Cruel Zinc Melodies

35

First stop I visited Mr. Jan. My family have bought clothing from him for generations. Half each of two different generations, anyway. Mr. Jan might fix me up with a new coat.

I took my time getting there. People were watching. I didn’t want to add any excitement to their days.

Mr. Jan had been issued to the tailoring trade from its First Chief Directorate of Stereotypes. He was a skinny little old guy whose war service must have happened in the first half of the last century. He shone on top, had bushy white on the sides, white mustaches but no beard. And a persistent accent that made me wonder if he might not have avoided the war altogether. Age hadn’t blunted his mind. He recognized me although I hadn’t been in since my move to Macunado Street.

He asked what I’d been doing while he laid out choices in coat styles. I gave him the high points, none of which sent an eyebrow up a fraction of an inch. Nothing outside Mr. Jan’s world could be as dramatic as the tribulations of the tailoring trade. He did manage an occasional well-timed, unenthusiastic grunt to let me know he was listening.

I wasn’t focused on old adventures, either. I was trying to figure out how to make my tails collide so I could watch the fur fly.

Seeing me underwhelmed by the choices, Mr. Jan said, ‘‘You’re the man for a new kind of all-weather coat we’re thinking about doing. My son Brande brought back a sample from a trading trip he made with friends from the war.’’ The old man cast furtive glances around. Brande and his Army buddies must have had the good fortune to have a few tons of surplus weaponry fall into the hold of a ship that they then quickly took beyond the reach of Karentine law. Where they could enjoy the benefit of a profit margin with a tiny underside.

There’s a lot of that going around. The markup between wholesale and retail is just too seductive.

Mr. Jan told me, ‘‘This example will be tight on a man with your shoulders. But you’ll get the idea.’’ The coat he brought out looked like light brown tent canvas. ‘‘This would be the summer weight. Waterproof. There’s a button-in winter lining. They wear these in Kharй, where it rains all the time.’’

I recalled the name. Vaguely. From a long time ago. Stories about rain and fog.

He was right about the fit. But I liked the coat after I saw it in a mirror. ‘‘You’ve sold me, Mr. Jan. When you make it, pretend I’m some kind of street magician.’’

‘‘You want hidden pockets?’’

‘‘Lots. Big and small. Put some in the liner, too.’’

‘‘How long do you want it to hang? To the knee is the style in Kharй, but their weather isn’t as fierce as ours.’’

‘‘Mr. Jan, you’re the coat maker. Use your own judgment.’’

‘‘I’ll need to take measurements.’’

‘‘Do your worst, foul fiend. Oh, I need something temporary, too.’’

‘‘I expect I’ll have something used that will do,’’ he said. Ignoring my jest. After numerous measurements, carefully noted on reusable vellum, he asked, ‘‘How is your mother?’’ In a cautious, tentative way. My answer meant more than he wanted me to guess.

‘‘She’s gone, Mr. Jan. Some time ago. She had no will to go on after Mikey died.’’

The war with Venageta had been on for generations. People just assumed they would lose some of their male kinsmen. My mother lost her father, her husband, and two brothers. And remained unbroken. But she gave up after Mikey went down.

That hurt. Secretly. I’ve never convinced myself that my death would have triggered as intense a response.

‘‘Sorry I brought it up.’’

‘‘You didn’t know.’’

‘‘Goes to show how long it’s been.’’

‘‘You make this coat as good as the last one . . .’’ I stopped. I didn’t want to suggest that I expected his product to outlive him.

‘‘I won’t see you again after you pick it up. I understand the commercial implications. There are coats out there that my grandfather made. And Jan trousers even older. We’re less about fashion than value and durability. There. That should do it.’’

‘‘How’s business been since the war ended?’’

‘‘We never depended on military sales. We have plenty of work.’’

‘‘Good. Good. How long till the coat is ready?’’

‘‘Ten days? Probably sooner. Check in after the weekend.’’ He went into the back, then brought out a hideous, multicolored rag I wouldn’t have been caught dead in if it weren’t for the weather. ‘‘This is the only thing I’ve got that’s big enough. Try to bring it back in one piece.’’

‘‘Every crook in town will want to take it away from me.’’

Mr. Jan just stared. The First Chief Directorate doesn’t issue them with a sense of humor.

‘‘Look, once I leave you’ll likely be visited by somebody who wants to know what I wanted. Whatever they want to know, go ahead and tell them.’’

That made the old man frown. Had we been out of touch so long that he didn’t know what I do?

He’d get the idea soon enough.

I left a generous deposit.