Florian's Gate

by T. Davis Bunn

  Kantor’s eyes lighted upon Jeffrey. “I am well aware how fortunate I am.”

  “Nonsense,” the count snorted. “How could you, since you are scarcely ever here? Now listen to your good friend, Alexander. The only passion left to me is my collection. I would not joke over something as important to me as my passion, you know that. There are few dealers with whom I consider it a genuine pleasure to do business. If you know what is good for you, you will do everything in your power to hold on to him.”

  “I intend to,” Kantor replied. “And now that you have thoroughly embarrassed the young man, shall we get down to business?”

  “Very well.” The tone turned lofty. “I had thought to purchase that rather poor example of a writing desk you have propped up there against the back wall. But your young man must have misplaced the proper price tag, and I therefore wanted to take it up directly with you.”

  “The price is correct.”

  “You have not even asked him what he quoted me.”

  “I don’t need to. You have just told me what an exceptional find he is. I am quite prepared to stand on whatever price he quoted.”

  The piece in question was a seventeenth-century escritorio, a narrow cabinet with a fold-down face used for writing and fronted by as many as two dozen small drawers. In this case there were twelve, forming an upside-down U above and around a central door. When opened, the door revealed yet another door, this one opening only when a tiny switch elegantly concealed inside one of the drawers was pressed in just the right manner. The drawers and central door were inlaid with a mosaic of mother-of-pearl, brought in at enormous cost from some mysterious island on the other side of the globe by a wooden ship flying flags and as many as thirty-six sails. Jeffrey had spent long hours fantasizing about what the world had been like when pieces such as this had been created, and the stories connected to their centuries-long journeys to Mount Street.

  The price on that particular work of art was seventy thousand pounds.

  “Preposterous,” the count complained. “No writing table on earth is worth that much money, especially not one which made its debut in the back room of some second-rate counting house.”

  Jeffrey cleared his throat. “Perhaps I should mention that we’ve received another offer.”

  The count paled. “When?”

  “Yesterday. A gentleman from Canada. I told him I would have to wait until this morning, as you had been granted first refusal.”

  The count’s bluster dropped immediately to weak relief. “Bless you, young man. That was truly kind.”

  Jeffrey ignored the fact that Alexander’s approving gaze rested upon him. “I knew you were interested in it, Count. It would have been incorrect not to allow you a chance to make a counter offer.”

  The count glanced at Alexander, then turned to Jeffrey, “Shall we say seventy-five?”

  “Perfect,” Jeffrey replied. “When shall I have it delivered?”

  * * *

  Since selling his Belgravia flat, Alexander had made Claridge’s his London residence whenever he was in town. That evening he and Jeffrey departed the hotel for the Ognisko, the Polish club on Prince’s Gate, one block off Hyde Park. It was a holdover from the time when post-war Polish refugees with money and status all gathered and lived in the vicinity. With the passing of time, rents in that area grew from high to vicious and on to levels that were affordable only by the super-rich and by corporations seeking headquarter addresses. Yet the Polish club lingered on, secure in its distinguished position because it was a freehold property.

  The Polish club had a simple brass plaque on the pillar outside the entrance, announcing in a most understated way that the entire building belonged to the Ognisko, the Polish word for hearth. In days gone by, it was a haven for strangers forced by war’s uncaring hand to leave behind home and beloved country, and begin again in a strange new world.

  The club was open to all who wished to enter, and served excellent Polish dishes at what for London were extremely reasonable prices. In the seventies and eighties, however, as families had moved on and others had died out, attendance slowly dwindled to a handful of old faithfuls.

  “Thank you, driver,” Kantor said as he allowed the chauffeur to hold his door. “We shall be several hours, if you would care to dine and come back.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  Jeffrey waited until Kantor had started up the stairs before turning back to the driver and saying in a low voice, “It’d be a good idea if you’d stick around for half an hour before taking off. We might not be staying as long as he thinks.”

