Ana Soria Extract from Santoku

Ana Soria

Extract from Santoku

It happened at a farmers’ market of all places. Fifteen food stalls crammed into a square of park that the city council was trying to ‘rejuvenate’. August had pushed for them to visit. There would be watermelon cocktails and a steam-powered organ playing them in for the market’s inaugural Saturday. Oliver had been persuaded by the promise of a stall selling the Japanese Santoku knives that he wanted for the kitchen. At the market, they couldn’t decide what to eat. Walking through the crowds, August trailed a step behind, admiring the wide triangle of Oliver’s shoulders. Rum swilled pleasantly in his empty stomach. Oliver had had his hair cut, and August thought that it looked a little too severe. He had liked it better when he could comb his hand through it and catch the curls between his fingers. Everything had changed with the new job. I’ve got to make a call, Oliver said, leaning in to be heard over the music which had started up. Wait, we haven’t seen the organ yet, August said, hooking an arm through his. The market was full of slick young couples who had only recently appeared in the neighbourhood. Before that, the park had been a meeting place for young women who strung lights from the tree branches and gathered around crackly sound systems to dance cumbia. They both reached for a sample of champagne-washed sheep’s cheese, then August led them towards a clearing where a group of children sat huddled around an iPad, ignoring the steam organ. Oliver shrugged off August’s grip and pulled out his phone. He was shorter than August and hated to be steered around.

It makes me feel like a naughty kid, he had said, the last time they had been out together. Hurt, August had replied, Well, you saying that makes me feel like an old man. For God’s sake, Oliver had snapped, you’re forty-nine. You’re hardly ready for your coffin yet. And before he could bite it back, August had replied, Tell that to the twenty-year-olds in your office. And that was that. Oliver had stormed off in a huff. He had no patience these days, August thought. No patience at all.

The steam organ dated back to the 1800s and had been lovingly restored by a team of volunteers. August read this out loud from a sign stuck into the grass. As the organ played, a marching band of painted tin figures appeared from between the pipes. Jerkily, they clashed cymbals together and rapped out a rhythm on their tiny drums. August stood close. There was a smell of diesel oil, and air from the pipes blasted the hair back from his head. Each piercing note vibrated through his chest. He leant closer. Underneath the melody, he could make out the sound of pistons and the click, click, click, of the marching band’s jointed metal limbs. It really was something. He looked around for Oliver and saw him stepping over a rope that sectioned off the back of the organ from the watching crowds. He had his phone pressed to his ear and was talking urgently into it. Irritated, August followed behind. They barely saw each other these days, and now, on their one day off, he was taking work calls. The perimeter of the park had been fenced off to stop gate- crashers who wanted to avoid the three-pound entry fee. In this border zone, it was a tangle of electrical cables and crates of unsold stock. Here and there bowls of washing up from the food stands, a few empty bottles of beer. Oliver stood with his back to August, looking out of the perimeter fence. Walking towards him, he wanted to tear the phone out of Oliver’s hand. Instead, he touched him lightly on the arm, making him jump.

Jesus! He said, or something like it, August couldn’t hear anything since they were standing so close to the pipes. Oliver made a shooing motion, then turned back to the fence and laughed down the phone in a way that August knew was fake. Before the new job in TV, Oliver had dressed in corduroy trousers and cardigans, now he’d taken out a credit card to buy an Armani blazer. He glared at the blazer for a few moments. He had to admit, it was impeccably cut. The rest of that afternoon had become disjointed in August’s memory. He remembered it as though in a dark room with only a pocket torch for light. Its beam illuminated only small patches of memory. He had rested one hand on the side of the organ, he remembered that. He steadied himself to swing a leg back over the dividing rope. The metal panels of the organ were very hot, so he lifted up his palm. His next memory was of looking into the mechanism at the back of the organ, a lot of spinning parts, slick with oil. He’d wanted to stop and look at it a while. There was something compelling about the way that the parts all worked together, like the inside of a body. Slipped, he must have slipped, that’s all. Even though he was sure that he had been standing still, and the ground hadn’t been at all slippery. Surprisingly strong, this was the only thought he had as his hand disappeared, and his arm was yanked downwards so hard it felt as though it had pulled from its socket. He wasn’t in pain, there was only a loose, floaty feeling. And when he tapped Oliver on the shoulder a second time, Oliver dropped the phone, his mouth hanging open. He remembered the tenderness with which Oliver had lowered him gently to the ground, then tied the sleeves of his blazer tight around August’s bicep. I’ll be right back, he said. August smiled. The St John’s Ambulance volunteer fainted when she saw it. Luckily, one of the stall holders had a lot of brand new tote bags, so they wrapped August’s hand in those while they waited for the ambulance. Oliver was next to him the whole time, sitting close to him in the grass, speaking in a reassuring voice. August leant his head on Oliver’s shoulder. The organ had stopped playing.

De-gloved, we call it, the paramedic said cheerfully when the ambulance arrived. She peered at August’s hand, much less dramatic than it looks. You’re lucky it’s only the one finger. She wrapped it tightly in gauze and helped him into the back of the ambulance. Just a minute! Oliver shouted, jogging back towards the spot where he’d dropped his phone. The Armani blazer had been reduced to a bloody rag. As they pulled away from the park and out into the traffic, August felt serene. Oliver rode alongside him, perched awkwardly on a fold-down chair. The phone was in his hand once more. Plugging a finger into one ear, Oliver leant towards the paramedic. Do we need the siren? he asked.

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fiction Non-

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