Rare Objects. Kathleen Tessaro

tell them how to spend it. In fact”—he peered at me over the tops of his glasses—“just the sort of people who might be swayed by a pretty blonde.”

      “Yes, but I don’t seem to have much influence,” I reminded him. “If I haven’t got what the customers want, they’re out of the door before I can stop them.”

      “That’s my point, though. These aren’t just customers, they’re pilgrims, searching for a holy grail. So ask them about the journey. Get them to tell you about the other pieces they have. Listen. And before you know it, you’ll be able to show them almost anything you like. But they like to feel they’ve discovered things for themselves. There’s something furtive about a real collector; it has to do with the thrill of the hunt. And then, of course,” he added, “there are the eccentrics.”

      I had to laugh. “It gets more eccentric than eighteenth-century Dutch spice boxes?”

      “Oh, yes! I have one man who only wants to buy rare porcelain that’s been repaired in some unusual way, long before the days of glue. Exquisite teapots with ugly twisted silver spoons for handles, platters held together by metal staples and twine, broken glassware with shattered bases replaced by hand-carved wooden animals. Actually, I have to admit, as an anthropologist, he’s one of my favorites.” He leaned against the counter. “You see, a well-curated collection always tells a story. His tells a tale of resourcefulness and industry; of people who had the foresight to salvage something even though it will never be pristine again. I like to think of it as the moment when aspiration meets reality.”

      “You were an anthropologist?” It never occurred to me that he had been anything other than a shopkeeper.

      “That’s right. I taught at the University of Pennsylvania.” He seemed to grow several inches as he said it. “But this is absorbing too, in its own way.” He cast an eye round the shop like a ruler surveying his kingdom. “It’s anthropology of another sort. You see, in its purest form, collecting is designing—selecting objects to create sense, order, and beauty. To us, we’re simply selling a serving dish or an ivory comb. But for the buyer, he’s fitting another intricate piece into a carefully curated world of his own construction. At its root is an ancient belief, a hope, in the magic of objects. No matter how sophisticated we think we are, we still search for alchemy.”

      I thought of the cigar box, of the black bow tie and train ticket.

      And then suddenly I remembered the gold pocket watch in New York; the thick chain and the solid, satisfying feel of it in my hand. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up; I knew why I’d taken it.

      Some distant part of me knew it belonged in the box under my bed, too.

      Even with Mr. Kessler’s expert sales advice, business at Winshaw and Kessler continued to be slow. Every day Mr. Kessler put three bills into the cash register in the morning and took them out again, often unsupplemented, in the evening. It didn’t bode well. But he remained unfazed. “We’re hunting for bears, Miss Fanning,” he told me. “You don’t need to catch one every day, just a few a season.”

      The last thing I wanted was to be out of work again. I liked having heat in the mornings and the luxury of being able to afford new stockings rather than darning and redarning the same pair until they were more cotton thread than silk.

      So I made work for myself. Each morning I went in determined to prove myself indispensable by rearranging displays, cataloguing inventory, polishing, and cleaning. And I enjoyed it. After the bleak emptiness of the hospital, the shop was a feast for not only the senses but the imagination too. While dusting the furniture, I found myself pretending this was my drawing room filled with fine antiques. Or as I polished silver, I mulled over which pieces might give the most favorable impression of excellent taste. (The plain English serving dishes were elegant without being ostentatious.) Sometimes when Mr. Kessler was out, I took all the jewelry from the cases and tried it on in different combinations, mixing Victorian opals with strings of red coral beads and Art Nouveau cloisonné bangles. I was playing dress-up, like a child—pretending to be a woman of means and charmingly eclectic sensibility.

      Mr. Kessler seemed more bemused by my industry than anything else. I asked a thousand questions, wanting to know when and how and even why things were made, their worth, how long they’d been there. He was used to being alone, and while he enjoyed teaching me things, he perhaps wasn’t quite prepared for the way I set about rehanging all the paintings by “mood” rather than period or displaying the glassware in rows of color instead of style. Some of my methods were more successful than others. It turns out china collectors, for example, are extremely particular about mixing patterns and makers and they wasted no time setting me straight.

      But gradually, in spite of my overzealousness, a precarious order began to prevail. There was only one place that remained impervious to all my improving efforts.

      Even though he’d been away a long time, nothing had been touched in Mr. Winshaw’s office; the drawers were bulging with letters and receipts; books and piles of old newspapers and journals were stacked high, all just as he’d left it. A fat tabby called Persia slept curled up on the old red velvet seat cushion of his chair. Stubbornly territorial, he guarded the place like a sentinel. I was allowed to use the office for paperwork and to take my lunch sitting at Mr. Winshaw’s massive Victorian desk, amid this spectacular monument to disarray. At first it was maddening; I had to physically restrain myself from throwing things out. But there was also something intriguing about being privy to the intimate belongings of a complete stranger. Scientific journals, volumes of world mythologies, old playbills, and overdue library books formed unstable, teetering towers around me as I unwrapped my daily meal of two hard-boiled eggs from waxed paper and peeled them. Atlases from different corners of the globe and translation dictionaries for half a dozen languages bore cracked spines from excessive use. Correspondence from countries like Australia, Cuba, and India remained tantalizingly unopened, crammed into cubbies.

      But this wasn’t just messiness or neglect. It was knowledge, rich, chaotic, and diverse.

      And everywhere there was evidence of Mr. Winshaw’s constant intellectual curiosity; notes jotted down on the backs of envelopes, dog-eared pages in books, underlined passages, and articles torn from newspapers. Like an excavation site, different eras of obsession were layered one on top of another. Here was an entire collection of books on African art, and on top of that a thick stack of newspaper articles explaining German Surrealist cinema. Then came an examination of eastern American Indian rites and rituals. What his interests lacked in cohesion, they more than made up for in variety. Sometimes I’d open one of Mr. Winshaw’s books and find myself unexpectedly lost in another of his fascinations—like the making of medieval tiles. But the most compelling thing was the map of the ancient world that hung on the wall above his desk, with pins marking destinations. At lunchtime I stared at it, wondering at the places he’d been, the things he’d seen, and where he was now.

      “Where exactly is Mr. Winshaw?” I asked Mr. Kessler one day.

      He looked up from a pile of invoices he was going through, peering at me over the top of his wire-rimmed glasses in a certain way he had, like a mole poking its nose aboveground to sniff the air before venturing out. “Well, I haven’t heard from him in some time.”

      “When will he be back?”

      “I’m not sure.” He put the papers down, taking off his glasses and rubbing his eyes with his fists. “You see, Winshaw’s an archaeologist—a serious archaeologist, not just an academic. A year ago, an opportunity came up that was too good for him to miss; he joined a dig with an old friend of his, Leonard Woolley, in Iraq. What used to be Mesopotamia, the ancient city of Ur.”

      I’d studied the map long enough to remember where that was. “In Arabia?”

      “Yes. But the truth is, I’m not exactly certain where he is now. Winshaw’s something of a loose cannon. It’s a bit worrying,” he conceded. “There’s been violence in that area. Bombs, air attacks on local tribes. But I’m fairly certain he’ll turn up sooner or later.”

      “Fairly certain?” He appeared disconcertingly