Short Story: Victor And The Door-to Door…

Short Story: Victor And The Door-to Door Peddlers

At his front door, which opened out onto a communal landing that led to a stairwell, Victor got down on his haunches, undid a loose shoelace and retied it.

The shoelace had been manufactured from a blend of sustainable hemp and fourth-and-final-phase recycled cotton.

Victor retied the other shoelace, stood up and opened the door. He stepped onto the landing, turned and locked the door.

When he turned around, two women stood facing him.

I do not recognise either of these women, he thought to himself, but I can hazard a guess as to why they are here, outside my front door.

Victor wondered if he should warn them?

I could tell them right off the bat, he thought, that they are wasting their time talking to me. Or at the very least, I could from the outset of our meeting establish ground rules. Rules, such as; I do not share your beliefs, however, you may speak openly about those beliefs without fear of persecution, as I would never dream of betraying you or anyone else for that matter, to the authorities.

I could also inform them of the fact I admire their courage - but I won’t, he thought, chiefly because I despise their kind far more than I respect them. Despise them for not sacrificing the old ways, as most of us did.

Two women. One old. One young.

The old one, he thought to himself, will no doubt do most, if not all of the talking. Apprenticed to the cause, the young woman will play a largely supporting role.

The women smiled at Victor. Victor smiled back at them.

The elder of the two, by around thirty years or so, he supposed, wore make-up and carried a large bag or holdall, which in days gone by was known as a sports bag. In the bag, Victor felt certain, were an array of household cleaning items.

None of which he was remotely interested in.

And yet, he said to himself, if I purchased something from them, I would no doubt feel a lot less guilty when they walk away from here, because I could then console myself with the notion their journey to my door had not be a total waste of time.

He stared at the old woman. Hair like straw, a face with a pleading quality he did not like.

Her teeth are crooked, too, he thought, whereas, the young woman’s teeth are very nice. She has nice white teeth. Assembled in a very pleasing fashion. So pleasing, in fact, I imagine that after she stops smiling, when in fact, he thought to himself, I could no longer see her teeth; I will almost certainly retain a very favourable impression of them in my mind.

‘I’m on my way out…’ Victor held aloft shopping bags, ‘to the mini-market… to buy food?’

The old woman said, ‘Do you need anything else citizen… which is not food? Something perhaps, you cannot get from the mini-market - at any shop? Something which might…?’

Enrich my life you mean?

Enrich it because I am not complete is what you imply, but are too afraid to say.

I could be wrong about that, then again, I’d wager I’m not.

And besides, he thought, what you think about who I am, or am not, does not affect the dynamic here.

Victor studied the young woman.

Plain but not unattractive, he decided. Underneath the dowdy apparel, which would not have been out of place back in the 21st century, a trim and girlish frame.

And yet, despite imagining the not unattractive young woman with nice white teeth, in more flattering attire; visualising her, in fact, in an entirely different setting, Victor still found the whole charade depressing.

These women, he thought, could if they wanted to, try and sell me God in a far more up-front fashion. I know religion is a hard sell these days, but in all honesty, I’d rather they came right out with it and state clearly why they are here, than veil their mission in unnecessary code.

I could tell them that, but I won’t, he thought. I’ll maintain pretence, as other responses at this moment in time could easily result in confusion.

With catastrophe a real possibility.

‘I’m sorry,’ Victor said, addressing the old woman directly, ‘but I don’t need anything’.

He noticed the young woman look from him to her companion and back again. The woman with straw for hair set the sports bag down. The young woman with the nice white teeth and the giving smile, the slender body that in other circumstances, he might have desired, bent down and unzipped the bag.

The short woman, who was neither young, nor slim, and who did not possess a winning smile, stooped and shuffled through the bag, turning lots of items aside.

The bag is ancient, Victor thought; it should have remained, along with its contents, and the message these two women are dying to deliver, in the past. They will never comprehend the fact I don’t wish to hear their missive, stories, which will never be substantiated.

Even if we were to cast off our disguises, he said to himself, expose the truth we are both too afraid to speak; I would never be able to unravel the logic that underpins their beliefs, as they cannot unravel mine.

