Authors: Kathleen Tessaro
“It's not his eye I'm worried aboutâit's our bank account!”
“Chances are, he heard about something in Turkey, an opportunity that couldn't be missed.” He tapped the side of his nose with his finger. “And now we're going to reap the benefit! This business is built on private acquisitionsâspecialist commissions. And Winshaw's got the talent of obtaining just the right object at just the right time. Trust me”âhe opened the doorâ“this could be just the thing we need right now.”
I watched as he scurried away, disappearing into the thick morning fog.
Unbuttoning my coat, I went back into Mr. Winshaw's office and stared at the old map on the wall.
Then I took a pin out of the drawer and stuck it into Istanbul.
Mr. Winshaw was on the move.
It was midafternoon by the time Mr. Kessler returned with the shipment. He had Charlie in tow to do the heavy lifting. Charlie was a skinny young man who'd been laid off from the docks recently. With his long face and large hangdog eyes, he looked like a bloodhound begging for scraps. His duties included picking up and delivering items, storage and packing, and hanging and displaying new pieces in the shop. He also
took it upon himself to perform minor repairs. Clearly he was trying to make more work for himself, but Mr. Kessler either didn't notice or didn't mind.
Now Mr. Kessler and I watched anxiously as Charlie prised open the wooden crate with a crowbar.
The lid eased off, and together Mr. Kessler and Charlie pulled out handfuls of soft wood shavings. Then Mr. Kessler lifted out a cheap woman's vanity case in a dubious shade of coral pink.
“What's that?” I frowned.
“Be patient,” he told me.
Wedged tightly inside the case was something wound in layers of fine linen, like a swaddled infant. With great care Mr. Kessler unwrapped it.
“My goodness!” I was taken aback by its beauty.
“Yes, my goodness indeed!” he agreed.
It was a Greek vase standing just over a foot tall, largely black apart from the figures and ornamentation, which were in rich terra-cotta red.
Removing a magnifying glass from his inside jacket pocket, Mr. Kessler leaned in closer. “What we have here,” he began, “is a red-figure amphora, or vase, approximately 480 to 470 BC. And if I'm not mistaken, it looks like the work of the Greek pot specialist known as the Harrow Painter. Which makes it rare”âhe looked upâ“
very
rare. As you can see,” he said, pointing to the main figurative motif, “we have a young man wrapped in his cloak or himation, holding a lyre. There is a red apicate fillet in his hair, the mark of an athlete, and the bearded man standing in front of him, leaning on his staff, is his teacher, patron, perhaps even lover. And here”âhe indicated the figure on the other side of the vaseâ“we have the young man alone. It's known as âThe Music Lesson.'”
Mr. Kessler straightened, adding with a triumphant smile, “And I'm pleased to say it's in excellent condition.”
“How do you know it's called âThe Music Lesson'?” I asked.
“Because this is a very valuable piece, quite well known, though it's been many years since it's been on the market.”
I dared to run my finger lightly along the side, over the smooth clay that had seen empires rise and fall. “Why do they call the artist the Harrow Painter?”
“After another famous vase of his displayed at the Harrow School in England. It features a young boy playing with a hoop. He produced maybe ninety different vases that have survived today. He has quite an elegant, recognizable style.”
How could something this old look so contemporary? “The painting is so preciseâlike it was all done in a single stroke!”
He nodded. “It's a remarkable level of mastery.”
Charlie dug out a second small woman's traveling case from the crate, this one a rather insipid powder blue. He handed it to Mr. Kessler. Inside was another swaddled object, a plate. Again, the design was relatively simple, mostly black, with a red figure of a youth astride the back of a giant rooster, his toes braced against the framing line of the design motif. The boy was smiling, the rooster swollen-chested, with full, elaborate plumage. It was a striking, surprising piece, refined and yet bold.
“The vase is worth at least fifteen thousand, maybe twenty. And the plate”âMr. Kessler frowned, stroked his beardâ“sixteen thousand, easily.”
“Are you serious?” I stared at him in amazement. “As much as that?”
He grinned. “I told you Winshaw knew what he was doing!”
His excitement was contagious. “Well, where's a good place
to put them, then?” I looked around. “In the window, don't you think? Maybe with a sign?”
