Rare Objects (28 page)

He looked across. “You
did
know it was Nemesis, didn't you?” He made it sound as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

I suppose my face gave me away. “I thought it might be Clotho, one of the three Fates.”

Up shot his eyebrows. “Is that what Kessler said? Really?” He gave a low whistle. “The old man's slipping!”

“No, I looked it up. On my own.”

“
You?
” He put the crowbar down. “And why did you presume to do that?”

I could feel myself flushing, suddenly on the defensive. “I just thought—”

“Well, you shouldn't.” He cut me off. “It's not your place. You should have consulted with Kessler; he would have set you straight. We must be careful,” he warned, “to identify things accurately. Can you imagine if someone bought something, believing it to be an ancient Greek artifact, if it was in fact Etruscan?”

I didn't know the difference between Greek and Etruscan either. Clearly he thought I was an idiot, completely out of my depth.

Strained silence followed.

I thought of James and the way he'd bought the ring, saying it made him think of me. If it wasn't a good-luck charm, what was it?

Persia padded in, weaving around Mr. Winshaw's legs, purring loudly. He gave him an affectionate scratch under the chin. “You haven't got any tea, have you, Fanning?”

“
‘
Fanning
'?” It was bad enough to be reprimanded like a child. “I do have a first name, you know!”

“Sorry.” He gave me a slightly apologetic look. “It's an English public school thing—you get used to people calling you by your surname. Actually, it's a sign of affection.”

“Only in England is it a sign of affection when someone forgets your name.”

“They don't forget it. Chances are they never learned it in the first place.” He smiled.

“So”—I decided to swallow my pride—“tell me, then: Who exactly is Nemesis?”

He looked at me as if I'd asked him to teach me the alphabet. “Nemesis is a Greek goddess. The name Nemesis is derived from the Greek words
nemêsis
and
nemô
, meaning ‘dispenser of dues.'”

“Dues?”

“Punishment,” he elaborated. “What's coming to you. She balances good fortune, Thyke, against hubris. Actually, retribution is a more accurate way of thinking of it.”

“You mean revenge?”

He winced slightly, as if the word were philosophically clumsy. “That's one way of putting it. A little simplistic, though.”

“Forgive me. My Greek's a little rusty.”

I took the kettle into the bathroom and filled it.

The first time I'd seen the ring, wrapped in that dirty handkerchief it struck me as unusual. Perhaps it was just my imagination,
but I recalled the strange, compelling aura that seemed to surround it. Was it more than just symbolic?

Going back in, I turned on the hot plate. “Where did you get it?”

He was stacking up the empty cases. “I'm sorry?”

“The ring of Nemesis. I was wondering where you got it.”

“It came from a Swiss collector. Part of a considerable private collection—the same family that sold the vases.”

“Why did they sell?”

He shrugged. “I'm not sure, really. Some personal inclination.”

“It was wrapped in a dirty hankie. You know, we almost completely overlooked it.”

He pulled out another case, in a particularly anemic shade of eau de Nil. “And so did the customs officials. That's the point. They tend to confiscate jewelry when they can. It sells quite easily on the black market.”

I took the tea down from the shelf. “Is it bad luck?”

“The ring? Well, it would be bad luck if you lost it—it's worth a lot of money.” He unwrapped a small stone plaque covered in rows of cuneiform writing. “Why?” He looked across at me. “You're not superstitious, on top of everything else?”

I stopped what I was doing. “On top of what, precisely?”

“On top of being blond, doe-eyed, and all of sixteen years old!” he laughed.

“Doe-eyed?”

“It's a compliment! Don't be so touchy!”

I was ready to pitch a cup at his head.

“Like not remembering my name?” I asked. “And I'm twenty-five, actually.”

“Fine.” He held up his hands. “Look, we've never had an assistant before. And certainly not a girl.”

“Does that mean you don't want one?”

“I didn't say that. I just meant, well . . . you're not what I was expecting, that's all.”

