Illuminated (4 page)

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Authors: Erica Orloff

BOOK: Illuminated
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“Don’t worry,” he said. “It’ll be fun.” He leaned in close and whispered, “You and me. On the hunt for a secret author. I could think of worse ways to spend the summer.”
Professor Sokolov smiled at his son. “What are you two whispering about?”
August shrugged.
“Another thing,” Harry said. “The reason I’m sending you, Callie, is we want this kept quiet.”
“Quiet? Why?”
“Because you don’t announce something like this until you know what you have. You two can do some snooping without it seeming like official auction house business. We have to find out who A. was and when he lived.”
“Who said it was a he?” I asked. “Maybe it’s a she.”
“She has a point, Harry,” Professor Sokolov said.
“Yes, yes. Either way, it’s completely quiet. We don’t tip our hand. If you think anyone is going to be pleased that they let, in essence, a priceless palimpsest slip through their fingers. It could be dangerous. People don’t take kindly to fortunes lost and found.”
“Fortunes lost and found. It sounds more and more like a treasure hunt,” I said.
“Treasure hunt and detective story rolled into one,” said August.
And maybe romance and intrigue,
I thought to myself, sneaking a glance at him.
August said, “Come on. I’ll give you my e-mail and cell phone number. I have a card in my office.”
I followed him. His office was a small room down the hall. Inside, it reminded me of his garden—terrariums and pots of green plants sat on the windowsill; a goldfish swam lazily in a giant bowl. “When he gets bigger can he join the fish in the pond out back?”
“I don’t know. I kind of like having Albert to talk to.”
“Albert?” I raised one eyebrow.
He shrugged. “Einstein. What can I say? The fish and I discuss relativity . . . and beautiful girls.”
I felt my cheeks redden.
He handed me a business card. “That’s my e-mail and my cell phone number.”
“Do you have your cell?”
He handed me his phone, and I punched in my e-mail address, IM screen name, and cell phone number and handed it back to him.
“Meet you tomorrow at the auction house. Nine o’clock?”
I nodded. “Sure.”
“We should be prepared—you never know where a manuscript will lead you.”
I was already thinking that. Then I heard Uncle Harry calling me.
“I better go,” I said. I felt like my heart was loud enough to echo off the ceiling.
I found Uncle Harry in the hall and waved good-bye to August. When we were outside, Uncle Harry smirked.
“What?” I demanded.
“I knew that Audrey Hepburn dress would do the trick.”
“You could have warned me. You could have
told me
that Dr. Sokolov had a gorgeous son. Drop-dead gorgeous.”
Seriously drop-dead gorgeous
. He was cuter than any guy in my entire school.
“No, I couldn’t. Because then you would have been all worried and freaked out. You would have avoided this, just like you didn’t go to your junior prom, and you wouldn’t agree to that blind date with the grandson of the lady in 2B. You, Callie, are a chicken when it comes to dating. This was a lot better.”
“A lot better? So . . . this was a plan?”
We walked side by side up to the avenue to catch a cab.
“Well, it’s not like I
knew
the book was a palimpsest, if that’s what you’re asking.” He raised his hand to hail a yellow taxi. “But I would have figured out some excuse to get you down here. I don’t know why I didn’t think of setting the two of you up before.”
“But now, there’s really a reason—a mystery.”
“You sound kind of excited. I thought goat skins and vellum and dusty manuscripts were boring.”
“No, this is different. It’s a hunt. It’s . . . it’s a mystery : Who is
A.?”
“And you’re not excited the slightest bit about sleuthing with August.”
A cab pulled over to pick us up. I had August’s card in my hand. I glanced over at Uncle Harry. “Well, if I have to sleuth this summer and play Nancy Drew . . . there’s nothing like a hot guy to make it even more interesting.”
As I slid into the cab, I smiled. The Summer of the Palimpsest was shaping up to be very interesting.
4
 
Does love start with a secret?
—A.
 