  “Half an hour it is, sir.”

  “Thanks.”

  They stepped through the wide double doors and were immediately awash in a flood of noise. Alexander Kantor hesitated, then stepped into the foyer and bade the two ladies staffing the front desk a good evening. One immediately went into the bar and returned with the club manager, a crusty old gentleman. His features were a series of jagged lines and caverns, carried on a body held stiffly erect despite the weight of seventy-some years.

  “Welcome, Mr. Kantor, welcome.” The man grasped Alexander’s hand and gave a formal bow. “It is always an honor to have you join us.”

  Alexander glanced over the man’s shoulder into the bar. It was wall-to-wall people, loud music, and thundering noise. “Sigmund, what on earth is happening?”

  “Ah, Mr. Kantor, it’s just awful.” The man showed tragic concern. “We’ve been discovered!”

  “I beg your pardon?” As was his habit, Kantor continued to speak in English so long as Jeffrey was in listening range. Even with clients who stubbornly insisted on remaining in the old tongue, Kantor would politely continue to respond in English. If furrows appeared around the client’s brow, Jeffrey would normally get up and leave the room. The only exception was when Alexander was dealing with someone whose English was not good; he then went to great pains to translate and include Jeffrey in even the most mundane of discussions.

  “It was the Sunday Times,” the old man said, his voice almost a wail. “Their restaurant writer was brought here by Polish friends, or so the article said. Then some awful magazine called the Tatler came by, and since then it’s been nonstop.”

  “It’s like this every night?”

  The old man nodded. “You should see it on the weekends, Mr. Kantor. Simply dreadful.”

  “I see. Any chance of a table?”

  “Oh, Mr. Kantor.” It was clearly what the old man had feared hearing. “If only you had called ahead.”

  “Of course, Sigmund.” Kantor gave the old man’s shoulder a conciliatory pat. “Don’t let it trouble you.”

  “I could perhaps have something around midnight if you’d care to wait.”

  “I think not.” Kantor grasped the old man’s hand in both of his, gave it a warm shake. “We shall return another night, old friend. Rest assured of that.”

  “Early is best, Mr. Kantor. It’s not so bad before seven.”

  The driver sprang from the car as soon as they appeared. Alexander asked Jeffrey, “You told him to wait?”

  Jeffrey nodded. “I thought maybe it would be better for you to see that for yourself.”

  “Quite right. I suppose we should travel on to Daquise, then, don’t you?”

  “Fine with me.”

  “Number Twenty Thurloe Street, driver,” Alexander instructed. “Near the South Kensington Tube Station.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  Daquise was another holdover, but from a decidedly different strata of transferred Polish society. It was a single long room set in a block of other small, slightly seedy shops.

  South Kensington was a district in perpetual transition. Daquise was located in an area at the scale’s lower end; the Rolls’ arrival stopped traffic and turned heads a half block away. The restaurant’s tables were linoleum-topped, its vinyl-covered booths and seats too old to be truly comfortable. But the food was excellent, and its clientele immensely loyal.

  �
��The old menus looked like choir hymnals from a bankrupt church,” Kantor said once the manager had greeted them, led them to a choice seat, discussed the menu, and left to give their order to the kitchen. Kantor’s good humor had revived considerably. “They were enormous padded red-leather affairs, and battered as a third-rate French hotel bed.”

  “You’ve told me,” Jeffrey said, nodding his thanks to the waitress who set down their fluted glasses of steaming tea.

  “I realize that,” Kantor replied. “Now you will wipe that long-suffering look off your face and play the politely interested employee.”

  Jeffrey cocked his head to one side, made round eyes, asked, “How’s that?”

  “Ridiculous. It’s not often I indulge in reminiscing.”

  “Just every time you come over,” Jeffrey replied, thoroughly enjoying himself.

  “Which is not often enough by the look of things.”

  “This is the best quarter the shop has ever had.”

  Kantor waved a casual dismissal. “I dread to think what we could have accomplished were I daily at the helm.”

