Rare Objects (40 page)

I turned the card over. On the back, Mr. Kessler had written some notes. “‘A miniature Chinese Kangxi period vase,'” I read out loud, “‘from 1662 to 1722, with broken neck.' It says the chased silver top was most likely added in Amsterdam in the early 1800s to create a scent bottle with stopper.”

Mr. Tresalion lifted the tiny silver stopper out. It was attached with a fine silver chain. “How ingenious!” He laughed, delighted. “The cleverness of people never ceases to amaze me! Let's see if any of the perfume remains!” He lifted the bottle to his nose. “I think I can smell jasmine.” He passed it to me. “What do you think?”

I sniffed. “I'm not sure. There's
something
, but I can't put my finger on it. Possibly rose?”

“Possibly.” He sniffed again. “Yes, I think you're right!” Turning it over, he examined the bottom. “It's still got the hallmark! That is good.” He sighed with contentment. “Once a vase, now something completely different! That takes real imagination.”

“Oh, yes!
Of course!
” Suddenly it dawned on me. “You're the gentleman I've heard about—the one who collects damaged goods!”

“Not damaged, my dear!” He shuddered. “Reimagined! Restored! But not
damaged
! They deserve more respect than that!”

“I'm sorry—I just meant, well, that Mr. Kessler's told me about you. You're one of his favorite customers!”

He smiled with satisfaction. “Mr. Kessler has been the very best dealer in helping me with my little collection.”

“It
is
unusual.”

“I like the unusual.” He took out his wallet. “Can you imagine the moment when these things first broke? Probably dropped by some poor servant girl who had to endure the wrath of her mistress! Just think of all the carrying on! These things would have been so precious, so rare! It would have been a
terrible
moment!” He winced. “And yet here they are now, having survived all the screaming and tears!” He chuckled to himself, counting out two hundred dollars.

I stared at the pile of bills.

He gave me a quizzical look. “Is there something wrong?”

“Ah, well, it's just, that's an awful lot of money for something that's . . . well, broken, sir. Are you sure that's right?”

“Quite sure,” he assured me, putting the bottle back into the box. “You see, no one ever bothers to save something that isn't valuable. There are other blue-and-white porcelain vases from the Kangxi period, but there will never be another one like this, one that's weathered so much and been so lovingly repaired.” Tucking the box under his arm, he tipped his hat with a flourish. “Sometimes, my dear, being broken is the most interesting thing that can happen.”

Friday night was the opening performance of
A
Midsummer Night's Dream
, and the Colonial Theater was overflowing with people.
Unable to lure anyone into joining me, I'd decided to go by myself. I'd come straight from work and now stood in line to purchase one of the cheap day tickets. I felt self-conscious but was lucky enough to find myself waiting next to a pair of enthusiastic elderly brothers named Harry and George, who took me under their wing.

“Are you here on your own, dear?” the older, George, asked kindly.

“Yes. You see, I've never been to a play before,” I explained, feeling a bit of a fool as I said it.

“Oh!” Harry gasped in delight. “Your first performance! Well, this is a treat!”

“You'll love it!” George insisted confidently. “You'll absolutely love it! All the men wear tights!”

“I'm sure I will, only I'm not quite certain how to get to the balcony.”

“Just follow us, dear! You see”—he showed me their tickets—“as we were next to one another in line, we'll all be sitting in the same row.”

“We're theater folk,” Harry said proudly. “And no, I don't mean actors, I mean people who love the theater.”

“We see
everything
!” George agreed. “I have a signed program from Sarah Bernhardt's
Hamlet
! It's an illness.” He sighed, looking at his brother sadly. “A terrible illness.”

And they both laughed.

Harry had packed some sandwiches and insisted I share with them. We sat on a bench across from the entrance watching as long cars pulled up, disgorging women in evening gowns and men in white tie to the expensive orchestra seats, and played “spot the critic.”

George pointed to a thin man with a pinched face. “My money's on him. He looks like it's been a while since he's had a hot meal.”

“What's that got to do with anything?” I asked, enjoying myself.

