In which an elderly man receives a mysterious package.
It started two weeks ago on a Monday morning. I received a package. I receive packages all of the time. I own an antiques shop, you see. Most of the items in my shop are acquired through estate sales, but it’s not uncommon for people to mail me items or even leave them on my back step. I’ve been in this business for a long time, and I have many acquaintances. And you wouldn’t believe the amount of unwanted junk people “donate” to my business all of the time.
Anyway, one morning two weeks ago, I opened my back door to find a package neatly wrapped in brown paper. There was no address, just my name written in black ink on the paper. I brought it inside and went about my business. I suppose it set on my counter for a few hours before I was able to get to it.
I stepped out of the shop and walked to the bakery. I stopped for a coffee, tipping in a bit of cognac. I bought a baguette and tucked it under my arm. It was much like any other day. By the time I had come back to the shop to start business, I had forgotten all about the package. But there it was, waiting for me on the counter when I flipped on the lights.
There was twine wrapping it, something I hadn’t seen since I’d opened the business many years ago. Most items come in old cardboard boxes these days, so already it was unusual. The brown paper and twine reminded me of the old days, just after the war. No fancy paper to go around then, you know.
Inside was a typewriter. I recognized the brand immediately, but most would not. It was a Sphinx. This typewriter is very rare. I’d never even seen one before! They stopped making them because of the first great war, which even I am not old enough to remember.
This beautiful antique, any dealer would be grateful to see and touch, much less receive free of charge. But odder still was it’s condition.
It was perfect. The ink depicting the yellow sphinxes was unscratched. The black body still shone like the day it had been made. It was as if for the last hundred years it had set in a perfect vacuum. But how could this be? And who decided to leave it on my back step? I had many questions. And no answers.
I set the beauty in my back room and went about my business, thinking all the while about it.
I am not as young as I once was. My old bones do not respond as they once did. It takes me much longer to sweep the floors, dust the inventory, clean the glass of the storefront. But, I have my pride! I do not let my age stop me from taking care of my shop. I attend to these matters everyday. And at the end of each day, I spend an hour or so fixing a few pet projects in the back. I love to tinker, you see. I spend a lot of time oiling and repairing old typewriters to sell. I’m something of an aficionado when it comes to these particular items. But that first day, instead of tinkering, I just looked at the Sphinx.
And it seemed to look back. The yellow sphinxes, with their cold eyes, seemed to watch me as much as I watched them. I was transfixed by them. The first night, I went up to my bed, thinking of their cold eyes.
In the morning, I dismissed these thoughts. They were only pictures, no? The mystery of the typewriter seemed mundane in the morning light.
Downstairs there were no packages to greet me, but a customer instead. She wore a red hat and out from under it I could see long blonde hair. She reminded me of my late wife.
The woman considered me for a moment. Briefly, I felt my heartbeat in my ears. Would she know something about the Sphinx?
“Monsieur Benoit, I have come looking for a typewriter,” the lady said. Her red hat was pulled low and I could not see her eyebrows. Her mouth, covered in red lipstick gave no hints either. My fears grew.
“Oh?” I answered. “Any typewriter in particular? I have quite a few.”
The lady paused, looking into my eyes for a moment. Then she shrugged, as only French women are wont to do. “No. Just one that works.”
I turned as quickly as I could because my chest had tightened painfully.
Was it a heart attack? Such a thing had taken my brother, several years ago and I’d been afraid of them ever since. But no. This was not from a heart attack. It was fear. I had been afraid she was coming for the Sphinx.
I helped her and sold her a respectable IBM, still in good service. When I heard the bell over the door ring, signalling her exit, I sat hard on my stool.
It was such a rare antique. That’s what I told myself anyway. The Sphinx had no other hold on me than any other rare antique would. Any antiques dealer would feel the same.
That day, I did not clean the glass on my store front. Instead, I went to look at the Sphinx.
It was gone!
I searched my back room frantically. I’d left it on my workbench, next to my old lamp where I got the best light. But now, it was on a shelf along the side.
How did it get there? I knew I had not placed it there. And no one else had been there to move it. Had the red hat lady come back to my workshop and moved it? No, no. I had been with her the entire time.
