Rare Objects (35 page)

“What do you mean?”

He paused, scratching Persia under the chin. “They say that Jacob Van der Laar was originally born Jacob Isaacs in Germany, son of a Jewish cigar maker. He was one of the many young men who went to Kimberly to make his fortune at the same time as Rhodes. And like Rhodes, he had aspirations of dominating the diamond industry. He did well in his acquisitions, changed his name, and married an equally ambitious young woman whose family were prominent political figures and landowners in the Boer republic of Transvaal. He set about creating his own cartel under the name Van der Laar. But when the Second Boer War broke out, business became increasing impossible for him.

“The Second Boer War was incredibly bloody,” Mr. Kessler continued. “The Boers had a ragtag guerilla army of native farmers, up against the British Empire. Still, they managed to hold their own for quite a while. The British retaliated with a scorched-earth policy, burning down Boer farms and homes, interning the rebels' wives and children in concentration camps in an attempt to force them to surrender. Many of them starved to death.”

“So what happened to Jacob Van der Laar?”

Mr. Kessler shrugged. “Nobody knows the whole story. Clearly a choice was made. Some say Rhodes made him an offer that he couldn't refuse.”

“You mean he betrayed his wife's family in order to join the cartel?”

“It's difficult to say who betrayed whom, isn't it? Van der Laar came from nowhere and became incredibly wealthy within a decade. How he did that, what it took, no one really knows. The one thing we know for certain, though, is that the Van der Laars continue to be one of very few families with Boer ties to have any substantial diamond mines in South Africa today.”

I thought of Diana and her continental upbringing, the careful accent that both she and James shared, perfectly proper without revealing anything other than the excellence of their education, and how she'd joked in the hospital about diamonds being “common” where she came from. “We Afrikaners.” The phrase reminded me of James's nationalist loyalty to his homeland. And yet the Van der Laars were Americans now, building a name and reputation alongside the oldest American families in one of the first colonial cities.

“You said Jacob Van der Laar was Jewish, isn't that right?”

“Yes.” He smiled sadly. “But Mrs. Van der Laar refuses to have Jews in her home. She left South Africa when her husband was still alive and has never gone back. Not even for his funeral.”

“I see.”

Mrs. Van der Laar had never forgiven him. Instead, she'd taken her children and decamped to a new country, one where they would recast themselves as upper-class philanthropists and socialites. Only the past couldn't be entirely rewritten, even by her. Their vast fortune still depended on the diamond mines, now under James's stewardship. And he had ambitions to rebuild South Africa along with a determination to restore his mother's people to power.

Their seemingly golden life of privilege had taken on a more complex, uncomfortable hue. But the conflicts and contradictions of their history also made them seem less removed from myself, more accessible. And it cast James's political convictions in a new light when I thought of the betrayal and bloodshed that had divided his family.

Persia jumped down, and Mr. Kessler stood up, brushing the fur from his trousers. “I realize you're friends with the Van der Laars. And I'm very happy to see you make sales. But you mustn't feel obligated to them in any way. Do you understand?”

“Of course.”

“I just wanted to be clear.” He smiled, but behind his eyes there was a shadow of concern.

Ma had recruited me to help with the Declaration Day Widow's Society stall. It wasn't my idea of a good time, but Mr. Baylor had stressed the importance of doing things for others, and seeing as I had nothing else planned, I agreed.

We woke early and were setting up in front of North Church by eight. It had rained in the night and now the air was fresh and clear. Frieda brought a thermos of hot coffee and paper cups, and Ma unveiled a plate of her now-infamous rock-solid scones. Rosemarie and I nailed red, white, and blue bunting around the edge of the tables while Ma arranged the wares, hanging several of Frieda's aprons from the society banner in pride of place.

Already the parade was bustling; stalls were erected, food sellers began to cook, and children with penny flags waved them wildly, rampaging through the streets in giddy excitement. Religious societies gathered under elaborately embroidered banners; I spotted Mrs. Russo in her best hat, heading up the San Panteleone Women's Society, proudly bearing both the Italian and American flags. Boy Scouts with scrubbed faces and freshly combed hair arrived in uniform to take their place in the parade behind the long lines of decorated veterans, from the Great War, the Spanish-American War, and even the Civil War. Behind them the Marine Brass Band tuned their instruments, and the Highland Bagpipes looked grand, if hot, in full kilts. The smell of popcorn and caramel peanuts perfumed the air.

