Rare Objects (27 page)

Her expression was hard, flat. “Because you work there.” She signaled to the waiter. “I want something to drink.”

The waiter brought us both teacups full of gin. Diana took a long greedy gulp, wincing as she swallowed. She didn't like gin, but it was all they had that day. “I'm sorry,” she said after a moment. “I'm not myself.”

“It's all right.” I stared into my cup; I couldn't stop thinking about what had happened. It was as sudden and unexpected as being hit by a car and the whole encounter kept repeating, going round and round in my head, over and over again.

“You're somewhere else.” Diana ran her fingers along her pearl necklace. “What are you thinking about?”

“Nothing. The table,” I lied. “I'm sure I got the value wrong.”

“We should run away,” she said, frowning at the full dining room. “I hate this town!”

“Where?”

“Anywhere. Let's just go. Where do you want to go?”

I opened my handbag to look for cigarettes, but couldn't find any. I must've left them at work. “I don't know. I don't care.”

“Of course they'd find us.” She forced down another swallow. “They always do.”

“Who? What are you talking about?”

“Though they would never think to look someplace like Kansas or Little Rock. If we were poor, well, they'd never guess that one. There's an idea!” She grabbed my hand, suddenly keyed up. “Would you do that for me? Run off to Arkansas?”

This was what James was talking about. She was in a world of her own creation.

“I'm not going to Arkansas for anyone,” I said.

“If you loved me, you'd go.”

“No one loves
anyone
that much.”

She let go of my hand, sank back into her seat. “I suppose not.
Only”—she sighed—“I don't know what to do. I can't stay here. I'm suffocating.”

I wasn't in the mood for her to be morbid or cryptic. There were far too many questions buzzing around in my head. I picked up a menu instead. “Do you want something? Shall we eat?”

“I'm not hungry. I don't want to stay here. I don't know why we always come here anyway,” she added sullenly.

I didn't answer. I wasn't hungry either. All I wanted to do was go home, lie on my bed, and remember exactly what had happened, every single detail.

“I know. There's a place in Roxbury called the Black Rose. They have the best jazz in Boston.” Diana downed the rest of her drink and stood up. “Come on, you'll love it! The place is full of criminals!”

“I'm tired. I don't want to go all the way to Roxbury. Not tonight.”

“You'll be fine once you get there.” She threw a few bills down on the table. “I know the landlady. She's a complete cow but she'll look after us. She owes me. I once paid off half the police department just so the band could finish their set.”

“I'm not in the mood.”

She put her hands on her hips. “And I don't want to stay. I can't go home. Not tonight. I can't stand it there!”

I ran my hand over my eyes. “Then go to the apartment. Stay there!”

“Alone?” She made it sound as if it were a punishment.

I wanted to laugh. “Why not? God, I'd give my eyeteeth to be alone for a night!”

Her face changed. “What are you saying? That you're tired of me?”

“No, just that I'm
tired
!”

“Where did you really go tonight?”

She was like a terrier with a bone.

“Why don't you believe me?” I snapped, all the angrier because she'd caught me out.

“Because you're lying. Who were you with?”

“Not everything is your business! I don't belong to you, you know!”

“How thoughtful of you to inform me.” Tossing her mink over her shoulders, she flounced to the door, making a grand exit.

She was trying to take over my life, just as James had said. I wondered why I hadn't seen it before.

Still, I picked up my gloves and followed her out. The temperature had dropped. It was raining. “Look, maybe another time,” I called, pulling my coat tighter. “I just can't manage it tonight.”

But she was already flagging down a taxi. “Off you go, then. Do what you like.”

“Aw, don't be that way! Diana!” I caught her by the arm. But she winced in pain and pulled away. “What's wrong?” I pushed up the sleeve of her dress. The dim light of the streetlamp illuminated a raised pink lattice of small, carefully executed cuts just above her elbow. “Jesus! What's this?”

“It's nothing.” She twisted her arm free.

“What do you mean, it's nothing?” I was appalled by how deliberate the cuts were. “Who cut you?”

“No one. I did it.”

“
You
?
But why?”