I set the typewriter back on my workbench and flipped on the lamp. The keys gleamed in the yellow light. Again, the sphinxes stared back at me. This time, I believed they knew something that I did not.
I found a blank sheet of paper and checked the typewriter for ink. It was full of shiny, wet ink. Black, but not perfectly black the way ink used to be when I was still a boy. I set the paper in and turned the spool.
Normally, I would not try to use such a rare item until inspecting it further. Normally I would be afraid that something broken might break loose or break further from use. Normally, I wouldn’t put paper in it in case it scratched or jammed the delicate spool and ribbon.
But I believed the sphinxes wanted me to put paper in it.
I pressed a key, the S. A perfectly imperfect S appeared on the paper. The key clicked in a mechanical way that no modern keyboard would ever replicate. It was smooth, no hitches to indicate a flaw in the mechanism. It seemed that the typewriter was truly in mint condition, inside and out.
I typed some more, slowly testing each letter on the keyboard. When I got to the end of the line, the spool slid back into place at the new line better than many typewriters half as old.
Could it be a replica? Was that possible? I decided to put off my questions for another time. Things were always clearer in the mornings anyway. A side effect of old age, I’d learned.
The next morning, again I dismissed the previous night’s notions as silly nonsense. The stuff of old men with too much time and too much imagination. I decided to have the antique authenticated. “Authenticated” might be overstating things a bit, I admit. I had never heard of a counterfeit typewriter. There are so many moving parts, it would likely not be worth the time and effort to replicate one. However, I liked to get a colleague’s opinion on any rare items, to better validate my own claims when it came time to sell.
I found my colleague’s phone number in my old address book and dialed it on my rotary phone. I listened to the ringing on the line, ring...ring...ring.
I hung up.
The Sphinx was looking at me again. Two ladies, staring at me from across the room.
She was sitting on the sales counter. I remembered leaving her on the workbench, next to my old lamp.
“How did you get here?” I asked her, and carried her back to the workshop. I laughed on the outside, but on the inside, I shivered. No one else had been there all night. Who could have moved the typewriter?
That day, I sat at my sales counter and worried. Little beads of sweat formed on my head and I wiped them away with my handkerchief. When I looked down, would the handkerchief be wet with my sweat? When I looked at the glass front of my store, would I see my own reflection there? You see, I was beginning to think that I might have lost my mind.
I walked back to look at the Sphinx three times that day. I would touch it, my fingers barely grazing the patina, just enough to assure myself that it was real. That it was still there.
On this day, I did not clean the glass front or sweep the floor.
The next morning went much the same. I cheered myself while I drank my morning espresso. What a silly notion! I told myself. A typewriter that moves about was impossible! I had just forgotten that I had moved it. It was the only explanation. I, an older man of fading memory, had moved the typewriter around and forgotten about it. My mother, she had the fading memory disease. Before she passed, she couldn’t remember her children’s names or that her husband was dead. Maybe these were just the first slips signalling the departure of my own memories. Better the disease than madness.
I picked up the phone to call my colleague for authentication. This time the phone rang and a voice answered.
“Ah Monsieur Benoit!” He answered in his cheerful voice. “Have you found another treasure for me to look at?”
I did not answer. The words dried up in my throat. How could I tell him about my Sphinx? How could I betray her like that?
“No, no. I just called to see if you were going to the Marchand estate sale next weekend,” I answered quickly. The sweat was back on my brow. It was good that I had this reason to speak to him already.
We bantered about the coming sale and promised to meet for a coffee afterwards to show each other our finds. I hung up.
The Sphinx was not on my workbench. This time, the third day in a row, I was not surprised by the move. I searched the backroom and did not see her. I searched the counter and shelves below. Finally, I found her on the sales floor and my heart thumped hard in my throat.
What if someone had seen her and asked to buy her? What would I have said then?
I held the Sphinx close to my chest as I carried her back to the workbench. This time, I set her in a new spot. Perhaps the Sphinx did not like the home I was giving her? I looked around. What befitted such a rare and beautiful item? I had a brass stand in a corner. Though aged, it still glowed in the lamplight like a little altar waiting for a sacrifice. I pulled this from the corner and cleaned it. I polished it until it shone, all with the Sphinx waiting patiently next to me. When the stand was clean and shining, I placed the Sphinx on top.
