The Thackery T. Lambshead Cabinet of Curiosities

My stomach clenched at the unprofessional thought. I concentrated on my task, passing my feather duster with the greatest attention on the delicate pedestal carvings, but my gaze wandered back to the pea. It had never happened before. In all those years, never had one single question about any of the objects crossed my mind. My deference to the doctor’s wishes had always been absolute.

Dr. Lambshead had become all my family after my parents died. No sensible person can lend credence to the cook’s rants; he attributes a selfish intent to each of the doctor’s good actions. It is untrue that my legal guardian discouraged my interest in humanities to secure the services of an unpaid employee. When a paralysing timidity forced me to abandon my studies at Oxford, the doctor restored my self-esteem by assuring me I was the only person he could trust to keep his ever-growing collection mildew-free. He had always treated me with consideration. And dust was our enemy.

Dust, Paulette, dust hard and true, he used to say. Blessed be the stutter that forced you to forgo your wish to become a teacher. Dusting is a greater responsibility. Dusting must be your obsession. The professional Duster’s mission is to make a stand against the particles that come out of the ether, the first step taken by Mother Nature in the process of smothering her children. Entropy, the doctor said, erases all differences, deconstructing complex matter into simple elements. Dust, full of vile microorganisms, is the harbinger of entropy and must be confronted with unrelenting determination. Forget the wonders gathered in this basement room. See only concave shapes and recesses and carvings as receptacles to choking death, headquarters where the enemy prepares for sorties. Don’t let the soldiers of entropy regroup to launch the next offensive. Destroy them with your feather duster, moist rag, and badger-bristle brush. Wage war against the blanket of oblivion, Paulette. Make these shelves a testimony to Man’s struggle for eternity.

With these words in mind, I would spend my days in the doctor’s cabinet of curiosities, stroking precious items with my instruments. Never seeing the items themselves. Always considering these disparate objects in their mere quality of innocent victims to dust.

So why was I fascinated by the most humble among the doctor’s treasures? Despite the glamorous presentation on the tasselled cushion, it was a simple pea—so round, so green, so impossibly glossy within the confined space of the bell.

It struck me that the pea, like other items protected by cloths, jars, bottles, cases, and sandalwood- or stone-inlaid boxes, didn’t need me. Surely enough, the outer shell, the glass bell that protected it, would soon be marred by layers of particles, without my repeated interventions. But the pea itself flaunted its perfect round shape unblemished by the agents of annihilation. My chest ached as I realized how peripheral I was in the pea’s destiny.

Dr. Lambshead’s cook, a retired professor who philosophised while stirring sauces, once said my job epitomised the concept of empty instrumentality. He meant that once I had finished dusting, I would have to start it over again and there could be no lasting result of my toiling, ever. You’re like the dust you fight, Paulette, a monument to impermanence. But I saw no problem in being a modest tool. Day after day, I won my battle against the dancing motes and went home happy, knowing that the enemy would infiltrate the basement during the night, laying a thin sheet of powdery specks on everything, but I would counter the attack the following day, and again, and I’d never be unemployed.

An immutable ritual. I wore a pristine white apron. Washed my hands at the sink concealed behind a drape in a corner of the one-room basement. Seized my instruments. Dusting, I crossed the strokes, swivelled before stepping toward the next spot, dedicated an entrechat to the smallest pieces and bowed to the tallest, seeing them as a continuum of surfaces to dust. I worked with enthusiasm, disputing my protégés to my opponent’s domination. I was proud of my mission. I was content. Above everything, I was useful.

Until I saw the pea and its uncaring perfection.

The most fragile of pieces owed its safety to a transparent dome, an inanimate device, not to me. The doctor believed my work insufficient. He displayed the pea to prove the inanity of my task, and the cruel man had expected my curiosity to take over. He had wanted me to see the pea.