“You wouldn't understand.”

“Why not?”

She stared at me hard. “Because you have nothing to cut out, May!”

Her words frightened me. “What does that mean?”

She waved as another cab approached, and it slowed down. “Are you coming or not?”

“Why are you cutting yourself?” I demanded.

“Because”—she spat the words out—“it's hopeless! The whole thing is hopeless! You have no idea what I've lost, how I struggle . . .” She stopped herself, seemed for a moment to teeter on the brink of tears, and then shouted, “You don't even care! You care nothing for me!”

“What? Because I don't want to go to Roxbury tonight?” I shouted back. “That's
insane
!”

Water dripped from her chic little hat onto her face. Her lips were drawn tight and her eyes round with fury. “Do you think that's insane?” She gave a hard little laugh. “You have no fucking idea!” And she gave me a shove that sent me stumbling backward into the rails of a wrought-iron fence. “Why don't you just leave me alone?”

She climbed in and slammed the door, and the cab drove off.

I stood on the sidewalk, wet and shaken, full of guilt, regret, and something else . . . relief.

Being with Diana was a liberating, unholy adventure. It was also dark and strange and, tonight, even a little terrifying. James was right.

Just like Lord Byron, she was mad, bad, and dangerous to know.

Then, without any warning, Mr. Winshaw returned.

Mr. Kessler sent me to collect some prints from the framer, and when I came back, he was no longer alone; someone was in his office with him.

As soon as I saw him, even before he turned round, I realized it must be him. A briny, sunbaked scent of faraway shores and foreign spices clung to his hair and clothes. And there was the way he stood, leaning against the doorframe as if he'd spent his entire life in doorways, coming and going, with never any intention of staying. Tall and lean, he was clearly no follower of fashion. His trousers were a size too large, cinched in by a worn belt, as if he'd bought them for another man; his shirtsleeves were rolled up to expose tanned forearms and large, rough hands—workman's hands, callused and red. He could've been a vagrant, but he had the confidence and ease of a man in complete possession of himself. He and Mr. Kessler were laughing about something; Mr. Kessler was actually giggling uncontrollably, slapping his hands on his knees. Suddenly I caught a glimpse of what he must have been like as a child. He had a pixieish delight and readiness for laughter I'd never seen before; his whole face was illuminated with happiness.

I stood outside the door, prints in hand, listening. Mr. Winshaw was describing the passage from Istanbul to Athens on a local fishing boat manned by Bulgarian smugglers. But it was the rhythm and full rounded tone of his English accent that captured my imagination. It was the voice of a natural storyteller. He reminded me of the archetypal guests of ancient fables, wayward travelers who appeared unexpectedly just before nightfall to sit by the fireside and recount incredible tales before disappearing again in the morning.

Mr. Kessler saw me standing in the hallway. “Miss Fanning!”

Mr. Winshaw turned. He was somewhere in his late thirties or early forties, with light, sandy hair streaked with gray, an aquiline nose, and a wide, intelligent forehead. His lucid gray-green eyes catching the light, he fixed me with a direct, inquisitive gaze. “So, this is Miss Fanning? Well”—he gave a slightly awkward laugh—“I must say you're not quite what I was expecting!”

“And what were you expecting?” I asked.

“Someone older. Someone not quite so . . . so
blond
,” he admitted, glancing at Mr. Kessler.

“Miss Fanning is a very capable girl,” Mr. Kessler assured him.

“I have no doubt.” Still, he frowned, changing the subject. “Has Kessler been treating you well?”

“Yes, I'm very grateful to Mr. Kessler.”

“We're all grateful to Kessler.”

“I'm sorry I wasn't here when you arrived. Only you didn't give us fair warning.”

“Oh, Winshaw never writes!” Mr. Kessler said. “You're lucky if you get so much as a postcard in six months!”

I looked down at my shoes, suddenly self-conscious.

Apparently it was contagious.

Coloring a little, Mr. Winshaw tossed his jacket onto his desk. “Writing is overrated, don't you think? One should only ever bother if there's something to say. Now”—he rubbed his hands together—“shall we unpack these things?” And he headed toward the back room, calling over his shoulder, “You didn't think I'd come back empty-handed, did you?”

