The Amber Room

by T. Davis Bunn

  “It is a passion that has never failed to ignite the fires in me,” Alexander agreed. “I have wondered if this is what fuels the desire of acquisition for some. For myself, it has never been necessary to hold on to any particular item. To find is more than enough. To watch it pass through my hands, and for a brief moment to be a part of its history, that is adequate. I suppose my earlier experiences have left me too aware of the brevity of life and the transient nature of all possessions. But of that we shall not speak tonight.” He smiled at Jeffrey. “Tonight we shall revel in the mysteries.”

  “Sounds good to me.”

  “Excellent. Then tell me of your favorite piece, my boy. Make it live for me.”

  “Favorite.” Jeffrey settled into his chair, leaned his head on the back rest. “That’s a hard one.”

  “Do not speak of the mundane. Reach back into the shrouded mists of time and describe what has so held you enthralled.”

  “There’s a piece in the shop’s basement right now that I’m holding for Betty,” Jeffrey said. “Ever since it arrived, I haven’t been able to get it out of my mind.”

  Alexander stripped the foil off a long Davidoff, snipped the end, struck a long match. “Some of my vices have proven more difficult to leave behind than others. I do hope you won’t mind.”

  “You know I enjoy the odor,” Jeffrey replied. “As to somebody else’s vices, if I ever reach perfection myself, maybe I’ll feel I’ve got room to criticize.”

  “Thank you.” When the cigar was well lit, Alexander leaned back in his chair, set his feet on the stool, and retreated behind his fragrant cloud. “Carry on, Jeffrey.”

  “The piece was made in America,” he began. “I’m almost positive of that. But it’s an exact replica of an altar table I found in a book on the Cambridge churches, only smaller. The Cambridge altar was made in the days of King Henry VIII, when the Church of England was formed by a king who wanted a son and heir so badly he was willing to break with Catholic Rome and force an entire country to accept a new doctrine.”

  “Excellent,” Alexander murmured. His only feature which showed clearly through the fumes were his eyes, colored like the smoke and lit bright as the cigar’s burning tip.

  “The way I imagine it,” Jeffrey went on, “there was a man who lived then. A truly gifted man, who could take the hardest of oaks and feel the veins and trace the patterns buried within the wood. He was a man of faith who tried to follow the Word, and he was troubled by the goings-on in the house of God.”

  Alexander leaned forward. “His name?”

  Jeffrey thought a moment, decided, “Matthew.”

  Alexander settled back. “Go on.”

  “Matthew was an artist of wide repute. In fact, he became so well known for the quality of work that even the great bishop in Cambridge heard his name. He was called in to make this new altar table in commemoration of some great earthly event.

  “Matthew knew that the church was notorious for declaring artists’ work as donations and paying poorly and slowly. He was also aware that to refuse someone as powerful as the bishop was to court death. But more importantly, Matthew wanted to contribute his work to such a great and holy place as the Cambridge Cathedral. Matthew accepted the task. And he put his very best effort into this work.

  “He sat there day after day, praying and meditating on the structure that would house his work, the building with which his work would need to wed. He sketched the church’s medieval stained-glass windows. Then he sketched the cathedral’s great cross, which was made around the year eleven hundred. And as he worked, he listened to the talk that swirled around him.

  “He heard the church officials whisper gossip in his ears, tales and politics and subterfuge and things of this earth, which he felt had no place in the worship of his Lord. In time he began work on the actual cabinet, but as a very troubled man.

  “He carved the front panels as a series of reminders, calling all who served from the table to remember the One they served. He harkened back to the earlier days, when faith was the reason for their gathering, not the words of earthly kings. He carved the cross. He carved the apostles as they appeared in stained-glass windows made when the church was young. And when the piece was done, he stayed to see Mass celebrated upon his creation, and then he left the cathedral, never to return.”

  “My dear Jeffrey,” Alexander said quietly. “You surprise me.”

