MORE MEMORIES OF MISTER ZEUS...

Well, it’s nice to know I can inspire someone. My emails this morning included this tale, sent to me by my good friend Rick, which deserves to be shared by the wider world (about 12 of us at the last count…).

If there are any more Memories of the Magnificent Mister Zeus out there, please do feel free to share them.

THE MYSTERIOUS EMPORIUM OF MISTER NORIDEL ZEUS (continued…?)

I seem to vaguely recall, within my distant and sepia toned memory, being led by the hand of my Grandfather over fifty years ago on a chilly winter’s morning along a tired looking row of mouldering shops. I remember this because there was one curiously named shop that stood out, that of Noridel Zeus, with its beautiful signage and deep, darkened windows, a shop of childish mysteries. On this particular outing, my Grandfather was carrying a large Gladstone bag, of creaking leather, a little tatty around the edges and smelling slight of mould. Grandfather, as I recall, was a collector of all sorts of paraphernalia, curios he had amassed during a lifetime of travelling to exotic corners of the World; places with dark and magical sounding names that haunted my juvenile imagination. He wouldn’t discuss what was in the bag, for he was a man of whom seldom said more than a few words on anything, and then only when he considered it necessary.

I recall with delight when on this particular day he paused outside of Mr Zeus’ establishment and put his hand on the door knob; he turned it and we stepped inside to the discordant jingling of a bell flapping unsteadily from the doorframe. The shop smelled of many things, a musty odour of stale dust, mixed with the soft warm smell of settled wood, tinges of dampness, and the distant hot oil smell that reminded me of steam trains. Once inside, I noticed in awe that two of the walls were made up entirely of small wooden drawers, beautifully French polished, and inscribed in elegant, but slightly faded copperplate script; each with its own tiny brass handle. The names made little sense to me, but conjured up my imagination into elaborate visions. I think I remember there being among the labels draws of undersized grub screws, whirligig sprockets, domes of silence, clinker shafts, filament spindles, laughing bladders, and blue snake bulbs. Some of these I’m still none the wiser about. There was also a wall of shelves, none of which were entirely straight, with a gentle untouched veil of dust across the surfaces that I could see; they were like a ladder rising towards the ceiling. Sparsely spaced on these shelves were peculiar looking wooden boxes, with what seemed to be small glass cases on the top of each one. The boxes were beautifully painted and each seemed to purport either small brass cranking handles or tiny metal keys pocking out from the side. The glass like cages were filled with what I thought were toys, intricately carved wooden puppets, with sharp teeth, and pointed noses, fierce looking animals and scary dark birds. Figures stood motionless, as if they had been frozen, one was poised with an axe over a chicken’s neck, another looked as if the nail he was hammering would go straight through his eye, and there was along tube like case with a succession of animals that had been frozen in time, prevented from each eating the one they were chasing; I was stood paralysed with fascinated horror, unable to tear my eyes from such macabre toys.

My Grandfather had put his bag on the highly polished blackened counter and when he rang the counter top bell, my trance was broken. I looked round and a strange man had appeared, where had he come from I could not imagine, I just knew that he wasn’t there before. I couldn’t see where he could have sprung from he was simply there as if he had been all along. He was remarkably thin, and smaller than my Grandfather, and gave me the impression he was leaning slightly to one side. He was like a human stick insect, spiky, with huge thick round glasses that had several small round lenses sticking out from them on the end of long brass rod. He was bald and his head was shiny, but he had a remarkable looking hat on with a golden tassel; I later discovered was called a fez. I couldn’t see his legs, but he had on a balloon like white shirt that was far too big for such a skinny man, and the most amazing embroidered silver waistcoat I had ever seen, the swirling patterns seemed to be moving out of the corner of my eye, and I stood transfixed, once again.

My Grandfather opened the bag and showed him what was inside; Mr. Zeus never uttered a single word, but scratched his chin where upon I suddenly noticed his stubbly beard. He turned and opened several drawers in rapid succession, rummaging through the hidden contents before passing onto the next. I was convinced I saw sparks emanating from his finger tips. He removed a small leather pad and the most intricate and ornate silver fountain pen I’d ever seen and scribbled on it for several minutes, until he showed it to my Grandfather, who simply nodded, closed up the bag and taking my hand, steered us out of the shop; out into the biting cold once again. And that’s all I can remember. To this day I have no recollection of what was in that bag, what Mr Zeus was commissioned to do, and we never went in there again. Yet to this day the magic of such a small childhood adventure haunts me still, and I still dream about who the mysterious Noridel Zeus was.

(From the Journals of Mister Rick Lawlor, 22/10/2010)