The Tailor

Matthew lived in a tiny flat above his tailor shop, the oldest in Banff. Those who knew him would describe him as a quiet old man with a quiet life. He could mend nearly any garment and had considerable talent when it came to designing and crafting suits and dresses.

It was Monday morning, and as usual, after a quick bath and a breakfast of eggs with toast and avocado juice, Matthew went downstairs, undid the locks, and hung the “Open” sign on the glass door. On the floor he found the morning post. He picked it up and leafed through it quickly: a couple of utility bills, a letter from his sister Margaret, and another from an unfamiliar sender—a certain Mr. Robert White, from the town of Canmore. He took this last one and left the rest on the counter. He put on his half-moon spectacles and slid the letter from the envelope. The message was rather vague, quite brief: Mr. White wished for Matthew to visit him at his home on the outskirts of Canmore, as soon as possible. Matthew fetched paper and pen and wrote a swift reply, confirming he would be there first thing Tuesday morning.

The post office was next door to the shop, so Matthew was able to deliver the letter himself without losing any time, and five minutes later he was back at his premises. He read Margaret’s letter—nothing of note—and the rest of the day passed quietly, with only a couple of visits from old Benjamin and Edmund. A simple mend for the first; the second had merely stopped by to say hello. He closed up early, a little after two, went upstairs, and settled on the terrace until well into the evening, reading Dickens and watching the colourful autumn landscape.

On Tuesday, at dawn, he rose and took his cold shower. He brought out his English wool suit, his favourite green bow tie, and his beret. He had his usual breakfast and set off with his old—but by no means neglected—brown leather briefcase, in which he carried a pair of measuring tapes, pins, buttons, thread, scissors, scraps of assorted fabrics, graphite, paper, and a book of short stories by Dahl. He stepped outside to collect his old red Beetle, which he kept in Edmund’s garage. It was a crisp dawn that day; a gentle breeze blew in from the west, and the sky was streaked with orange and pink. The streets were empty and silent. Matthew walked with a cheerful air, whistling a Vivaldi melody. In under ten minutes, he was already on the road heading for Canmore.

He drove at a moderate speed, singing Come Fly with Me at the top of his lungs, when he suddenly fell silent—he had realised something. He was trying to recall Mr. White’s address, but his mind offered no clarity on the matter. He thought he remembered it was a few miles before reaching Canmore, but nothing more. He gave his memory a vote of confidence and decided to slow down a little, lower the music, and keep an eye out for any turnoff from the main road, since the town was no longer far. Sure enough, on the left side of the highway, half-hidden among the trees, an iron gateway appeared—rusted all over, with two large W’s at the top of the arch. Matthew turned in, passed beneath the metal archway, and continued along an unpaved road that wound deeper into the woods. A little over a mile brought him to a small roundabout at the end of the track.

There, imposing and grand, a large Victorian house rose among a vast field of firs. The façade looked decidedly neglected. The bricks had been dulled by years of oblivion, and ivy crept over much of the outer walls. Matthew parked the car in front of the entrance, then stood with his briefcase before the great oak door. He knocked three times with one of the two bronze knockers, each cast in the shape of a lion. Half a minute later, the door swung open, though no one appeared to be inside. “Perhaps some sort of automated system—technology is quite impressive these days,” Matthew told himself.

“Good morning!” Matthew called out.

His voice echoed through the entire mansion, but no one answered. The tailor took a few timid steps inside and surveyed the place. Before him rose a grand staircase draped in a scarlet carpet. A crystal chandelier hung sixty feet above the floor, and to the left and right, two vast corridors seemed to lead into nothingness.

“Good morning, stranger! Welcome!”

A voice from who-knows-where resounded through the house. Matthew’s skin prickled at the sound. A few seconds later, he could hear footsteps approaching from one of the hallways. To his right, a man appeared—though Matthew could not quite make him out at first glance. He was tall and thin, in his mid-forties, with black hair slicked back with an excess of gel and an enormous grin plastered across his face. He walked bolt upright, almost as though on a catwalk. His clothing, however, was what truly caught the eye. He wore a golden suit with brilliant blue accents, a purple shirt, a black bow tie, and a turquoise cape dotted with tiny silver stars. In his right hand, he carried a peculiar device.

“Forgive me if I startled you,” said the stranger. “I do enjoy a touch of drama, as any good showman would. Drama is the dash of spice we add to life, wouldn’t you agree?”

Matthew tried not to look surprised or rude, but he was at a loss for words. Besides, he was terribly absorbed by whatever it was the other man held in his hand.

When the man noticed, he said:

“Oh! Don’t trouble yourself over this,” he said, raising the device, “it’s just a new toy for a trick I’m developing. I’m a magician, my good friend!”

He delivered this last line with an extravagant flourish in his voice and finished with a deep, theatrical bow.

Though slightly terrified, Matthew felt it was his duty to respond.

“It is my pleasure to attend to such a distinguished gentleman,” said Matthew.

“Oh! You’re too kind,” said the magician, with feigned modesty.

“Well, it truly is a pleasure, Mr. White.”

“Pardon?” The magician looked momentarily distracted.

“You are Robert White, aren’t you?”

“Oh, do call me Robert, of course. The name doesn’t matter. Last week they sent someone who wouldn’t stop calling me Michael. Lord knows where the poor fellow got that idea!”

Matthew simply nodded and smiled shyly. His eyelids blinked more frequently than usual. He was, in truth, thoroughly bewildered by the man’s extravagance.

“Right then,” the magician continued, “we’d best get on with it. There’s certainly no time to waste.”

He walked over to one of the staircase’s pillars and gave it a push. The first step vanished, revealing a hidden compartment. He placed the mysterious device inside, pushed the pillar again, and the step returned to normal.

“Very good,” said the magician. “Follow me this way.”

They walked down the corridor to the right.

Matthew could not conceal his bewilderment. He wasn’t sure what was stranger—the absurd magician or the house itself. The hallway the man led him through was lined with paintings on both sides. Matthew made out one in which a large black crow smoked what appeared to be a carrot. He saw a mermaid teaching a class where all the students were penguins. A goat sat fishing in a rickety little boat adrift on a lake of fire. Two magenta rabbits played dominoes at a bar. And an old fox danced the tango with a deer.

“Here we are,” said the magician, coming to a halt.

They had reached the end of the corridor and stood before a white wooden door.

“Inside, you’ll find a blue balloon,” the magician went on. “It woke up feeling rather melancholy today. You’ll need to take hold of it, and whatever you do, don’t let it pop—that could make him furious.”

“Furious? The balloon?!”

Matthew thought this was perfectly plausible in a place like this.

“Of course not,” the magician said serenely, chuckling softly. “No, balloons don’t have feelings—well, not these ones, at least! But you know your trade better than I do. I’ll be in the study, at the end of the other hallway. When you’re finished, come round and I’ll give you your payment.” With that, the magician turned back the way they had come, leaving Matthew more confused than ever.

“Let’s see what we have here,” Matthew thought. Then he opened the door.

Upon entering the room, he saw a blue balloon, just as the magician had said, with a small black ribbon dangling beneath it. He took hold of it and passed through a scarlet curtain to the right. What poor Matthew saw on the other side stopped him dead. Before him sat the largest Bengal tiger he had ever laid eyes on. It was perched at a tea table, wearing a pink tutu, staring straight into his eyes.

Somewhere near Canmore, Mr. Robert White sat on his front porch, watching the clock, waiting for the tailor..