The one with straw for hair said, ‘The oven gloves are excellent quality citizen. Made entirely in a correctional centre adjacent to a Sequestrated Landfill Reclaim and Recycle Facility in the Western Dependencies.’

Victor said nothing.

‘Scourers perhaps?’ the young woman said.

He leaned forward and peered into the bag.

'The small ones are only two euros each' The old woman pointed at an oval shaped scourer, olive green with darker green stitching. 'The large ones cost three.'

If I buy something, Victor thought, resigning himself to the inevitable, surely then, that will herald a natural end to proceedings and they will be forced to move on and try their outmoded pitch elsewhere?

‘What is the Enviro-Cred rating on those blue ones?’ he said.

‘All the items bear a minimal to zero E-Cred rating’.

‘I’ll take two.’

After Victor had gathered the correct change from his jacket pocket, he pressed the coins into the young woman’s outstretched hand.

She smiled at him.

Still on her haunches the old woman tidied the bag.

Victor held his breath whilst he watched her do it; only letting go of his breath when he felt assured the critical time had passed.

For a moment there, he said to himself, I pictured the old woman delving beneath the ironing board covers, the anti-static dusters, suddenly flourishing one of those weird pastel-coloured pamphlets.

The Ivory Tower?

No, not the Ivory Tower, he thought, the Bell Tower?

Or was it the Clock Tower?

Whilst Victor remained uncertain about the title, he recalled the front page clearly.

Odd depictions. Different genus of animals, he thought, never normally found together, other than say in a safari park, sharing the same landscape. Sun dappled vistas, mountains and lakes, sunsets and sunrises. Families pitched in the foreground, neither happy nor sad.

Contented perhaps?

The young woman, whom Victor realised had been staring at him for what felt like an eternity, but was in fact only around a minute or so since depositing the coins in her hand, thanked him for the money, put the coins in her purse, the purse in her coat pocket.

When the young woman looked up at him, Victor noticed she was smiling again.

When he grabbed her hand and squeezed it with both of his, she stopped smiling, and Victor thought but did not say; I beg you, if not for my sake, Miss, then for Jesus' sake, GIVE IT UP!

It is never too late in my book to abandon a doctrine, however passionately you cherish your long-standing, deep-rooted belief.

You could, he thought; if you somehow found the strength, walk away from it.

Her!

The world has turned, he said to himself. And you must turn with it.

Or wither away.

Die with your fickle God.

Before the old woman got up off her haunches, Victor put out a hand. He directed it at the young woman. The young woman looked down at his hand, took it. Victor stooped, kissed the back of her hand, tasted what he thought was moisturising lotion on her skin.

The young woman said nothing.

Whilst studying her confused expression Victor's tongue made an involuntary pass over his lips.

When finally he let go of her hand, the young woman said, ‘We have more to offer citizen, than just those pan scourers’.

Victor considered a reply. He did not make one.

The young woman said ‘To discover what it is we have to offer, why don’t–’

‘–What more is there?’

‘Join us tomorrow?’

'Where?' he said.

‘Just behind where the old Methodist Church once stood.'

The young woman glanced down at the back of her hand, ran her fingertips back and forth over the exact spot where Victor's lips had touched her skin.

'You know' she said, looking up at him, 'beyond the tram stop, in the lane that leads to Moon Penny meadow?’

‘I know it,’ Victor said.

And, I am also aware of the fact; you no longer have any choice but to meet there - or at least, if not there, then at another similar, open-air type amphitheatre, because nowadays, congregating is not permitted behind walls, or under roofs abutting spires. Neither is assembly legal under Republic Law in the vicinity of minarets and suchlike, not since The Commission for Secular Freedoms and Religious Affairs decreed; worship outdoors for all to see!

‘I’ll think about,’ Victor said finally.

I have in fact, he reflected, thought about it all my life.

When he made to leave, the two women stood aside.

The young woman watched Victor go whilst the old woman moved onto the next pod-flat.

Contrary to what he had at first assumed it had been the young woman who had engaged him for the most part; an occurrence, which Victor did not understand.