The Amber Room

by T. Davis Bunn

  “I’ve got to be going,” Jeffrey interrupted, heading for the door. “See you at the Ritz.”

  * * *

  Claridge’s had no bar. Instead, hotel guests gathered in a parlor the size of a manor house’s formal living room and furnished accordingly with overstuffed settees, graceful Chippendale high-backed chairs, Empire coffee tables, original oil paintings, crystal chandeliers, and positively the largest handmade rug Jeffrey had ever seen. Service was provided by footmen in brass-buttoned uniforms festooned with braid and buckles and ornamental finery. In the far corner, a quartet strung theater tunes together with light Strauss waltzes and Brahms melodies. The parlor’s atmosphere was subdued yet grand, and reeked of wealth.

  Jeffrey escaped the blustery winter damp by waiting in the hotel’s white-marble front lobby. He had time to check his dinner jacket for unnoticed stains, his starched shirtfront for wayward studs, and his silk bowtie for recent skews before he spotted Katya alighting from a taxi. The box in his pocket bounced against his side as he rushed for the door.

  He paid off Katya’s driver and ushered her back inside. She wore a dark gray overcoat with black velvet piping at arms and sides that ended at the cuffs in a curlicue of intricate handwork. Cloth buttons fitted within miniature matching designs formed double-breasted rows down the front. The velvet collar was high and stiff and rose to meet her shimmering black hair.

  Jeffrey brushed at raindrops sparkling her locks. “You look like a Russian fairy princess.”

  She replied with a curtsy and “Thank you, my dashing prince.”

  He took her arm and ushered her into the hotel proper. “I’m sorry not to have picked you up, but I didn’t have time to come out and still be with you here.”

  “That’s all right.” She stopped by the cloakroom and began unbuttoning her coat. “But why Claridge’s?”

  “I promised . . . No, wait, you’ll see.” He helped her with the coat. Underneath it, Katya wore an off-the-shoulder gown of emerald green silk, slit along one leg to reveal matching sheer stockings and high-heeled slippers. Her only jewelry was a tiny gold cross nestled in the base of her neck. His heart was squeezed tight by the sight of her. “Katya, I can’t believe how beautiful you are.”

  She rewarded him with a sparkling smile. “When you look at me like that, I feel as if I need a fan to hide behind.”

  “Come on.” He led her down the central hall, past the porter’s desk, through the high portico, and into the formal parlor, conscious all the while that every eye in the hotel was upon them.

  A liveried footman bowed a formal greeting and held Katya’s chair. She made round eyes and whispered to Jeffrey, “What is all this?”

  “Wait.” He seated himself beside her and waited for the footman to depart. “I am doing this for all those who have helped to bring us together, Katya. May we honor them all our days with our love for each other.”

  “The way you say that makes me shiver.” She looked at him for a long moment. “You sound so formal.”

  “I’ve thought about this moment for a long time,” Jeffrey replied.

  “What is it?”

  “I’m not doing this for me,” he replied. “Well, I am, but it’s for others too. Especially why I’m doing it here. I promised someone.”

  “Jeffrey Allen Sinclair,” she said sharply. “You positively may not make me cry tonight.”

  “I have something for you,” he persisted. “It just arrived yesterday, and I know she’d want you to wear it tonight.”

  “Who?”

  “My grandmother. When she became engaged to Piotr, my grandfather, Alexander gave her this and then took them here for dinner. She wants you to have this as her engagement present, and she asked if I would give it to you here, her favorite hotel in all the world. She asked me to tell you that she is very sorry not to be here, but her health won’t allow it, so she hopes we will be traveling over to America very soon. She says that from what I’ve told her, she is sure you are a gift from above.” He had to stop and swallow hard. “She also hopes we will be as happy as she was with Piotr, and that we will remember her and the love she holds—”

  “Stop, Jeffrey. Please.”

  “The love she holds for us both,” he finished. He brought the long, slender velvet box from his pocket. “This is for you, Katya.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Please. I want you to have it. We both do.”

