The Freiburg Cabinet

by Thomas Charrington

  “About this.”

  “So if we collect you at, say, six pm, we can be at Clery at around seven. On Saturday morning we all go up to the garret and decide where to place the cabinet. Exciting, eh? Which reminds me … is everything arranged for Bernard and his wife to move in?”

  “Oh yes. He’s packed up what he needs … made arrangements. He’s delighted, actually. Work is thin on the ground. As I said, the chateau has a strong connection with his family, especially his grandfather who used to garden there full time.

  “Even Bernard himself worked one summer there, as a very young man. They could do with the money, I think, and that cottage of theirs in Geraudot is tiny. His dogs will love it as well … all that space! If he’s good we’ll keep him on and possibly do up one of the out buildings for them to live in more permanently.”

  “Great … everything seems to be falling into place. So while the cabinet incubates for a year, it’ll be guarded in our absence by a trustworthy local.”

  “But … they won’t realize they’re guarding it, surely?” Fabien said, raising his brows.

  “Of course not!” Oliver chortled. “Only you, me, and Melvyn know of its whereabouts in the chateau—this is crucial.”

  “Sure … it is what I thought.”

  “Good. We can’t afford to make some blunder. This chest has been here for two hundred thirteen years, don’t forget! We need to block access to the top floor once it’s been planted, though. You were going to call the carpenters, remember.”

  “I already did … don’t worry. But remember it’s going to be very heavy, Oliver!” Fabien said with concern. “There are a lot of stairs to climb.”

  “I know … it won’t be easy. Melvyn has to assemble the chest first. He’ll then need some help to put the cabinet into it … on the top floor, I hasten to add. Before all that, though, he’ll be doing what he does best—giving it the illusion of age … little puffs of dust here and there and all the other clever little ploys he has, which frankly are beyond me. He thinks these things through, you know; imagines the carpenter making the crate and almost becomes him … like an actor really. He lives the moment.”

  “You make him sound like a wizard!” Fabien said in awe.

  “Well, he is really,” Oliver resumed. “He’ll have thought about the cabinet in its protective shell. Would insects have got in … would moisture have stained the box in any way …. how would the floor of the crate look where the feet rested on it for all those years. He goes through it all like a forensics man. And he knows! He’s seen so much old furniture, he knows how it behaves over time.”

  Fabien took a gulp of coffee.

  “I can feel the nerves in my stomach already … this is like a strange dream!” he said, his eyes flickering over the passing traffic.

  “And then there’s your part in the whole thing. Your discovery of the box. You have to become an actor as well, Fabien! We need to think through the exact circumstances which bring our baby into the big wide world, approximately a year from now.”

  “Jesus Christ, this is so crazy!” Fabien said in a forced whisper.

  “Are you and Cecile going to discover it together as you are clearing the garret one day?”

  “Non, I like your idea of the roofer being with us,” Fabien said forcefully. “I think it’s important that there’s someone else.”

  “True. It will add to the authenticity. As you all stumble around up there at the top of the house, you suddenly spot this chest. He will then become a witness to the ‘moment critique,’ so it will be important that you play your part well. You’ll need to be mildly curious to begin with, and then ratchet up the excitement level as you get him to take a peek inside. We need to pray that Melvyn doesn’t leave his boat ticket on top of the cabinet!!” Oliver grinned, giving the young man a light slap on the back.

  Fabien looked at his watch.

  “Yes, you’d better be going … was getting carried away,” Oliver chuckled. “We don’t want you losing your job!”

  “Okay, Oliver, this is sounding fantastic and scary at the same time. I’m shaking just at the thought of it. I feel like a man who’s about to enter the last game to win a tennis tournament … it all rests on me!”

  “You’ll be fine, Fabien … you have a quiet confidence.”

  They shook hands, and the young Frenchman disappeared into the bustling crowds.

  Chapter 13

  Tarquin was late for his rendezvous on Saturday; seven minutes, to be precise. He looked at the milling crowds on the pavement and was just wondering how impossible it would be to meet Constanta at such a location, when the car door flew open and she was suddenly beside him.