  “Bankruptcy?” Jeffrey kept his smile hidden. “Public shame? Fire-sale signs on Mount Street?”

  Their evenings together became times of ever-deeper discussions and ever-greater pleasure for the young man. It was only recently, one evening after receiving Kantor’s arrival fax, that Jeffrey had wondered if perhaps the old gentleman was lonely.

  Kantor gave him a frosty glance. “Remind me why I put up with your over-active tongue.”

  “Because it doesn’t detach. And because I’m good at my job. And because I’m honest.”

  “Are you now.”

  “Totally.”

  “Yes.” Kantor’s eyes creased upward. “I suppose you are at that. So where was I?”

  “Goodness only knows.”

  “The menus. Thank you. Yes, the prices were all written by hand and in a shaky Polish script, then rubbed out and redone so often no one could read them.”

  “Which is why they finally purchased these awful plastic things,” Jeffrey finished for him.

  “Do I truly bore you that badly with my little stories?”

  “Truly?”

  “I would not ask if I did not mean it.”

  “Then truly, I look forward to your visits more than I like to admit even to myself.”

  Carefully the old gentleman sipped his tea, his face immobile. “Why is that, do you suppose?”

  “The truth again.” Jeffrey took a breath. “I have never met anyone like you. Never. You are a genuine individual in a carbon-copy world. Neither age nor success nor wealth has ground you to grayness.”

  “You’ve obviously given this quite a lot of thought.”

  Jeffrey nodded. “I’ve wondered if I’d ever have the chance to tell you. Or the nerve.”

  “I see.” Kantor seemed momentarily nonplussed.

  “You’re one of the few people I’ve ever met who is never boring. And with all the changes you’ve pushed me toward, there’s always been a perfectly good reason. I’ve never felt as if I’m being forced to fit some egotistical role.”

  “I’d rather try to reform the Rock of Gibraltar.”

  “You don’t know how rare that is,” Jeffrey replied. “And I’m more grateful than I’ll ever be able to say for your giving me a job that I love. Truly.”

  “Well.” Kantor was clearly at a loss. “I say, Jeffrey, I do believe you’re blushing.”

  “It comes with the confession.”

  “No doubt, no doubt.”

  They were saved from further embarrassment by the arrival of their dinner. They ate in comfortable silence until Jeffrey laid down his fork, pushed his plate back, said, “I come here a lot.”

  That brought another start. “When I’m not in town? Do you really?”

  “I like the food.”

  “How fascinating.”

  “A lot. And the people.” He motioned toward an old crone nodding in the corner. She was nursing a glass of tea, drawing out a nightly ritual, staving away the loneliness of an empty flat. She wore a blue velvet turban and an ancient diamond tiara. Her face was a mask of sagging folds, her nose a beak. “Everybody in here has jumped from the pages of a Tolstoy novel.”

  “Mmmm.” The old woman noticed their eyes. Alexander gave her a grave seated bow, murmured a greeting in Polish. She responded with a regal nod, replied with a voice made ragged from disuse, and returned to her own internal musing.

  “The correct term is staruszka. It means little old lady, but only in the nicest of terms. The word for old in Polish is stary, a term I’m coming to know on a too-intimate basis.”

  “I’ve never thought of you as old.”

  “How kind. Yes, if truth is to be the evening’s main course, then I must confess that my years have become a burden. You must experience the weight of years for yourself, Jeffrey, before you can really understand.”

  “You’ve had a good life.”

  “That I have, in part at least. Too good to leave it willingly behind. But for the first time since the war, I feel as though I can look ahead and see death’s door. It’s not that far away anymore. Just around the next bend.”

  Jeffrey felt the room grow chill. “You’ve seen a doctor?”