  “Mathew had a son,” Jeffrey went on, “who took his father’s name and trade. In time he passed both on to his own son, along with the story of the Cambridge altar. The grandson grew in stature and talent to match that of his grandfather, and shared with him his dislike for the church’s earth-bound concerns. As he grew older, his dislike for the church’s tainted ways grew so strong that Matthew decided to leave the world behind and take his family to America. But before he left, he traveled back to the Cambridge Cathedral and made careful sketchings of his grandfather’s altar.

  “Throughout that long voyage, the storms raged and threatened to consign him and his wife and his children to the bitter depths. He suffered during that trip. There is no question of that in my mind. He suffered badly. The food was terrible, the cold almost unbearable, the wet and the stink their constant companions. He and his family were not oceangoing folk, and at times their seasickness made them wish one of those huge waves would swamp their little boat and put an end to their trials.

  “Matthew and his family arrived in the Virginia colony just as a new church was being built. One much smaller and simpler than the Cambridge Cathedral, but filled with the Spirit that had called to his grandfather’s heart. Matthew had no money, only his tools and talent and the desire that burned in his breast. His contribution to the new church was yet another altar table, one miniaturized to fit the smaller surroundings. But the panels were exactly the same, Alexander. Exactly the same cross, the same cup, the same apostles.

  “And when Matthew looked upon his finished work, he knew peace in his heart. He knew then that his decision and the voyage and the new beginnings were right. Here he and his family had found a home where their lives could be dedicated to worshiping God, not to men’s unending struggle for power.”

  Jeffrey leaned back, went on, “There’s one more thing. The legs of this piece were carved with a symbol of the man’s own struggle. An interlocked series of fish traced down each leg, but set on the inside face, where few were likely to see them. The secret sign of the fish, first used by the Christians of the Roman labyrinths.”

  The room was silent save for Alexander’s occasional puffs. Then, “I congratulate you, Jeffrey. You have made it live for me.”

  The old gentleman stood. “Come. I have made reservations for us at the Connaught. Over dinner I will share with you a mystery of my own.”

  CHAPTER 7

  A biting wind kept them company during the walk from Alexander’s apartment to the Connaught. Yet it was a clear night, and the air tasted dry and clean. Jeffrey delighted in the city and the companionship. Alexander walked alongside him, puffing contentedly on his cigar, eyeing the buildings and the passing people with a lively interest.

  As they turned the corner onto South Audley street, Jeffrey asked, “How is Gregor?”

  “All right, I suppose.” Alexander fanned his smoke with an irritated motion.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “My dear cousin does not approve of my activities.”

  “You mean, the gala?”

  “I’m sure I don’t know,” Alexander replied peevishly. “I have not asked, and he has not said. All I can tell you is that he continues to challenge me with what he leaves unsaid.”

  Jeffrey could not help but smile. “I know what you mean.”

  “Do you? How positively reassuring. I thought it was perhaps the voice of my conscience that was nagging at me.”

  “Maybe that’s why Gregor gets under your skin,” Jeffrey offered. “Because he says what you’re already thinking on a deeper level.”

 
“Whatever the reason, he is positively the most unsettling man I have ever met.” Alexander tossed his cigar aside. “He is typically so blunt about matters dealing with the state of my soul. This new reticence of his has been most disturbing.”

  “Disturb.” Jeffrey nodded agreement. “That’s exactly what he does to me.”

  “Does he indeed?”

  “Every time we speak. He’s always saying what I least expect to hear. And what unsettles me most.”

  “And still you turn to him?”

  Jeffrey sought a way to express what he felt. “Somehow just being around him gives me the confidence to take the next step.”

  Alexander stopped on the Connaught doorstep and stared at Jeffrey a moment. “It is reassuring to hear that I do not face these unanswered questions alone.”

  “There’s a world of difference between knowing what I need to do and doing it,” Jeffrey replied.

