Tales From the Black Chamber (2 page)

“Well, it's not the book itself, as I'm sure you're aware. I was wondering where this copy came from. There's something oddly familiar about it, but I just can't place it.”

“If I'm remembering right, it's supposed to have been brought to England back from the continent by an English Jesuit who was eventually executed. On his death it was confiscated by the Crown and ended up at the Bodleian. It was deaccessioned in the 1830s sometime as they had—and have—several better copies, and it's been in a series of private collections. I got it from the Archdiocese of New York, of all places. They'd received a bequest of a lot of books, couldn't handle them all, and called us. There were a couple vaguely interesting ones, but nothing special, I didn't think.”

“Oh, well, then, I must be mistaken. Well, keep it safe, dearie, I may want to bid on it, if I can figure out why I've got such a sentimental attraction for it.”

“No problem, Mrs. Garrett.”
Is she being cagey?
Anne wondered, then dismissed the thought.
She's never played any games with me. And I've been all over that book. It's nothing special
.

Lindsay brought in the pot of tea and box of sugar cookies that tradition required Mrs. Garrett and Anne share while talking books. To Anne's surprise, Mrs. Garrett got up to leave.

“I'm sorry, Anne dear, but I've got to go. I have a hot date with the Library of Congress, if I get back before it closes tonight. Lindsay, dear, since it's after five already, would you be so kind as to share those cookies with Anne?”

“Sure, Mrs. Garrett.”

Almost out the door, Mrs. Garrett turned around. “Oh, Anne, check the title page of that 1525 copy of
De libero arbitrio diatribe sive collatio
. The inscription that says ‘Sod. Staup.' means it belonged to the Nuremberg philo-Protestant club called the
Sodalitas Staupiziana
, and if you check I think you'll find the handwriting is Albrecht Dürer's. You might advertise that to fine-art collectors as well.” Anne's jaw dropped. “Goodbye, dear! See you soon.”

“Do you want any of this tea?” Lindsay asked a minute later.

“My God, she's amazing,” said Anne, still staring after Mrs. Garrett. Then Lindsay's question registered. “Sure, why not. Pour us some while I go get the books.”

As Anne replaced the books in the safe, she double-checked their condition and contents, as Mrs. Garrett's behavior struck her as odd. However, everything looked perfect, so she decided that old ladies were allowed a little eccentricity now and then. She locked up the books, sat down with Lindsay, and enjoyed some tea, cookies, and gossip about whom various people at the firm were dating, the latest doings of various celebrities, and the books they were reading or thinking of reading. They rarely talked shop, but Anne had received some of her best advice from Lindsay over the last couple years, as Lindsay's father was Richard Edgecombe, founder and eponym of H&E, and Lindsay had absorbed more information about the rare-book business by osmosis during her childhood than most professionals gleaned in a decade of experience.

At the beginning of their acquaintance, Anne worried that Lindsay would decide that she'd want a partnership in H&E and bump her and her peers back a year or more. However, as she'd gotten to know Lindsay and like her very much, she realized her fear was unfounded. She learned that Lindsay loved rare books, but had no particular attraction towards the business of buying and selling them, and was taking a couple years after Yale to decide what to do with her life. Her father understood and had made her one of the six most overqualified receptionists in Manhattan with the firm agreement that she had three years in the job, not a day more, after which professional employment, continued schooling, or an entry-level position at H&E was mandatory.

Anne had availed upon Lindsay for advice any number of times and never found her less than forthcoming and helpful. On the basis of this collegiality, a genuine friendship had grown up, even though Anne was almost a decade older than Lindsay, and Lindsay's privileged East Coast upbringing was a world away from Anne's youth in the high mountains of northern New Mexico.

“So, did you see
Grey's Anatomy
last week?” asked Anne.

“Oh. My. God,” Lindsay elaborated.

Anne sat in the back of the firm's auction room watching the Rudolfiana auction poker-faced. Inwardly, she was giddy at the excellent prices the major pieces had fetched. Her partnership offer was now a mere formality. She'd established herself as acquirer, evaluator, and seller. She expected to have job offers from Sotheby's and Christie's on her voicemail by the close of business. Though she had no intention of leaving H&E, it would be nice to feel courted.

When the final gavel fell, Anne slipped out the door, adding up the sale prices in her head. Arriving back at her office, she found Mrs. Garrett sitting at her table with a pot of tea and plate of cookies at the ready, and the Aldine
Breviarium dæmonologicum
she'd paid a healthy but not unreasonable price for.

“Hi, Mrs. Garrett! Congratulations on getting that breviary. Nothing else interested you?”

“Oh, everything else interested me, dear. I'm just a little old lady who saves her pennies. Or rather, the Foundation's pennies. But congratulations to you, Anne. I haven't seen a better-run or more entertainingly contested auction in, well, twenty years.”

“Thanks, Mrs. Garrett. I was pretty happy with how it went.”

“You're too modest, my darling. It was a
coup
of the first order. Please, have some tea and cookies to celebrate. I'm sorry I didn't think to bring a port to celebrate, but you didn't let me know what a day it'd be for you.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Garrett. It is a little more than my average day at the office.”

Mrs. Garrett chatted with her about the books and the prices. Anne was, as always, amazed; this time, at the elderly lady's knowledge of not only the book market but of the oddball milieu of Rudolf's Prague, as well as an enormous amount of history and art to which she alluded offhandedly and unselfconsciously.