  “Many doctors. They all say the same thing. I am fine. I have some good years ahead of me. There is nothing wrong. They have leeched more money from me than even I thought possible, and tortured me with so many machines and needles I have begun to cringe every time I pass a hospital. They with all their modern wisdom have found nothing. But I know, young man. My body does not lie. We have passed more than sixty-five years in each other’s company, and come to like one another quite a lot. I heed its voice as often as I can, gracing it with comfortable beds and sensible foods and adequate rest. It in turn permits me the foibles of an occasional cigar and a third brandy on a cold night. In all the years since the war, it has punished me with nothing more serious than a stuffy nose.”

  “And now?”

  “And now. And now it says it is growing tired. It no longer willingly rises when I ask, nor responds to simple pleasures. Food has begun to taste flat, wine bitter, cigars stale. Worse still are the whispers of what is yet to come. Lingering illness. Pain. Embarrassing moments. Lapses of memory. The prospect of growing old distresses me more than anything has since the war.”

  “I would really like to hear about your escape from Poland if you ever feel like talking.”

  “Another time, dear boy. I couldn’t discuss the escape without referring to what came before it, and to speak of that and the loss of my faculties all in the same night would simply be too much. I will tell you of this, I assure you. I can see your interest is genuine, and I will honor it. There is no need for barriers between us. Honesty becomes a lie if it is doled out in half measures. But not tonight.”

  Jeffrey nodded, hurting without knowing why. “You look great to me.”

  “Thank you. I feel it, too. This small dose of truth between friends has done me a world of good, more than all the doctors I have visited over the past months. But the whispers I hear are not vague, and my time on this earth no longer appears as endless as it once did. What’s worse, I have begun to question my life. A most uncomfortable pasttime, I assure you. But with this unmarked door up ahead, it suddenly becomes much more appealing to turn around and look back. Only I cannot do this with the same comforting blindness with which I lived the moment. I am finding my own innate honesty has become a finger pointing at flaws and errors I have managed to ignore for a lifetime.”

  Jeffrey hoped his voice would not betray him as he said, “I think you’re one of the finest men I’ve ever met, Alexander.”

  “Thank you, dear boy. That means more to me than you will ever know. But I fear my own selfish blindness can protect me no longer from the failings of this life I have been privileged to call my own. Not, that is, if I am going to continue to find solace from the future by looking back. There are few t
hings that I shall be able to change, I recognize that. Age and my own disposition makes change at this late date most unappealing. But there are a few wrongs that I shall attempt to right in my remaining days. And a few of my better actions that I must endeavor to anchor against the unforeseen. Which brings us to the matter of our trip.”

  Jeffrey sat up straight. “Our?”

  “Not in here. I may have been lured into a public confession, but I shall not discuss confidential business in a public place.” He signaled to the waitress. “Come along. It’s time for a quiet glass at your club.”

  * * *

  Jeffrey’s club was around the corner from Berkley Square, where the nightingale sang no more—and even if it did, no one situated farther away than the next tree limb would be able to hear the melody. Nowadays the square was awash with an unending toneless symphony of blares, hoots, revving motors, angry shouts, jackhammers, squealing brakes, snarled traffic, and construction turmoil. Berkley Square had been transformed from a relatively quiet alcove to a focal point for Piccadilly-directed traffic, compliments of London’s one-way road network. The constant man-made storm had not affected rents, however. People paid staggering sums for the Berkley Square address, long after all charm had evaporated in a cloud of diesel fumes.

  The club was a short half block up a street as nondescript as the club’s entrance; a gray portal opened in a gray building on a gray street that shrugged its way around a corner and ended quietly in an alleyway. Inside, uniformed porters guarded the entrance with respectful vigilance, offering members a properly subdued greeting.

  Jeffrey had chosen the Landsdowne Club because it was close to his home and to the shop, had an excellent sports hall, and because it was available. Many of the London clubs granted membership only to those with title or wealth or renown, and very rarely at all to foreigners. Admission to the Landsdowne had been Alexander’s gift at the end of Jeffrey’s probation. As far as he was concerned, it was the perfect fit.