“Oh no! No. These won't go on display.” Mr. Kessler folded up the customs forms and put them in his inside pocket. “Believe me”âhe smiledâ“these pieces already have a home.”
It wasn't until later that evening, when Mr. Kessler had gone and I was left behind, trying to figure out how we were to cover the import charges, that Charlie came to the office door, hovering just outside. “Miss Fanning?”
I started. “Jeez! Don't sneak up on me!”
“I didn't mean to frighten you.” He smiled slowly.
“What are you doing here this late?” I asked.
His shirtsleeves were rolled up, brow damp from sweat. Mr. Kessler had asked him to pack the pieces in something more suitable than old vanity cases. Never one to miss an opportunity, Charlie had somehow conjured up a whole day's work, making a bespoke crate. But now he was holding something. “I found this. In the side pocket of one of them cases.”
It was a dirty silk handkerchief, dusty and yellowed, tied into a little bundle.
But it had weight; there was something inside.
“We'll have to show this to Mr. Kessler in the morning,” I told him. “It's late. You ought to get off home now.”
“Yeah, I suppose.” He yawned, stretching his arms high, but still lingered by the door. “Or I could wait for you, if you like. Walk you to your stop.”
“No need to worry about me. I'll be fine.” It came off sharp and prissy, like a schoolteacher correcting a student.
He didn't seem to notice.
“Okay, then.” He shrugged. “Guess I'll see you in the funny papers, huh?”
Once he'd gone, I unknotted the bundle.
It was a ring: heavy gold and fitted with an intricately carved black stone, engraved with an image of a winged woman. She looked like an angel at a spinning wheel, long, fragile threads between her fingers. At her feet stood a pudgy cupid, and around her head floated a tiny butterfly.
This was an antiquity, I was sure of it. Either Greek or Roman. And the scene must be mythical, though I didn't know which one.
I ran my finger over the inky stone, tracing the outline of the woman, draped in her flowing garments, her fine profile accentuated by her hairstyle, wound back from her face in plaits.
Who was she?
I went into Mr. Winshaw's office and dug out his copy of
Cowper's Classical
Mythology
. In the glossary I searched under the words
goddess
and
spinning wheel
.
CLOTHO
Clotho is one of the Moiraiâone of the three Fates in the ancient world. They control the thread of life and the destiny of each human from birth until death. They are daughters of Annake, the goddess of necessity. Clotho spins the thread of life on her distaff; Lachesis, the allotter, measures out how much each person will have with her measuring rod; and Antropos, the most dreaded sister, finally cuts the thread with her shears.
The Fates.
It was a ring of destiny.
I shooed Persia out of the way and sat down in Mr. Winshaw's chair. This was a great deal more sophisticated than a crooked pin in a pocket.
The burnished gold began to warm from the heat of my hand. I slipped it on my index finger. It was more than just beautiful; it had a darkly compelling, otherworldly qualityâas if it obeyed different physical laws from the rest of the universe and was beholden to no one, not even gravity.
No one else knew it existed; not even Charlie had seen it.
I should've put the ring in Mr. Kessler's office.
But I didn't. I hid it in the top drawer of Mr. Winshaw's desk instead.
I knew I couldn't take it; I didn't want to lose my job. And eventually I would show it to Mr. Kessler.
But for one night, I wanted to be the only person who knew exactly where it was.
It wasn't long before “the special client” paid us a visit. Mr. Kessler's instructions were simple but firm. “Tomorrow we have an important visitor arriving quite early. I will need you here by eight a.m. Please look your best, and under no circumstances should you speak unless spoken to.”
I gave him a look. “Unless I'm
spoken
to?”
But he was perfectly serious.
So I did what I was told and came in at eight, in my blue knit. Mr. Kessler was already there, rearranging things on the shop floorâmoving them from one spot to another and then back again, like a nervous housewife before a party. I made coffee, which he insisted I put into a Limoges coffeepot that was part
of a very expensive French tea service. Then he told me very solemnly that I was “in charge of refreshments.” The vase and plate were already in pride of place at the center of the English oak table.
