Teenage Treasure Hunter

by Daniel Kenney

  “W-w-what—what are you talking about?”

  “Queen Sefronia’s jewels—the ones that I secured from Cairo to open our new hall? The Layton Museum of Chicago snuck in behind my back and negotiated better terms.”

  “What does that mean?” asked Curial.

  “It means our beautiful museum will open without a showpiece, and as a result, the board called an emergency meeting last night. They decided that after the opening, the museum will be forced to go another direction… without me.”

  The words hung in the quiet museum, Curial trying to make sense of them. He’d known Claude his whole life. His mother had loved Claude.

  “But they can’t do this.”

  Claude sighed, his chest and shoulders falling forward.

  “Yes, Curial, they can.”

  Curial was in disbelief. Claude was practically a member of the family. Heck, Curial had spent more time with Claude than he had his own father over the years.

  “What can I do? Certainly my name still means something around here?”

  Claude slowly shook his head. “I’m afraid nothing. The board said it was only because of my relationship with the Diggs family that they kept me in my post as long as they did—but my failure to accumulate ‘new and exciting works’ was my undoing. Seems the world of art may have passed me by. There was a time when it really was all about the art; but somewhere along the way, acquiring new art became more about politics. In a world of underhanded schemes and backroom deals, I’m probably not what the MAC needs anymore.”

  Curial’s chest was tight and his head spun. His mother would never have let this happen. One call from his father and Claude’s job would be safe. But his father would never intervene now. He thought art was a silly diversion.

  “I wish there was something we could do,” Curial finally managed to say.

  “Me too, Mr. Diggs, me too.” A worker came by to ask a question, and Claude politely excused himself. Curial sat down and stared at that empty glass case.

  Empty. Curial’s life had seemed pretty empty without his mother in it. And as he looked around at the big cavernous exhibition hall, he knew that, no matter how much art the next curator found for it, the MAC would seem just as empty without Claude.

  Curial kept staring at that glass case, the one that should have been holding the queen’s jewels, when suddenly an answer to his problems finally hit him. Getty and his tests would have to wait, even if Haverfield was a possibility.

  Claude was family.

  He looked at that glass case.

  Maybe it didn’t have to be empty.

  There were still seven days left until the reopening of the museum. Seven days to find a piece of art worthy of this grand display case. A piece of art so spectacular that Claude Von Kerstens would never have to leave his job.

  Studies would have to wait. Curial Diggs needed to find those dolls, and fast.

  Chapter Nine – Time for a Trip

  Curial found Matthew in the park, described his problem, and started playing chess. After thirty minutes, Matthew howled.

  “And that’s checkmate,” Matthew called as he knocked over Curial’s king. “And that game gave me only minor satisfaction because you clearly weren’t paying attention.”

  “Sorry, I’m nervous.”

  “Listen, Curial. Your mom clearly thought the world of you and I’m sure you can do anything that you put your mind to…but…finding those dolls in less than a week, after they’ve been gone so long?”

  “Needle in a haystack?”

  “More like a needle in a Russian countryside full of haystacks.”

  “But that’s just it isn’t it? My mom never took the search to Russia before.”

  “Well, I admire your gumption. And you’re sure—”

  “I promise to call if something comes up,” Curial said.

  Matthew stood up and held out his large hand. Curial took it and Matthew wrapped it up in a friendly shake.

  “Then there’s only one more thing to say. Good luck in Russia.”

  “Russia,” a voice yelled from behind Curial. He turned to see Maurice jogging towards them. “Did I just hear someone’s going to Russia? Okay, fill me in on the plan.”

  “There is no plan,” said Curial. “I just need to go to Russia and try and find those dolls.”

  Maurice clapped his hands. “Fantastic. Never been to Russia myself, should be fun.”

  “Yeah, right,” said Curial. “I’ll be going on this trip alone.”

  Maurice scrunched up his face. “But you don’t know anything about that world. You need me.”

  Curial could see Matthew roll his blind eyes as he sighed. “Maurice, leave the boy alone. Curial’s got to do this on his own. God only knows what would happened if I let you go to Russia. You’d probably spend the rest of your days in the gulags.”

  “But Unc, there’s no way Curial can do this by himself. He’ll need somebody like me to figure it out.”

  Matthew put his hand on Maurice’s shoulder and squeezed. “Hush now Maurice. I can’t have you going to Russia and that’s the end of it. Curial, good luck to you and don’t hesitate to call.”

