Little by Edward Carey

Author:Edward Carey [Carey, Edward]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Penguin Publishing Group
Published: 2018-10-23T00:00:00+00:00

I did as I was bidden. He went immediately back to his business, tapping on a small piece of metal. It was this, not a knocking on the door, that I’d heard through the walls. Engrossed in his work, he did not look up at me for several minutes. The Palace of Versailles was such an expansive place, I considered, that a great variety of craftsmen must be situated inside. I had stumbled across the locksmith; had I opened a different door I might have found the rat catcher making traps, the clockman busy with his ticking, even the candle maker molding wax.

I stood in the corner by the door and watched the craftsman before me, hoping that when he had finished his particular piece of business he might be willing to furnish me with directions back to Madame Elisabeth’s apartment. The man had an almost comically high forehead, a sizable Roman nose, full lips, and remarkable large blue eyes, which he often scrunched up and brought quite close to the red-hot objects he was working with—from which I gathered that he too might benefit from spectacles. He had a fleshy underchin and womanly breasts, all of which he stroked from time to time with his pudgy, knuckle-less hands. He seemed not to breathe through his nose, but to use his mouth for the capturing of oxygen. With metal tongs, the man picked up the object he had been bothering and dipped it into a deep basin of water, upon which the object hissed in complaint, a noise the locksmith greeted with a smile. He turned to me, squinted, nodded, delved into one of his apron pockets, pulled out a handkerchief, and carefully laid it upon a nearby table. Then he delved into another pocket, pulled out a crushed-looking piece of cold custard and pastry, placed this upon the handkerchief, and stood back to admire it. Finally, from a third pocket, he took out a handsome penknife, unhinged its blade, and bisected the custard pie, rather unequally. Taking up the major part in his tubby hands, he spoke at last:

“Don’t tell a soul, and here’s your reward.”

I stepped forward to take it.

“Do you really need all of that?” he asked, with crumbs on his lips, his portion already safe inside. “There’s a good deal there, and you are rather small. Come, what do you say I cut it in half again?”

Once more the piece of cake was fractioned, again not entirely evenly. I leaned forward to take the smaller portion.

“I say, you do hesitate so,” said the locksmith, interrupting me before I had reached it. “I don’t mean to force you to it. If you’d prefer, I could keep that for you till later,” he said, lifting up the last piece of cake, “or shall I just pop it in here instead?” He brought my morsel very close to his mouth. “Shall I?” Then, without waiting for my say-so, he dropped the cake in between the fleshy lips, chewed, swallowed, and kissed the air in satisfaction.

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