  “You are late, Tarquin,” she said sternly. “I like punctuality.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said sheepishly, pulling out into the maelstrom around the Marble Arch. “Would you like to eat something now or have a drink or—”

  “I’m famished,” she interrupted. “Let’s go to McDonald’s up the street here, I fancy a Big Mac.”

  “A what?” Tarquin said.

  “A Big Mac burger, Tarquin! Is this difficult to understand? Do you not eat burgers?”

  “Well … I … er … have had hamburgers from time to time, but certainly not at McDonald’s; wouldn’t occur to me frankly.”

  “Oh I’m so sorry,” she said theatrically. “We can go to one of your expensive restaurants if you prefer, but if I have to wait, I will get very bad tempered.”

  “No, look, we’ll go to the hamburger place, just tell me where to go,” he said firmly.

  “Tarquin, why the suitcase?” she said, looking into the backseat. “Are you leaving the country?”

  “Oh … no, I’m going down to Wiltshire tonight to stay with a friend for a few days.”

  “A friend, uh?” she said, angling for an answer.

  “My godmother, if you really must know. She’s getting on, and—”

  “Getting on? On where? What are you talking about, Tarquin?”

  “Oh, of course … ‘getting on’ means getting older. Just another silly English way of speaking,” he smiled.

  Constanta pushed some air through her pursed lips.

  “Anyway, she enjoys my company and needs little jobs doing around the garden. Besides, I need to get out of London for a few days; Thursday night shook me up a bit, to be frank.”

  “You’ll be fine, darling … just play it cool, and mind that finger. Don’t get the binding covered in mud,” she said, gazing at the shop windows. Constanta wasn’t good at sympathy; it was an emotion that had been starved of oxygen throughout her life.

  Three quarters of an hour later they were parked in the center of Hyde Park and walking towards the serpentine like a pair of promenaders from the nineteenth century. Whilst they’d been eating, Tarquin had had to endure a lengthy blow by blow account of Constanta’s day at the kitchen and a seeming rivalry she was having with another member of the staff. He had raised his eyebrows and nodded attentively as she described her frustrations with this person, but had found it nigh on impossible to follow the convoluted repartee between them.

  “Now we need to make a plan, Tarquin,” Constanta said, at last managing to disengage herself from the gossip of the day. “I think you need some help. You seem to have some crazy ideas about calling the police when this isn’t going to help you at all; it’s just going to waste a whole lot of time.”

  “Well, I’m not sure about that, Constanta,” Tarquin said solemnly. “I would naturally call the police. It’s what they’re there for, and they have the authority to make enquiries where I have not.”

  “Sure they have, and where do you think they will start with their enquiries?”

  “Well … I don’t know how important they would consider this,” Tarquin said defensively.

  “The first thing they’ll do, Tarquin, is make you fill out forms—lots of forms—and then, if they can be bothered, they’ll want to look into your affairs and see if you have been up to somethi
ng that would cause this to happen. You see? It’s you they’ll be looking at—at least to start with—and you have to decide if this is what you want.”

  “But I’ve done nothing wrong!” he said in exasperation.

  “You know that, but they don’t! To them it looks like you might have been doing things you should not have. Don’t forget you had nothing stolen. This is your problem. And the letter to Oliver, this will only make them more suspicious.”

  She looked at Tarquin for a reaction, but he just stared at the path in front of him, his brow heavily wrinkled.

  “Oh hell!” he said loudly. “Why me? Why bloody me?”

  Constanta moved closer to him and threaded her arm through his.

  “I have a friend,” she said quietly, “someone who might be able to help. He’s not good like you, Tarquin. He’s done some things in the past; not really bad like hurting people, but stealing, yes. He had a tough upbringing back in Iassi, my hometown; it was difficult … I would never judge him.”

  “And?” Tarquin said resignedly.

  “He would help you. He can watch people … he’s good with computers and getting into houses. Yes, he can do this very well.”

  “What, burgle people?” Tarquin said, beginning to feel this was going in the wrong direction. “Why on earth would I need him to do that?”

