Quest

by Richard Ben Sapir

  She had learned to trust herself because she had no choice. And so on a cold gray New York day, chewing on an eraser, and sorry that the dishes were done so she could not do them again, or anything again, anything she was sure would turn out right, Claire Andrews made a decision about her father’s cellar. Since it was obviously British, and since no other British cellars hosted gems, therefore the gems had to mean something.

  If she could accept that fact that she had just declared to herself as pivotal, then the route to the ownership of the cellar was the gems. They had to exist before the cellar existed and someone had to own them.

  And so while Captain Harry Rawson of the Queen’s Argyle Sutherlanders learned to use a jeweler’s loupe from a Bond Street Jew, and Detective Modelstein tried to fathom the mysteries of great gems from the dealer Feldman, Claire Andrews went back to the New York Public Library and within two books taught herself what the British captain and New York detective had to be told by others.

  Great gems went with great people, and as often as not they had their names, like the Amalfi emerald, or the Hope diamond. In book after book, Claire discovered gems were the historical perfume of the rich and powerful, and when empires collapsed and cities were sacked the gems fled and surfaced again with new people, sometimes with new names.

  But the scent was always there. Because history was about the rich and the powerful. The gems went along with it.

  It was an enormous discovery, she knew. She understood that no matter how forbiddingly awesome the search might be, it was now quite reasonably possible to find Dad’s cellar. She was no longer working on faith alone.

  She would have to change her research tactics. Book by book, page by page would never do. She had to organize on a computer. She probably would have to contact people overseas.

  She was exhilarated and yet she was depressed. She desperately wanted to tell someone about it. She would have liked to have told her father as first choice. And second was that detective.

  When she phoned him in the mornings, she wanted him to talk more about anything, but he was always so abrupt. She wanted a chance to explain to him again what she was doing. She was not some mental defective, but somebody doing something important. Most importantly, important to herself.

  Then why did she need him to acknowledge it? Why did she need anyone but herself?

  The furniture had come, but only a couch went into the living room, which stayed a workroom, the new computer going by the window overlooking the Queens street, and a new worktable set before what was now called the cellar wall.

  Among her most treasured belongings, shipped inside her old bedroom dresser now in her new bedroom along with her bed, was Dad’s picture. But she did not want to put it up in this apartment, not yet. It did not belong yet. It was not home enough yet, or something enough yet.

  She had to tell someone about her success. She went through a list of people, even her minister back in Carney, but none of them seemed to be right. In what she knew was a mistake, in what almost every American woman beyond her twenty-first year would have known was a mistake, she phoned, for some reason to be buried later in self-recrimination when it was all over … Mother.

  Mother was glad to hear from her. She even sounded interested in what Claire was doing, saying, surprisingly, “How nice.” Several times she said, “That’s nice.” Or, “How nice.”

  Claire spoke for almost an hour. When she was done, her mother, without a pause, without a comment on all the research or anything Claire had been telling her, said: “You know the Johnsons will be going to New York for Thanksgiving. If you’re not coming home, why not meet them for dinner. I’ll get you their hotel.”

  “Is that it?” asked Claire, feeling the degradation and fury of another encounter with the force that refused to accept she was someone who could do something. Something important. Something she was sure no one else had done exactly in the world. Ever. Before. Special.

  “Is there something more? You’re not angry, are you? Is there something wrong?”

  “No.”

  “Oh, gracious. There’s something wrong. What is it now, Claire? You’ve got to tell me so I’ll understand.”

  “I have been telling you, Mother. I have done something incredibly special.”

  “It’s lovely, dear. I said so. I don’t know how many times I said so. I said it was very lovely.”

  “I am not engaged in creating a bouquet for a flower show.”

  “Claire, you’ve got to be reasonable. What do you want me to say?”

  “Nothing,” snapped Claire and hung up. Why had she phoned? She felt small for being angry, and smaller for still needing Mother’s understanding and approval. If there was one person in the world Claire should have known would not validate her efforts, it would have been her mother. Claire really knew that before the phone call; only now she felt bad for getting angry on top of it all.

  She stared at the phone, wondering if she should call back, but she was twenty-eight years old. And she knew there was no redemption at the other end of the cord.

  The next day she experienced a breakthrough that terrified her. The detective not only spoke to her civilly, but said that since one of the stones in the cellar she claimed may have been a large ruby, he had arranged for her that day to speak to the foremost expert on that gem in New York City, and perhaps the world.

  “Norman Feldman himself. My god. Oh. I’m not ready. I don’t know enough. I can’t see him today. I’ve seen his name in books. That is Norman Feldman.”

  “I think he can explain your situation to you. Just meet me at his office in an hour.”

  “I can’t make it in an hour. I just won’t know nearly enough in an hour,” said Claire. This wasn’t some librarian or even some historian. This was a man whose name she had read in two books and a magazine article.

  “You don’t pin him down that easily. You may never get to see him again.”

  “I don’t know enough.”

  “You’ll never know enough for him,” said the detective, unnerving her even more.

