Peter Cherches

Due storie

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For Sale

 

I’d never been what you’d call an addictive personality. I did plenty of drugs, as well as drinking, as a teenager, but it never got out of hand. Maybe I was a compulsive eater as a depressive adolescent, but it never went so far that I became “morbidly obese.” My late older brother, on the other hand, was a classic addictive personality, a lifelong alcoholic since his teens, cigarette, cigar, and sometime pipe smoker, habitual pot smoker, compulsive gambler. 

 

Yet seemingly out of nowhere I became an obsessive collector of a particular tribal artifact that had a small but extremely knowledgeable coterie of connoisseurs. I had first seen one at a gallery that specialized in crafts from that part of the world. My old friend Marilyn, who has diverse tastes in art, had dragged me there. I accompanied her out of friendship. I expected to wander the gallery in a fog, glance desultorily at things, and maybe grunt a noncommittal answer if Marilyn should ask me what I thought of something. But then I saw one of them. It was love at first sight. The piece seemed to evoke the very soul of a people. The craftsmanship was impeccable, the effect powerful. I bought it. I was hooked. I became a collector. Not a casual collector, a serious collector, an obsessive collector—for a few years, at least.

 

I was spending beyond my means on these artifacts. I read everything there was on the people and their traditions. I learned how to decipher the subtle cultural meanings of the variations in design. I neglected other interests and pursuits. My writing was reduced to a trickle. I bought pieces through galleries, through brokers, at auction.

 

Then one day I saw one listed on Craigslist. From the description, I could tell it was exactly a type I was missing from my collection. But these were not the kinds of things you normally see offered for sale on Craigslist. You’re likely to see one at a gallery, or a fancy auction house like Sotheby’s or Christie’s, or even on the black market, completely hidden from public scrutiny, involving the shadiest of operators. But not Craigslist. I was always too sheepish to get involved with the black market, though I worried that my mania would surely get the better of me one of these days.

 

I was immediately suspicious upon seeing the Craigslist ad. There was no price listed, for one thing, only “best offer.” And what kind of person would try to sell such a rare and valuable thing this way, totally breaching all established protocols? This one did fill a glaring gap in my collection, but it would require authentication by an independent appraiser. Any potential buyer would have to proceed cautiously.

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I called the number in the ad. A woman answered. “Hello?”

 

“Yes,” I said, “I’m calling in reference to your ad on Craigslist.”

 

“Yes,” the woman said. “Would you like to come over and take a look?”

 

I didn’t expect this. I expected a little back and forth, some questions. Yet given the opportunity to see it myself, what was the point of asking questions on the phone? Of course I should make an appointment to see her, and the object itself. 

 

Or should I? Perhaps this was some kind of trap. Perhaps the woman was just a shill for the shady operators who hawk such things on the black market. And who knows, those shady operators could easily be the type who’d have no compunction about committing murder if things went awry, and no genteel, humane murder either, you can be sure of that. I wouldn’t be surprised if some pre-murder torture were involved, just for kicks. I knew about these shady black market types. No compunction about anything. Just in it for the buck, at any cost.

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“I’m sorry, there’s been a mistake,” I said, and hung up, breathing a sigh of relief for having avoided such a close call. 

 

Russian Novel

 

Semyon Semyonovich had misplaced his thing. He discovered this fact one cold November St. Petersburg morning in the year of 1867. “My thing! My thing is gone!” he shouted upon awakening, surveying his room, and discovering that his thing was gone. Semyon Semyonovich’s manservant, Grisha, ran into his master’s bedroom upon hearing the racket. 

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“Is something wrong, sir?” Grisha asked.

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“It’s my thing, man, my thing!”

 

“What is the problem, sir?”

 

“My thing, it’s my thing, it’s gone!”

 

“Your thing is gone?”

 

“What did I just say?”

 

“You said, ‘My thing, it’s my thing, it’s gone!’”

 

“Yes,” said Semyon Semyonovich, “that’s exactly what I said. So what kind of nincompoop asks someone who says, ‘My thing, it’s my thing, it’s gone!’ if his thing is gone?”

 

“I am so sorry,” Grisha said, fearful and tearful, as he dropped to his knees and licked his master’s boots.

 

“And another thing, you idiot,” Semyon Semyonovich said. “Wait till I put my damn boots on before you lick them!” 

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