The Man in My Basement by Walter Mosley

breath. When I put down the lid, the music stopped. Not real music but something that played in my mind. Something high-pitched but soft and repeating like a squeaky woodwind playing its rendition of cascading water.
    My intestines grew colder and a spasm wanted to run down my spine but did not. I clutched Narciss’s forearm for support and took another deep breath.
    “Tell me about the rest of this stuff,” I said.
    She had to disengage from my grip to look at her spiral pad. She said a lot of stuff about quality and pedigree, condition of resins and uniqueness in the market. She talked about the market a lot, but I didn’t understand most of it. It was just good to hear her talking. So self-assured and serious. Every beat was a word and every word meant something. Maybe I didn’t understand, but I hoped to, I wanted to.
    “So?” she asked. “What do you think?”
    “About what?”
    “Is there something wrong, Mr. Blakey?”
    Just then Ricky broke out into loud laughter. I looked toward the kitchen and then back to Narciss.
    “Why do you ask that?”
    “I don’t know,” she said with a frown. “You seem distracted. When I came you were sitting in that window in the dark, and you seemed like you… you were in a daze. But I think I understand.”
    “Well if you do I hope you let me in on it.”
    She smiled at my helplessness and said, “I’m sure that all of this digging into your family history has made you very upset. Bringing it all out. Thinking about selling it off. It must feel like selling your soul, or even worse, selling your ancestors’ souls.”
    Again what she said cut right into me. I was beginning to fear her words.
    “It’s just stuff,” I said. “Something that’s been in the basement. I didn’t even know I had most of it. I would have thrown it away if it wasn’t for Ricky.”
    “It might be better that way,” she said. “At least if you threw away the spirit of your heritage, you wouldn’t make it into merchandise.”
    “Are you trying to talk me out of this?” I asked the slender brown woman.
    “I’m sorry, Mr. Blakey. You know, I come to the antique business through school. I got my B.A. at Penn with a double major in anthropology and archaeology. Then I went to RISD for a graduate degree in textiles. Everything I know about antiques comes from the inside out. It’s more than a business with me; it’s a way to see our history. And I thought maybe you had the same feelings when you got so low.”
    “Hey, hey, hey,” I said again in that low voice. “I’m sorry. This is all new to me. But you know I’ve got to sell this stuff. Even if it’s something important and I don’t know it. Maybe we could find some people like you to appreciate what they got. How much do you think it’s worth?”
    “That depends,” she said. “If the paintings have artistic value, which I doubt, they could go pretty high. But I think I can authenticate the dates they were done and the artist, Blythe Blakey-Richards, and so I’m sure there are some museums and universities that would have at least an anthropological interest. The furniture is Arts and Crafts and earlier. The clothes have museum possibilities, and there are also some collectors. The toys and tools might be the most valuable items. I would try to sell them to dealers. The whole lot, with the exception of the masks, might bring in anywhere from forty to a hundred thousand. Probably closer to forty.”
    “Damn.” That was Ricky. He was standing in the doorway to the kitchen. “Four gees just for knowing who should shake hands. That’s what I need to do for a livin’.”
    He rubbed his hands together and grinned. “You’all can tell me the damage later. Right now I got to go see somebody. Have a nice dinner.”
    Ricky shook my hand, maybe for the first time ever, and he kissed Narciss on the cheek. Then he danced out the front door, full of the expectations of Bethany’s charms.
    When he was gone I asked, “So how do