Rare Objects (29 page)

Already Mr. Winshaw was planning his next journey; there was talk of Egypt and also South America. And before that, he was scheduled to teach in Philadelphia for a semester. He had a voracious appetite for information, attending lectures, concerts, and plays almost every night. His office became even more overrun with stacks of newspapers, books, and journals, as well as piles of unopened mail, which he steadfastly ignored. He had an opinion about absolutely everything, which he never hesitated to share and might easily adapt or abandon, depending on his mood. And he became irritable and even sulky if no one bothered to argue against him. But what was truly exceptional was the lightning speed of his mind, the ease with which he leapt from one idea to the next, linking seemingly unrelated subjects until they formed a vast tapestry of contrasting perspectives and views. It was the challenge he enjoyed, more than the theories. His loyalty was not to the conclusions he reached so much as to the capacity of his mind to reach them.

It was easy to tell he was a bachelor; his shirts were poorly ironed, his trousers too big, and he seemed to survive largely
on cigarettes and Hershey bars. Persia followed him everywhere with the silent devotion of a familiar, but he wasn't the only one. Mr. Winshaw was rarely alone in the evening; there was always an attractive woman trailing behind him, ready to make him a home-cooked meal or take him in hand. Mostly he resisted their attempts at domestication, though occasionally there was a small victory, and he would arrive dressed in a newly pressed shirt or a jacket that fit him before reverting to his old ways.

One of his more regular paramours was a girl named Selena, who worked at Freeman's Auctioneers downtown. An appraiser in the fine jewelry department, Selena was only a few years older than me. With her soft black curls, deep brown eyes, and enviable figure, she had a knack for hypnotizing clients, especially men, and Mr. Winshaw was no different. She had a slow, calculated way of moving and speaking that I suspected gave the impression that she was more intelligent than she was; making her comments seem considered and elusive rather than merely banal. And I quickly learned that if Selena was in the room, chances were she was acting out a private scene in which other people merely figured as bit players. There was little point in trying to steal the limelight from her.

Once or twice she'd come in before closing time to meet Mr. Winshaw, always eyeing me up as if I were a particularly pathetic stray dog. She pretended to take a maternal interest, defending me against his imaginary attacks. When he called me Fanning, Selena always jumped to my defense. “She has a
name
, Ben!” And then she'd roll her eyes at me as if to say,
Men!
To be honest, I was a little disappointed that such an ordinary girl could capture his imagination.

But the man I'd written to, the mysterious clever stranger who'd been so charming on paper, rarely seemed to match with
the man who now wandered round the shop, debating politics and religion with anyone who would listen and planning his eventual escape.

The letters themselves were never referred to again. I sensed he was a little embarrassed that he'd written to me at all. I couldn't forget the look of surprise when he'd met me for the first time, the sudden realization that I was, after all, only a secretary. Still, I kept them. I liked that man. I missed his thoughtful consideration and clarity. I only wondered where he'd gone.

“He sounds like a snob,” Angela said as we were walking back from church early one Saturday evening.

Normally I went to church with my mother at the Cathedral of the Holy Cross. But since New York, I'd avoided going at all, something Ma sighed and fretted over every Sunday. I knew there'd be no forgiveness for me there. But when Angela asked me to join her for mass at the local Italian church, St. Leonard's, I didn't even hesitate. St. Leonard's didn't feel like church to me. Where the Holy Cross was grand and dark and Gothic, St. Leonard's was unashamedly bright, ostentatiously Baroque. And my Irish sins weren't the jurisdiction of the smooth-faced saints that lined the walls in brightly painted robes, their large brown eyes mimicking the Mediterranean features of their congregation. No, my shame belonged across town, with the cold marble deities that stood as unblinking sentinels against moral decay.

But then I'd always found the theatricality of the Italian celebrations, especially the endless feast days of the summer months, irresistibly exotic and entertaining. In the North End, statues of the saints were paraded regularly through the streets, sometimes covered in crisp dollar bills and prayers and accompanied by loud marching bands. They headed long processions with the whole
neighborhood following behind, singing and clapping, all wearing their best clothes. And on Easter Sunday, little girls and boys dressed like tiny brides and grooms were presented before the congregation for their first communion, the girls in white dresses and veils, their ears already pierced.