The Sphinx seemed pleased. I smiled to see her sitting there in a place of honor. I did not realize until much later that I had forgotten to open the store that day entirely.
The next morning, I did not laugh at myself as I stepped into the store. Instead, I frowned. My store was dusty, the glass front smudged. How had this happened? I was normally so diligent! I picked up the cleaning rag from under the sales counter and walked to the front. I stood, staring at my own reflection there.
When had I gotten so old? I tell you, it sneaks up on you. You never really think of yourself as an old person. It is a small shock every time you look in the mirror and see an old man instead of a young one. It doesn’t matter how many aches and pains your body gives you, you still imagine yourself hale and young. At least younger than this. I am close to eighty now. I don’t know when it happened, to be honest. I looked at my reflection in the window and was shocked all over again at the wrinkles, the stooped shoulders, the bald head. My skin had more age spots than I remembered as well. No wonder I was losing my memory, I’d lost everything else already. Time was running out of things to take from me.
I washed the windows. I swept the floors. All the while though, I could feel the presence of the Sphinx, drawing me away. I knew that if I went back to her, I would not come out again, so I resisted. That day, I cleaned the shop just as I normally would. I opened the doors and turned on the lights. I did all of the things that I would normally do in a day of business. I forced myself to sit down at the sales counter and ignore the weight of the Sphinx’s stares on my back.
The bell rang, signalling a new customer. I smiled and greeted the man, a man half my age but one still old enough to have grown children. He browsed through the few aisles, looked at some price tags, then tipped his hat and bid me adieu. It was a common enough experience, but I felt unsettled. What had he been looking for? Had he been looking for my Sphinx, hidden in the backroom?
No, that would be ludicrous! I was a shop owner. People coming in and looking around were a sign of a good business! Nothing more!
Still, the next time the bell rang, I startled in my chair hard. The girls coming in shared a look with each other, then shrugged and looked around. They circled the far side of an aisle, and I could just make them out, giggling to each other behind their pale hands. To be so young again! I could hardly remember the feeling of youth any longer. What had it been like to wake up without pain in my body? What had it been like to run and run and never flag with fatigue? C’est la vie!
The girls looked and looked, talking quickly, their hands flying around. Finally they came forward and bought an antique hat. It was a cloche hat that would look more in place on a woman twice their age. I smiled at them as I rang up their purchase on my cash register. A few dollars passed between us and then they were gone, leaving behind a wake of laughter and the smell of bubblegum.
I began to relax. This was normal business. A slow but steady stream of customers. There was an old train station nearby, with an old steamer that made scenic tours through our part of the country. I normally experienced a steady trickle of train passengers.
It continued on, the trickle of customers. A small family came through, desperately trying to keep a toddler in check. An elderly couple came, holding hands and smiling at items from their younger days. They bought a small tea set, and I wrapped it carefully in paper, to keep it safe on their journey home.
Then the woman with the red hat came in. She looked around, her movements intentional, her gaze roaming for something specific.
“Can I help you find something, Mademoiselle?” I asked carefully. Something about her made me feel on edge. I felt the tug of the gaze of the Sphinx as I stood from my stool behind the counter.
“I’m looking for something quite old, quite rare,” she answered. Her gaze fell on me, her eyes sharp. Once again her hat was pulled low, and her mouth gave no clues to her intentions.
“Well, name it and I will do my best to help you find it,” I responded. My mouth felt dry, but the words came easily enough.
“I’m looking for a typewriter.”
“Oh? Another?” I asked, feigning calm. My heart was stuttering in my chest though.
“Yes, a particular one.” She paused, looking me over as I might look over a silver platter at an estate sale. “I want to find one used by the Navy in the great war. Would you have something like that?”
I sighed, relieved. My Sphinx would have been made before the first world war. Much older than the one she was seeking. I thought it over.
“I used to have one, yes. But I’ve since sold it. I have a colleague who lives in a nearby town who might have one though. I could give you his address?”