  In desperation, she grabbed one book to read on her way from Queens into Manhattan. It had absolutely not one significant word she could use in speaking to Norman Feldman. So she wrote down a list of questions to ask on just the little she knew.

  He’s just like anyone else in the world, Claire. He is a human being with needs and fears like everyone else, she told herself. And of course she did not believe this. All the self-assurance that she had forged in the last two weeks seemed to melt at the prospect of meeting this man she had hoped some day in the future, in an educated future, to talk to. She thought of the incredible waste in seeing him now with only the questions she could fashion virtually off the top of her head.

  “I’m really not ready,” said Claire when she met Detective Modelstein outside the building.

  “Just listen to what he has to say about a ruby that size.”

  “I only have an estimate, you know. I made a fast calculation on its size, and I would say it has to be over fifty carats,” she said, following the tall detective into the building. He held open a door for her. She liked that. She liked his aftershave too. She wanted him to be a friend so she could have a friend on this occasion.

  “Just listen to what he has to say about your situation.”

  “He won’t think I’m stupid, will he?” asked Claire.

  Why was Detective Modelstein smiling?

  The office was not too bad. It was plain almost to the point of discomfort. And Feldman was a rather ordinary-looking gentleman with a face somewhat baggy and frowning, but he was not the overpowering sort she had feared. She looked to Arthur Modelstein for reassurance. There was that grin again.

  “Mr. Feldman, my name is Claire Andrews, and my father, an honest man all his life, was killed in this city trying to—”

  “Artie says you’re looking for a large ruby,” said Feldman.

  “Yes,” said Claire.

  “Would you know a ru
by if you saw it? Could you tell it from a police car bubble?”

  “I believe there is no ruby as large as a police car bubble yet found, Mr. Feldman.”

  “Would you know it from a piece of red glass?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Then what are you doing here?” asked Feldman.

  “I … I … I tried to prepare more, but Arthur said it had to be eleven o’clock today. I’m not blaming him, I understand how important you are and—”

  “You don’t know a ruby from a Parcheesi piece and you’re going to ask me questions? I’m doing this as a favor to Detective Modelstein. The least you could do is come up with an intelligent question. I might as well be talking to a wall. Did you come up here to gush over me?”

  A flush seized Claire’s cheeks. She fumbled with a pencil on an open page of her book. Artie stopped smiling. He had wanted her sent home, but not quite humiliated like this. With her bright yellow print dress and her notepads now falling off her lap, she looked, Artie thought, like a daisy being chomped by a bull. He looked to Feldman to ease off, but he doubted it would do any good, and was sure of it when Feldman didn’t even respond. This was not strong Feldman or weak Feldman; this was Feldman, the man who could excoriate museum curators in print and never fear a libel suit because he was the authority, the man known to start a conversation with “shut up.”

  There was nothing anyone could do for this poor lady but let it all happen and then, he hoped, send her back to her home, where there was furniture in the room and maybe, maybe, a pumpkin pie in an oven on Halloween or something.

  Hesitantly, getting all her pads back on her lap, Claire spoke: “I wanted to let you know how much I respected you. That I knew who you were.”

  “You don’t know who I am,” said Feldman. “Why do you say such stupid things? You don’t know what you’re doing. Nobody knows who anyone else is. How can you tell me you know who I am?”

  “I’m sorry,” said Claire.

  “Do you even know who you are? Do you know? You come here without a question. Are you planning on selling gush? Rah rah. A cheerleader. This is the real world, girlie.”

  “Excuse me, sir. I do not like to be called girlie,” said Claire. Artie had never seen a face so red. It could burn.

  “Then go hire someone to kiss your ass. Get out of here. I don’t have time for you.”

  “I have a question,” said Claire, swallowing, trying very hard not to cry. She would rather bleed from her eyes than shed tears from them now.

  “Wonderful. Shoot,” said Feldman. Artie wanted her to take it back, but it was too late. It was too late for everything.

  “Mr. Feldman,” she said, glancing down at her notes, “how many dealers do you know who would handle a pigeon’s blood ruby over fifty karats or so?”

  Artie thought he saw a slight smile form at the ends of Feldman’s perennially downturned lips.

  Claire had a pencil poised to take down the answer. She stared at the page as though keeping her face safe from having to look at Feldman’s withering stare.

  Feldman did not answer.

  Claire looked up. “Would you say there are five, seven, ten? Are there as many as ten?”

  “What if I told you there were fifty?” asked Feldman, leaning back in his chair, pushing his hands into his pockets.

  “I would find that surprising,” said Claire.

  “What if I told you anybody can deal a ruby, all they have to do is sell it. That makes them a dealer.”

  “Whom would they sell it to?”

  “Someone who wants to buy it.”

  “And when they bought it, whom would they call to assure them of what they were really buying for two or three million dollars, or more?”

  “Some experts, lots of experts.”

  “Really? Who? Who is an expert? I never saw one listed in a telephone directory. Who would be these experts on something smaller than an Easter egg that changes hands for many millions of dollars? Who would they be?”

