Terrific Tales

Terrific Tales
One late afternoon in September, Emma, the owner of âTerrific Talesâ, a second-hand bookshop in inner city Melbourne, was about to close up, but a regular customer was still perusing the shelves.
âHugo, I am about to          close, donât you want to go home?â          
He pulled a worn beanie out of his pocket and turned to pick up his large recycled plastic bag which he had unobtrusively placed on the floor in a corner of the shop.
âSure, Emma, you have          a wonderful collection of worthy writing here!â          
         âThank you! You have          probably read more of it than I have, come to think of it!â          
         âDonât you get a          lot of time to read? Or are you fed up with books by the time you          get home?â
         âI read mainly the          dust jackets and summaries. I also look up authors on the internet,          but for real reading there just isnât the timeâ she          complained.          
Hugo took his bag and left the store as Emma turned the lights of and set the alarm.
On her way home she suddenly wondered if Hugo had a home. He had been coming to her shop for a long time. In the beginning he had sometimes purchased a cheap paperback novel, but not lately. He usually wore the same or similar clothes, but that was not unusual. Most arty folks in Melbourne wore black from top to toe as though they had just lost their entire family.

Hugo wandered down a narrow side street until he reached a little park with benches, bins and a public toilet at the end of it. Earlier in the day he had collected some food at the Victoria Markets. He was unpacking it now and nibbling it slowly while remembering the street musician who had been playing there today. That guy was talented, he played classical guitar and had his own CDâs for sale while busking in the cold.
When Emma returned to her shop the next day she stopped at the corner café and scanned the newspaper while sipping her latte. A man had been shot over night in Lygon Street just one street over! He had run a delicatessen and Emma knew him because his shop was the only one still open when she closed and needed to get stuff on the way home. She hated shopping centres with a vengeance and Luigi had been such a lovely man. In the paper they said that he was involved with the mafia. She could not believe that. A deep frown wrinkled her forehead. She finished her coffee and walked slowly over to Terrific Tales, unlocking the gate, the door, the padlock and disabling the alarm while scanning if everything was still the way she had left it. Nothing had moved. The last book that Hugo had read was pulled half out from the others on the shelf. He was meaning to come back today! All of a sudden she was curious to know what he had been looking at: It was Jack Kerouac, the writer that had inspired endless road movies in the US after taking 10 years to find a publisher for his account of his and his mateâs journey through the States. When his writing finally brought him celebrity status he was embittered and disillusioned. He took to drinking and never really had another hit novel. The phone rang; then the doorbell, the day had started.

Hugo had woken up at 3 am, shivering. He started walking the deserted streets, listening to the amplified sounds of the night. Crickets, wind in the doorways, tyres on the bitumen. Then there was shouting nearby and a big bang. A car took off with screeching tyres. It was coming his way, the headlights crawling over the walls and pavement. Hugo instinctively hid in a dark doorway behind a bin. His heart was beating furiously; he was hot now and shivering with fear. He had seen the number plate of the black sedan. He was mumbling âZK-310, black sedanâ when the rubbish collectors found him an hour later, still crouched behind the bin.
âYou better disappear,          or weâll have to report you to the policeâ          
They said to him. And thus he set off again on his endless road trip.

âTerrific Talesâ had been busy this Thursday morning. Emma had hardly had time to read the paper, but her customers told her all about the shooting, wanting to find out more from her. She said:
- âLast night all was quiet here and I went straight home. On Wednesday nights I skype with my daughter in Israel. What was the shooting about? Drugs? Debts? Deception?â
- âNot known yet, I think you are on the right track. Probably all of those.â

- âI wonder if the suburb crawling with police is going to deter people from coming to the exhibition opening tomorrow night?â
- âWho are you showing? Could I have a sneak preview?â
- âOh, I donât knowâ¦..only if you come tomorrow and bring a few friends! The art is by Curtis Miller. A rendition of the Tropical North. Really beautifully interpreted landscapes.â
- âAs it happens I have a friend staying with me who is down from Queensland for a cultural holiday. I am sure I could bring her along!â
- âI am quite busy down here, take the key and have a quick look then.â Glenn climbed the stairs while Emma turned to another customer.

At about 2 pm the shop had emptied. Emma went around pushing books back into line and then sat down to take account of what had sold this morning. The door opened agitating the little Buddhist bell. It was Hugo, she could see in the mirror. He looked worn, forlorn, dragging his bag into the usual place and pulling the beanie off his greying head. From her desk she waved him a friendly hello and remembering her thoughts from last night offered him a cup of tea.
- âHow do you have it?â
- âBlack tea with milk, Earl Grey without, thanks. That is very kind of you!â
- âA shared cuppa is more warming than a lonely one.â Emma replied.
- âIt has been a very cold night!â Hugo said. âHave you heard about the shooting in Lygon Street?â
- âItâs all over the papers, everybody was talking about it!â
- âI was there, I heard it. I saw the car drive off!â He had to get it off his chest.
- âHow come? Do you live in Lygon Street?â
- âSort of, I couldnât sleep, it was so cold. So I went for a walk and thatâs when I heard the screaming and then bang bang. A car came towards me. I hid in the shadows.â
- âDid you see the number plate? Have you told the police?â
- âI donât know if I should get involved.â
- âYou donât have a home, do you?â
- âTimes are tough. The police wonât believe me. So far I have stayed out of trouble, but if I report this, they will know me, but whatâs worse, the criminals might get to know about me, too, and then what?â
- âNo, you are right. What difference is it going to make? But what about you? Have you tried a homeless shelter?â
- âI had a car until not that long ago, but itâs gone now.â

Emma had turned her computer back on, looking for homeless shelters. She found the Missionaries of Charity in Fitzroy.
- âLook Hugo, I can take you there tonight and tomorrow you could come to the art opening, we may be able to find some contacts for you! Do you have clean clothes?â Emma gave him some money to spend on a laundromat and said goodbye to him at the shelter.

