I have spent every day since I was nine years old following a man of my own
creation. He is the sum total of all the oddities I collect. I acquire my
targets, mostly bits of personal flotsam, cast out by their owners in order to
maintain some manner of psychic buoyancy, with absolute certainty and
mechanical precision. I know what he wants me to get. A single question is
posed, whispered from the aether, when I am faced with some odd item—“Quel
horreur! What kind of person would own this?” This man, Eli Black, is the
sort of man who would own ‘that sort’ of overcoat, with ivory buttons and belt
‘n sash fastening system too complex to claim civilian intent. Each
element in my extended and ever-expanding collections, whether obtained by
force at a flea market in
He hides in roadside fruit stands which
also sell, to the polite peso-bearer, handmade rope swings and braided table
clothes. He ducks, as I pass, into a church bazaar and draws me toward a
near-mint collection of Son of Samson Playing cards, featuring, instead
of numerals, portraits of the heads of formerly democratic republics now
deposed. On an otherwise uneventful spring afternoon, he calls me from
Since my first purchase[2], years ago, I have been gaining insight into this gentleman’s character, learning his tendencies and preparing to engage him in some manner of conversation. When he comes for his belongings, I will be ready.
[1] One such acquaintance, Monsieur Salvador Renaud, could locate forgery, in documents and in paintings, by “the way the colors whisper to one another. “ I asked him once whether he considered his job difficult, since he spent every day attempting to outsmart the finest forgers in the world. He thought for a moment and said. “For me, the false pieces are liars. I will not be lied to.” Then a smile creased his cheeks and he offered, “To me they are obvious. I would more easily overlook a turd in my soup bowl.”