  Feldman smiled. Artie wondered why. Was Claire making a fool of herself? Feldman wouldn’t smile at that. For Feldman people making fools of themselves was as common as weather.

  “Could be a museum director. Lots of museums have gem collections. Smithsonian. Natural History here in New York, the Paris—”

  “May I read you a quote from one museum director who is under severe scrutiny from his board, because of a comment you made when a member of that board asked your opinion—”

  “Three,” said Feldman. “Three dealers in a ruby that size is the answer you want?”

  “They’re like collectors, aren’t they?”

  “There are more collectors.”

  “How many?”

  “Won’t tell you.”

  “Why not?”

  “I’m sure you know why,” said Feldman. He was beaming.

  “If a pigeon’s blood ruby of fifty karats or more were for sale you would probably be contacted, wouldn’t you?”

  “If a person knew what he was doing, yes. Or two others, whom I also won’t mention.”

  “If it were for sale in New York City, it would have to be you, wouldn’t it?”

  “No. It wouldn’t have to be me.”

  “Why not?”

  “Airplanes. Ever heard of them?”

  “But that would mean crossing borders to get an appraisal of the stone.”

  “Try thinking, girlie.”

  Claire put down her pencil and folded her book over it.

  “Mr. Feldman,” she said, her voice quivering again, “I find it inconceivable, knowing who you are, that you would not be aware of a stone like the one I describe, practically from the moment it was for sale anywhere in the world.”

  “Not from the moment,” said Feldman. He was beaming. Artie had never seen a beam in Feldman.

  “In fact, I may venture,” said Claire, her voice sharpening and rising so that Artie could see now the latest trembling was really a growing rage, “that you have already seen the ruby, and that if you haven’t, you will, and that in all likelihood you may have to be involved in its sale.”

  “Not have to exactly,” said Feldman. He was chuckling and looking to Artie.

  “Then let me apprise you now in front of Detective Arthur Modelstein of the New York City Police Department that a large pigeon’s blood ruby of over fifty karats with the engraving of Christ on it is stolen, and that I would appreciate any information you have on it and must warn you that if you have it in your possession or attempt to deal it, you are dealing in stolen merchandise.”

  Claire Andrews sat rigid, staring at Norman Feldman, who was absolutely aglow.

  “You are one very clever lady. You know, Artie never thought to ask when he bothered me about that large ruby, how many would deal in something like that.”

  “Mr. Feldman, you may think you are above the law, but you’re not.”

  “I’m not a thief, girlie. And I heard you. Now get out before you ask any more intelligent questions.”

  The phone rang. Norman Feldman took his hands out of his pockets and placed them on the desk. He was not smiling anymore.

  Outside the office, waiting for the elevator, Claire began to tremble and then laugh, covering her mouth like a schoolgirl embarrassed.

  “I can’t believe I spoke to Norman Feldman the way I did. Oh, Arthur, I have so many exciting things to tell you. Everything is going so well.” The strange smile had disappeared from Modelstein’s face. He pushed the button to the elevator, a bit more furiously.

  Inside, Norman Feldman had changed his mind. This lady was smart enough to get herself killed. He wondered whether he should tell Artie, and decided not to, because Artie would not know what to do and might get himself killed trying to save her.

  IX

  Thou art harder than stone, more bitter than wood, more barren and bare than the fig tree, how durst thou presume to venture where the Holy Grail abides.

  —SIR THOMAS MALORY

  Morte d’Arthur, ca.
1470

  The cellar was gone and so was the thief.

  “So you think he is in Brazil because there is no extradition treaty with America?” asked Rawson.

  “I’ve notified our state department as such,” said the American detective. He was the large sort, with a strong body that seemed to dominate his somewhat untidy desk. His suit was a bit flashy with a strangely colorless tie that seemed more an accommodation to official requirements than his taste.

  He lacked a sense of formal respect. He asked his questions bluntly, and on those rare times he used the word “Mr.” it was not so much a sign of respect as distance. He had also noticed Rawson’s cut left hand and asked about it, commenting on how all those little marks must have been made by a strange tool. Rawson had explained it was gardening. But more important, Rawson realized, this detective was hiding something. And he was hostile.

  “And you didn’t arrest him when you had him here?” asked Rawson. “I’m not accusing you of anything. I’m sure you had a good reason.”

  “I did not have enough evidence to arrest him. I had a complaint from the owner, whom he did a form of switch on.”

  Rawson watched the strong jaw set just a bit more when Detective Modelstein mentioned “owner.” Was that the cause of the hostility?

  All Rawson had done was to inform the detective of his claim on the cellar, showing a May 1945 complaint to Scotland Yard listing the cellar stolen from the Rawson family. It was something the Yard could swear to honestly. Intelligence had written up this complaint, correct even to the inks and type fonts of 1945, and then secreted it into Scotland Yard files, a far more effective way to validate ownership and time of loss than trusting the Scotland Yard sort with a secret.

  But when this photocopy of the complaint and the gem list was presented, the American detective had put Rawson on the grill.