Rare Objects (30 page)

I moved along to an adjoining room. A pair of life-size Archaic Greek statues dominated: two identical figures carved in red marble, naked and flawlessly proportioned, standing with the same foot forward, hands clenched by their sides.

They were magnificent and yet bound with the static tension of their own perfection.

“They're
kouroi
, which means ‘youth' in Greek,” Mr. Winshaw said, coming up behind me. “Brothers, in fact; Kleobis and Biton. See how they're symmetrical? To the Greeks, they represented everything that was considered to be best in masculinity—strength, physical excellence, piety.”

“Piety?” It seemed an odd word to use.

“A certain kind of piety,” he allowed.

“They look so stiff.”

“Well”—he took out yet another cigarette—“there's nothing natural about perfection. That's their downfall, you see. The myth says they were such admirable examples of manhood that their
mother prayed to the goddess Hera to reward them with the best gift the gods could give a mortal.”

“And did she?”

“Absolutely. Hera killed them in their sleep at a religious festival, so that they would be remembered always and worshipped as heroes.”

I gave a low whistle. “If that's what she does to people she likes, you
really
don't want to end up on her bad side!”

“Living a long life meant nothing to the Greeks compared to the immortality of honor.”

Reading the plaque, I was startled to see the name of the benefactor
:
“Made possible by a generous donation from Diana Van der Laar.”

When had this happened? Here was another event in Diana's life she'd never even mentioned to me, that I'd discovered by accident. And to my irritation, I felt a stab of loneliness.

“What does it say?” Mr. Winshaw asked.

“Just that this was donated by the Van der Laars too.”

“Well, aren't they civic-minded?”

“Why, Winshaw! Can that really be you, back from your travels?”

We turned. Philip Kimberly was strolling across the great hall, arms spread wide like a gracious host greeting a tardy houseguest. Wearing a wide pinstripe suit and a radiant gold silk tie bound in a large double Windsor knot, he crossed the marble floor looking every inch the fashionable man-about-town. He'd recently grown a small, thin mustache that made him look faintly like William Powell. As he approached, the air around him was scented with the delicate freshness of lemon vetiver water.

“Good to see you, old boy!” He shook Mr. Winshaw's hand. “So, what do you think?”

Mr. Winshaw brushed a bit of ash off his rumpled trench coat. “It looks like you've got some new pieces and some new patrons. The Van der Laars certainly have been generous.”

Mr. Kimberly raised an eyebrow. “To both of us, wouldn't you say? So, how long are you in town?”

“Who says I'm going anywhere?” Mr. Winshaw shot a stream of smoke at the ceiling.

“Oh, it's not like you to ever stay anywhere for long.” Mr. Kimberly laughed. “Besides, I'm curious. If I were smart, I'd have you followed and try to snatch those prizes before you do! Where'd you get that vase, for example?”

“Oh, well, that would be telling.”

“You know, you should come for drinks at my club sometime, tell us all some stories of your adventures. It's very comfortable, and there are a number of people I could introduce you to. People who might be useful.”

But Mr. Winshaw was impervious to Mr. Kimberly's charm. “That's more Kessler's area than mine. Why don't you invite him?”

Mr. Kimberly hesitated, gave a sharp little cough. “You know the rules. Be fair now. I'm only trying to help.”

“You know me.” Mr. Winshaw shrugged. “I prefer useless friends.”

Mr. Kimberly's face flushed, his ears turning bright pink.

Mr. Kessler came up, bursting with excitement. “Mr. Kimberly! They look very well, don't you think?”

Mr. Kimberly smiled thinly. “I'm glad you approve. What do you think of our redecoration?” He gestured to the painters behind them.

Mr. Winshaw narrowed his eyes to better see the mural. “What is that exactly? A satyr? Playing
panpipes
? And are those nymphs frolicking across an open field?”

Mr. Kessler flashed him a warning look.

“It's a metaphor, actually,” Mr. Kimberly explained indulgently, gesturing to the vast marble hall. “Here lies inspiration and hope. A glimpse of what we could be again. Another golden age.”