I spooned the tea leaves furiously into the pot. “And what were you expecting?”

He shrugged. “I thought you were older.”

“What difference does that make?”

“It just . . . well, it just does! Anyway,” he said, changing the subject, “you were asking about the ring.”

“I wanted to know if by wearing it, one is invoking Nemesis. Like a curse?”

“You
are
superstitious!” He chuckled, leaning back on an empty crate. “Wait a minute, May Fanning—is that May, short for Maeve, by any chance? You're Irish, aren't you? I'll bet you grew up with little people and banshees and leprechauns and all sorts!”

His cockiness rankled. “Can you please just answer the question?”

He scooped Persia up, and the cat went limp with pleasure in his arms. “Nemesis is a goddess, but she's also more than that; she represents a force, a fundamental aspect of the equilibrium of the universe. It's not really a matter of her being good or evil, cursed or lucky. She's simply part of the way of things.”

I folded my arms across my chest. “So you're incapable of giving a straight answer, is that it?”

He tried again. “Look . . . each action has its reaction. We tend to see things in terms of good luck or bad luck, but in the end, what really matters is not the twists and turns of fate but what you do with them. After all, your character isn't measured in your circumstances, but by your attitude and actions.”

“Oh I see! Like a classic hero—‘Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will / To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.'”

The closing lines of the poem came out before I could stop myself. I'd read them so many times, they were like a prayer repeated over and over in my head.

Mr. Winshaw stopped petting Persia and stared at me. “Did you just quote ‘Ulysses'?”

Now I had his attention.

I pretended to concentrate on stirring the tea. “I suppose I did.”

“
You
know ‘Ulysses'?”

The disbelief in his voice was maddening.

“Well, let's see. That's the one about the great warrior of the Trojan War, stuck on an island and given the promise of an immortal life with a beautiful goddess, but who'd rather be pummeled at sea by Poseidon than live out his days quietly in paradise. Am I right?”

He put Persia down. “Actually, it's about craving your own mortality. Being hungry for life, for obstacles, no matter the cost.”

He always had to have the upper hand.

“Ulysses wants to test himself,” he continued, “to feel alive. After all, what's immortality but death, really—a vast, golden emptiness, devoid of the only true experiences that make life worthwhile?”

“Do you honestly believe that the suffering of life is preferable to heaven?”

“Heaven isn't a place, Fanning!” He rolled his eyes as if he'd been pushed beyond the limits of human endurance. “Why does everyone assume it's a destination—some celestial version of Grand Central Station? It's a state of being! The unshakable certainty of
who
you are and
where
you fit in the world! The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune aside, we suffer most when we try to be someone or something we're not.”

He spoke in grand, abstract concepts the way other people
chatted about the weather or politics. I'd never met anyone so willing or able to dissect metaphysical ideas. Not that this impressed me much.

“Oh, how terribly
English
of you! So we should all stay firmly in our place, is that it?”

“Of course not! We have to test the limits—we're human!”

“And so we
have
to suffer,” I concluded.

Talking with him was like being tossed into a dangerous, fast-moving current; one had to swim hard against the unrelenting tide of his arguments.

“Yes! Absolutely! Don't you see? Our souls are forged in adversity. Without it, we're shapeless, indistinct! Suffering isn't punishment, it's a catalyst!” He began to pace the floor, as if he were pulling ideas from the air around him. “Why, a man might think himself capable of anything when life is calm, might imagine himself equal to great sacrifice, dignity, or courage. But only in our desperate moments do we truly know what we're made of or who we are. The hour of our calamity is the only true test of our character—without it we're unformed and incomplete!”

“And what if the hour of our calamity is our last?” I countered. (Apparently I had just as many philosophical opinions as he did, which surprised me.)

Quite suddenly he stopped pacing. “Now there's a question,” he admitted. Some inner shadow darkened his fervor. “Then we die,” he said quietly. “But we die having truly lived. And nothing can diminish that.”