“Put this on, Mae.” Ma handed me a special red, white, and
blue turban she'd knitted for the day. It was a perfect example of the hazards of mixing patriotism and yarn.

“Oh, but Ma, it's so . . . so warm out!” I tried to give it back to her.

“Come on!” Frieda prodded. “Be a sport! I want to see it on, and we'll sell more that way.”

So I wore the ugly turban to please them all.

The committee arrived to review the arrangements and oversee the sales. Elsa Van der Laar, with her head of silver hair, was among them, holding a reluctant Andrew by the hand. He had a flag and an untouched cone of bright pink candyfloss. Before, Elsa had appeared aloof and imposing to me, but now I thought I could detect an anxious irritation beneath her commanding exterior.

I saw her bend down to talk to Andrew. “Now behave yourself,” she told him, sternly. “I won't tolerate any nonsense. Do you understand?”

“I wish I had my book.” He frowned at his feet. “I want my book.”

“You don't need the book. It's a parade, not a library! Look”—she pointed across the street—“all the other children are having fun.”

“I'm not sure I like parades. But if I had my book—”

“Enough about the book!” she snapped. “Can't you just act like a normal child for once in your life? Now go sit somewhere and be quiet!”

He retreated to a far corner of the church steps and stared glumly as his candyfloss began melting in the sun.

Crowds gathered thick and noisy now, and the parade began, all cheers, shouts, bright searing music, and confetti. Teams of
mounted police trotted past on chestnut horses; I spotted Jack Carney sampling the roasted peanuts across the street, tipping his hat to any pretty girl he passed. The soaring bagpipes filled me with teary sentimental patriotism, a nostalgic ache for a land I'd never known. But soon the stall was busy and we all fell into a quick rhythm, serving customers and handing the money over to the committee members to be counted out. I played the clown as I modeled the turban, pretending to be Gloria Swanson doing the dusting.

“Hey, Nora!” Leaning against the stall, Jack Carney took off his hat and mopped his wide brow with his hankie. “I'd like to see you wearing one of those!”

“I made them, Officer Carney.” My mother smiled politely.

“Well, they're just swell.” He grinned, jamming the damp hankie into his pants pocket. “I should've known they were your handiwork.”

Rosemarie caught Frieda's eye and smiled.

Jack leaned in closer. “Maybe you'd wear one when I take you out for a drink later. What do you say?”

Ma concentrated on refolding the aprons. “You know me, Jack, I don't drink. Thank you for your offer, just the same.”

“Well, it doesn't have to be a drink. It could be a meal. I don't suppose you've given up eating too?” He laughed, looking to the other women for support.

Frieda snorted. I glared at her, and she stopped.

“You're very kind, Jack. But I'm too tired now. It's already been a long day, and it's not even over yet.”

The playful gleam in his eye disappeared. “It's always the same with you, isn't it? Too good for the rest of us, is that it? One of these days you're going to regret putting yourself above
the world.” He spat on the ground as if to punctuate his sentiments.

Ma gave him a long, hard look. “I don't see that there's any reason to be uncivil, Officer,” she said finally.

“No, no need to be uncivil,” he agreed sourly, sidling away.

Frieda whistled. “Now there's a man who can't take no for an answer!”

“No.” Her gaze followed him as he pushed his way through the crowds. “None of the Carneys ever could.”

The hours raced by, and soon the stall was picked bare of merchandise, the cash boxes bulging. The day had grown hot, and everyone was tired but elated. Even the turbans had sold, thanks to my efforts. The crowds had thinned, but the streets were still busy and the mood festive.

We were cleaning up when Elsa Van der Laar looked around anxiously. “Has anyone seen my son Andrew?”

He'd been sitting on the church steps. Now he was gone.