T
he next morning at nine, I was drinking my second cup of coffee (what would I do without caffeine?) when August strode into the auction house. He wore a button-down and nice jeans, and he waved when he saw Uncle Harry and me. My stomach did a flip.
“So is that it?” He pointed at the manuscript, which was now safely encased under glass.
I nodded. He leaned over the case and peered down. “Have you looked at it more? What sort of person is this A.?”
“I don’t know,” Harry said. “Romantic. Seems fascinated by stars and the sun.”
“I think I’m going to like A. I like the stars and sun myself,” August said, glancing my way.
I flicked on the special UV light. “See. Look at the lettering.”
When August exhaled, the glass fogged slightly. I could see, up close, his eyes change in the light as he peered into the case. The lettering was faint and pale bluish under the special light.
I pointed. “On that page, there’s a quote about eleven stars and the sun and the moon bowing down.”
He smiled at me slyly. “Well, then he’s more than a fan of the stars—our A. is a biblical scholar.”
“How do you know that?” I asked.
“That quote is from Genesis.”
“Yes,” Harry said. He leaned over to me and whispered in my ear, “Pity he’s so dumb.”
Shut up
, I mouthed.
Harry stood upright again. “Well, kids, I contacted James Rose, the man whose collection we are auctioning off. You two are meeting him in his apartment at ten thirty.” Harry handed me an address written on a piece of notepaper. “Remember, we don’t want to let on too much. Not yet. Just try to get him to talk a little about the origins of the collection. You can say that we think one or two of the books might be extremely rare. Particularly this one. See where it leads you. His father may have acquired it not knowing what he had. Or he may have acquired it illegally. Antiquities are sometimes sold from private collection to private collection. Sometimes the origins are a bit nefarious.”
“People steal rare books?” I asked.
Harry nodded vigorously. “There’s even one sneaky thief they call the Tome Raider.”
“You have
got
to be kidding me,” I said, laughing.
“I’m not. It’s a secretive world—who reads and collects books like these? Museums, auction houses, libraries . . . and collectors. And the people who collect them are often obsessive and possessive. I know of one woman—I won’t name names, but she is on the society pages every week in this city. And she is absolutely obsessed with
Little Women.
She will pay any price for first editions—she owns seven of them already that I know of. I think people who develop these collections are often hunting for feelings. For solace.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“People who love books, who collect these kinds of books, they’re often seeking to re-create the feelings the books inspired in them. That society woman? My guess is
Little Women
was some sort of comfort to her in a lonely boarding-school existence, and now she has the money to acquire them. And some will stop at nothing. The histories of these books and how they came to be in the hands of who has them isn’t always a straight line. And sometimes it’s not even a legal one.”
“I feel like a spy or something. So does this address self-destruct in ten seconds?” I asked, holding up the paper.
“No. But
you
may if you don’t get going. Oh, and I know August has a near-photographic memory, so just try to remember everything this guy says. Don’t take notes.”
“Why?”
“People hold back when you take notes. They suddenly worry that if they say something it’s going to come back and haunt them.”
“Okay. Come on, August.”
He was still bent over the manuscript.
“August?”
“Sorry. But A. seems like a lonely guy . . . I feel like I know him.”
“Again”—I crossed my arms—“couldn’t A. be a girl?”
August looked back at the manuscript. “I don’t think so. The handwriting . . . I think it’s male.”
I rolled my eyes. “Please. How can you know if handwriting is male or female?”
August grinned at me, showing his dimples. “All right, then. A. is simply A. Not male. Not female. Not until we know for sure.”
“Thank you.” I smiled back at him.
“Well,” Uncle Harry said, “it would be good if we could find out for sure who A. is. If we could actually tie the palimpsest to a person in history, it would make this find even more incredible, and even more valuable. Now off you go.”
The two of us left the auction house. “The address is only thirty blocks away,” I said to August. “Want to walk it?” He nodded, and we set off on foot.
“How come you didn’t come back to the garden last night?” he asked.
“Was I supposed to?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.
“I thought my hint about the hammock would be enough to lure you back.” He smiled at me. “I slept out there last night. Kind of hoping you’d show up.”
“But . . .” I’d never met a guy this forward before, and I kind of liked it.
“Not enough of a specific invitation?”
“Maybe.” I playfully pouted by sticking out my bottom lip slightly.
“Don’t do that . . . I’d have to give you the moon, the world, anything you wanted with a look like that.”
My nerves were getting the best of me. Part of me wanted to keep looking at him, and part of me wanted to run away. When he grinned, he looked like a little boy. When he was serious, he looked very much like a young college professor, studious and thoughtful. Either way . . . he was gorgeous.
We fell into step with each other.
“So, Calliope. You’re going into your senior year?” he asked me.
“Yes.”
“Where do you want to go to college?”
“That’s a loaded question.”
“Why?”
I shrugged. “My father wants me to go to Harvard. He would like me to be pre-law. Follow in his footsteps. Inherit the firm. Beat people up in a courtroom for a living.”
“And you?”
“I’d like to study English literature or philosophy, or history, like my uncle. None of which, of course, I can do anything useful with, according to my father. I’d like to study
anything
but law.”
“Have you told him?”
“You don’t tell my dad anything. No one tells him anything. Or you do, but he barrels on as if he didn’t hear you. Most of the time, I feel like I am filing a motion with the judge when I talk to him.” I
really
wanted to change the subject. Somehow August seemed to pick up on my mood.
“My father would like me to study medieval history. But he seems to understand I’d rather be out back in my garden writing. Funny”—he dug his hands into his pocket—“at NYU, you meet kids with all kinds of families, and sometimes, I’m struck by the fact that I should be jealous of some of them. ‘Normal’ families. You know, the kind that can actually leave the house together. Mom, dad, two-point-four children, dog. But I’m not. My dad lets me be whoever I want.” He laughed.
“What?”
“Well, even when I was in high school . . . what was he going to do if I didn’t listen to him? He could ground me. But if I left the house anyway, it wasn’t like he would come running after me.”
“So did you do that?”
He shook his head. “Not my style. Dad and I get each other.”
We walked past huge window displays of fashion, a few galleries, bakeries, delis. Eventually, we arrived at the gleaming building where James Rose lived.
“Here we go. Ascending to the lion’s den,” August whispered.
The thought was unsettling, yet also attractive. Kind of like August. “Why do you say that?”
“This isn’t my first manuscript hunt. Think Indiana Jones with less scruples. Private sales often hide the provenance.”
“You mean where they got it from?”
He nodded. “Especially if it should be in a museum and not a private collection.”
A doorman in a dark blue uniform with gold braiding on the pockets, shoulders, and lapel, opened the shining brass and glass door. A concierge at a marble desk took our names and lifted a phone and said, “Please inform Mr. Rose that he has two visitors, a Mr. Sokolov and a Ms. Martin. Yes.”

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