  “Thanks Matthew.” Curial waved.

  Matthew turned Maurice around and together they walked slowly away. About thirty feet away, Maurice turned back and took one last look at Curial. He looked hurt.

  But Curial didn’t have time to worry about Maurice’s feelings. He needed to finish preparations for the trip. He went over his plan with Hank, had Mike make the necessary travel arrangements and then made his least favorite call in the world.

  To Getty.

  “Excuse me,” the nasaly assistant said. “Did you just say you’re going to Russia?”

  “Yes Getty for the second time. Father’s been encouraging me to take international trips. Mike, Hank, and I made all the necessary arrangements and Mike will be with me every step of the way. Every step.”

  “Curial, this makes no sense. You did terrible on your test and you’ll need every minute of the next week and a half to study for your next test. There’s no way I can possibly let you go.”

  “Listen, Getty. Think about it this way. If I’m not prepared, and don’t do well, then like you said, my father will send me on the first train to Haverfield. And when that happens, you’ll be rid of me for a very long time.”

  There was silence on the other end, following by what sounded like the clicking of teeth. “I suppose I could find a way to convince your father.”

  “I thought you’d come around. I’ll be back in seven days and I’ll be ready for your stupid test.”

  Chapter Ten – The Good Professor

  During the plane ride from New York to St. Petersburg, Curial ignored the luxury packed into every square inch of the Diggs family’s custom-built Gulfstream jet. Instead, he spent his time staring out the window and wondering what, if anything, he would learn about the Romanov Dolls once he got to Russia.

  He and Mike arrived in St. Petersburg thirteen hours after leaving New York and left Pulkovo International Airport at 8:15 a.m. local Russian time, with Mike inching their rented blue Volvo through the unfamiliar Russian traffic. All the while Curial craned his neck out the window, getting his first glimpses of the city his mom had always dreamed of visiting.

  Curial’s first impression of St. Petersburg was that it reminded him a little of Washington, D.C.—just a little dirtier and yet prettier all at the same time. Like D.C., it had no skyscrapers to dominate the skyline, but instead block after block was stuffed with massive four- and five-story buildings. And opposed to the sometimes dreary whites and greys that dominated D.C., to Curial, St. Petersburg seemed like a city unafraid of color. Yellows, greens, reds, and blues dotted buildings all throughout the ride to downtown. Curial had once heard that D.C. had been designed and built to be impressive. It seemed to him that St. Petersburg had been built to be beautiful.

  After checking in at the Four Seasons Hotel, Curial and Mike hustled off to the D
iggs Bank of St. Petersburg, where the local bank president, Yefim Posovsky, gave them a personal tour of the operations. Mr. Posovsky used the opportunity as a teachable moment, explaining the differences between U.S. and Russian banking operations, and Curial listened with rapt attention. Well, fake rapt attention. As Posovsky droned on about exchange rates, liquidity positions, and market weaknesses, Curial patiently waited for his next move. Eventually Posovsky’s tour ended and Curial left the building to find the rented blue Volvo waiting at the curb. The man driving it was now wearing a beret and a scarf. Curial hopped in.

  “Nice outfit, Mike.”

  “I figured I should blend in, really be one of the Russian people.”

  “You look like an extra from a production of Fiddler on the Roof.”

  “Is it the hat? Is the hat too much?”

  “I think it’s everything, Mike. Russians don’t dress like nineteenth-century Cossacks. They dress more like New Yorkers.”

  “Sorry, Curial. I did bring flip-flops and my New York Jets jersey, if you’d prefer I wore those.”

  “Better to stand out than dress offensively.”

  “That was a cheap shot at my Jets, wasn’t it?”

  “Just an acknowledgement that you follow the wrong team in New York. But enough about the worst football program in America; I heard some shocking news this morning.”

  Mike turned in his seat, worry filling his face. “What?”

  “I’ve confirmed with two official sources this morning that St. Petersburg is not at all well known for its hot dog stands.”

  Mike clutched his heart, then winked while unfolding a map of St. Petersburg. “I’m offended that you would think my gastronomical adventures begin and end with unhealthy pork sausage. I’ll have you know that I am a fan of anything with absurd amounts of sugar, fat, or calories of any kind.”

  Mike’s map was covered with red stars.

  Curial leaned forward. “What do you have there?”

