Florian's Gate

by T. Davis Bunn

  “Disgraceful,” the gentleman rumbled.

  “Yes, I suppose so,” the young man replied. “Of course, there just is no accounting for taste.”

  The gentleman rounded on him. “I mean that it is disgraceful for such a piece of German heritage to ever have left German soil.”

  “My dear fellow,” Trevor replied. “This particular piece has never set foot in Germany. When it left the Kaiser’s palace for parts unknown, that stretch of earth was still proudly Prussian.”

  The gentleman ignored him. “And to wind up in a London showroom. Outrageous.”

  “Yes, well, we have tried our very best not to soil it over much,” Trevor replied, winking at Jeffrey.

  “It could have been bought by just anyone,” the gentleman went on. “Lost to the German people forever.”

  “Oh, we shouldn’t have allowed that, I don’t think. Not without a struggle, in any case. As a matter of fact, it appeared that all top five bids were from Germans.”

  That took the wind from his sails. “They were?”

  “Indeed yes. Several museums showed quite a bit of interest as well.”

  “Which ones?”

  “Oh, it wouldn’t do for me to pass that on, now, would it? Discretion and all that.”

  The man gathered himself, said, “I am authorized to offer a substantial amount of money for this piece.”

  “Yes, well, it would have to be, wouldn’t it. The winning bid was the highest price ever paid for a piece of German furniture, which I suppose isn’t saying much since the level of prices up to now wasn’t particularly staggering.”

  “You can forget that bid,” the man snapped. “He has decided to retract it. Or rather, to grant the German government the right to this property.”

  “What a pity,” Trevor said, not the least put out. “Still, I suppose we’ll have to wait and hear that from the gentleman in question, won’t we?”

  “The final bid was for one hundred and eighty thousand pounds, was it not?”

  “That is correct,” Trevor replied blandly. “Quite understandable, really. It is a remarkable find.”

  Jeffrey watched the young man’s face, wondering if he would ever reach the point of being able to say the price for a chest of drawers was three hundred thousand dollars without bursting into hysterical laughter.

  “You may speak to the former high bidder at your convenience. This article now belongs to the German people. A check from my ministry will be in your hands tomorrow.” The professor wheeled around to face Jeffrey. “It is a disgrace that a piece of national heritage has been treated in such a manner. You, sir, will be hearing from my solicitors.”

  When he had stormed out of the hall, Trevor smiled and said, “I think that went rather well after all, don’t you?”

  “I guess so. Do you think there’s anything to his threat of legal action?”

  “Not unless it was stolen.” Trevor eyed him carefully. “It wasn’t, was it?”

  “I hope not.”

  “Alexander keeps you in the dark about his sources, then, does he?”

  “Sorry, I can’t answer that.”

  “No, of course not. Still, if you’re going to keep on digging such treasures out of holes in the ground or wherever it is he comes up with them, you’re going to have to expect the odd complaint now and then.” Trevor extended his hand. “And do keep us in mind the next time something like this turns up, won’t you? We always do enjoy a good mystery. Especially one where there’s money to be made.”

  CHAPTER 4

  Jeffrey knew very little about the Polish side of his background. His mother, an only child, seldom spoke of her father’s homeland. Jeffrey’s own father came from a large family of good Scotch-Irish stock who proudly referred to themselves as hybrid American mongrels. There was a vague sense of uneasiness among his parents and uncles and aunts whenever the topic of his grandfather’s birthplace arose.

  Once he had asked his grandmother why her daughter, his mother, did not know more about her father’s heritage. She had shown a rare moment of regret and said, “Your mother was tutored in Polish by a neighbor starting at the age of six. At thirteen she refused to take further lessons and promptly forgot everything she had learned. All she wanted was to fit in, to be a part of her own little world. A Polish father and a pride in a country other than this one simply did not fit. Her father and I did not have the heart to insist.”

