The Fool
Zoe Mullery
He had beautiful feet. He sat sole to sole with himself, turned inward over his carving, the morning sun casting shadows across his face and illuminating his working hands and those lovely, clean-boned, pearly-toed feet. His hair was the color of old pennies and he wore loose brown pants and an unbleached, home-made shirt; nothing about his appearance hinted at which century he might live in, not even his knife with its gray blade and bone handle, which he wielded with ease and deftness. Sitting alone in a slant of light, he looked symmetrical—Buddha-like, I thought, a posture of self-containment. As if to prove my point, he accidentally nicked his finger with his knife and didn’t make a sound, just kept on working while the few bright drops glistened and fell to the dusty earth near his foot. I watched with interest as he squeezed a couple more drops from the cut and rubbed them into the carving stone.
I held the end of my braid with one hand while with the other I fumbled through my shoulder bag for a rubber band. I never could remember to look for the rubber band first. Personally, I was feeling distinctly unsymmetrical. So far my reason for going to the barter fair had not been very well-satisfied—namely, to have authentic interactions with actual human beings. I could hear my mother’s voice: “If you want to have a friend, be a friend.” I doubt she’d had barter fairs in mind when she said it. My ex-boyfriend Alex had introduced me to them. They’re like hippie malls; everyone goes to check out the other people as much as the merchandise. I’d gone to several with Alex, who played mandolin and sang plaintive ballads about gypsies and rambling vagabonds.
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