The Amber Room (7 page)

“Fräulein Nichols, she is there?”

“In fifteen days,” he shouted. Frau Reining spoke a truly awful English. They normally relied on Katya and her fluent German for translation. “She prepares for her exams. You call her apartment?”

“Ach, nein, I wait four, five hours for this line. We try, yes?”

“We try,” Jeffrey agreed.

“Have three
Stück
for you. You understand
Stück?
”

“I think so. Big schtukes or little?”

“Big. Wood. Old.”

“Right. Antique furniture.”

“Very beautiful. You buy, yes?”

“I'll have to check them out first.”

“What?”

“Yes,” Jeffrey surrendered loudly. “I buy.”

“Good. Also have other seller. In Erfurt. South. He needs honest man.”

“Thank you,” he yelled.

“Find one honest man, no need to look for other. You understand? This man, he too is honest. I know.”

“I believe you.” He cleared his throat, shouted, “You want me to come to Schwerin?”

“Not here. Erfurt. You know?”

“No, but I'm sure I can find it on a map.”

“What?”

“I find.”

“Fräulein Nichols, she know it. Capital of Thuringen.” Through the static he heard the sound of a match being lit, of smoke being drawn. “Man is Herr Diehl. Spell Dieter-Igloo-Europa-Heinrich-Ludwig. Siegfried Diehl. Godly man. You understand?”

“I think so,” he replied.

“He suffered much. The Communists made him pay much. Too much. More than, how do you say tenth for church?”

“Tithe.”

“Yes. Communists no stop at tenth. Or half. They take all. Job. Pension. School for children. Home. He pay much for religion. Good man. You see.”

Jeffrey scribbled, hoped the spelling was close enough for Katya to figure out. “All is ready for me now?”

“Yes. You go with Fräulein Nichols. Siegfried, he has no English.” She coughed, shouted over the static, “When you go?”

“We have a lot going on right now. I'll have to speak with Mr. Kantor, but I—”

“What?”

“Four or five weeks, maybe.”

“Not sooner?”

“I don't think so.”

“So. I tell Siegfried.”

“You're sending your antiques to,” he hesitated, not wanting to name the town, “Siegfried's shop?”

“Pliss?”

“Your schtukes.” Jeffrey was growing hoarse.

“Ah. Yes. With Siegfried. You go, look for shop on bridge.”

His hand hovered over the page. “He works near a bridge?”

“Not near. On. On bridge. Shop on bridge. Called
Glock
, means bell in German. Look for Bell Shop on bridge.”

That evening Jeffrey made his way on foot to the Grosvenor Apartments, a red-brick Victorian structure overlooking Hyde Park. The floors had been converted into luxury apartments
that rented by the week or month. Three weeks before departing for Poland, Alexander had let out his Geneva apartment and made this building his permanent residence. It was Jeffrey's first visit to Alexander's new home. The old man had insisted on being allowed to, as he put it, let the dust settle before inviting in guests.

Alexander answered the door with, “My dear young friend, come in. Come in.”

“Thanks. Welcome back.” Jeffrey took a step and pointed to the delicate French commode decorating the entrance hall. “I know that piece.”

“Don't go around pricing the furniture, that's a good boy.”

“I was wondering what happened to it. I thought I had a buyer lined up, then I come in one morning and, poof, it's gone. You took it to Switzerland, didn't you? And now it's back here.”

“Yes, well, that's one of the benefits of ownership, isn't it.”

“And the sofa there. Isn't that part of our Biedermeier set? Yes. I see the secretary in your living room.”

“My dear young man, I'll thank you to turn off the calculator in your eyes and drop the urge to call a moving van. Now come in.”

Jeffrey silently took note of the two late medieval tapestries adorning the walls where the foyer opened into the living area. He had a client who was still asking about those.

Two long steps separated the white marble foyer from the living area's split-beam floor. The furniture was sparse, each piece set on silk Persian carpets and spaced to be viewed individually, like fine jewelry displayed on beds of multicolored velvet. Tall windows at the room's far end overlooked Park Lane and the park beyond. Noise from the constant traffic speeding by seven floors below was reduced to a steady hum.

