Troublemakers (28 page)

   
“Okay,” he said finally, “I suppose Turkish Period it’ll be. What the hell
is
Turkish Period?”

   
She took his arm lovingly, and turned him around to look in the store window. “Well, honey, it’s not
actually
Turkish. It’s more Mesopotamian. You know, teak and silk and...”

   
“Sounds hideous. ”

   
“So you’re starting up again!” She dropped his arm, her eyes flashing, her mouth a tight little line. “I’m really ashamed of you, depriving me of the few little pleasures I need to make my life a blub, sniff, hoo-hoo…”

   
The edge was hers.

   
“Connie... Connie...” She knocked away his comforting hand, saying, “You beast.” That was too much for him. The words were so obviously put-on, he was suddenly infuriated:

   
“Now, goddammit!”

   
Her tears came faster. Danny stood there, furious, helpless, outmaneuvered, hoping desperately that no cop would come along and say,, ‘This guy botherin’ ya, lady?”

   
“Connie, okay, okay, we’ll
have
Turkish Period. Come on, come on. It doesn’t matter what it costs, I can scrape up the money somehow.”

   
It was not one of the glass-brick and onyx emporia where sensible furniture might be found (if one searched hard enough and paid high enough and retained one’s senses long enough as they were trying to palm off modernistic nightmares in which no comfortable position might be found); no, it was not even one of those. This was an antique shop.

   
They looked at beds that had canopies and ornate metalwork on the bedposts. They looked at rugs that were littered with pillows, so visitors could sit on the floors. They looked at tables built six inches off the floor, for low banquets. They inspected incense burners and hookahs and coffers and giant vases until Danny’s head swam with visions of the courts of long-dead caliphs.

   
Yet, despite her determination, Connie chose very few items; and those she did select were moderately-priced and quite handsome... for what they were. And as the hours passed, and as they moved around town from one dismal junk emporium to another, Danny’s respect for his wife’s taste grew. She was selecting an apartment full of furniture that wasn’t bad at all.

   
They were finished by six o’clock, and had bills of sale that totaled just under two hundred dollars. Exactly thirty dollars less than Danny had decided could be spent to furnish the new household... and still survive on his salary. He had taken the money from his spavined savings account, and had known he must eventually start buying on credit, or they would not be able to get enough furniture to start living properly.

   
He was tired, but content. She’d shopped wisely. They were in a shabby section of town. How had they gotten here? They walked past an empty lot sandwiched in between two tenements-wet-wash slapping on lines between them. The lot was weed-overgrown and garbage-strewn.

   
“May I call your attention to the depressing surroundings and my exhaustion?” Danny said. “Let’s get a cab and go back to the apartment. I want to collapse.”

   
They turned around to look for a cab, and the empty lot was gone.

   
In its place, sandwiched between the two tenements, was a little shop. It was a one-storey affair, with a dingy facade, and its front window completely grayed-over with dust. A hand-painted line of elaborate script on the glass-panel of the door, also opaque with grime, proclaimed: MOHANADUS MUKHAR, CURIOS.

   
A little man in a flowing robe, wearing a fez, plunged out the front door, skidded to a stop, whirled and slapped a huge sign on the window. He swiped at it four times with a big paste-brush, sticking it to the glass, and whirled back inside, slamming the door.

   
“No,” Danny said.

   
Connie’s mouth was making peculiar sounds.

   
“There’s no insanity in my family,” Danny said firmly. “We come from very good stock.”

   
“We’ve made a visual error,” Connie said.

   
“Simply didn’t notice it,” Danny said. His usually baritone voice was much nearer soprano.

   
“If there’s crazy, we’ve both got it,” Connie said.

   
“Must be, if you see the same thing I see.”

   
Connie was silent a moment, then said, “Large seagoing vessel, three stacks, maybe the Titanic. Flamingo on the bridge, flying the flag of Lichtenstein?”

   
“Don’t play with me, woman,” Danny whimpered. “I think I’m losing it.”

   
She nodded soberly. “Right. Empty lot?”

   
He nodded back, “Empty lot. Clothesline, weeds, garbage.”

   
“Right.”

   
He pointed at the little store. “Little store?”

   
“Right.”

   
“Man in a fez, name of Mukhar?” She rolled her eyes. “Right.”

   
“So why are we walking toward it?”

   
“Isn’t this what always happens in stories where weird shops suddenly appear out of nowhere? Something inexorable draws the innocent bystanders into its grip?”

   
They stood in front of the grungy little shop. They read the sign. It said:

BIG SALE! HURRY! NOW! QUICK!

   
“The word
unnatural
comes to mind,” Danny said.

   
“Nervously,” Connie said, “she turned the knob and opened the door.”

   
A tiny bell went tinkle-tinkle, and they stepped across the threshold into Mohanadus Mukhar’s shop.