At eight thirty precisely a Duesenberg pulled up outside and a uniformed driver got out and opened the door. A gentleman wearing an expensive camel-hair overcoat with a white carnation in his buttonhole climbed out. He moved precisely, with the automated efficiency of a piece of industrial machinery designed to find the shortest distance between two points. Mr. Kessler greeted him at the door, but the gentleman barely acknowledged him, offering just a curt bob of the head before going straight to the table. Reaching into his inside coat pocket, he took out a small gold magnifying glass of his own and leaned in close to examine each piece.
He did this in complete silence. Mr. Kessler, in turn, offered no pleasantries to distract him. I stood behind the counter, wondering if the coffee would go cold.
After about five minutes the man looked up. “Yes,” he said, nodding as if in response to some unspoken question. “Yes, indeed.”
Mr. Kessler gave me a signal. Or at least I thought it was a signal.
“Sir, may I pour you some coffee?” I offered.
The man spun round, staring at me as if he'd only just noticed that I existed. “No.” He managed to sound shocked and slightly offended at the same time. “That won't be necessary.”
Then he nodded again to Mr. Kessler and left.
The whole episode had taken maybe ten minutes.
“Well, that went better than I could have hoped!” Mr. Kessler seemed genuinely delighted. “We have just sold two extremely
rare and valuable Greek artifacts!” Then he proceeded to pack the pieces away again while I threw away the cold coffee.
By that afternoon, further arrangements had been confirmed.
“You are to deliver them this evening,” Mr. Kessler informed me.
“
Me
?” I looked up in surprise from the copy of
Vanity Fair
I had hidden behind the counter.
“A driver will collect you at six. You will be given a check upon arrival, which you must be very careful to keep safe.”
“But why me? Surely you should deliver them.”
“I don't do business after sunset. It's the beginning of the Sabbath.”
“But can't the driver come earlier?”
He frowned, uncharacteristically annoyed. “It's just better if you do it.”
These were the most expensive, important pieces we'd ever had. I certainly didn't want to be in charge of them. “But you're the expert, Mr. Kessler. What if they have questions? You know so much more than I do.”
“Miss Fanning!
Please!
It's better this way, don't you understand?” He sighed, suddenly on the verge of losing patience. “Mrs. Van der Laar doesn't like Jews!”
I was mortified that I'd pushed him to say such a thing out loud, and that there was anyone who would knowingly treat him with such disrespect. “Mrs. Van der Laar? Who's she?”
“She is our client, a very wealthy and important collector. It doesn't matter what she thinks of me. I'm trusting you with a great deal. Can you do this for me?”
“Yes, of course. I'm sorry.”
His confession made him seem suddenly fragile. Jewishness was a mark you couldn't remove as easily as red hair.
“Mr. Winshaw used to deal with this sort of thing. But he isn't here,” Mr. Kessler explained wearily. “So this time, Miss Fanning, it will have to be you.”
The car was different from the one that had come that morning. Just after six a long black Packard pulled up outside the shop and sat there, waiting, motor purring thick and low like a contented cat. The driver didn't bother to get out or honk the horn; I was expected to be watching and ready. As I put on my hat and coat, a nagging uneasiness gnawed at me. Already my palms were beginning to sweat. I was about to turn out the lights and lock up when suddenly I went back into Mr. Winshaw's office and took the black agate ring from the top drawer. Maybe I was foolish and superstitious, just like my mother, but I needed luck tonight, something to hold on to. So I put the ring in my coat pocket.
When I finally came out of the shop, the driver collected the crate, and I sat beside it in the back, with a blanket over my knees for warmth. He drove south, out of town for some time, following the water. He was so far away, in the front, that I couldn't ask him where we were going without shouting. So I sat quietly, trying to enjoy the unfamiliar experience of being driven. Out of the window, the landscape altered dramatically, and eventually we reached the rural, rocky seafront town of Cohasset. The car came to a stop in front of a high wrought-iron gate. A man hurried out of a gatehouse to open it, and the car carried on, up a private winding road that threaded its way along a curved outcrop of land, jutting out into the water. Perched there, overlooking the ocean, an enormous stone mansion stood guard, lights blazing
in the softening dusk. I counted six other cars parked in the drive.