Ma had always been appalled by our neighbors' gaudy adoration. “God doesn't want us to throw a party. He wants us to remember our sins and repent! To regret what we've done.”

The Italian saints were far too vivid for her liking—Saint Lucia holding her eyes on a little silver plate, or Saint Agatha offering her breasts like two splendid cakes on a gold tray. At the Holy Cross, there were no statues dressed in white silk finery and gold brocade gowns, no real jewels in the Madonna's crown, no noisy parades though the street. For the Irish, Catholicism was a sacrifice, an open wound that brought persecution and hardship. But for the Italians, it was celebration.

Angela preferred going to church on Saturday evenings so she could have an hour or two alone on Sunday morning with Carlo. And it gave me a chance to see her on my own, away from her new family. Although we never spoke of it, we both quietly accepted that I wasn't welcome to spend hours sitting on the Menzis' front porch with her, gossiping. Still, I craved Angela's normalcy and stability, even though I didn't necessarily want it all the time. She was the soothing antidote to Diana's unfettered excess, reminding me of simpler, more straightforward times. So I began joining her regularly after work on Saturday evening for mass, walking her back home afterward.

“Mr. Winshaw a
snob
?” This struck me as funny. “Oh, he'd be furious if he knew that! He fancies himself as quite a man of the people.”

“An intellectual snob,” Angela clarified. “People who imagine
that they're cleverer than everyone else and therefore superior. They're the worst.”

“I don't think he's that. It's not snobbery.” I tried to put my finger on it. “It's more like impatience.”

“With what?”

“I don't know. . . . Actually”—I realized it suddenly—“I think it's with me! As if he'd expected more of me and was disappointed.”

Angela was indignant on my behalf. “Well, that's ridiculous! What more are you meant to be? I wouldn't bother to pay him any attention.”

“Oh, I don't!” I assured her. “Anyway, Mr. Kessler seems happy with me.”

“He's the one who hired you. You're a good secretary. Best in your class.” She said it with pride, which warmed my heart.

Only being a good secretary didn't seem as much of an achievement anymore. I kicked a bottle cap into the gutter. “Actually, he did suggest a lecture series on ancient civilizations beginning in late August at the public library, if you want to go . . .”

“
Me
?
” She snorted. “To a lecture?”

“Why not?”

“When would I have time for that? Have you forgotten?” She patted her stomach. “My spare time is running out!”

“Oh, yes. Of course.”

“Anyway, you don't want to get involved with all that. You'll never meet anyone at the public library except bookworms.”

“It's not about meeting anyone. It's about learning something.”

“Yes, but you said Mr. Kessler was happy. So why bother?” She shrugged. “Why make more work for yourself?”

Angela was nothing if not practical. I wondered if Diana would be willing to go. It had been a while since we'd spoken—a couple
of weeks of stubborn sullen silence on both ends. I was surprised by how long it had lasted. At least I had an excuse: I'd been busy, distracted by work and Mr. Winshaw's arrival. But I still didn't want to be the first one to call.

“Stop in with me to my parents',” Angela said. “They'd love to see you. And Mama's made
garganelli
.”

“
Garganelli?
” I looked across at her. “Why, what's wrong?”

Garganelli
were little cylinders of pasta rolled out on a ribbed wooden dowel with a pencil and looked like quill pen points. They were also quite time-consuming to make. Delicately flavored with fresh nutmeg and lemon zest, they were served with cream, pancetta, and fresh peas. But in the Russo household,
garganelli
were the delicious outward manifestation of profound inward unease. Mrs. Russo only made them when she was troubled. Ridding the kitchen of everyone, she would crack eggs, fold the flour in, and sit down to roll out several hundred in much the same way that other women picked up their knitting. With her hands occupied, her mind was free to mull and brood, to turn over her difficulties in the hope of glimpsing an unexpected solution.