   
“Probably not the smartest move we’ve ever made,” Danny said softly. The door closed behind them without any assistance.

   
It was cool and musty in the shop, and strange fragrances chased one another past their noses.

   
They looked around carefully. The shop was loaded with junk. From floor to ceiling, wall to wall, on tables and in heaps, the place was filled with oddities and bric-a-brac. Piles of things tumbled over each other on the floor; heaps of things leaned against the walls. There was barely room to walk down the aisle between the stacks and mounds of things. Things in all shapes, things in all sizes and colors. Things. They tried to separate the individual items from the jumble of the place, but all they could perceive was stuff... things! Stuff and flotsam and bits and junk.

   
“Curios, effendi,” a voice said, by way of explanation.

   
Connie leaped in the air, and came down on Danny’s foot.

   
Mukhar was standing beside such a pile of tumbled miscellany that for a moment they could not separate him from the stuff, junk, things he sold.

   
“We saw your sign,” Connie said.

  
 
But Danny was more blunt, more direct. “There was an empty lot here; then a minute later, this shop. How come?”

   
The little man stepped out from the mounds of dust-collectors and his little nut-brown, wrinkled face burst into a million-creased smile.” A fortuitous accident, my children. A slight worn spot in the fabric of the cosmos, and I have been set down here for... how long I do not know. But it never hurts to try and stimulate business while I’m here.”

   
“Oh, yeah,” Danny said. He looked at Connie. Her expression was as blank as his own.

   
“Oh!” Connie cried, and went dashing off into one of the side-corridors lined with curios. “This is perfect! Just what we need for the end table. Oh, Danny, it’s a dream! It’s absolutely the
ne plus ultra!”

 
  
Danny walked over to her, but in the dimness of the aisle between the curios he could barely make out what it was she was holding. He drew her into the light near the door. It had to be:

   
Aladdin’s lamp.

   
Well, perhaps not that
particular
person’s lamp, but one of the ancient, vile-smelling oil burning jobs: long thin spout, round-bottom body, wide, flaring handle.

   
It was algae-green with tarnish, brown with rust, and completely covered by the soot and debris of centuries. There was no contesting its antiquity; nothing so time-corrupted could fail to be authentic. “What the hell do you want with that old thing, Connie?”

   
“But Danny, it’s so
per-
fect
.
If we just shine it up a bit. As soon as we put a little work into this lamp, it’ll be a beauty.” Danny knew he was defeated... and she’d probably be right, too. It probably would be very handsome when shined and brassed-up.

   
“How much?” he asked Mukhar. He didn’t want to seem anxious; old camel traders were merciless at bargaining when they knew the item in question was hotly desired.

   
“Fifty drachmae, eh?” the old man said. His tone was one of malicious humor.” At current exchange rates, taking into account the fall of the Ottoman Empire, thirty dollars.”

   
Danny’s lips thinned. “Put it down, Connie; let’s get out of here.”

   
He started toward the door, dragging his wife behind him. But she still clutched the lamp; and Mukhar’s voice halted them.” All right, noble sir. You are a cunning shopper, I can see that. You know a bargain when you spy it. But I am unfamiliar in this time-frame with your dollars and your strange fast-food native customs, having been set down here only once before; and since I am more at ease with the drachma than the dollar, with the shekel than the cent, I will cut my own throat, slash both my wrists, and offer you this magnificent antiquity for... uh... twenty dollars?” His voice was querulous, his tone one of wonder and hope.

   
“Jesse James at least had a horse!” Danny snarled, once again moving toward the door.

   
“Fifteen!” Mukhar yowled. “And may all your children need corrective lenses from too much tv-time!”

   
“Five; and may a hundred thousand syphilitic camels puke into your couscous,” Danny screamed back over his shoulder.

   
“Not bad,” said Mukhar.

 
  
“Thanks,” said Danny, stifling a smile. Now he waited.

   
“Bloodsucker! Heartless trafficker in cheapness! Pimple on the fundament of decency! Graffito on the subway car of life! Thirteen; my last offer; and may the gods of ITT and the Bank of America turn a blind eye to your venality!” But
his
eyes held the golden gleam of the born haggler, at last, blessedly, in his element.

   
“Seven, not a penny more, you Arabic anathema! And may a weighty object drop from a great height, flattening you to the niggardly thickness of your soul.” Connie stared at him with open awe and admiration.

   
“Eleven! Eleven dollars, a pittance, an outright theft we’re talking about. Call the security guards, get a consumer advocate, gimme a break here!”

   
“My shadow will vanish from before the evil gleam of your rapacious gaze before I pay a penny more than six bucks, and let the word go out to every wadi and oasis across the limitless desert, that Mohanadus Mukhar steals maggots from diseased meat, flies from horse dung, and the hard-earned drachmae of honest laborers. Six, fuckface, and that’s it!”