  “There is indeed,” Alexander agreed. “Nonetheless, it pleases me immensely to know that I face this quest with a companion.” He opened the door, motioned Jeffrey through. “Come. Let us dine.”

  The Connaught occupied a corner of Carlos Place, which stood a mere jot and tiddle away from the clamor of Berkley Square. Its view was of nothing more appealing than a pair of city streets and a matchbook-sized patch of green flanked by waiting taxis. The hotel’s interior was all ancient wood and rich decorum. The public area was a dozen rooms laid out as a series of tastefully decorated formal parlors. Guests of the hotel and restaurant, many of whom had continued to frequent the establishment for decades, walked across creaking floorboards and spoke in quiet, cultured tones. Ties and jackets for gentlemen, and appropriately refined dress for ladies, were required at all times.

  The restaurant reminded Jeffrey of the leather-and-wood lined study of a very wealthy man; the original oils adorning the walls were worth millions. The bill of fare was unabashedly English and leaned heavily toward succulent roasts, platters of steamed vegetables, ruby-toned clarets, and thick treacly desserts.

  Once they had ordered and were again alone, Alexander confessed, “I have known a growing pressure within me to come to terms with these new demands of faith—and yet, so often, I feel that I am groping in the dark.”

  “I find faith mysterious, too,” Jeffrey admitted.

  “Well, then,” Alexander replied, “perhaps we shall have the pleasure on other cold nights of comparing our walks in the mists of misunderstanding. But for now, I need to speak of other matters.”

  Alexander lowered his voice. “In recent days, I have recognized that my strength and days are precious commodities, and health a gift that must be harbored. I therefore intend, as time goes on, to leave an increasing amount of the purchasing and travel to your capable hands. I shall reserve my time and strength for those pursuits that have not received the attention they should during earlier years. That is, if you do not object.”

  “I’m deeply honored,” Jeffrey replied.

  “On the contrary, it is I who am grateful to the Lord with whom I am just beginning to have a nodding acquaintance for gracing my latter years with such a friend as you.” He took a brisker tone. “I shall remain increasingly in London, minding the shop while you are away. Thus the reason for my new flat. As you accept these new responsibilities, I should hope that you would take advantage of my experience.”

  “And wisdom,” Jeffrey finished for him. “Of course I will.”

  “Excellent.” Alexander leaned back as the waiter set down his plate. “Now, let us turn our attention to something more in tune to this splendid repast.”

  “The chalice,” Jeffrey said. He nodded his thanks to the waiter and took a first whiff of perfumed steam.

  “Precisely. The chalice has a most interesting history,” Alexander said. “It is one of the few elements of Christianity that has fascinated me over the years.”

  Jeffrey could not help but smile. “We’re talking about an antique. Of course you liked it.”

  Alexander did not deny it. “Part of the joy of collecting is the wealth of legends that spring up around the items. The older the piece, the more enchanting the stories. Imagine, if you will, that some magnificent object has stood in one corner or another, protected by nothing more than its owner’s greed or love of art—”

  “Or both,” Jeffrey offered.

  “I will thank you not to interrupt the flow of history,” Alexander said crossly. “Now look what you’ve done. I’ve forgotten what it was I wanted to speak about.”

  “Greed?”

  “Ah, yes. History. Thank you. This object has stood surrounded by intrigue and wars and power struggles, heard secrets spoken from lips whose commands sent hundreds of thousands into mindless battle, observed the endless march of time.”

  “If it only had eyes,” Jeffrey murmured.

  “You have the romance of a horse’s nether regions,” Alexander snapped.

  “Sorry,” Jeffrey said, hiding his grin behind his glass. “Just slipped out.”

  “It must be something they put in American baby formula. Saps away the ability to wax lyrical about anything but the color green.”

  “This was interesting, it really was,” Jeffrey soothed. “You were going to say something about the chalice?”

  “Are you sure you can stay awake for another few moments? Keep your mind off your bank balance?”