“Please, can anyone help me?” Her voice was louder, frustrated. “I'm looking for my son Andrew. Eight years old, glasses?”

“I know what he looks like. I'll help,” I volunteered.

“We'll all look,” the head of the committee, Mrs. Cabot-Wilkes, announced, glancing at Elsa nervously. “Eight years old, with glasses and brown hair. I'm sure he's just hiding.”

“I knew he'd be trouble,” Elsa muttered, her eyes darting over the faces in the crowd.

Soon the word spread and others were enlisted in the search, crawling under stalls and behind cars.

But something Diana had said in the museum came back to me, about the noise of the reception hurting Andrew's ears. The parade had been earsplitting.

I went inside the church and, after searching awhile, found Andrew curled into a ball, hiding underneath one of the pews.

“What are you doing under there?” I asked, kneeling down. “We've all been looking for you. It's time to come out now.”

But he inched farther away from my outstretched hand. “I don't want to go home. I want to stay hidden.”

“Why? You have a lovely home. Come on.” I tried again. “Take my hand. Everyone's worried sick.”

But he moved beyond my reach. “It's not real, you know.”

“What's not real?”

“It could be them, or it could be me.” His manner was calm, detached, as if he were more interested in being accurate than understood.

I sat back on my heels. “What do you mean?”

“When you're real, you feel real,” he clarified. “And when you're not, you feel see-through, like a piece of glass.”

It was such an unusual thing for a child to say. “But everyone's very worried about you.”

“They can only see me because I'm not there. If I go back, I'll be invisible again.”

His logic was curiously sophisticated.

“It sounds like a difficult situation,” I admitted.

“It's not difficult exactly.” He pushed his glasses up higher on his nose. “It's just impossible.”

“But I can see you,” I told him. “I'm talking to you right now.”

He thought about this a moment. “You're invisible too,” he concluded.

I tried a different tack. “Why don't I buy you some popcorn?”

“No, thank you.”

“What about peanuts?”

He shook his head.

I sat down and drew my knees up to my chest. I was out of strategies. If I yanked him out, he was sure to make a scene. Besides, I was tired and not in the child-yanking mood.

It was so quiet here, white and full of light. There were no vaulted stone ceilings, no stations of the cross, no banks of flickering candles. Instead there was simplicity, a bright feeling of airy purity. Andrew was no fool; he'd chosen the best place to hide. I turned my face toward the sun streaming in through the tall windows and closed my eyes.

“Are you going to stay?” he asked.

“I don't know what I'm going to do,” I told him. “Everyone's looking for you. I can't lie.”

“I'll get in trouble.”

I nodded. “That's likely. Unless . . .” I opened my eyes. “Look, Andrew, I have an idea.”

When we came out, Elsa Van der Laar was surrounded by policemen, gathering details and taking notes. When she spotted us walking down the steps, her face changed from fear and worry to anger. Pushing aside the officers, she strode over. “Where have you been? Do you know how many people are looking for you? How selfish you are?”

By now a crowd had congregated, eager to see that Andrew was all right.

“I'm sorry.” He glanced up at me. “I lost track of the time. I was praying.”

Elsa Van der Laar blinked like a shrew thrust into the light. “You were
what
?”

“I was praying. You see, they died, didn't they?” he explained. “All those soldiers. Do you think they can see us?”

A thoughtful hush fell on the crowd. Then one of the policemen said, “Kid's got a point. Can't smack him for praying.” He tousled Andrew's hair. “Tell your mother where you are next time, will you?”

Andrew looked up at him. “But she told me to sit there.”

Now Elsa was wide-eyed and flustered. “I said be quiet! I said sit still and keep out of the way . . .” She floundered before grabbing his hand. “We've had enough excitement for one day,” she declared, dragging him away.

Once the stall was broken down and everything packed up again, I was free to wander through the confetti-strewn streets. I felt the pleasant, easy contentment that comes from honest effort. I'd been dreading the day, imagining the boredom of being stuck side by side in a small stall with Ma and her cronies. But in fact they were funnier and fiercer than I'd given them credit for; less like widows, more like sailors on shore leave.