We followed him. There were three large wooden crates, covered in customs stamps. They too smelled of the sea and rain, of exotic harbors and distant lands. Mr. Winshaw used a crowbar to open them, while Mr. Kessler and I unpacked various treasures like excited children opening gifts on Christmas Day. And they turned out to be packed in Mr. Winshaw's distinctive fashion, using old suitcases and rolls of cheap muslin.

I held up a battered brown leather valise. “You're slipping, Mr. Winshaw. This isn't nearly as fashionable as some of the others in your collection.”

“Yes, well, it seems there are fewer women traveling these days.
I can't imagine why. The lost-and-found department at the shipping port had only these sad leftovers.”

“So you scour through lost luggage, is that your secret? And what, may I ask, do you do with all the clothes?”

He grinned. “I can't tell you all my secrets, Fanning. We'd have nothing left to talk about.”

He opened another trunk and passed us a baby-pink hatbox. The thrill was even greater than when Mr. Kessler and I had unpacked the vases. Inside was a collection of rare items from the ancient Middle East.

“Most of these are plaster casts, done on site at the expedition in Ur,” Mr. Winshaw explained, “but there are a few exceptional original pieces. What do you think?” he asked Mr. Kessler. “If they don't want them here, Pittsburgh or Cleveland will take them, don't you agree?”

“That's likely.” Mr. Kessler nodded. “Maybe even New York.”

“I heard they weren't buying right now.”

“That's what they say officially, but no one else has anything like this.” Mr. Kessler held up a bronze sculpture of a female deity with clawed feet. “Look at this! Isn't she extraordinary?”

I came closer.

Extraordinary was right. Her face was lovely, even peaceful, her figure full and voluptuous, yet her head was crowned in horns and her legs transformed below the knees into the sharply taloned feet of a bird of prey.

“Who is she?” I asked.

“Well, that's a matter of debate,” Mr. Winshaw answered. “She could be Ereshkigal, ruler of the underworld of ancient Mesopotamia, or Ishtar, the goddess of sexual congress, love, and war, or even the demoness Lilith.”

“She's magnificent! Look”—Mr. Kessler turned her round—“her wings are facing down; that's the symbol of the underworld. I doubt she's Ishtar.”

“But she could be an
aspect
of Ishtar,” Mr. Winshaw pointed out.

“Is that what Woolley thought?”

“I don't know what Woolley thought.” Mr. Winshaw frowned impatiently. “Not all of us defer to Woolley!”

Mr. Kessler wasn't listening. He turned to me instead, overcome by a sudden swell of emotion. “You see how lucky we are? This isn't just a job. It's a privilege—a vocation! So few people have a real
feel
for the life of objects. Or the significance of time.” He held the figure up. “To hold a fragment of the ancient world in the palm of your hand and admire its artistry, to wonder at its purpose, to pause and consider the vast empires that rose and fell around it while this frail scrap survived, against all odds, is to touch the very mind and soul that made it—across centuries, across continents! Across everything that divides cultures and human beings. This is an honor, Miss Fanning. And a responsibility.” He placed it carefully on the table. “We're custodians, stewards. When we cultivate relationships with serious collectors, encourage them in their investments, watch a collection grow, plan its next acquisition, what we're really doing is shaping a legacy that, with any luck, will survive intact for generations. Our scholarship, our aesthetic judgment, ensures that.”

“There's no need to lecture her.” Mr. Winshaw laughed. “She's a secretary, not a curator!”

Mr. Kessler was about to reply when the bell on the door of the shop jangled as a customer came in. “Excuse me, please.”

He went to the front, and I was left alone with Mr. Winshaw.

I watched as he used a crowbar to open another crate. “I
am
interested, actually.”

“Are you? Well, good. That will help you to make sales.” He tossed the lid aside. “I understand you've already made a good start.”

“Really?”

“Kessler told me it was you who sold the ring of Nemesis.” He dug out another case.

I couldn't work out what he was talking about. “You mean the black agate ring?”