The result was rich, faintly perfumed, and comforting, but it was also an elegant response to the unexpected trials of fortune. Some problems could not be solved. But Maddalena Russo transformed worry into artistry, a defiant refusal to be undone by circumstances that sustained rather than diminished.

“It's Pina,” Angela said. “They let go of another two hundred men at the canning factory yesterday. Her husband, Augie, was one of them.”

Pina was due in less than a month.

“What are they going to do?”

“I don't know. His brother Rusty says he can find him
something, but Rusty's such a slippery character. Mama's convinced he's a criminal and has ties to the Black Hand, which of course is ridiculous. But that doesn't stop her from carrying on.” She sighed. “They'd just put a deposit on a house, but now they won't be able to take it. I just hope they don't lose the money too.”

“I'm so sorry.” I thought of Augie (short for Agamemnon): not nearly as charismatic as Rusty, he was an earnest, soft-spoken man, but it was really Pina who ran the show.

“Come and eat.” Angela gave my arm a tug. “The whole family will be there.”

“Yeah, well, Pina hates me.”

“No, she doesn't!”

I gave her a look. “Oh, yes, she does!”

“Well”—Angela grinned, not bothering to deny it anymore—“as long as she's busy hating you, she's not giving me any trouble, and that suits me just fine. She has to find fault with someone! Besides, you owe me one. Oh, look!” She bent down, pulled a gold-foil chocolate wrapper out from under the wheel of a parked car, and held it up triumphantly. “One for the box!”

“You don't still collect those, do you?” I laughed.

“Some habits die hard.” She handed it to me. “Does it smell?”

I gave it a sniff. “A little. You know, you can buy as much chocolate as you like now.”

“That's cheating!” She gave me a gentle dig in the ribs. “It's about the hunt, Mae. Not about the chocolate.”

“Of course.” I folded it neatly, handing it back to her. “Go on, then. One for the box.”

One of the first things Mr. Kessler arranged after Mr. Winshaw's return was a visit to the Museum of Fine Arts to see the
“Winshaw and Kessler collection,” as he put it, in its illustrious new home.

It was a wet, windy spring day, the kind that begins dismal and tempest-tossed and ends in Wedgwood-blue skies and sunshine. Mr. Kessler insisted we all go, first thing in the morning. Mr. Winshaw, who generally wasn't much use before noon and appeared to have slept in his clothes from the night before, lagged sullenly behind us as we got off the trolley, chain-smoking cigarettes, while I tried to be cheerful despite the rain that was slowly ruining my hat and dampening my curls.

Still, none of this mattered to Mr. Kessler, who radiated pride like a lighthouse over a black sea as he led the way into the Art of the Ancient World wing. He strutted past high scaffolding where half a dozen painters were diligently working on a new large-scale mural. There were the beginnings of a pastoral scene of ancient Greece, with billowing clouds, golden figures, and temples overlooking rolling green valleys.

Mr. Kessler stopped in front of the glass cabinet that housed both the plate and vase. “And there you have it!” he announced with a flourish. “Displayed just as it should be, right in the center of the room!”

Mr. Winshaw nodded, jamming his hands into his pockets. “There you have it,” he agreed.

We all stared.

“Isn't it magnificent?” Mr. Kessler asked after a while.

“Very.”

“This is a milestone. The first of many!”

“Absolutely.”

Mr. Winshaw was resigned about seeing the final outcome, no matter how prestigious. I wondered if it had to do with the fact that once a piece was sold, the chase was well and truly over.
For Mr. Kessler, an artifact in a glass case was a triumph, but for Mr. Winshaw it was the end of a long, rigorously fought romance.

I decided to leave them to it. Instead I wandered around the gallery, which I'd never been in when it was empty. It was intelligently laid out, and obviously a lot of money had been spent on it recently. In addition to the mural, there were new cabinets and informative displays. I noticed the other Van der Laar bequest—a full set of polished bronze Corinthian armor and a spear, impressively preserved and heroically splendid—was also featured. The helmet, with its thick horsehair fringe, and the articulated shining breastplate were worthy of Achilles himself.