  Gingerly she accepted the box, pressed the little catch, swung open the top, gave a trembling sigh. “Oh, Jeffrey.”

  There were sixteen emeralds in all. Eight formed the necklace’s first row, five the second, and a single gem twice as large as the others hung below in solitary splendor. Each was framed within a casing of yellow gold, and suspended upon a netting of intertwined red and white gold rope. The final two jewels were set as matching earrings and hung from little perches on the box’s silk-lined top.

  She reached over, asked, “May I have your handkerchief, please?”

  “Here.”

  “Thank you.” She dabbed at her eyes. “Am I a mess?”

  “You are the most beautiful woman I have ever laid eyes on,” he answered truthfully. “Would you like me to help you put it on?”

  “All right.” She swiveled in her seat to present him with her back.

  He lifted the necklace, threaded it around her neck, fastened it, tasted her skin with his lips. “Turn around.”

  “How does it look?”

  “Stop patting it for a second so I can see.”

  “Is this really for me?”

  He nodded. “Do you want to try on the earrings, too?”

  “Tell me how it looks, Jeffrey. Please.”

  “As though it were made for you. Truly.” And it did. The jewels’ shimmering green accented her skin’s creamy whiteness and her eyes’ sparkling depths.

  She leaned forward to kiss him. “I don’t think I can find the right words to thank you just now, Jeffrey.”

  “You don’t have to say anything.”

  “Yes I do, and I will. But not just now.” She rose to her feet, taking the box with her. “Now if you’ll excuse me for a moment, I positively must go see this for myself.”

  CHAPTER 22

  Unlike many great hotels, the Ritz carried the splendor of its lobby and public rooms into the main ballroom. A pair of liveried waiters flanked the double entranceway. Within these portals, the first guests milled about in the formal anteroom, itself much larger than many great-rooms. Beyond the polished-wood floors with their Persian carpets and valuable antiques stood yet another set of crested double doors, these leading into the ballroom proper.

  Each of the ballroom tables was set for twelve and crowned with a vast floral centerpiece. Massive gilt chandeliers, nine in all, cast soft brilliance over the immaculate setting. In the hall’s very center stood the display cases, of gray steel and security glass, holding the trio of precious Polish artifacts.

  Alexander stood just inside the first set of doors, giving last-minute instructions to the obsequious maitre d’. The old gentleman was resplendent in well-fitting finery; the only mark of color to his severe, black-and-white evening wear was a small gold medal on watered silk that hung from his lapel. Jeffrey had never seen such a medal before, had no idea what it meant.

  The old gentleman’s eyes lit up at the sight of Katya. Alexander waved the maitre d’ away and focused his entire attention on the young woman, pausing a very long moment before bowing and kissing the offered hand.

  “My dear,” he murmured. “You look absolutely exquisite.”

  Katya touched her free hand to her neck. “I believe I have you to thank for these.”

  “Tonight the past has come alive for me once more,” Alexander replied quietly.

  “I only wish Piotr and his wife were here for me to thank as well,” Katya said.

  Alexander looked at Jeffrey. “In one respect, they are. A part of them.”

  “A magnificent part,” Katya said, looking up
with pride at her husband-to-be.

  Alexander nodded. “May I say how delighted and happy I am for you both.”

  “Thank you,” she said, joy shining in her eyes.

  “I suppose Jeffrey has told you of my engagement present.”

  “Not yet,” Jeffrey replied.

  “Then I shall. My dear, my first purchase as an antiques dealer was a ring. I have kept it long enough. I have asked Jeffrey if I might be permitted to offer it as an engagement ring, a mark of the affection I hold for you both.”

  Katya reached for Jeffrey’s hand. “Please don’t make me cry again.”

  “Very well.” He clapped his hands. “Enough! I too shall be no good at all tonight if we continue. My dear, please be so kind as to go reassure the Count. He is over by the display case trying to convince himself that he has seen the chalice before. In Rome of all places.”

  “Of course,” Katya agreed, and departed with a regal half-inch curtsy for Alexander and a brief hand-squeeze for Jeffrey.

