William Gibson: All Tomorrow's Parties

'Get away from my window.

With a weird and utter lack of grace that strikes Fontaine as amounting to a species of grace in itself, this person gets to his feet. The brown eyes stare at Fontaine but somehow do not see him, or do not recognize him, perhaps, as another being.

Fontaine displays the Smith&Wesson, his finger on the trigger, but he does not quite point it at the boy. He never points a gun at anyone he is not yet entirely willing to shoot, a lesson learned long ago from his father.

This kneeler, this breather on his glass, is not of the bridge. It would be difficult for Fontaine to explain how he knows this, but he does. It is a function of having lived here a long time. He doesn't know everyone on the bridge, nor would he want to, but he nonetheless distinguishes bridge dwellers from others, and with absolute certainty.

This one, now, has something missing. Something wrong; not a state bespeaking drugs, but some more permanent mode of not-being-there. And while the population of the bridge possesses its share of these, they are somehow worked into the fabric of the place and not inclined to appear thus, so randomly, as to disturb mercantile ritual.

Somewhere high above, the bay wind whips a loose flap of plastic, a frenzied beating, like the idiot wing of some vast wounded bird.

Fontaine, looking into brown eyes in the face that still refuses to come into focus (because, he thinks now, it is incapable), regrets having unlocked his door. Salt air even now gnaws at the bright metal vitals of his stock. He gestures with the barrel of his pistol: go.

The boy extends his hand. A watch.

'What? You want to sell that?

The brown eyes register no language.

Fontaine, motivated by something he recognizes as compulsion, takes a step forward, his finger tightening on the pistol's double-action trigger. The chamber beneath the firing pin is empty, for safety's sake, but a quick, long pull will do the trick.

Looks like stainless. Black dial.

Fontaine takes in the filthy black jeans, the frayed running shoes, the faded red T-shirt hiked above a paunch that betrays the characteristic bloat of malnutrition.

'You want to show that to me?

The boy looks down at the watch in his hand, then points to the three in the window.

'Sure, Fontaine says, 'we got watches. All kinds. You want to see?

Still pointing, the boy looks at him.

'Come on, Fontaine says, 'come on in. Cold out here. Still holding the gun, though his finger has relaxed, he steps back into the shop. 'You coming?

After a pause, the boy follows, holding the watch with the black dial as though it were a small animal.

Be nothing, Fontaine thinks. Army Waltham with the guts rusted out. Bullshit. Bullshit he's let this freak in here.

The boy stands, staring, in the center of the shop's tiny floor space. Fontaine closes the door, locks it once only, and retreats behind his counter. All this done without lowering the gun, getting within grabbing distance, or taking his eyes off his visitor.

The boy's eyes widen as he sees the tray of watches. 'First things first, Fontaine says, whisking the tray out of sight with his free hand.

'Let's see. Pointing at the watch in the boy's hand. 'Here, Fontaine commands, tapping the faded gilt Rolex logo on a padded round of dark green leatherette.

The boy seems to understand. He places the watch on the pad.

Fontaine sees the black beneath the ragged nails as the hand withdraws.

'Shit, Fontaine says. Eyes acting up. 'Back up, there, a minute, he says, gently indicating direction with the barrel of the Smith&Wesson. The boy takes a step back.

Still watching the boy, he digs in the left side pocket of the trench coat and comes up with a black loupe, which he screws into his left eye. 'Don't you move now, okay? Don't want this gun to go off.

Fontaine picks up the watch, affords himself a quick squint through the loupe. 'Whistles in spite of himself. 'Jaeger LeCoultre. He unsquints, checking; the boy hasn't moved. Squints again, this time at the ordnance markings on the caseback. 'Royal Australian Air Force, 1953, he translates. 'Where'd you steal this?

Nothing.

'This is near mint. Fontaine feels, all at once, profoundly and unexpectedly lost. 'This a redial?

Nothing.

Fontaine squints through the loupe. 'All original?

Fontaine wants this watch.

He puts it down on the green pad, atop the worn symbol of a golden crown, noting that the black calf band is custom-made, handsewn around bars permanently fixed between the lugs. This work itself, which he takes to be either Italian or Austrian, may have cost more than some of the watches in his tray. The boy immediately picks it up.

Fontaine produces the tray. 'Look here. You want to trade? Gruen Curvex here. Tudor 'London, 1948; nice original dial. Vulcain Cricket here, gold head, very clean.

But already he knows that his conscience will never allow him to divest this lost soul of this watch, and the knowledge hurts him. Fontaine has been trying all his life to cultivate dishonesty, what his father called 'sharp practices, and he invariably fails.

The boy is leaning forward over the tray, Fontaine forgotten.

'Here, Fontaine says, sliding the tray aside and replacing it with his battered notebook. He opens it to the pages where he shops for watches. 'Just push this, then push this, it'll tell you what you're looking at. He demonstrates. A Jaeger with a silver face.

Fontaine presses the second key. 1945 Jaeger chronometer, stainless steel, original dial, engraving on case back, says the notebook.

'Case, the boys says. 'Back.

'This, Fontaine shows the boy the stainless back of a gold-filled Tissot tank. 'But with writing on, like 'Joe Blow, twenty-five years with Blowcorp, congratulations.

The boy looks blank. Presses a key. Another watch appears on the screen. He presses the second key. 'A 1960 Vulcain jump-hour, chrome, brassing at lugs, dial very good.

''Very good, Fontaine advises. 'Not good enough. See these spots here? Indicating certain darker flecks scattered across the scan. 'If it were 'very fine, sure.

'Fine, says the boy, looking up at Fontaine. He presses the key that produces the image of another watch.

'Let me see that watch, okay? Fontaine points at the watch in the boy's hand. 'It's okay. I'll give it back.

The boy looks from the watch to Fontaine. Fontaine puts the Smith&Wesson away in its pocket. Shows the boy his empty hands.

'I'll give it back.

The boy extends his hand. Fontaine takes the watch.

'You gonna tell me where you got this?

Blank.

'You want a cup of coffee?

Fontaine gestures back, toward the simmering pot on the hotplate. Smells its bitter brew, thickening.

The boy understands.

He shakes his head.

Fontaine screws the loupe into his eye and settles into contemplation.

Damn. He wants this watch.

LATER in the day, when the bento boy brings Fontaine his lunch, the Jaeger LeCoultre military is in the pocket of Fontaine's gray tweed slacks, high-waisted and extravagantly pleated, but Fontaine knows that the watch is not his. The boy has been put in the back of the shop, in that cluttered little zone that divides Fontaine's business from his private life, and Fontaine has become aware of the fact that he can, yes, smell his visitor; under the morning's coffee smell a definite and insistent reek of old sweat and unwashed clothes.

As the bento boy exits to his box-stacked bicycle, Fontaine undoes the clips on his own box. Tempura today, not his favorite for bento, because it cools, but still he's hungry. Steam wafts from the bowl of miso as he unsnaps its plastic lid. He pauses.

'Hey' he says, back into the space behind the shop, 'you want some miso? No reply. 'Soup, you hear me?