  “Did it bother you when Mom married so young?” Jeffrey’s mother was seventeen when she married and eighteen when Jeffrey was born.

  “Of course it did. I was immensely distressed. But your grandfather felt otherwise. He said when he met me he could not have waited another week to be wed, and sensed that same urgency in the way your mother felt about your father.” She smiled in fond remembrance. “I argued with him until he told me that his greatest regret was that we had not met earlier. Let them marry, he said. Give them the joy of the twenty extra years together that we shall not have.”

  Jeffrey’s grandmother looked at him, and went on, “Someday when you have children of your own you will also be faced with problems that will leave you wondering for the rest of your life if you did the right thing. It is the way of the world. All you can do is hope that you tried and acted in their best interests, not in your own.”

  An immigrant from an Eastern European country that most of his relatives could not even place on a map simply did not fit in with their proper scheme of things. So everyone referred to that Polish aspect of his heritage with a shrug, a wink, a smirk, a glance at the heavens. Only his grandmother’s reaction differed from the family norm. Whenever anyone asked, she would reply, yes, my husband was a true Pole. There was so much pride and love in her voice, even after living as a widow for twenty years, that Jeffrey never ceased to wonder at why no one else showed his grandfather’s heritage some of the same esteem.

  His grandmother was a doddering old lady now, shrunken to teacup size and bent to match the old rocking chair that was her permanent daytime residence. But her eyes were still bright, and she loved to talk of the man who was no longer.

  She had been a career secretary, working for the United States Embassy in London on a five-year contract toward the end of World War II. Approaching thirty, facing a worldwide shortage of available men, she had consoled her move to spinsterhood by taking the battery of exams and winning the coveted London post. Her second month there, the impossible had occurred and she had fallen in love.

  Piotr, or Peter as he soon came to be known, was penniless, almost homeless, and twenty-three years her senior. To her co-workers and few friends, he was just one of the countless thousands of displaced people who flooded every government office in Western Europe, all with tragic tales of wrongs unrighted and estates lost forever. Some of these stories were even true.

  At the time of their meeting, Piotr had barely a nodding acquaintance with the English language. His rough speech, his formal old-world manners and travel-worn clothes, all were a source of endless amusement to the other embassy staff. They called Piotr a clown. But even then, at the very early stages of their blossoming relationship, she knew better. Love granted her the power to see beyond the shabby exterior and realize that this graying man with his strong face and handlebar moustache and weary eyes truly held a heart of gold.

  So they were married, and while she worked at the embassy Piotr studied English and continued his profession as a watchmaker and jeweller. When her five-year stint was completed they returned to the United States with their baby daughter, where the first of Peter Kantor’s three jewelry and watch stores was soon up and running.

  * * *

  The year Jeffrey graduated from university, his grandmother fell and broke her hip. While she was lying immobilized, her only child—Jeffrey’s mother—finally convinced her that the days of living alone were over. By the time she was released from the hospital, her home had been sold and her most treasured possessions had been moved into his brother’s old room—the same br
other who for Jeffrey was no more.

  After that, going home took on a new meaning for Jeffrey. His first year with McKinsey, he logged more trips from Atlanta to Jacksonville than he had during his entire four years at university. His grandmother loved to talk, but few in the family were interested in hearing about the past. In all honesty, Jeffrey cared little for the old days, but he loved this sense of connection with a family that had been shattered beyond all recognition by time and events.

  Although her hip was pronounced fully healed, it bothered her to move. She preferred to spend her days in the rocker set by the room’s large window. Jeffrey found it immensely reassuring to just come and sit with her. Evenings when his parents were out, grateful for the freedom his presence gave them to take a deserved break alone, he would often bring in his weekend workload, spread it out on her vanity, and sit and work. They spoke little in those times, content to enjoy the silent company. It also helped him enormously to gradually replace the memories of what the room once had been to what it was now.