  They watched her gliding passage. “A magnificent young woman,” Alexander said. “And a worthy mate for you, my friend.”

  “I only hope I can be the same for her.”

  “You will, you will. Of that I have no doubt.” Alexander’s manner became brisk. “I have reluctantly decided that you two must be separated tonight.”

  “All right.” It was to be expected.

  “You are both too valuable to keep together. I shall place Katya as hostess to a table of old Polish nobility. They will treat her like the queen she is.”

  “She’ll like that,” he said, missing her already.

  “Your table will be a mixed lot. More males than females—there are several like that. Can’t be helped, I’m afraid. But there is one gentleman in particular whom I have placed beside you, a photographer.”

  “He must be doing well to be able to afford tonight.”

  “Oh, he’s here as the guest of one of our wealthier patrons-to-be. His name is Viktor Bogdanski. I’ll introduce you when he arrives.” Alexander patted Jeffrey’s arm in parting and turned to greet new arrivals.

  Jeffrey mingled as the room filled with wealth and power. Ignoring the uncomfortable sense that these people lived in a world where he did not belong, he greeted clients he had met in the shop, made polite noises as he drifted from circle to circle, kissed the air above innumerable age-scarred and bejeweled hands. Alexander was constantly pulling him before new faces, making sure that all present understood who he was.

  Katya came over from time to time, to smile and share a few words before being pulled away once more. The Count had appointed himself responsible for ensuring that everyone met her. Yet no matter where Jeffrey was or with whom he spoke, he remained acutely aware of her presence. The brief glances they shared across the elegantly crowded room sparkled with an intimacy they knew was on display for all to see, and yet which they could not help but share.

  Eventually Alexander led him to a small, neat man with a sharply trimmed beard who stood quietly in a corner, nodding and smiling slightly when attention turned his way. Jeffrey’s first impression was of a man utterly content with his own solitude.

  “Jeffrey, I would like to you to meet Viktor Bogdanski. Viktor, this is the friend I have spoken with you about.”

  Viktor offered his hand. “Alexander seldom speaks as highly of anyone as he has of you.”

  “I seldom have reason to,” Alexander replied. “Now, I shall leave you two to discover why I wanted you to meet.”

  Jeffrey watched the old gentleman glide back into the beautifully dressed crowd. “This is the most comfortable spot I’ve found all night.”

  “I share your sentiment wholeheartedly.”

  “So why are you here?”

  “Ah.” The man sipped at his drink. “I happen to believe in what is behind this charade. Events like this are a necessary nuisance. They are as close to real need as many of these beautiful people would ever care to come.”

  Jeffrey spoke of a concern he had carried since the project’s onset. “Do you think perhaps the money should be going to something more, well—”

  “Urgent?” The man shrugged. “I try not to judge the actions of others. I am also an artist of sorts, and I consider that there is more to the rebuilding of a nation than just filling bellies and healing physical wounds. Preserving a sense of national heritage is a most worthy endeavor.” He smiled around his beard. “That is, I would think so if I were to judge such goings-on. Which I won’t.”

  Jeffrey motioned at the sparkling throng. “The trickle-down theory at work.”

  “Exactly.” Viktor examined him frankly. “Alexander tells me that you are new to the faithful fold.”

  “Newly returned,” Jeffrey admitted. “Or trying to find my way back.”

  Viktor nodded approval. “It is good to know which way to turn when the wind blows.”

  “I am not all that sure I’ve got it clearly worked out,” Jeffrey admitted.

  “Toward the unseen sun,” the photographer said emphatically. “You must remember where it was when you last saw it, and reach for it in hopes of its reappearing soon.”

  Jeffrey thought over the man’s words as Alexander called the gathering to silence, welcomed them, repeated the night’s mission, and invited them to find their assigned seats according to both the seating chart beside the doors and the place cards by each seat.

  As they moved slowly toward and through the double doors, Katya came up and slipped her hand into his arm. “Would the handsomest gentleman in the room be so kind as to escort me to my table?”

  He looked down at her and said quietly, “I’m so proud of you.”