Mr. Winshaw flicked a bit of ash onto the floor. “Only it's a myth.”

“Well”—Mr. Kimberly straightened—“I'm sorry if you don't approve. Of course we're planning to increase the collection over time. We've got a few patrons now who are willing to invest considerably and are always eager to collaborate with dealers who understand our vision.”

Mr. Kessler gave Winshaw a panicked look.

I couldn't bear the tension anymore. “I see Diana has made another bequest. Congratulations! It's a wonderful piece.”

They all looked at me.

Mr. Kimberly frowned, only just recognizing who I was. “But of course, you know her, don't you?”

“I'm only sorry I missed the reception. We had such a good time at the last one, didn't we, Mr. Kessler? What a success!” I added, a little too brightly.

“Yes, well . . .” Mr. Kimberly tugged his cuffs down over his wrists with a quick, sharp movement. “I'm afraid on this occasion the family wanted something more discreet. Especially after the last incident.”

He was no doubt referring to Diana's refusal to put on a satisfactory public show.

“Well, maybe next time we can come?” Mr. Kessler suggested, giving me a grateful smile. “We so enjoy working with their entire family.”

As we were leaving, I hung back to speak to Mr. Winshaw.
“Why did you put Mr. Kimberly on the spot like that?” I whispered. “Can't you see how important this is to Mr. Kessler?”

“I understand better than you know, Fanning,” he said, heading down the stairs.

“Then how could you embarrass him?” I asked, struggling to keep up with him.

He stopped abruptly, turned on me. “You have no idea what you're talking about!”

“Really? Well, then, enlighten me!”

“When we first started out, Kimberly was just an assistant, trying to get his foot in the door of the museum. He approached Kessler about some small pieces for the Egyptian gallery. They were modest but first-class—scarabs and the like, in excellent condition. Kimberly agreed on a price but after delivery only paid half. He promised Kessler they would go into the main collection, that he would repay him over time. But it turned out he'd sold them on to a private buyer for considerably more money.”

“You mean he cheated him?” Mr. Kimberly, with his dapper suits, Hollywood mustache, and lectures on civic idealism, was a thief? “But why didn't Mr. Kessler go to the police?”

“Because he knew Kimberly could easily destroy his professional reputation if he chose. He's the kind of man who promises anything to get what he wants.”

“Then why does Mr. Kessler continue to deal with him?”

“Because he can't afford not to. Nobody can. And Kessler's pragmatic. Kimberly's a loathsome creature. I'm only sorry that Kessler has to deal with him at all,” Mr. Winshaw added, carrying on down to the foyer.

I straggled along after him, feeling stupid. “I'm sorry. I guess I jumped the gun.”

“I guess you did.”

“You must think I'm naive.”

“It's normal to give people the benefit of the doubt. But remember, Fanning, for those ascending the social ladder, other people are only rungs. And this is a town of climbers.”

“Well, in any case”—I sighed—“I don't think Mr. Kessler is speaking to you.”

Mr. Winshaw looked across at Mr. Kessler, who was walking, head down, very quickly ahead of us. “Kessler's heard everything I have to say anyway.”

After a few more days I gave in and wrote to Diana. I sent her a postcard of Bunker Hill and wrote “I surrender. Any chance of reconvening the No Way Out Club?” on the back. I sent it to the apartment in Waverly Mansions. But I got no reply.

Her silence bothered me more than I liked to admit. A couple of times I walked over to Waverly Mansions after work and was on the verge of letting myself in. Instead, I stood outside, staring up at the windows of the apartment, straining for a glimpse of her. I didn't want to go up to the apartment and find her there with other people, new friends. As difficult and unpredictable as Diana could be, she was also the only person who understood my need for freedom and who never judged me for it. There was sanity in our madness together that I couldn't find with anyone else. So I ended up walking away. I needed her, apparently more than she needed me. But it was her refusal to even acknowledge me, her complete and utter disregard, that wounded me the most.

Then one afternoon James Van der Laar turned up at the shop again.

I hadn't seen or heard from him in weeks. And yet he walked in as if he knew I'd been waiting for him. I had. I didn't like that either; it was dangerous to think so much about a man I didn't really know. And his confidence disturbed me, almost as much as my excitement at seeing him again.