“This is beautiful,” Jeffrey declared.

“I'm so glad you like it. Sit down. Can I offer you anything? A coffee, perhaps?”

“Coffee's fine, thanks.” Jeffrey selected an eighteenth-century
Dutch high-backed chair upholstered in white silk. “I'm sorry you wouldn't let me meet you at the airport.”

“The older I become, the more I am inclined to suffer through my little foibles in private,” Alexander replied. “And how is your dear lady?”

“All right, as far as I know. I talk to her every evening, but we won't be seeing each other for another two weeks.”

“Yes, she has exams, doesn't she? How are they progressing?”

“All right, she thinks. She sounds very tired, though.”

“I'm sure she must be.”

Jeffrey cleared his throat, decided to have it out while his nerves were still intact. “I'm thinking about asking her to marry me.”

“My dear boy!” Alexander's face lit up with genuine pleasure. “What absolutely splendid news.”

“If she'll have me.”

“Of that I have no doubt. I am most pleased with this excellent decision on your part, as well as with all that lies behind it.”

“A queasy stomach,” Jeffrey offered. “Clammy hands. Unsteady legs.”

“Divine inspiration, true love,” Alexander countered. “A joining for life. I wish you every success.”

“Thanks, Alexander.”

“Now then.” Alexander lowered himself into a chair. “As a pre-wedding gift, you must allow me to bestow upon you an engagement ring.”

“It's too much,” Jeffrey objected.

“Nonsense. I have the perfect item in mind. It was one of my very first purchases after the war, and I have held on to it for sentimental reasons.”

Faced with the old gentleman's positive delight, Jeffrey swallowed his protests. “You did the same thing when my grandparents became engaged.”

Alexander's strong eyes glimmered. “How very kind of you to remember.”

“My grandmother told me about it when she heard I was coming to work for you.” Jeffrey faced the old man squarely. “That was one of the best things that's ever happened to me, Alexander.”

“You do me much kindness.” It was the old gentleman's turn to pause and taste from his cup. “Such a mood should not be dampened by the mundane. I propose we leave our business affairs until later.”

“Fine with me.”

“Excellent. I do have something rather fascinating that you might care to hear about this evening.”

“The pieces for the gala,” Jeffrey guessed.

“Exactly. The altar and painting from Rokovski are indeed splendid. The chalice from the Marian Church, however, is something truly unique.”

“Chalice is another word for the cup used in the Communion, isn't that right?”

“Ah, that is your Protestant upbringing.” Alexander topped up his and Jeffrey's cups from a sterling silver coffeepot. “The development of the chalice is a story steeped in two thousand years of mystery and intrigue.”

“Great,” Jeffrey said, his enthusiasm undisguised. “I love the stories in this business almost as much as I do the pieces themselves.”

“Do you indeed?” Alexander nodded approval. “I am indeed happy to know that you share my love of mystery.”

“Sometimes it wakes me up at night,” Jeffrey confessed. “I'll lie there and see pages of the books go through my head. I think of these incredibly beautiful pieces, and feel as if I'm reaching across the centuries to talk with the makers, learn their secrets, share with them the pleasures of creation.”

“It is a passion that has never failed to ignite the fires in me,” Alexander agreed. “I have wondered if this is what fuels the desire of acquisition for some. For myself, it has never
been necessary to hold on to any particular item. To
find
is more than enough. To watch it pass through my hands, and for a brief moment to be a part of its history, that is adequate. I suppose my earlier experiences have left me too aware of the brevity of life and the transient nature of all possessions. But of that we shall not speak tonight.” He smiled at Jeffrey. “Tonight we shall revel in the mysteries.”

“Sounds good to me.”

“Excellent. Then tell me of your favorite piece, my boy. Make it live for me.”

“Favorite.” Jeffrey settled into his chair, leaned his head on the back rest. “That's a hard one.”

“Do not speak of the mundane. Reach back into the shrouded mists of time and describe what has so held you enthralled.”

“There's a piece in the shop's basement right now that I'm holding for Betty,” Jeffrey said. “Ever since it arrived, I haven't been able to get it out of my mind.”