  The Saturday afternoon following his acceptance of Alexander Kantor’s offer, he returned to find her resting where she always was this time of day, her rocker set so that sunlight fell on her lap and not her face. His mother had recently redone the room in new wallpaper, one with tiny rosebuds blooming in perpetual profusion. The old lace bedspread covering her miniature four-poster bed was matched with new lace curtains and lace doilies over the two side tables. The whole effect was cozy and feminine and very fitting to the old lady.

  “I wanted you to be the first to know,” Jeffrey told her, pulling up a chair and sitting down, “I’m going to London to work for Alexander Kantor.”

  The crystal-clear gray eyes showed a momentary glimpse of deep pain, then returned to their normal calm. “You have certainly been unhappy at work.”

  “How did you know?”

  “I may be old, but I still have eyes. Sometimes I see things more clearly now than I ever did before.” Her voice had the toneless quality of the truly ancient. “I shall miss your visits, Jeffrey.”

  “I’ll miss you too,” he replied, and realized that he might be seeing her for the last time. The awareness seared him; before him sat the strongest link he had to the family of his youth.

  “One thing you should do before you go,” she told him.

  That was enough to draw him back from the brink of real sorrow. “Don’t say it,” he replied coldly.

  “Make peace with your brother.”

  “No.”

  “Please. For me.”

  “I don’t have a brother. Not anymore.”

  “So much like your grandfather,” she said softly. “Stubborn as an ox.”

  “I wish I’d known him better,” he said, relieved to be back on more comfortable ground.

  “He would have been very proud of you,” she said. “And he would tell you the same thing.”

  “I can’t,” Jeffrey said simply. “Can we please talk about something else?”

  She nodded her head, a single tiny motion, and said, “Your grandfather thought the world of Alexander. He would be pleased to know the family was staying together in this way. Very pleased.”

  He had not thought of that. “Is that why he offered me this job?”

  “Who knows what Alexander thinks?” she said. “He is a bachelor, always has been. There has always been a little touch of the mysterious about Alexander. And a bit of the mystical about his cousin Gregor. You have never met Gregor, have you?”

  Jeffrey shook his head. “I really don’t know much about him. He’s the one who escaped to England and then went back to Poland, isn’t he?”

  “That’s correct. Gregor was always a religious person. A very gentle man with a wonderful sense of humor. I always felt good around him. He had a way of cheering everyone up, no matter how troubled they might be. He called it his spiritual gift.” She looked at him. “You mustn’t be concerned about the whys behind Alexander offering you this job.”

  “Your vision is perfect,” Jeffrey admitted.

  “Rest assured, if Alexander keeps you, it will be for one reason, and one reason only—because you are good.” The old eyes rested gently on him. “Which you are.”

  “Thank you.”

  “One thing I know for certain. Alexander Kantor cannot abide mediocrity. Not in antiques, not in houses, not in clothes, and certainly not in people.”

  Jeffrey settled back. “Tell me about him.”

  “Well, with a man like Alexander it is sometimes difficult to separate truth from legend.”

  “I’ve noticed. What I’ve heard about him sounds almost like fairy tales from a children’s storybook.”

  “Yes, the family has certainly done him an injustice. But this is the way people often deal with a character who is larger than life. And Alexander certainly is that.”

  “Why do you let them talk about him like they do?”

  Fragile shoulders bounced in a single silent laugh. “Since when does anybody listen to what I have to say?”

  “I do.”

  “Yes. You have been a great comfort. I will certainly miss you.”

  He pushed the renewed pain away. “So what was he really like?”

  “When your grandfather first began courting me, Alexander was a sort of ghost around the apartment. They call them flats in London, don’t ask me why. His family all lived there, or rather all of those who had escaped with him. There was your grandfather Piotr, which is Polish for Peter—I soon had him change it to something I could pronounce, I assure you. Then there were Alexander’s parents—your great-uncle and aunt. Then there was his cousin Gregor and Gregor’s wife. She died soon after their arrival in London; perhaps you knew that.”