  Her violet-gray eyes shone at him. “I wish I could kiss you.”

  “Alexander told me to cool down the way we were looking at each other,” he told her. “He said there were some hearts in this room too old for such vicarious passion.”

  “The Count put it differently,” she replied as they entered the grand ballroom. “He said the sparks we were generating might set some of these varnished hairdos alight.”

  They arrived at her table. Jeffrey made the obligatory circle, exchanged stiff-backed bows with aged Polish aristocracy, kissed the hands of dowagers, held the back of Katya’s seat, accepted a smile that touched him at levels he had not known existed, then walked to his own table.

  The first courses were set in place. The glasses were hand-cut leaded crystal, the plates rimmed with gold leaf, the waiters swift and silently efficient. Jeffrey returned toasts and exchanged polite conversation with the others, wishing he felt more comfortable with such social chatter.

  Viktor eventually pried himself free from the matron to his left, turned to Jeffrey, said, “I detect a yearning for a fare of greater substance.”

  “You’re right there.”

  “Very well, I agree.” He gave a sort of seated bow. “You begin with a question, and let us see where it takes us.”

  Jeffrey thought of Gregor and asked, “How did you come to faith?”

  That brought a chuckle. “You do not act in half measures. I like that.”

  “If you’d rather—”

  Viktor waved it aside. “Not at all. It is a most worthy question. What matters the surroundings to such as that?” He thought a moment. “I shall have to take us back to some rather dark days in my nation’s heritage in order to answer you, however. It all took place during the early days of martial law in Poland.”

  Jeffrey nodded. “That’s fine, but only if you want to.”

  Viktor’s dark eyes turned inward. “I suppose there are many bad things to be during a state of siege, but among the worst is a photographer for the losing side. What my eyes saw, my camera captured. Thus was the moment preserved on my film and in my mind and heart for all my days. The bitterest truth and the harshest image.

  “My life was my pictures, and my pictures sought to give life and reality to what otherwise could not be imagined. I sought to show the outside world
the chains my country was seeking to cast off, the price my people had been forced to pay in carrying their weight for so very long.

  “The date was December 11, 1981. I can’t say that it was a typical evening. There was more excitement than usual, a tension throughout Poland that you could almost touch. I had captured some great material over the past several days. Massive demonstrations of workers. Students clambering on the shoulders of their fellows to look over the militia’s riot gear and talk to them, shout at them, plead with them to wake up and remember who they were. A series of footprints in fresh snow forming the word zwyciezymy, which means ‘We shall overcome.’ Sympathy strikes by trainees in the fire department, who of course were seen as a great threat by the authorities, since firemen were officially part of the power structure.

  “The clever activists among us, the ones who treated politics as a chess game, were speculating that a state of emergency would be declared. I would listen to such talk, but I seldom took part. My task, my life in those days, was simply to be the eyes for those who sought to see but because of distance or barriers could not. And yet I did listen, and much of what I heard made sense. The situation economically and politically was getting out of hand. There was no food on the shelves; everything had been diverted by the central authorities in an attempt to cow the people, force them by fear and by hunger into submission. The queues were unbearable, even for bread.”

  The room swirled about them in wafts of rich food and expensive perfume. Jewels glinted and flickered in the chandeliers’ glow. Rich fabrics and starched shirtfronts and polished cuff links caught light and sent it spinning with each gesture and every word. As Jeffrey sat listening to Viktor’s words, he felt a new dimension growing from the night. There was the world that he saw, and the world of Viktor’s memories, and both held portents he could scarcely comprehend.

  “We expected the decree might come in mid-December, when the Sejm, our Parliament, was to meet,” Viktor continued. “Under the Polish constitution, only the Sejm has the power to decree a state of emergency. That evening, I was working on my photographs at the Solidarity press office in Warsaw, preparing a portfolio that friends would attempt to smuggle out of the country. It was a very good collection of images. As I was sorting them, our halls were suddenly filled with the militia’s navy-blue uniforms. They said they had warrants for our arrest. We were accused of anti-government activities.