  “Burgle? What is this?”

  “To steal stuff; take things from their house.”

  “No! Not burgle! Just take a look inside. Stealing was before. He now sells bagels on the south bank for a friend of his … he’s clean now. He’s proud to be out of that bad scene!”

  “So he’s a burglar who sells bagels!” Tarquin said with a sarcastic snort.

  “This is serious, Tarquin, I feel you have been set up.”

  “Listen, sweetie,” Tarquin said, suddenly stopping and looking straight at her. “I think this whole thing is getting blown out of all proportion. It’s just some funny mistake; some oddity with no rhyme or reason, which doesn’t mean anything. I don’t think anyone’s after me, or has mistaken me for anybody else. I don’t belong in that world. I think those guys just didn’t like the look of me, it’s as simple as that. They just wanted to give someone a good bruising, that’s all.”

  It was Constanta’s turn to look defensive.

  “Wow! Moments ago you were all worried!” she said with surprise.

  “I know I was,” he said smiling, “but I’ve just suddenly realized how ridiculous this whole thing is. We’re creating drama out of nothing!”

  “I think you’re wrong,” she said quietly. “Why the letter about a cabinet? That makes no sense at all.”

  “Okay, then, perhaps they did think I was someone else last night … and … and now they’ll have realized their mistake, won’t they!” he said with a show of confidence.

  “Will they? What makes you so sure?” she said, searching his face.

  “As I said, sweetie, that isn’t my world. I don’t belong amongst street thugs and hobos. Their disputes are between members of their own tribe, not with people like me. Admittedly, Oliver is an unusual name for a yob; next there’ll be hobos called Horatio!” He snorted with amusement.

  “Okay, have it your way,” she said with a concerned expression, “but I think you’re wrong.”

  “Look, let’s forget that whole business for the moment and have a drink at the restaurant there,” he said, studying her. “You can tell me all about life in Romania after Ceausescu. I really enjoy your company and … and … well, I’m not feeling great about myself at the moment. My girlfriend called yesterday and basically said she wanted to finish with me. You know, wants space and all that caper. I probably deserved it. She just wants a break, wants to be spoilt. So you being here is a real bonus; you have a positive energy which is very attractive.”

  Constanta hesitated for a few seconds.

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” she said slowly, “shit happens. But you seem happy enough?”

  Tarquin looked at her tenderly for a moment. “It’s just a show,” he said quietly.

  With that they moved on, walking closely and chatting incessantly.

  * * *

  Zoltan looked out on Beauchamp Place through the dusty window of Sasha’s flat. He liked this street—the smart boutiques, the stylish girls, and the proximity to Knightsbridge, one of London’s prime shopping areas. But Oliver still hadn’t called, and this irritated him intensely. The complete lack of respect gnawed at his insides and made him feel murderous. How dare the insect treat him in this way. Even his own father was losing respect for him. He wouldn’t demean himself with another call; no, he would simply set the boys on him after one further warning. This would be the last warning, and if ignored, would mean more than a scuffle on the pavement, Next time, Oliver would be spending a month or two in hospital.

  Sasha quietly pushed the stool away from her PC and came up behind him. She put one arm softly around his shoulder and slid her other hand down his arm, spreading her fingers through his and squeezing tightly. He inclined his head towards her face as she placed some feathery kisses down the side of his neck, seducing him with soft nasal sighs. He turned, and pulling her towards him, took a deep draught of her scented skin.

  She leaned over and flicked a cord, allowing the slatted blind to fall. The room became twilight. Pressing her pelvis against him, she kissed him strongly on the mouth, undulating gently and coaxing a spark to ignite in his groin. He stared unsmiling into her eyes for a few moments, then, lifting her short skirt, he hooked his thumbs into her knickers and slowly squatted, pulling the little band of cotton to her ankles and out from under her feet.

  Her hands played through his blond locks as he slowly rose, drawing his fingertips languidly up the backs of her legs and into a series of sensual loops over the firm, cool curves of her buttocks. He kissed her again … across her parted lips, her cheek, and into the scented cleft below her seashell ear.

