The old guys mixed up soapy lather in a bowl, stropped a straight razor, rinsed a shaving brush. They shrouded me with towels and got to work. One guy shaved me with the old straight razor. The other guy stood around doing not much of anything. I figured maybe he came into play later. The busy guy started chatting away, like barbers do. Told me the history of his business. The two of them had been buddies since childhood. Always lived here in Margrave since way back. Started out as barbers way before World War Two. Apprenticed in Atlanta. Opened a shop together as young men. Moved it to this location when the old neighbourhood was razed. He told me the history of the county from a barber’s perspective. Listed the personalities who’d been in and out of these
old chairs. Told me about all kinds of people.
`So tell me about the Kliners,’ I said.
He was a chatty guy, but that question shut him up. He stopped work and thought about it.
`Can’t help you with that enquiry, that’s for sure,’ he said. `That’s a subject we prefer not to discuss in here. Best if you ask me about somebody else altogether.’
I shrugged under the shroud of towels.
`OK,’ I said. `You ever heard of Blind Blake?’
`Him I heard of, that’s for sure,’ the old man said. `That’s a guy we can discuss, no problem at all.’
`Great,’ I said. `So what can you tell me?’
`He was here, time to time, way back,’ he said. `Born in Jacksonville, Florida, they say, just over the state line. Used to kind of trek on up from there, you know, through here, through Atlanta, all the way up north to Chicago, and then trek all the way back down again. Back through Atlanta, back through here, back home. Very different then, you know. No highway, no automobiles, at least not for a poor black man and his friends. All walking or riding on the freight cars.’
`You ever hear him play?’ I asked him.
He stopped work again and looked at me.
`Man, I’m seventy-four years old,’ he said. `This was back when I was just a little boy. We’re talking about Blind Blake here. Guys like that played in bars. Never was in no bars when I was a little boy, you understand. I would have got my behind whupped real good if I -had been. You should talk to my partner here. He’s a whole lot older than I am. He may have heard him play, only he may not remember it because he don’t remember much. Not even what he ate for breakfast. Am I right?
Hey, my old friend, what you eat for breakfast?’
The other old guy creaked over and leaned up on the next sink to mine. He was a gnarled old fellow the colour of the mahogany radio.
`I don’t know what I ate for breakfast,’ he said. `Don’t even know if I ate any breakfast at all. But listen up. I may be an old guy, but the truth is old guys remember stuff real well. Not recent things, you understand, but old things. You got to imagine your memory is like an old bucket, you know? Once it’s filled up with old stuff there ain’t no way to get new stuff in. No way at all, you understand? So I don’t remember any new stuff because my old bucket is all filled up with old stuff that happened way back. You understand what I’m saying here?’
`Sure I understand,’ I said. `So way back, did you ever hear him play?’
`Who?’ he said.
I looked at both of them in turn. I wasn’t sure whether this was some kind of a rehearsed routine.
`Blind Blake,’ I said. `Did you ever hear him play?’
`No, I never heard him play,’ the old guy said. `But my sister did. Got me a sister more than about ninety years old or thereabouts, may she be spared. Still alive. She did a little singing way back and she sang with old Blind Blake many a time.’
`She did?’ I said. `She sang with him?’