There was no one in the shop. No one. Piles of folded fabric were stacked on long tables, bolts of shimmering brocade leaned against the wall. The shop stank of old minerals, stale cigarette smoke, and the scent of wet leaves and rain we brought in with us. The bolts of fabric were as awkward as loose walking sticks and slid and fell against each other when we tried to pull any one out. It was difficult to see the patterns without knocking down a dozen of them. As we wrestled with the slippery bolts the door opened and a man came in. In some inexplicable way he was repellent. His face was creased and seamed, his black hair combed over a narrow skull. Slack stubbled cheeks, discolored teeth. The bolts of fabric seemed viciously animated. The man began to talk to us in an obsequious, intimate tone of voice. His comments were inane, stupid.

 

“I know ladies like to rummage around with cloth.”

 

The damn bolts of designer fabrics, probably hijacked, I thought, refused to stay in place. The man asked us where we came from. We evaded, saying simply “Vermont” and “across the river.”

 

“Where in Vermont? What town?” He would not give up.

 

“Oh, central Vermont, around Montpelier,” I lied.

 

Now he insisted we take his business card. The cards were just across the street in his antique shop. No, no, we didn’t want him to bother. We refused. I was suddenly wild to get away from this man. He began to wind clocks, set the hands. I hated him. The fabrics were rich and fine, the prices very low, but it was impossible to make a rational selection with the man talking on and on in his oily way. Snatching up a bolt of fabric without looking at it, I said I would take a yard of cloth, try it at home and see if the colors were right. Anything to get away.

 

 

Photo: Casarsa