  She pulled him closer, breathing heavily, as his hand moved onto the silky skin of her inner thighs, where it lingered tentatively for a few moments, as though teasing. Her heartbeat was quickening and blood gathered in hot ruddy pools in her cheeks. Enveloped in her animal musk, he kissed her again, harder this time, whilst pushing her firmly back onto the desk.

  She gazed up defiantly for a few moments as he stopped and surveyed the sheer rudeness of her pose. She was leaning back with her weight on her elbows and her small skirt pushed clumsily up around her tummy. One long leg stretched to the floor, whilst the other knee was bent and and angled to the side provocatively, revealing her gently split fruit.

  “Would the Sultan like a sweet ripe fig?” she said, tilting her head slightly and mustering an innocent expression. Zoltan smiled whilst staring hard into her eyes. He flexed his jaw muscle.

  “Yes … yes, the Sultan has a taste for something pink and fleshy … right now.”

  With that he unbuckled himself, stepped forwards and curled his hands around her buttocks. Then, pulling her pelvis towards him roughly, he pressed himself slowly but forcefully into the damp tangled curls between her legs. She tilted her head back, gasping softly, her fabulous silver eyes reflecting in miniature the brilliance of the slatted sunlight through the blind.

  Chapter 14

  “Okay, it’s Monday now and you delivered it on Saturday, is this correct?” Zoltan said to the man at the other end.

  “That’s right, Z. Popped it straight through his door at nine thirty Saturday night. Wasn’t no one there, though. House was dark and his motor was gone,” Gus said respectfully.

  “Okay. Okay. Sweep by the house every now and then, and tell me if he comes in. Could be he’s back in Gloucestershire, in which case you know where to go.”

  “Completely right, Z, we know exactly where to find him. But you give him five days, didn’t yer—that’s till Thursday night, in it?”

  “I did. So if we hear nothing by 6pm Thursday, we’re going to act,” Zoltan said with quiet fury.

 
“Quite bloody right, Z. I don’t blame yer! He needs his arse walloping right good and proper—the man’s taking the piss,” Gus said passionately. “It’s unbelievable, we floor him in Piccadilly and give him a good going over, and yet the guy’s back on his feet as though it’s business as normal, a few days later. But Z, there’s kicking arse and there’s kicking arse! This time we’ll give him the grown-up treatment! We’ll kick him to hell and back and rearrange his features a bit. I’m thinking a Marlon Brando nose would suit him nice, along with a Vincent van Goth ear, if yer know what I mean.”

  “Yesss, we will kick his bottom and carry on kicking it until he wakes up from his cosy little sleep,” Zoltan said, forming a satisfying image in his mind. “I want Oliver to plead with me … to beg me, to admit that he’s been extremely stupid and disrespectful, behaved in very bad ways towards me and my family, and that he stole my idea. I want him to squeal like pig, okay, Gus?”

  “Exactly right, Z,” Gus said with approval.

  “Okay, I want you in state of vigilance as of Wednesday. I want to know his every move. Do what you’re good at, my friend, and keep me in the loop.”

  “Sure thing, Z. Nice to speak to yer. We’re on the case,” Gus said, closing off.

  * * *

  Tarquin fumbled for his keys outside his house, whilst gripping a box of various handpicked vegetables under his arm. After a week with Patience in Wiltshire, he felt a new man. The plaster was off his chin, and once again he’d had some amusing exchanges over cocktails in the social stream which gurgled and eddied around her little cottage. Patience loved having Tarquin to stay. She had never married, and he was useful; plus it was an excuse to have her friends over, using him as suitable bait.

  Diana had a strong dislike of Patience, who had made it perfectly plain that she felt they were a bad match and, therefore, it would be preferable for Tarquin to come and stay alone. The icebox and spirits were all in a state of constant readiness, and of course there was that “list” that always seemed to appear when he stayed. To clean the gutters, to trim the untamable hedge, to build the bonfire. Yes, Tarquin had his uses, and he enjoyed his tasks with a passion; they made him feel manly.