Scarlet Sails

5. Battle Preparations

Lost in his contemplation, Gray forgot about the shop owner, waiting behind the captain's back like a hunting hound. At last, the shopkeeper tore off a strip from the roll, and the crackling sound reminded Gray of his host.

"Enough samples," he said, standing up. "I'm taking this silk."

"The entire bolt?" the shopkeeper asked, respectful but skeptical.

Gray didn't answer, looking at the man's forehead, emboldening the shopkeeper.

"In that case, how many meters, sir?"

Gray nodded, inviting the man to wait, calculating hastily on a scrap of paper. "Two thousand meters." He scanned the shelves doubtfully. "Yes, not more than two thousand meters."

"Two?" The shopkeeper jumped, as if propelled by a spring. "Thousand? Meters? Please, sit down, captain. I have new materials. Would you like to inspect them? Please, here is a perfect tobacco. You can smoke. Two thousand... two thousand at ..." He called out a price that related to the real price as a vow related to the simple "Yes".

Happy to find what he had been looking for, Gray didn't bargain.

"I have the best silks in town," the enraptured shopkeeper babbled, almost genuflecting in his ecstasy. "Only in my shop you can find such incomparable textiles."

After his ardor had finally drained off, Gray arranged delivery, paid the bills, and left, all the while the owner bowing to him as if he was Chinese Emperor.

Across the street from the shop, a wandering musician was tuning his cello, his bow making the strings speak sadly and peacefully. His friend, a flutist, sprinkled the song of the strings with throaty whistles. The simple tune floated over the yard, snoozing in the heat. When the melody reached Gray's ears, he instantly knew what to do next. Like the song, he was elevated those days, suspended in happy anticipation, from which he could easily discern every hint and prompt of reality. Listening to the music over the rattle of the rolling wheels, he knew how and why the scheme he had contrived would come out wonderfully.

Crossing the street, Gray entered the yard which held the impromptu musicale. By then, the musicians had finished. The tall flutist, subdued but dignified, gratefully waved his hat at the windows from which coins flew out. The cello had already returned under the arm of its master, who wiped his sweating brow while waiting for his flutist friend.

"Hey, that's you, Zimmer," Gray said, recognizing the fiddler that often entertained sailors and other nightly guests of a seaside tavern. "Have you betrayed your fiddle?"

"My kind captain," Zimmer objected smugly. "I play everything that can produce a sound. In my youth, I was a musical clown. Nowadays, I'm drawn to arts; grievously, I see that I've destroyed my outstanding gift. That's why, out of my belated avidity, I love them both: the fiddle and the cello. I play the cello in the daytime and the fiddle at nights, lamenting my perished talent. Would you offer me some wine? The cello is my Carmen, and the fiddle is..."

"Assol," Gray said.

Zimmer didn't recognize the word but nodded. "Yes," he said. "Solo on copper plates and pipes is another matter. I don't care. Let the jokers of the art do the tricks. In the music of the cello and fiddle, the fairies rest."

"And what is hiding in my 'tur-loo-loo'?" The flutist, a large man with sheepish blue eyes and a blond beard, joined them. "Pray, tell me."

"Depends on how much you've drunk since morning. Sometimes—a bird, sometimes—alcoholic fumes. Captain, that's my companion, Duss. I told him you throw gold around when you drink. He is already in love with you."