“Oh, dear! Critics aren't human—they don't need food. They live on the moans and sighs of all the dreams they've crushed!”

Soon the bells began to ring, and we all climbed up to the balcony together.

The play itself was an entirely unexpected experience. I'd read it years ago, but seeing it was completely different. I was prepared for something lofty and difficult, but instead the characters were robust, vivid, and very funny. I found myself leaning forward, straining to catch each new turn of phrase and twist of the plot.

The balcony was hot. Even with the windows of the mezzanine open, it was airless and sticky, the seats narrow and close. During the interval, everyone went out again onto the pavement to make the most of the fresh evening air. There was a pleasant companionable feeling among the crowd, of people who've been laughing together, having a good time.

“Come on, I'll buy you both a lemonade,” I offered, feeling generous. “It's my turn to treat you!”

Together the three of us made our way into the main foyer, down the elaborate vestibule with its mosaic tiled floor, and through to the lobby. In contrast to the balcony, the lower interior was a symphony of Italian marble, gilded mirrors, and sparkling chandeliers. Here bare shoulders and diamonds glittered in the golden light and smoke hung in translucent clouds, softening reflections in the long mirrors. This opening-night crowd was more polished but considerably less impressed; an attitude of wilting boredom colored the conversation around us.

“He's not a good Puck.”

“He's
far
too old! My God, he needs a cane to get from one side of the stage to the other!”

“The costumes are so dreary! Why is everything so darkly lit? Tell me we haven't booked for the
whole
season!”

“My goodness!” whispered George. “I think we've stumbled into a critics'
convention
!”

Then, across the lobby, I saw Diana talking to a group of people. Wearing a gown of filmy silver fabric, shimmering and elegant, she was telling a story, and everyone was laughing. A thin, pale man was standing next to her, his hand pressed proprietorially against the small of her back. I recognized him as Charlie Peabody, of the Massachusetts Peabodys.

“Isn't she lovely?” George gasped, following my gaze. “Do you know her?”

She'd been so vague about her plans for this evening when I asked her to join me. “Yes, yes, I do.”

Harry gave me a push. “Well, go on—say hello! We're perfectly capable of buying our own lemonades.”

As I came closer, Charlie turned. He whispered to Diana, and she looked up. “Oh, look who it is!” she exclaimed gaily, suddenly animated and larger than life. “How lovely to see you!”

“Hello.”

“It's been so long!” She embraced me, kissing the air somewhere around my cheek. “May Fanning, I hope you remember Charlie Peabody.”

Charlie gave a polite nod. “My pleasure.”

“This is my dear friend May,” Diana explained to the assembled group. “Forgive us for a moment, but we haven't seen each other in ages! So”—she wrapped her arm around my waist, drawing me off to one side—“tell me how you're getting on! Are you enjoying the evening?” she asked, steering me away from the others.

“I'm fine. But what are you doing?” I glanced back at her companions. “What's wrong?”

She sighed, suddenly tense, her voice hushed and urgent. “I need to speak to you. Privately. But now isn't the time.”

I had the awful feeling of being excluded, like a child seeking out her friends, only to discover she's been replaced. “Am I intruding?”

“No. But I need to explain some things.”

“Like what? What's happened?”

She leaned in close. “I'm engaged.”

“What?”

“Charlie Peabody and I are going to be married,” she said quickly. “I didn't want to tell you like this, or in front of everyone. We need to speak,” she said again. “Can you meet me?”

“But . . .” I couldn't quite make sense of it all. “When did that start? Why didn't you tell me that you'd been seeing him?”

“What do you mean?” She sounded defensive. “He's a perfectly lovely man.”

“But, Diana!” I nodded to Charlie, with his turkey neck and disappearing chin. “Are you serious? Is this what you want?”

“That's not the point!” Irritation lined her forehead. “I can't go into it all now, May! Tomorrow. Meet me tomorrow, and I'll tell you everything. Please, darling!” She flashed a nervous smile. “This is Charlie's crowd, you see—I can't keep them waiting! You understand, don't you?”

