Let me be clear; I have never believed in psychic abilities. I do not believe anyone can speak to the dead. I am certain I do not have a spirit guide, or an aura that can be photographed, and I am sure nobody can close their eyes and make odd sounds while tuning into a nameless force which tells them where Granny’s missing fortune is buried. I went with Emma that day because I had nothing better to do.
Emma lost a necklace belonging to her late grandmother. Emma’s sister desperately wanted to wear it on her wedding day, and Emma’s excuses were wearing thin.
‘I’ve looked everywhere,’ she said as we walked down the freezing street that morning. ‘I can’t find it. Claire will be apoplectic if I don’t make it appear soon.’
Emma had been given the address of a shop on the Northside, run by a little old man who specialised in finding lost things.
She turned to me as we reached the doorway, her face stern. ‘Lou, I know you don’t believe in any of this. But I’m out of options, so I need you to refrain from any ill-timed snorts and just be here.’
‘Sure,’ I replied, figuring if I sat through this I could vouch for Emma having tried everything to find the missing necklace.
Emma stiffened, exhaled sharply, pulled down her coat; bracing herself. Then she pushed the door open and ventured through. I followed, ignoring the queer feeling unfurling in my chest.
Once my eyes adjusted to the dim light, I found the shop was a delicate, elaborate jigsaw of things. Strange objects were clustered together so tightly I wondered if it was possible to remove one item without starting a domino cascade. Complex tiny machines spun silver parts within millimetres of collision. Miniatures of solar systems I didn’t recognise performed their celestial dances around each other. Leather bound volumes with titles that stirred nothing in my memory were stacked high on shelves that reached the ceiling. Those books that didn’t fit were in haphazard piles around the floor.
Beside me, Emma was focused on finding her lost necklace. She charged through the shop, dodging books and silver windmills, disappearing through an archway I hadn’t noticed. Slowly, mesmerised by all the moving parts, I followed.
In this room, the walls were a tessellation of unusual art pieces in striking frames, and hand-drawn maps of exotic places. In the centre of the room stood a large desk, like an architect’s drafting table, but with a sense of real age about it. Behind it sat the oldest man I had ever seen. He was wiry with a visage wizened to the colour of fine leather, a contrast to his mop of snowy hair. He didn’t look up from his work.
‘Ah, you come. I waiting for you.’ His voice was thickly accented, gravelly.
In this room, the walls were a tessellation of unusual art pieces in striking frames, and hand-drawn maps of exotic places. In the centre of the room stood a large desk, like an architect’s drafting table, but with a sense of real age about it. Behind it sat the oldest man I had ever seen. He was wiry with a visage wizened to the colour of fine leather, a contrast to his mop of snowy hair. He didn’t look up from his work.
‘Great!’ began Emma. ‘I’m looking for a very important necklace tha-’
‘Not you.’ The man dismissed Emma with a wave of his hand. ‘You.’
He was looking at me.
‘Sorry. I just came with Emma.’
‘Did you?’ He peered over the top of his glasses. ‘Why?’
‘I...’ Somehow I was bored no longer seemed like the right answer. ‘I don’t know.’
‘Ah, that answer we use when certainty missing,’ he said.
‘Excuse me.’ Emma cut in, unhappy about her mission being cast aside. ‘I was told you help people find things that are lost.’
‘I do,’ the man answered. ‘I am cartographer of lost things.’ He turned his attention to me again. His eyes saw me, and into me.
‘So, child,’ he continued, ‘what are you missing?’
He didn’t wait for my reply. He leapt off his stool and selected a piece of parchment from a basket on the floor. Carefully he spread the parchment across the desk, the corners pinned down by paperweights. Then, pen in hand, he paused and fixed his eyes on me. And he didn’t look away once as he drew.
‘Your life busy, but not full; no meaning in what you do. Many friends, or what you think friends, but they not know you. Not you inside.’ His hands flew over the paper, marking and lining and shading. ‘You not have quiet. Quiet make you uncomfortable. Your life too noisy, but is just noise. You never alone with yourself. You run away. So you always busy, always noisy. You hide in noisiness and busy-ness. And nobody see quiet place inside. Not even you. Quiet place get lost.’ He put the pen back in the jar, and held up his work.
The drawing was stunning.
He rolled it up and handed it to me. ‘It map. Shows way to your quiet place.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘It’s beautiful but it makes no sense to me at all.’
‘It will,’ he replied. ‘When you ready. Keep looking. One day you see.’
And he shuffled off towards the back of the shop.
‘Hey!’ barked Emma. ‘What about my necklace?’
‘It in your filing cabinet,’ he said over his shoulder. ‘Should be more careful.’