Broken Objects

He held up the glass globe to the shifting Sunday morning light. Flecks of make-believe snow drifted delicately onto the bronze covered ground and dusted the shoulders of the gold-painted angel statuette. The warm yellow sunlight glanced off the upward tilt of the angel’s carved wings and trumpet. He flicked a small hidden switch at the side of the wooden base and waited.

Still no sound. The angel remained still, silent and unmoving. He squinted through the swirling flecks and tried to recall whether Uncle Chan’s shop would be open yet. He could not remember. He sighed, reminiscing about how they had picked out this Christmas trinket at Marks and Spencer last year. Although it was November, the malls were already decked with towering evergreen plastic conifers and the cheerful strains of Yuletide carols blared from overhead speakers. She was giggling as she pointed out how the angel’s halo looked like a wreath wrapped around its head; her hand gently brushing against his calloused fingertips. He had accidentally found the switch at the base and the soft tinkling bell-like melody of the Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy by Tchaikovsky played as the angel twirled around on its base, surrounded by drifting white artificial snow.

“For your Christmas present,” she playfully jabbed his side as she reached for the ornament on the shelf and they went to the counter to pay.

He lowered the globe back into the brown paper bag, wiping the stray tears off his cheek as he did so. It was his fault, he knew. She had discovered the incriminating Whatsapp messages on his Samsung phone one day and she had confronted him.

“What have I done wrong?” she asked him tearfully, sorrowfully. He was mute. They both stared at the cold cups of coffee on the table between them. There was no meager excuse or reason that he could offer her. He put his head between his hands. She shook her head. He did not dare look up at her. A sniffle, hurried footsteps, then silence.

Thus she was gone. Three years of trust; broken and gone. Just like that.

He paused on the eroded concrete step outside the shop. Good, an ‘Open’ sign hung in the doorway. He rapped smartly on the door and entered.

“Mr. Keiji, what can I do for you today? How are your mom and dad? Have they come back from Hokkaido yet? Think your mom mentioned that she was going to visit her sister there,” Uncle Chan looked up from the watch that he was mending and smiled.

“Yeah, they just left two days ago. I think mom really missed home. It isn’t the same here, you know. Even though she has been married to dad for almost thirty years now. Say, Uncle Chan, can you fix this for me?” he placed the globe on the glass countertop. Uncle Chan put on his gold-rimmed spectacles and turned the ornament upside-down, studying the wooden base and the small black plastic switch closely. Keiji watched him expectantly.

“Yes, I believe so,” the old man said at last.

“How long would that take, Uncle? Could you please call this number and let Tina know when it’s done?” he slipped a blue note into the old man’s age-spotted hand. Uncle Chan nodded and tucked the piece of paper into his breast pocket.

“Come back in two weeks, Keiji.”

He was attending a meeting when his phone rang. He excused himself and leaned against the doorframe of the conference room, watching the traffic beneath swirl like ants on a sandy anthill. “It’s ready? Yes, yes. Thank you. I will come by this evening. Sure, see you then, Uncle Chan,” he said.

He opened the door and entered the dark, dusty shop. Uncle Chan was perched on his high wooden stool as usual, polishing a bronze vase.

“Five thirty,” Uncle Chan said.

Keiji nodded in response and sat on the stool opposite Uncle Chan, watching the old man work quietly but deftly.

He heard the doorbell chime and the old wooden door creaked open, letting in a shaft of sunlight from the bustling world outside. He stood up, heart beating rapidly in anticipation, and looked at the entrance anxiously.

“Tina.”

The bewildered frown on her face revealed a struggle between joy, sadness and anger. There were tears glimmering in her dark brown almond-shaped eyes as she finally stepped towards him.

“I’m sorry,” was all he could say.

*******

“Faërie contains many things besides elves and fays, and besides dwarfs, witches, trolls, giants, or dragons; it holds the seas, the sun, the moon, the sky; and the earth, and all things that are in it: tree and bird, water and stone, wine and bread, and ourselves, mortal men, when we are enchanted.”
― J.R.R. Tolkien, On Fairy-Stories