  “I didn’t even know he was married.”

  “He’s not now. That is, he never remarried. They were clearly very much in love, and apparently he was able to love only one person in all his life. But you asked me about Alexander. Well, as I said, he was rarely there in those early days of our courtship.”

  “I love that word,” Jeffrey told her. “Courtship. It sounds so formal.”

  “That’s why I use it. Your grandfather was a very formal, courtly person. He had the finest manners of any person I have ever met, except perhaps Alexander. But where Alexander acted with such polish, my Peter acted with heart.”

  She wiped at the wet spot in the corner of her mouth with a handkerchief as delicate as the hand that held it. “Whenever I visited Peter’s flat—which was a ghastly, crowded affair, I assure you—Alexander was never there. His things were on the bed beside Peter’s, and next to his in the closet. But the man himself was never around. Never. I did not actually meet him until after Peter and I became engaged. I don’t know what I expected, but I was shocked at what I found.”

  “I can imagine.”

  She looked at him. “He still cuts a handsome figure, does he?”

  “Very.”

  “I’m so glad. Our heroes should have the right to age gracefully. Back then, Alexander was undoubtedly the most dashing man I had ever met.”

  “Why did you call him a hero?”

  “Well, first of all because of their escape. From what I recall it was quite an adventure. I’m afraid I don’t remember the details. But there was much more than that. Much more. He financed your grandfather’s first jewelry store here in America. Ah, I see you did not know that. Yes, and a home for us. And Gregor’s education in London—that is, until he decided that he was called back to Poland. That was the way Gregor always described it, that he was called. Alexander never accepted a penny in return from anyone. He refused to even discuss it. He called such talk a dishonor.” She smiled into the distance, repeated, “Your grandfather thought the world of that gentleman.”

  “Why was Alexander never home? I mean, when you used to go over there.”

  Her eyes twinkled mischievously. “Because he was out gambling.”

  “What?”

  “I only learned the truth after
Peter and I returned to America. In London they simply wouldn’t discuss it. Such a thing was horribly incorrect. His family were old aristocrats, you see, and had a lot of trouble accepting the fact that the war had left them penniless. You cannot imagine how destitute they were when we first met. Your grandfather had one jacket, two pair of trousers, and two shirts to his name. That was all. Still, the idea of Alexander earning the money to pay for the lion’s share of their living expenses with cards was simply not to be discussed with anyone. But he was so successful at it that they dared not complain. They couldn’t afford to, you see.”

  Jeffrey leaned forward in his chair. “Successful.”

  “Incredibly. So successful that he was eventually banned from some of the gambling clubs. Gambling is legal in Britain, you see, but only inside licensed clubs. Yes, Alexander only played blackjack and poker and bridge, games where his amazing ability with numbers gave him an advantage.” She was clearly enjoying herself. “You didn’t know that either, did you?”

  Jeffrey made do with a slow shake of his head.

  “He trained as a mathematician in Poland. No, I take that back. Something else. Something to do with calculating odds.”

  “Statistics?”

  “Thank you. He had just started his studies, I seem to recall something about being quite young, so young that he could not enter university and was being tutored privately. Then the war broke out and everyone’s life changed for the worse.”

  “Amazing,” Jeffrey said. “A professional gambler.”

  “Not just, young man. Not by any means. He took courses at the university and worked a daytime job loading trucks.”

  “And gambled.”

  “Almost every night, sometimes until dawn if he was in a private game. Peter was very envious of Alexander’s ability to live on two or three hours of sleep a night, rarely more.”

  “I bet I can guess what he did with the money,” Jeffrey said.

  “London was full of refugees, or displaced persons as they were known then. Many were quite wealthy, or had been. Most had something to sell—jewelry or silver or rare boxes, perhaps a small painting, anything that could be easily carried as they made their escape from wherever they had come.