Tim Pratt - Antiquities and Tangibles

The bell above the door to Martin Grindes shop tinkled a chime of surpassing beauty as a young woman pushed her way in. The door had the words Antiquities and Tangibles written in flaking gold-and-black letters on the frosted glass, but Mr. Grinde thought of it merely and eternally as my shop.

The womans hair was the color of wet beach sand, her coat the color of wet cement, and her forehead a relief map of furrows, face so scrunched in some effort or anxiety that it was impossible for Grinde to tell if she were pretty or ugly or plain.

Welcome to my shop, Mr. Grinde said as the woman looked around the press of overflowing shelves, racks, tables, and cubbyholes. Her face smoothed out and she even smiled brieflyshed seen the Mirror of Jade, he suspected, which gave you a fleeting glimpse of your own best faceand that was answered, then: she was plain, but a rather determined-looking sort of plain.

She approached the counterwhich was really a glass display case containing various metal-and-glass automata in the shape of birds, milkmaids, elephants, and less realistic thingscrossed her arms, and stared at him for a moment. For his part, Mr. Grinde gave her the same faintly encouraging smile he gave everyone who walked into his shopnot that many did. The light outside the windows was harsh, the sort of light he associated with desert places, and it was probably hot out there, wherever it was, but it was very cool inside; the shift in temperature might explain why she shivered, though it could have equally been due to other factors entirely.

Some people needed more encouragement than an encouraging smile. What can I do for you today? Mr. Grinde asked.

I was given this address. Her voice was slow, deliberate, thoughtful, as if she were reciting something shed committed to memory a long time ago but hadnt had occasion to vocalize since. Her accent was American, he thought, or perhaps Canadianthe distinction was too fine for his unpracticed ear to discern. I was sent here and told to pick out a present for myself.

Mr. Grinde clucked his tongue. Imprecision. You can choose a gift for yourself, but you cannot choose a presentthe reason is evident in the word itself. A present is a gift that is presented to you by the giver. A gift may be sent through the mail, or arranged through an intermediary he touched his own chest with his hand, modestlybut a present can only be given in person.

She shrugged. Im just telling you what I was told. Arent you lecturing the wrong person?

I suppose I am. Forgive me. I tend to Well. Youve come for a gift, then.

Do you need some proof that Im, ah, entitled? I wasnt given a gift certificate, or anything.

Its all taken care of, Mr. Grinde murmured. Her presence here was proof enough. You need only tell me what you desire, andif my inventory can provide itits yours.

All right. She uncrossed her arms, thought better of it, crossed them again, looked at him defiantly, and said, Give me happiness.

Mr. Grinde looked at the high vaulted ceiling for a moment, hummed a few bars of an ancient Etruscan marching song, and then nodded a few times, briskly. Whats your name?

Why do you want to know? Flinty, now, and her face all furrows again.

I keep records, of course. Of all my customers.

Oh. My name is Eunice. Stuart.

An old-fashioned name, in these times.

Most people call me Eunie.

I see. You ask for happiness, Ms. Stuart. Certainly, thats what everyone wantsAristotle said happiness is the ultimate goal of all people, and that the desire for wealth and fame and power are all just paths to happiness. And yethappinessits a bit abstract, isnt it? As the front door says, I deal in antiquities and tangibles. Which is not to say I cant cope with more aspirational requestsif you asked for the aforementioned wealth or power, or for youth, or beauty, or inspiration, I have items that can grant all those wishes. But happiness Can you be a bit more specific? Can you tell me what would make you happy?

She sighed. If I knew that Is there, I dont know, a catalog or something?

I am in the midst of making a complete inventory, but its a long way from being finished, Im afraid, and in the meantime, the shop is even more disordered than usual. But if you can give me some guidance

I dont Listen. My life has been hard. I wont bore you with the details, but I left home as soon as I could, and tried to make it on my own, but Ive just been scraping along. Every day I worry about money, and my apartment is too small, and I couldnt afford to eat in the restaurant where I work if not for the free meals, and its not even that fancy a restaurant Is happiness the absence of worry? That seems like a good place to start.

Youd like a life free of financial difficulties, then. That I can easily offer. He came around the counter and walked to a wall of many square cubbyholes, all about 18 inches across, which held various objects that were best kept separate from one another, lest there be bad interaction. Ms. Stuart followed, peering into the recesses, and he knew what she saw: One cubby held a wrinkled, mummified monkeys paw; another a milky-blue glass bottle with a dark shape moving inside; another a broken goats horn incongruously spilling forth fruit and flowers. Any of those would serve to grant her wish, but all had drawbacks, and he had something more elegant and direct in mind. Mr. Grinde reached into a cubbyhole at chest height and drew out a small dark brown leather coinpurse held shut with a drawstring. There you are, he said, handing it over. Wealth inexhaustible.

She frowned, hefting the bag, which didnt weigh much, he knewit felt as if it contained only two or three coins at most. How does it work?

Reach inside. Remove money. It never runs out. Quite simple, really.

Huh. Is it, I meanlegal tender? Its not ancient doubloons or something, is it?

Try and see.

She prised open the mouth of the bag with her fingersher nails were clipped sensibly short, but were well maintained, not bitten or cracked; he approvedand shook it out over her hand. A single small coin landed on her palm, showing the face of a rather homely-looking woman in profile, surrounded by stars, with the word Liberty written on her crown and a date, 1913, at the bottom. Whats this, then?

Mr. Grinde leaned forward, peered at the coin, and grunted. 1913 Liberty Nickel. Only five are known to exist. If one were ever found in perfect condition, it would be worth, oh, twenty million dollars? This ones rather worn, though, showing its age, so its only worth, at a guess, six million, perhaps a bit less, or perhaps more to the right collector. I suggest you find a reputable numismatist and say you found the coin in a trunk in your grandmothers attic, or something similar. Youll lose a bit in auction fees, and half of whatevers left when you pay taxesplease, pay your taxes, youll find wealth is little comfort in prisonbut it should be enough to make you comfortable. And, of course, if the money ever runs out, you still have the purse.

She stared at the coin as if trying to bore a hole through it by vision alone. And, what, this bag will just keep dispensing magical nickels?

I doubt it. Their rarity is what makes them valuablea slew of them on the market would devalue the whole bunch. The bag will dispense other coins, Im sure. You may wish to hire a discreet lawyer with your first funds, to handle any future sales, lest you attract suspicion. But all those details can be left to you, of course.

Millions, she breathed. What would I even do with all that money?

The question was asked to the air, to herself, to the future, but he answered anyway: Why not just enjoy yourself?

At a guess, it was only a year or two later; there were calendars in the shop, or at least things that charted the movements of celestial bodies, but Mr. Grinde didnt pay them much attention, keeping himself busy with his never-ending inventory. Still, hed had no customers in the interim, and he usually saw four or five people per decade, so based on averages, it was probably less than two years before she came back.