Old Chu the Pen Mender

Old Chu had mended fountain pens at the street corner for forty years.

His stall was smaller still: a wooden box, a magnifier, tweezers, nibs of every sort, a few bottles of ink. Most who came were old — a pen that would not feed, a split nib, a cracked barrel. Old Chu took it, opened, wiped, adjusted, ground, filled it with ink, and handed it back. Try it, he said. The old man held it, wrote two characters, and smiled.

Few write by hand these days. When a young one comes, it is mostly for a grandfather — his Parker won't feed. Old Chu says, the word is warmer from the hand; a keyboard can't put that strength in.

Old Chu himself wrote a fine hand. Above the stall hung a scroll of his own: treasure the word. He said the word is the human heart, not to be spoiled.

Once a white-haired old man brought a worn Parker, its shell gone pale, saying it was his late wife's, laid by for years, and yesterday he thought of it and it would not feed. Old Chu took it, opened with care; the feed was blocked, the ink dried to grit. He soaked it, cleared it, set a new tongue, tried a stroke — a smooth blue line. The old man held the pen, his hand shook, his eyes wet. She loved to write home with this, he said. Old Chu said, the pen lives, so the person lives.

Children came too, saying the teacher wants pen practice and it broke. Old Chu charged nothing, fixed it, and said, write well; the character stands, and so do you — words he often said to children, much as Old Fan the village teacher liked to say.

Old Chu's daughter lived in the city and urged him to close the stall; the craft has no market now, she said. Old Chu said, no market, but there are those who treasure. He kept an old Hero for himself, wiped it daily, the nib bright as new.

One winter the cultural center held the old-crafts fair; Old Chu went, set a table, mended on site. Among the onlookers a young man brought a cheap pen. Don't laugh, master, he said, it's my dad's, this one only. Old Chu worked a long while; the nib seated, the young man wrote his own name, strokes with bone. A good pen isn't dear, Old Chu said, it's had someone to use it.

Days went on. Old Chu's stall stood under an umbrella in rain, wrapped in a coat in snow. Once a week passed with no customer; he did not fret, wiped a pen, watched the street. The craft will end, he said, but as long as someone treasures the word, there will be pens to mend.

Year's end he wrote himself a couplet for the stall: the nib worn smooth, a life's affairs; the ink still warm, an old friend's face. Some said it was too literary; Old Chu said, what I mend is the human heart.

At night, closing, Old Chu tucked the old Hero in his breast. Wind crossed the corner; far off the office towers still burned with light, and countless keyboards clicked. He thought, those words tapped out will, one day, need someone with a pen to write them again, stroke by stroke.