After a relatively brief chat, Mrs. Garrett excused herself. “I should leave you to the company of your peers, now, Anne. I suspect they'll have lots to say to you.”

Their probable congratulations (laced with well-concealed envy) flashed through Anne's mind, but she said with absolute sincerity, “Nothing as interesting as a talk with you, Mrs. Garrett.”

“I see you have mastered the art of flattering your customers,” Mrs. Garrett deadpanned. Then drawing herself up to her full four-foot, eleven-and-three-quarters inches, she placed a hand on Anne's arm, an unexpected intimacy, and said, with a smile, “Celebrate your success with the élan of youth, dear.”

Anne saw her out, then settled in for a delicious afternoon bath of praise and celebration. Her peers were genuinely happy for her (if indeed a little envious and worried that she'd set the bar very high), the partners were ecstatic (if clearly doing the math on enlarging the partnership and feeling a little old and mortal), and her voicemail and e-mail boxes were full of “I'd be interested in talking to you about …” e-mails from firms around the world. News travels fast when your auction is simulcast on the Internet.

At just after five, however, her almost-perfect feeling of happiness and self-satisfaction was abruptly punctured by the appearance of a gaunt man with a grim visage and empty eyes, wearing a gray suit and a flat black tie, the texture of which contrasted with the shiny black hair slicked down against his skull.

In a raspy, affectless baritone, he said, “The Jesuit breviary. I understand it was sold today for three thousand dollars. I will pay ten thousand for it right now. You may return the buyer's money, give three to your firm in payment, and keep four yourself.”

“I'm sorry, sir, but all sales are final at Hathaway & Edgecombe.”

“I understand that, which is why I am offering you that inducement.”

“I appreciate your candor.”
Though why you're willing to flatly admit you're bribing me to put my career at risk and break the law is something I don't think I want to know.
“Nevertheless, I must decline.”

He took a step forward, his face tightening so that something like cruelty could be seen skulking behind the blank features. “No, you must not. More money? Or, must we discuss this further?”

A flashing, freezing, atavistic dread shot through Anne. She felt the hair on her arms rise. “No, I'm sorry. I mean, it's impossible. The book has been sold, it's in the buyer's possession. There's nothing more we can do.”

“The buyer's name,” he stated flatly. “I would like to make him an offer.”

“I'm sorry,” she lied quickly and fluently. “The buyer paid cash, and we did not take his name. It's not a particularly valuable book, and it's not worth our time to keep records on the vast majority of unremarkable pieces that pass through our hands. I'm sure any reputable book dealer will be able to find a copy of the
Brevarium dæmonologicum
for you, and Aldine copies come on the market fairly frequently. I'm sorry not to be able to help you, sir. I appreciate your enthusiasm for antiquarian books, and I hope Hathaway & Edgecombe will be able to serve you in the future. Good evening.” She moved behind her desk, tapped a few computer keys and looked up with what she hoped was an are-you-still-here? look.

The skeletal man stood stock-still for a long, unnerving moment before speaking. “Yes. I understand. Thank you.” He turned and left without another word.

Anne picked up the phone and dialed zero.

“Lindsay, it's Anne. A really creepy guy just left my office. Is he hanging around?”

“Nope. He's gone. Walked right to the elevator, totally ignoring me when I said goodbye, and went straight down. What was his deal?”

“Wanted to buy a book we'd already sold.”

“Dork. Hey, you didn't hear it from me, but the partners had me make a dinner reservation at Le Cirque tonight, and they're currently headed for your office with some champagne that costs more than my suit.”

Anne was embarrassed to hear herself squeal slightly. “Awesome. Your secret is safe with me. Thanks, Linds.”

“Congrats!” said Lindsay in a stage whisper, before hanging up the phone.

Anne hung up and put on a poker face. When they came in, she didn't bother faking surprise, she just let out a little of the elation she'd been holding in all day and beamed like a movie star.

2

Anne spent the next day in bed, nursing an epic hangover and an oceanic feeling of well-being and success, having been offered and accepted a partnership at H&E over a seven-course meal that was by miles the best and by leagues the most expensive she'd ever eaten. Over the course of the night, with the food and drink arriving like magic, she'd probably had a couple bottles of vintage cabernet herself—she was a little unclear on the details—and she'd slept in until well after two in the afternoon.

Once sufficiently hydrated and caffeinated to open the window shades, she called her parents in Albuquerque and shared the good news. They were elated, though she could hear a tiny unarticulated undertone of grief that she was more firmly anchored to New York than ever. Around five, she called Lindsay at work and invited her out for a non-alcoholic celebration (“Non-alcoholic only on your part, Anne”), then called a few other friends, intentionally skipping peers from the office just to give them a little breather for any awkwardness to pass. She'd take them out for lunches or dinner sometime later. Tonight she just wanted to relax and not worry or think about work in the least.

She had everyone rally in Midtown for boatloads of Chinese at Ollie's, the new Johnny Depp flick on an enormous screen at the big AMC theater off Times Square, and a cab ride down to Bowlmor near the Village for some midnight bowling and beers (or decaf cappuccino, in her case).

As she climbed into bed, she thought, “With apologies to Kundera, that was the perfect evening of laughter and forgetting.” Sleep never felt so deep or restful.