Kem Nunn - Chance

Generally speaking, a walk in the city was something he enjoyed. On the day in question he could not shake the feeling that he was being shown the future. It was something less than what one might have hoped for. The flames had died in the East Bay hills but what felt to be the entire Bay Area remained covered in ash. Cars were made to appear uniform in color. It lay thick in the corners of things like drifts of dirty snow. A trio of young Asian women he took as college students passed along the sidewalk wearing surgical masks. This is how it will look, he thought, moving past the women. It will look like this, and then it will look worse.

There had come a point in the evacuation of the East Bay hills, their narrow streets jammed with cars, when the firefighters had called for the distraught residents to abandon their vehicles, to flee on foot. The fires of Richmond had moved east and south at alarming speeds. The Berkeley Hills were suddenly ablaze, the night sky raining sparks. The citizenry had declined the directive, preferring to ram one another in their flaming cars. College professors and accountants, dot-commers or whatever it was they called themselves, the writers and artists, the academics and doctors of the Berkeley Hills… They had driven over one another in the black smoke like insects gone mad, like blindworms, for God’s sake. He’d watched it all on the late-night newscasts from the relative safety of his apartment. What was it to horde or sell? What did his fancy French furniture amount to when already the birds of prey were increasing their number?

It was in a state of just such apocalyptic fervor, brow damp and lungs burning, that he reached the building, an old brick warehouse from before the war situated on a narrow, well-kept alley just off Market Street. Entering, he could hear at once a man’s voice, a bright falsetto animated with rage. “Are you his bitch, then … ? Is that how it’s going to be? ” The voice broke off at the sound of the bell that signaled the front door and Chance soon spied the owner of both business and voice in conversation with a young man of some apparently Latino extraction in a black skintight T-shirt, skintight black leather jeans, and pointy-toed black leather boots that rose to just above his ankles. The older man was as Chance remembered him, well over six feet tall, dramatically thin and flamingly gay. He was even dressed as Chance remembered, in favor of rings and things, ascots, and loud sport jackets. If anything, he was older than Chance had recalled, closer to eighty than seventy. A guy that age, Chance thought, black and gay? One could imagine that he’d seen some things.

The old man cut short his rant. “Young man,” he said, addressing Chance while turning from the other as if he’d suddenly ceased to exist, his voice no longer shrill but rising pleasantly to float among the rafters. “What news of the Printz collection?”

“Jesus. You remembered.”

“Of course. But let me see… There was a desk and chair.” He paused. “And a cabinet!”

“Bookcase and two chairs, but that’s not bad. When was it that I was here… two, three years ago?”

The old man’s hands fluttered in the muted light. “Who keeps track of such things? But there was something missing…”

“Some bits of brass.”

“Ah, yes. A shame.”

As Chance and the old man spoke the leather boy drifted away, disappearing into some dim recess of the old building. It was the musty, cavernous feel of the place that had drawn Chance on his initial visit. He had been new to the neighborhood then, out exploring. Surely, he’d thought, this was a place where treasures lay in wait, gathering dust in the shadows.

“I’m sure you told me your name,” Chance said. He put out his hand.

“Carl,” the old man told him. They shook. “And you… are a doctor, as I recall.”

“A neuropsychiatrist. Eldon Chance.”

The old man laughed. “Of course, Dr. Chance. How does one forget that? I remember furniture but lose names. To what do I owe the honor?” He went on without waiting a reply. “I have recently acquired a cabinet that might just go with that set of yours…”

Chance held up his hands. “I wish. I’m thinking of selling what I have.”

Carl raised his eyebrows.

“I’m in the midst of a divorce,” Chance said. He was still not quite used to saying it out loud. “House is up for sale. I’m living in an apartment.”

“Say no more,” Carl told him. “I’m sorry, sorry to hear that.”

“Me too.” Chance had taken photographs of the furniture and put them on his laptop, slung now by way of a canvas travel case over one shoulder. He lifted the case. “I have pictures,” he said.

Carl led the way to a large table where they looked at the pictures. The old man studied them at some length. “Beautiful,” he said. “The size of that desk makes it unusual. It’s a wonderful piece, as are the others. What do you hope to get for them?”

“I was hoping you might tell me.”

The old man studied the pictures a moment longer. “Without that metalwork… fifty, sixty thousand, maybe.”

“What about with the metalwork? Just to make me feel bad.”

“Twice that.”

“Christ, just for some brass?”

“It’s the difference between selling to someone in the market for a nice grouping and a serious collector. Do you know what the set looked like originally?”

“I’ve seen pictures, in books.”

“Then you know. The strips were substantial, etched with acid, quite lovely, really. You have one piece of it left here, in the bookshelf.” He pointed to one of the photographs.

Chance nodded. “Yeah, I know. Guess the way to look at it… the set had been complete I would never have gotten it for what I did. Still…”

“It’s a big swing.”

“In a tough time, let me tell you.” Chance spent his days listening to the woes of others. Rarely did he air his own, particularly of late, in the absence of wife or family, or even, when he thought about it, of a close friend. “Didn’t imagine I’d ever want to sell,” he said, indulging now in the perception that Carl was in fact the type of guy one might tell one’s troubles to. “Always entertained the fantasy that someday I’d be poking around in a place like this, and there it would be, a pile of brass runners gathering dust on top of somebody’s armoire or something.” He smiled and shrugged it off. “How might we proceed?” he asked. “If I wanted to go for the sixty?”

Carl tugged at a short goatee that was almost completely white and neatly trimmed. A moment passed. “Let me show you something,” he said.

They left Chance’s computer on the table and walked toward the rear of the store. There was a hole cut in a wall back there to make a window with a little counter on it. There was what appeared to be a workroom on the other side. The window did not allow for much of a view. What Carl wanted him to look at was the cabinet he had spoken of. It was indeed a wonderful piece, made also of palm wood with brass trimming.

“Beautiful,” Chance said.

The old man nodded. “Brass work is not exactly the same as what should have been on yours but not so dissimilar either. And, as yours is missing…” He let his voice trail away. “Let’s just say I thought of you. Odd you should stop by when you did.”

“Yes, well, were I buying instead of selling…” His eyes clocked to the cabinet. “Probably out of my price range even then.”

“Oh, it’s not original,” Carl put in almost before Chance could finish.

Chance just looked at him.

“The piece was in very bad shape when I found it. No brass at all. It’s not even by Printz, or at least it’s not signed by him, but I could see there were possibilities.”