Whatever that shadow was, it had diffused his enthusiasm for the argument. He turned back to unpacking again. “It's always been one of my favorites, that poem. How do you know it?”

“You'd be surprised, Mr. Winshaw. They give library cards to anyone these days. Even secretaries.”

Mr. Kessler coughed in the doorway. “Is he lecturing you?”

“He's trying to.” I poured out the tea and handed them each a cup.

“Don't let him batter you with his atheism and intellect,” Mr. Kessler warned, picking up the cuneiform tablet.

“I'm not an atheist! I believe in gods,” Mr. Winshaw protested. “I just haven't decided which ones.”

“How can you say that?” I passed him the sugar bowl. “There is only one god!”

“Really?” He was quite easy to provoke. “And would that be yours, mine, or Kessler's? Or”—he held up a finger—“are we all right? Is the god you choose the god you deserve?”

“Oh, dear, Mr. Winshaw!” I sighed. “How can you ask such questions?”

“How can you not?”

“Why, you believe not only that you can choose your god depending on your mood, but that you can
design
him as well!” I shook my head in wonder. “Could you possibly be more arrogant?”

Mr. Kessler snorted in delight.

“Isn't that what men have been doing since the history of time?” he replied, clearly enjoying himself again. “Besides, it isn't arrogance.”

“What is it then?”

“Necessity.”

Mr. Kessler looked at me. “I told you. You will be here all night, arguing with him. And by morning, you will be no closer to a conclusion.”

I took a sip of the hot tea. Mr. Winshaw was intellectually vain. But he spoke about things no one else discussed, ideas I didn't even know I believed in; he was like a whetstone, sharpening my thoughts and mind. Perhaps he was sent to refine my character through suffering, I thought wryly.

That evening, on the way home, I stopped into the library and, sitting at one of the long wooden tables, I looked up Nemesis.

The goddess of retribution avenging
both evil actions and redressing unjustified good fortune, Nemesis was the eternal embodiment of avenging justice
for those who committed crimes with apparent impunity
,
or who had inordinate good luck. Bringing an often sudden and terrible
balance to
bear in human affairs, she portioned out both happiness and unhappiness, taking care that neither
was too frequent or excessive in any man's life. Often depicted as a comely winged goddess, her symbols were the apple branch
,
rein
,
lash
,
sword
,
or balance. And at her feet turned the great wheel of life itself,
for
she was the inescapable force that conquered all, rolling
the proud from on high
into the dirt and bridling the arrogant and unfaithful with her unshakable bit. For all were her subjects, from beggar to king, and none escaped her whip of misery.

So the wheel on the ring wasn't a spinning wheel, but the ever-turning wheel of fortune. And she was holding a whip, not a thread. Were Cupid and Psyche present because of the goddess's inclination to right the wrongs in matters of love?

I closed the book, resolved to do my research properly from now on.

Still, I couldn't help thinking of the ring, and the man who wore it. The man who'd taken over my thoughts and imagination. James Van der Laar was like a disease, spreading through my mind and body, even in his absence.

At night I lay in bed, imagining his hands on my skin, his body on mine.

I might have been infected, dying even. But I didn't want to be cured.

Mr. Winshaw turned out to be an invigorating if somewhat anarchic force in the daily fortunes of Winshaw and Kessler. He
didn't work regular hours, he wasn't much interested in the actual business of selling things, and his presence often resulted in chaos—like the morning Mr. Kessler and I arrived to find all of the furniture out on the sidewalk. Apparently Mr. Winshaw had risen early with a vision, hired a couple of drifters from the Common to help with the lifting, and cleared out everything in the shop. Then, somewhere in the middle of putting things back, they got hungry and decided to go for breakfast, leaving it all on the pavement. I was instructed to sit outside and keep an eye on things while Mr. Kessler frantically tracked them down. Luckily people took it to be a clearance sale, and I sold a mahogany campaign desk and the Limoges tea set before they returned.