She nodded, dismissing me with her eyes. I turned and walked back to the counter. I was used to this by now. People often dismiss the old. As if they have done us some favor by speaking to us at all. Like a manor house dog, too old to race or hunt, we are thrown our kitchen scrap and dismissed to wait for the next. I scribbled the name of the shop and the address on a piece of paper and returned it to the woman. Her gaze seemed to pin me in place as she took the paper from my hand, but I knew, were we to pass on the street, those green eyes would never see me.
“You keep a very fine shop, Monsieur,” she said. “I’m sure I’ll visit it again.”
“Thank you, Mademoiselle.”
She was gone again. There was a tightness in my chest again. I rubbed my handkerchief over my head and turned. The Sphinx was safe. She had not come for it. Why could I not shake the feeling of panic then?
I walked to the backroom. There it set, on the brass stand, shining even in the dark. I flipped on the lamp and sat at the workbench, swiveling the chair around to look at the typewriter. The Sphinxes looked at me much in the same manner the woman with the red hat had. Those eyes pinned me in place. Slowly, I felt the panic recede.
The next day, I could not resist the temptation to sit with the typewriter as I had the day before. I did not open the shop, instead I walked directly back to the workroom. My hands were sore and my joints were achy. I could not summon the energy to sweep and mop today, so I simply did not.
My knees screamed at me as I eased myself into the chair by my workbench. Old man knees. I sometimes wished I could oil them as I did a typewriter’s moving parts.
The sphinxes on the typewriter stared back at me as they always did. I was entranced. I could not look away. I do not remember falling asleep, but soon I was dreaming.
I dreamt of the sphinx ladies. They pulled away from the black typewriter, growing larger. They stood on their peculiar hind legs, their supple bodies slipping off of the typewriter and into life. The pair of them were mirror images of each other, perfect complexions under golden Egyptian headdresses. Their kohl-lined eyes pinned me in place just as a dead butterfly is pinned to a felt board. I was no more resistant than a dead butterfly either.
One stepped forward, placing a lioness's paw against my cheek. It should have been rough, but was soft. Instead of claws, I felt a gentle caress. She lowered her perfect face to mine and kissed my mouth.
I knew I was dreaming then. I had not been kissed in such a way since my dear wife left me, twenty years ago. And if I had not known I was dreaming then, I would have certainly known after, for when she pulled away, I was young again.
The second sphinx raised a mirror to me, and I was shocked to see myself as I had looked in my mid-twenties. My hair was black and thick, falling forward into clear eyes, no longer couched in wrinkles or age spots. I raised a hand to my face, and saw the strong clear hands of my youth, no longer twisted by arthritis.
When I raised my eyes from my own reflection, the two sphinxes were smiling at me. They were mocking smiles, but I didn’t care. This was the greatest gift I could have asked for.
Then the first sphinx leaned closer, whispering. Her lips brushed against the tip of my ear.
“Wake up.”
I woke up with a start, my old body protesting at sleeping upright in an old chair. I glanced around, my hand immediately going to my face. My fingers were met with the papery skin of an old man, my body sending all of the pain signals to remind me that it had only been a dream.
The sphinxes were there, as they always had been, glaring at me from the typewriter’s front. I put my glasses back on my face; they had slid off in my sleep. When I looked again at the typewriter, I saw something new.
The paper I’d loaded had new words printed on it. I reached forward, my hands trembling, and pulled it out to read.
It said: It was not just a dream.
The next night I dreamed of being young again. What a disappointment when I woke from those dreams! There was nothing I wouldn’t give up to be young again.
I carried my espresso down to the workshop. The sphinxes were waiting for me this morning. I could feel the weight of their gazes as I entered the room. I sipped my espresso quietly, and considered them. I had the distinct impression that they were considering me as well. I only hoped I met their approval.
I did not open the store again that day. I could not. Every time I rose from my chair to do so, the sphinxes’ eyes pinned me back in place. Beautiful women have always had this effect on me. I suppose I must live with it a while longer. Though If I did not open the store again soon, someone was bound to notice.