The night passed quickly for Hugo, although not used to sleeping in a room with other people and worried about his few belongings he appreciated the comfort and warmth of a bed. The facility had a laundry and he was able to wash his clothes in the morning and while the machine rumbled there was conversation with other men. Most of them had been on the streets for a long time. No one trusted anyone there, he thought. He was looking forward to the exhibition opening and was impatient for his better clothes to dry while wearing a tracksuit with holes in it. He managed to borrow a shaver and a comb. Looking at himself in the mirror, his face broke into a smile. He took his bag and wandered down to the Victoria Market to find some food.

Curtis was at the bookshop affixing labels to his paintings, making sure they were straight and well-spaced. He placed cards and brochures on a little table and had brought a large bunch of flowering bottle-brush branches. Emma had an appropriate vase and they moved it from one place to another before finding a spot where the vase looked at once prominent and natural.
âShould we have          music?â Curtis asked.          
         âWell of course, I          have a sound system, bring mp3 files or discs. But beware of          environmental music simulating flowing water; it becomes very          uncomfortable after a while. Didgeridoo and clapsticks are too          piercing.â
Emma had experience:
- âYou wonât believe it, but classical, especially Mozart is very conducive to get people to buy art!â
Night fell. The lights went on. Emma had placed a framed exhibition poster in the shop window and draped it with a chain of coloured lights. It looked very inviting and festive. The first guests arrived. There were black suits, little black dresses, black bomber jackets and black tights. Then there was a radical young man, dressed all in white! As he was walking up the stairs his pink socks were showing.
Hugo arrived as the speeches were flowing already, helped by abundant bottles of sparkling wine. Emma met him downstairs and was delighted by the way he had spruced up.
- âHi Hugo, you are looking great!â Hugo climbed the stairs with his wavy grey hair wafting down his neck.
When Emma arrived in the gallery she was welcomed with a cheer by the artist and her regulars.
- âThank you, thank you all for coming! Enjoy the art. Curtis is an outstanding visionary of the Australian landscape. We are honoured to have his works on our walls.â Soon the noise level was overwhelming as people chattered. Emma caught up with Hugo who was talking with the man in white.
- âDo you like the paintings?â She asked them both.
- âYes, I love the sparseness and texture of the canvasses!â
- âJohn, this is Hugo. Hugo, this is John, he owns the Flexi Gym on Sheridan Street.â - âNice to meet youâ they both said, nodding their heads.
- âAnd what do you do?â John asked Hugo.
- âNot much these days. I am thinking of taking a trip across the country.â
- âWill you be heading anywhere near Castlemaine?â
- âCould be.â
- âIf it is on your way, would you take a parcel up to a friend of mine?â
- âAustralia Post would probably be faster.â
- âIâd rather have it delivered personally.â Hugo had not left Melbourne in four years; he was tempted, even though it sounded suspicious.
- âWhatâs in it for me?â
- â$500 on delivery and a return bus fare.â
- âSureâ John gave Hugo his card.
- âCome and see me tomorrow at 2.â Hugo was left standing holding an empty glass and a business card which he put away carefully in his pocket. He went back down into the bookshop, where a young man sat at the desk.
- âAh, the noise really gets to me.â Hugo was relieved to be in a quieter space. âFive hundred dollars and a trip to Castlemaine! Excellent! Maybe he could get a job at the gym later on.â He was about to leave when Emma caught up with him.
- âHugo, have you met my son?â They talked about the people, the paintings and road trips. Several paintings had already sold. The evening was a success! Emmaâs eyes were glowing and her hair sparkling with glitter while her son Matthew was drinking soda water. Hugo went back to the Missionaries of Charity and woke the next morning with an aching head. When he left at lunch time he told the woman at the reception that he would not be back the following night and thanked her for the stay. She wished him well.

Arriving in Castlemaine in the evening the first thing he did was to change his return trip to a day later. He had immensely enjoyed driving across the open land after all those years on city streets. The clouds were flying and trees waving their branches in the air, yellow fields and blue skies reminded him of paintings by Vincent Van Gogh. He found his way to the correct address and rang the bell. A man opened the door after what seemed a long time. He looked very skinny, his skull-like head with the large sunken eyes immediately brought Edvard Munchâs âThe Screamâ to Hugoâs mind. The blotches on his skin advertised his condition. Hugo rummaged in his bag but the man said: - âCome in.â
It was dark inside. They walked down a narrow corridor at the end of which stood a small stuffed zebra! There was damp in the walls and a musty smell reeked from the carpet. The kitchen was lighter and here Hugo dug out his parcel. The man whispered a thank you and handed him an envelope.
- âWould you like a cup of tea?â
- âYes, please, white if itâs black tea, black if itâs Earl Grey, no sugar thanks.â They got talking. There was so much to say. Neither of them had been able to talk from the heart to anyone in a long time. They did not know each other but they were united in their suffering.
ends
2353 words
         âTerrific Talesâ          by Moona          Perrotin          [e-mail]