“Have luncheon with me,” he commanded, casting a restless eye around as if searching for something and vaguely irritated not to find it.

I resisted the urge to accept immediately. “Why?”

He picked up a Victorian silver letter opener, twirled it between his fingers. “Because. I've come all the way from New York to see you, May Fanning. Because you've taken residency in my thoughts and, quite frankly, I'm considering charging you rent for the time and space you occupy in my head.”

He looked straight at me, and I felt my entire body warm with the sudden flush of power. Still, I held my ground.

“It's too late for lunch. And you forget, I'm at work. Mr. Kessler won't allow it.”

“I'm an important client. Mr. Kessler will be only too happy to part with you. Now”—he held out his arm—“come and bathe me in the glaring light of your cynicism, Miss Fanning. I long to be scrutinized, judged, and found wanting.”

We went to Locke-Ober, an old French restaurant on Winter Place. The maître d', Bernard, had been there almost as long as the restaurant itself and was as small and wrinkled as an old crab apple, with shockingly black hair that could only have come from a bottle. He fell upon James as soon as he saw him. “Ah, Mr. Van der Laar!” he gasped. “It's been far too long!
Far
too long! And who, may I ask, is this ravishing creature?”

“This is Miss Fanning
.
” James introduced us.

“But she's exquisite!” Bernard took a step back. “A vision! Like something from a wonderful dream!”

I'd never had such a reception; I glanced at James to see if this was all some elaborate joke.

But he just smiled. “I'm sorry I didn't ring ahead, Bernard. Can you fit us in?”

“For you, anything! But we must find the perfect table to show off Miss Fanning!” He cast a beady black eye around the room. It was surprisingly crowded—crammed with fashionable couples, dining late, people with nowhere to go and nothing to do until it was time to dress for cocktails.

“Here!” Bernard ferried us to a table at the center of the room. “Now you will make all the other women jealous!”

Finally alone with James, I felt self-conscious and out of my depth. After weeks of imagining this moment, I was suddenly subdued and formal. The grandeur of the place, the other couples looking across at us, recognizing him, the absurd obsequiousness of Bernard, all put me on edge. Under the table my leg jogged up and down uncontrollably, and I had to cross my ankles to hide it.

But James was careful to put me at ease, and immediately ordered champagne, a bottle so old and venerable that its label was yellowed and it was covered with a fine layer of dust. “The family pays to keep a private stock here,” he explained. “All acquired before the Volstead Act, so no one can touch them. We're doing a public service, you see—ensuring it doesn't fall into the wrong hands.”

I'd never had champagne before. And it never occurred to me that anyone would be so extravagant as to drink it during luncheon. But when I looked around, there were ice buckets at almost all the tables. It was apparently the “done thing,” and
James acted as if it were no less than what I expected. I tried to act that way too.

The waiter popped the cork and poured.

“Here's to you.” James raised his glass.

“Here's to all of us.” I raised my glass too.

The smell of crisp green apples and fine bubbles tickled my nose, behind it the seductive promise of a door unlocking in my head, of my nerves evaporating and an elegant, gay afternoon unfolding easily before us. From the very first sip, a glorious relief spread through me.

Ignoring the menu, James ordered for both of us in French, sending waiters racing back to the kitchen to meet his requests. Plates of delicately flavored fish in saffron sauce appeared, with
pommes d
auphinois
and cold asparagus in vinaigrette, food so delicious I had difficulty concentrating on anything else.

“So, where have you been lately?” he wanted to know.

“Nowhere,” I said in between greedy bites. “Why?”

“I wonder why we haven't seen you. I know Diana's quite fond of you. I suppose she'll be in touch when she gets back.”

“Back?” I stopped mid-mouthful. “Back from where?”

“Saint-Tropez. Didn't she tell you?”

It never occurred to me that she might be traveling. “I'm afraid not.”

“Well, she has a mind like a sieve. She goes every year. The sun does her good. Personally, I prefer Monte Carlo. Or Beaulieu. Have you been recently?”