Alexander stripped the foil off a long Davidoff, snipped the end, struck a long match. “Some of my vices have proven more difficult to leave behind than others. I do hope you won't mind.”

“You know I enjoy the odor,” Jeffrey replied. “As to somebody else's vices, if I ever reach perfection myself, maybe I'll feel I've got room to criticize.”

“Thank you.” When the cigar was well lit, Alexander leaned back in his chair, set his feet on the stool, and retreated behind his fragrant cloud. “Carry on, Jeffrey.”

“The piece was made in America,” he began. “I'm almost positive of that. But it's an exact replica of an altar table I found in a book on the Cambridge churches, only smaller. The Cambridge altar was made in the days of King Henry VIII, when the Church of England was formed by a king who wanted a son and heir so badly he was willing to break with Catholic Rome and force an entire country to accept a new doctrine.”

“Excellent,” Alexander murmured. His only feature which showed clearly through the fumes were his eyes, colored like the smoke and lit bright as the cigar's burning tip.

“The way I imagine it,” Jeffrey went on, “there was a man who lived then. A truly gifted man, who could take the hardest of oaks and feel the veins and trace the patterns buried within the wood. He was a man of faith who tried to follow the Word, and he was troubled by the goings-on in the house of God.”

Alexander leaned forward. “His name?”

Jeffrey thought a moment, decided, “Matthew.”

Alexander settled back. “Go on.”

“Matthew was an artist of wide repute. In fact, he became so well known for the quality of work that even the great bishop in Cambridge heard his name. He was called in to make this new altar table in commemoration of some great earthly event.

“Matthew knew that the church was notorious for declaring artists' work as donations and paying poorly and slowly. He was also aware that to refuse someone as powerful as the bishop was to court death. But more importantly, Matthew wanted to contribute his work to such a great and holy place as the Cambridge Cathedral. Matthew accepted the task. And he put his very best effort into this work.

“He sat there day after day, praying and meditating on the structure that would house his work, the building with which his work would need to wed. He sketched the church's medieval stained-glass windows. Then he sketched the cathedral's great cross, which was made around the year eleven hundred. And as he worked, he listened to the talk that swirled around him.

“He heard the church officials whisper gossip in his ears, tales and politics and subterfuge and things of this earth, which he felt had no place in the worship of his Lord. In time he began work on the actual cabinet, but as a very troubled man.

“He carved the front panels as a series of reminders, calling all who served from the table to remember the One they served. He harkened back to the earlier days, when faith was the reason for their gathering, not the words of earthly kings. He carved the cross. He carved the apostles as they appeared in stained-glass windows made when the church was young. And when the piece was done, he stayed to see Mass celebrated upon his creation, and then he left the cathedral, never to return.”

“My dear Jeffrey,” Alexander said quietly. “You surprise me.”

“Mathew had a son,” Jeffrey went on, “who took his father's name and trade. In time he passed both on to his own son, along with the story of the Cambridge altar. The grandson grew in stature and talent to match that of his grandfather, and shared with him his dislike for the church's earth-bound concerns. As he grew older, his dislike for the church's tainted ways grew so strong that Matthew decided to leave the world behind and take his family to America. But before he left, he traveled back to the Cambridge Cathedral and made careful sketchings of his grandfather's altar.

“Throughout that long voyage, the storms raged and threatened to consign him and his wife and his children to the bitter depths. He suffered during that trip. There is no question of that in my mind. He suffered badly. The food was terrible, the cold almost unbearable, the wet and the stink their constant companions. He and his family were not oceangoing folk, and at times their seasickness made them wish one of those huge waves would swamp their little boat and put an end to their trials.

“Matthew and his family arrived in the Virginia colony just as a new church was being built. One much smaller and simpler than the Cambridge Cathedral, but filled with the Spirit that had called to his grandfather's heart. Matthew had no money, only his tools and talent and the desire that burned in his breast. His contribution to the new church was
yet another altar table, one miniaturized to fit the smaller surroundings. But the panels were exactly the same, Alexander. Exactly the same cross, the same cup, the same apostles.