While I was in the sphinx’s presence, I found myself thinking of my son, Phillipe. He had been quite close to my wife. Her passing nearly killed him. He ruined himself after, and eventually killed himself, with the drink. I suppose her death did kill him, in the end.
Was I now becoming like him? Would I be able to walk away from the sphinxes? I shuddered to think of it. I had failed my son. Had I been a better father, maybe he would have made more of his life. Maybe he would have survived longer. I wondered then, did the sphinxes know about my son and how I failed him? I hoped not.
Later that night, I could not bear parting with the sphinxes, so I carefully carried them up to my apartment above the shop. I set them on my bedside table and fell asleep staring into those dark eyes. I did not dream about them, or about being young again. I was disappointed when I awoke. Those fleeting moments of youth were consuming my waking mind.
The next morning, I got out of bed and dressed as usual. While I was making my morning espresso, I heard the clicking of the keys. When I made it back to my bedside table, a message was waiting for me. I picked up the paper with shaking hands.
What makes life worth living?
My hands shook for a long time, looking at the words on the page. I realized then that I had not opened the shop in three days. I realized that I never would again as long as I had this typewriter. I again thought of my son, and his inability to leave his house in the end. To even take care of himself, because of his need of alcohol.
I looked at the sphinxes staring back at me with their mocking smiles, their exquisite beauty and cried. I was helpless to resist them.
I dreamed again. I went to sleep holding the message they had given me. What makes life worth living? I remembered the vibrancy of youth thrumming through my veins in those dreams, and my spirit rose up like a sail filling with wind.
And it terrified me. I was a reasonable man, a responsible one. I could not disappear into dreams like Peter Pan! Yet still, the sphinxes’ question burned into my mind like a siren call. I was unable to turn away from this temptation.
Once again in my dreams, the two sphinxes peeled away from the typewriter and became living beings. They possessed the most painfully perfect bodies, their eagle’s wings filling the space behind them. I had no doubt that those lioness paws could undo my existence in one fell blow. They were exotic, fierce and bewitching.
One came forward and kissed me, just as in the other dreams. I could feel a part of myself give over to her with each kiss, but I could not make myself care. To be young again! She could have whatever she wanted!
My hands flew to my face, and I felt the magic of youth again. I had my hair back, my skin was pliant, my bones and muscles firm and strong again. I stood up and stretched, feeling the ease of movement that I hadn’t felt in decades. The sphinxes laughed, watching me jump and stretch, smiling like a damned fool. I didn’t care. To move and not hurt! To be strong and attractive again!
I say that they laughed. I mean that they laughed at me. It was not the shared laughter of camaraderie. It was the laughter of cruel women who knew they had trapped a man with their beauty and magic. I didn’t care. I had my youth, what could they possibly take from me that was worth more?
I remembered the question. What makes life worth living? Surely it was this.
I was so enthralled with the memory of my youth and the feeling of blood pumping strongly through my veins, I danced forward and grabbed one of the sphinxes around the waist. I swung her around in a dance, smiling and laughing all the while. She smiled, grabbing me hard with her paws. Then she stopped, going rigid in my arms. Still with that smile was one her face.
I stopped. I knew I had made a mistake in touching her. The sphinx’s eyes pierced me and she leaned forward to whisper in my ear.
“Wrong answer.”
She leaned even closer and bit into my neck with fierce animal jaws. In shock, I looked down, but could see nothing. I trembled, my youth bleeding out of me. I was old again, and shaking. My old body couldn’t support the weight of myself and the sphinx. I crumbled to the floor, the contact jarring through my body. Then the second sphinx crept forward, leaning down and biting into my flesh as well. They were eating me alive.
I woke up.
I was covered in sweat and my body ached all over. The sphinxes glared at me from the typewriter face, menace evident even in the painted faces. I rolled out of the bed, away from them and went shaking into the bathroom.
I flipped on the light and turned to look in the mirror. Moving aside the collar of my shirt, I saw the ragged lines of scars across my neck and shoulder. The scars looked old, as if they had been inflicted decades earlier. And each one ran in roughly parallel lines, like claws from an enormous cat.
Or a lion.
Check back March 24 for the conclusion!