It’s funny, the little things that can get you. Like, I’ve spent my life keeping up this persona, creating my character—Dr. Jekyll had nothing on me—and yet here I was, for all intents and purposes, bragging to this stranger. I didn’t say anything directly, that was true, but I told him. I told him by my deep knowledge of the issue, knowledge only Mortimer—only I—knew.
And what was the cause? He had my work displayed, the centerpiece of his collection. There on the handle was my very own seal, a hand-etched ‘M.’ One of my earlier pieces, I was only thirty; I must have made at least fifty exactly like this.
“It wasn’t his best work,” I heard myself saying.
“There, I must disagree with you,” my host rejoined. “I always felt that . . .” here he paused, setting his champagne on the mantelpiece. Turning to me, he continued, “. . . his earliest work was the best. Simple, elegant, functional.” With a sigh he gazed upon the instrument. “You could trust a gun like that.” Reclaiming his glass he bowed his head, “I’ve seen some of his work.” He chuckled, studying his shoes, “The stuff he makes now, they’re just toys for thugs and wannabe gangsters. Everyone wants to say they have a Mortimer. When I—” he stopped suddenly. “I suppose it was a different time.”
We looked at each other, knowing and yet wearing our masks. Turning to my creation, I pictured all the toil of those early days, when stealing away to the shop, I prayed no one would notice. Working past the midnight hour, I’d be turning out another custom cylinder, or boring a new barrel. Hard work, but lucrative. I was able to pay for my own shop eventually, all the tools I needed in the comfort of my own home. My host had grown as quiet as I. We stood shoulder to shoulder, admiring the gun.
“You’re retired?” I asked.
“As you can see, I’ve hung up my weapon,” he smiled.
“I’ve been thinking about it myself. It’s all work, work, work. Once, it was like music, something you had never heard, every measure full of . . .” I stopped myself. My voice had been rising; I was nearly shouting those last words. Straightening my tie, I resumed, “but it’s a tired drumbeat now.”
The fire before us was roaring, her devouring tongues licking the air. She danced with mesmerizing steps, beckoning me to her kisses. I knew behind us the magnificent wall of windows, glass so clear it was like the room merely opened to the wild world, displayed the wonders of winter, a frozen lake miles across. This drew me too. I wanted to taste the cold, to walk out into a white blizzard, walk out onto the ice. They fought for me, fire and ice, tearing at my heart.
“How did you leave it all behind?” I whispered.
“You’ve admired one of my treasures,” he replied, “let me show you another.”
Turning from the fire, he walked off into the adjoining room. My host was something of a giant, his broad shoulders seemed twice the size of an average man. I followed him, feeling myself more a child following a parent instead of the sixty year old codger I was. My host limped, a slight limp, but as he crossed the threshold he still managed to spin about, waving me on. Coming under the archway, I smelled the tender fragrances of a kitchen: roasting meat, warm bread, garlic and butter, richness.
With her head immersed in rising steam, she called to us: “Just about ready.” Setting the lid down over the large pot, she wiped her graying locks out of her eyes, securing them behind her ears. The once golden hair, wet with the dew of the kitchen, clung to her temples. Her eyes beamed as she looked across the stove at us, at him. I thought she was about to laugh, or cry, or shout, as this childish smile conquered every wrinkle on her face. She called him by name, my hostess, and coming toward us, threw two saggy arms about him. She disappeared as he returned her embrace, enfolded in his massive hug.
“My treasure,” he said, releasing her.
Original Post: Mortimer
Tale Told 