Since when had Diana ever cared about convention?

“Of course,” I said, even though I didn't understand at all. “But Diana . . .”

“May, I can't!” she snapped suddenly, fixing me with a fierce look. “Not now!” And crossing back to her new friends, she was instantly absorbed again into the conversation.

I stared after her, cut adrift in a sea of tulle and taffeta, alone
and out of place. I could feel the eyes of the room on me, whispers behind me.

I fumbled for a cigarette, humiliation burning my cheeks. Had I done something wrong? How was it possible that she could be engaged so quickly?

“May I?” Mr. Winshaw stood in front of me, holding out his lighter. He was dressed in white tie, clean-shaven and in a suit that actually fit, looking unnaturally polished and refined.

I was at once mortified and relieved to see him. “What are you doing here?”

He ignored the question, apparently dismissing it as too obvious to answer. Instead he lit my cigarette. “Isn't that your friend?” he asked, giving Diana a look. “The Van der Laar girl?”

“Yes.”

He glared at her, and I realized that he must have seen the whole thing. “She seems to have misplaced her manners,” he said coolly.

Then he put his hand on my elbow and ferried me farther away from Diana and Charlie and into the ambiguity of a crowded corner. Immediately I felt less conspicuous.

“Shall I buy you a drink, Fanning?” he offered. “You look like you could use one.”

I was grateful and touched that he'd come to my rescue. “No, no, thank you. I'm all right. Where's Selena?”

“Head cold. Though the truth is, she's not much good at Shakespeare. She always wants to know why they don't just say what they mean.” He glanced around the lobby. “Who are you here with?”

“Actually, I'm on my own. Expanding my horizons,” I added, which only made me feel more idiotic.

He gave me a quizzical look.

“You know,” I said, “I think I could do with some air.”

We went outside. Even though it was only marginally cooler, just leaving the scene of my embarrassment was a relief.

We strolled through the interval crowds.

“So apparently you're not the philistine you pretend to be.” Mr. Winshaw lit himself a cigarette too.

“It's better than I thought it would be,” I admitted. “There may be something to this theater lark after all.”

“The Puck's a little old, but then again, I don't think Puck has an age, do you?” He was trying to distract me.

But I couldn't seem to put the episode behind me.

I shrugged. “When you're a fairy, does age matter?”

“How do you know that girl anyway?”

“Diana? Oh, we met a while ago . . .” I gave him an unconvincing smile. “I guess I caught her at an inopportune moment.”

The bells began to ring, ushering the audience in for the second half.

“Where are you sitting?” he asked.

“The balcony. You must be in the orchestra, aren't you?”

He nodded, suddenly concerned. “Are you all right, Fanning?”

I took another drag, nodded. “You go on. I'm just going to finish my cigarette.”

“Really?” He looked at me closely. “You don't seem all right.”

The truth was, I felt alone and utterly foolish. Perhaps Diana was ashamed of me, didn't want me lowering the tone of the evening. I focused on the marquee behind Mr. Winshaw as if it were particularly fascinating. “Actually, I think I'll head off now.”

“I'll see you home.” He pressed his hand into the small of my back protectively, guiding me toward the curb. Before I could stop him, he'd flagged down a cab. “Where do you live?”

“No, really,” I protested. “I can manage.”

But he opened the door, ushered me inside. “Don't be daft.”

We sat next to each other in silence with the windows open, feeling the cool breeze on our faces.

The cab wound through the streets. It was warm that night. As we approached the North End, people spilled out onto the streets, escaping the cramped, airless apartments: men in their undershirts and suspenders, women reeling in laundry and gossiping with neighbors. People had dragged chairs onto the pavement and were clustered in groups, talking and playing cards. One family had a watermelon sliced up on a wooden crate, and the husband was playing the accordion; that was enough for an impromptu party. And a group of older men played bocce in an abandoned lot.

The cab pulled up outside my block, and we got out.

“Well, this is where I live.” I glanced at the watermelon crowd, dancing in the street. Why did they have to be so noisy?