The Museum of Doubt Read Free Page A

the bonnet and the windscreen poked out of the last big snowdrift at the top of the road. He opened the sunroof and climbed out of it. The sun came round the ridge and Jack put on a pair of sunglasses. He went up and knocked on the blue-painted wooden door, under a plastic nameplate which said: The Museum Of Doubt.
    She was built like a boy who grows up by the river and has nothing else to do except swim in it. She was thin and fit without being powerful or muscular. Her white face and neck came up out of a Prussian blue sweater thick as a rug and she wore black jeans and old brown moccasins. She had straight copper-coloured hair, cut short neatly. Her eyes listened to what he said but her mouth was blind.
    I want to give you a demonstration, he said, sliding his foot over the threshold, stroking the bottom of the door with the tip of his shoe.
    Of what? she said, opening the door wide and standing with her hands resting on the doorframe.
    Of what you need, he said.
    I don’t know what I need.
    Then I’ve come to the right place.
    No no no, said the woman, shaking her head, keeping her hands against the doorframe, shifting her weight. I don’t mean:I know I need something but I don’t know what it is. I mean: I don’t know what I need, all the time. I’m incapable of knowing what I need, or whether I need anything. I’m not sure I do. It’s my condition.
    Eh? said Jack.
    My husband used to say that when I tried to explain. I used to ask him why he needed things. He’d say it wasn’t always a question of needing. He’d say, supposing the folk at the British Museum started saying Do we really need all these Egyptian mummies? And they’d say We may want them but I doubt we need them. So they’d throw them out. And then it’d be What do we want with these duelling pistols and snuffboxes and Etruscan vases? What’s the point? You could never be sure you needed any of it. And all you’d be left with would be empty galleries and you’d have to call it the Museum of Doubt.
    Jack stared at her for a while, took off his glasses and showed his teeth in a smile. Jack, he said. I’m Jack.
    You’re a salesman, said the woman.
    That’s an ugly word, said Jack. Let’s forget about selling for a while. I’ll tell you what I’ve come about. Here’s what troubles me. The world is out of harmony. The equilibrium of the cosmos is disturbed. Look at this, now.
    He took a set of bronze jeweller’s scales out of his jacket and dangled them in the air in front of the woman.
    This is the universe, he said.
    He burrowed in his trouser pocket. His fingers dropped two pieces of lead shot onto one scale and four pieces onto the other. The scales dipped.
    You see, one side has more than it needs. It’s burdened down with possessions. The spirit is heavy. It’s falling. But the other side has a lack of material things, the possessions it needs to embrace the world. It’s flying away. It’s vanishing. It’s hardlythere at all, there’s so little to it. There’s something missing, something it needs. Now watch carefully.
    Jack lifted one of the pieces of shot and dropped it in the other pan. The snow deadened the chime. The scales teetered and levelled.
    There, said Jack. Harmony. Is that not good? Is that not desirable? There should always be harmony. The side that has too much should always be giving to the side that has too little. Is that not right? The harmony is for ever. And this – he quickly swapped pieces of shot between the pans and waggled his fingers – this is a detail, a process. It could be a revolution. It could be a gift. It could be a sale. It’s over quickly.
    I told you already, said the woman. I don’t need anything.
    I can show you what you need, said Jack. I can see it. What we have here, between your house and the boot of my car, is a classic disbalance. You don’t have enough, and I’ve got so much. You wouldn’t want to be reponsible for violating cosmic harmony, would you?
    No, said the woman.