Softly, he bids good day and, after a moment, asks why people come here. The stranger looks at him and asks, "Do you not see the picture?"

The young man notices a lady bug on the rim of the stranger's hat. Small dolls sit inside the shop window. The young man thinks that the moments between bliss and horror are illusions. He thinks that a simple reflection may transform the shimmering surface of joy into the basalt column of death.
Small dolls sit inside the shop window. They gaze out onto the street. "No," says the young man, "I do not see the picture."

The stranger shrugs and says that, magically, these images do appear, here, on the street in front of the shop. The young man thinks to himself that discovery is narcotic.

Two hundred and twenty-seven dolls sit inside the shop window. They gaze out onto the street. No two are alike. They sit in rows, the tiniest at the front of the window, the larger ones at the back. They remind the young man of carnival prizes. Darkness settles at the edge of this moment. Here, at the bright centre, a ferris wheel is high and loud. Large tents flap in the warm breeze. A dusty dog approaches and the young man knows it is deeply thirsty. All around is the sound of buskers, parents calling after children, lovers and neighbours challenging each other at feats of strength and skill. A dusty dog barks. The young man no longer knows to whom he speaks.

Now, it is early morning, and the young man must make his way to work. Small dolls sit inside the shop window. They gaze out onto the street. Someone stands in front of the shop. The young man bids the stranger a good day and heads to the place of his employ. Filaments stream from his limbs and disappear in the warming light of the pale day.

June 15 1995