  “I try not to think on that too much. Red ink scares me.”

  “The legend of the chalice is as old as Christianity itself. It began with Joseph of Arimathea, the wealthy Jew who was granted care of Christ’s body after the crucifixion. The story goes that Joseph was also given the cup that Christ had used at the Last Supper, the one which held the wine that Jesus declared was His blood, and from which the apostles all drank. As Joseph washed the Lord’s body, some blood flowed from His wounds, and Joseph caught this blood in the vessel.

  “When the Jewish authorities discovered that Christ’s body had disappeared from the tomb, they frantically began a search for a scapegoat. This makes perfect sense, you see—that’s why I think there might be a grain of truth to the legend. An essential element of their desire to kill Jesus was to end the turmoil caused by His claim to be the Messiah. Now, if His body had disappeared, then His followers could easily either proclaim that He had not died, or that He had risen.

  “At that point, therefore, the authorities were not looking for answers; they had no time for such niceties. They were looking for someone upon whom blame for this misdeed could be publicly laid. And Joseph was the perfect scapegoat. He was rich, he had been identified as a follower of Jesus, and he was as well known in some circles as are the rich of today. In other words, he was not some nobody just pulled off the street—perhaps that is why the Lord’s body was entrusted to him in the first place.

  “Whatever the reasons, Joseph was seized by the authorities, accused of stealing the body, thrown into prison, and denied food. After several days of this harsh treatment, according to the legend, Joseph received a visitation from the risen Christ, who was said to have entrusted the cup to him, along with instructions to share the secret of the communion with all believers.

  “Joseph remained in the cell for forty years, fed by a dove that came every night and dropped bread into the cup. When he was finally released, in A.D. 70, he immediately left Jerusalem on a trip that was positively filled to the brim with adventures. He made his footsore way to England and finally settled in Avalon, the Celtic name for the heavenly otherworld, located in what today is known as Glastonbury.

  “Joseph then received another vision, which instructed him to establish a church on that site and spend his remaining days sharing communion with all who came seeking truth. And it is there, my young friend, that the shroud of time falls over the legend until it is revived in the days of King Arthur.”

  “The Grail,” Jeffrey said. “You’re telling me about the Holy Grail, aren’t you.”

  “Precisely. In very early medieval times, the idea o
f the Grail fell into disfavor with the church. Alchemists, as magicians of that day were known, began to say that the Grail was not a cup at all, but rather a hollowed-out piece of stone called lapis exillas, or lapis lapsus ex caelis, which translates as ‘the stone fallen from heaven.’ This stone was said to have remarkable properties, healing anyone who touched it and stopping the aging process for anyone who kept hold of it. Great wizards were said to remain unbounded by time through tying a portion of this grail stone around their necks. So long as it remained upon their persons, the only sign they would show of passing years was the whitening of their hair. Their bodies would remain locked to the age they had been when first touching the stone.

  “Naturally, the church was less than pleased by the rise of such heretical nonsense, especially when it was supposedly connected to the person of Christ. So they split the concept of the Grail, and all the legends attached to it, from the concept of a chalice, or the cup used in taking Communion.”

  Alexander folded his napkin and set it beside his empty plate. “And now, if you would be so good as to come with me, I have something back in the apartment that I wish to show you.”

  Jeffrey rose to his feet. “You left the Polish pieces in your apartment?”

  “Just the chalice, and just until tomorrow,” Alexander replied, and led him from the room. “The other pair will arrive closer to the gala event. Security in my building is quite good, I assure you. But in any event, I will settle the chalice into one of our shop’s display cases. That is, after it has been photographed by a professional. I have decided to use it as the centerpiece for my invitations.”

  The wind had abated by the time they left the restaurant. After the chamber’s overly warm confines, the dry, crisp air was invigorating. They strolled at a comfortable pace along quietened city streets, the streetlights’ golden glow splashing against centuries-old facades and creating an aura of different evenings and other eras.