  Mike pointed to one of the stars. “Right here, I’ve marked all of the best-rated blini and borscht stands throughout St. Petersburg.”

  Curial’s brow scrunched together. “What exactly are blini and borscht?”

  Mike shrugged. “I have no idea, except that each is loaded with enough calories to keep people alive in a place that feels like winter nine months out of the year.” Mike pointed out the window of the car. “Plus, have you noticed? All the people here are skinny.”

  Curial smiled. “So that’s your plan? Hit twenty or thirty high-calorie Russian food stands in an effort to get skinny?”

  “Kind of genius, don’t you think?”

  Fifteen minutes later, Mike crossed the Neva River to Vasilievsky Island and stopped the car in front of the longest building Curial had ever seen in his life. The three-story building was red with white trimmed windows and white colonnades. It appeared to stretch a block to either side of the center where he stood.

  St. Petersburg State University.

  “I don’t know how long this is going to take,” Curial said, “so stay close, okay?”

  Mike pointed to the map then motioned down the street. “A block that way, I’ve got blinis stuffed with whipped cream and strawberries, and the other direction I have what International Street Food calls ‘part funnel cake, part vodka, served on a stick.’ So don’t worry, I won’t be far.”

  Leaving Mike to his dietary excursions, Curial walked toward a large metal statue of an angel. As he did so, an older man with a grey beard, glasses, and a brown tweed coat walked toward him, holding out his hand.

  “Valery Ardankin, and you must be young Mr. Diggs.”

  Curial took his hand. “Curial, please. Did the fact that I’m a kid give it away?”

  Ardankin laughed from his belly. “Russia’s population is 145 million strong. But less than 100 thousand Russians are black. You tend to stand out.”

  Curial squinted his eyes and craned his neck. “That’s less than one tenth of one percent. I have better odds in midtown Manhattan.”

  Ardankin walked toward the front door with Curial at his side. “Much better. But don’t worry. Most people won’t give you problems—you’ll just seem exotic to them. Makes blending into Russian society a bit difficult though.”

  Ardankin stepped inside, leading Curial into an impossibly long hallway that ran the length of the entire building—at least. The floor was wooden and laid out like a chessboard turned diagonally. One side of the hallway was lined with windows to the outside, the other with wooden trophy cases with glass fronts.

  “Incredible,” Curial said, looking both directions.

  “Yes, it is. Peter the Great had twelve buildings built all in a row: twelve buildings to house the twelve branches of government. Eventually all the buildings were connected, and this hallway was born. It helps an old man like me keep his creaky bones limber.” He started walking.

  “Now, Curial, your family’s reputation is great and I know your mother was a wonderful supporter of the arts—but what exactly could you want with an old Russian History professor?”

  “I hear you are an expert on the Romanovs?”

  “Most people that travel a long way to ask me about the Romanovs don’t really care about the Romanovs. Not anymore.”

  “What do most people care about?”

  Ardankin turned, his eyes filled with mystery. “Rasputin.”

  “The ugly scary guy from the movies?”

  Professor Ardankin lifted his fingers and sighed. “Not just ugly and scary. According to the reports, he was a sorcerer, he had an affair with the queen, he was the de facto ruler of Russia… For years, Russians have been fascinated with Grigori Rasputin.”

  “And not just Russians.”

  “Yes, the world. Who knows why some figures are so interesting? So, you are not here to talk about Rasputin?”

  “No. I’m here to talk about an object.”

  A smile formed across Ardankin’s mouth. “The matryoshka dolls?”

  “Yes, the Romanov Dolls.”

  Ardankin stopped in front of a door. He inserted a key and pushed it open. “Then we will need a bit of tea.”

  Ardankin’s office looked exactly like what Curial would have guessed an old Russian professor’s office would look like. Dark, polished wooden bookshelves covered all four walls, and they were filled with ancient looking, leather-bound books, interrupted only by the occasional painting or artifact. The professor took a kettle off of a hot plate and poured steaming water into two small cups. He brought Curial a cup and handed it to him.

  “You haven’t had real tea until you’ve had Russian tea.”

  Curial sipped and faked a smile. To Curial, tea tasted like cardboard covered in dirt. At best, this Russian tea maybe had slightly fancier dirt.

  Professor Ardankin sat in the chair opposite Curial, crossed his legs, and took a long sip of tea. Then he closed his eyes and smiled.

  “Tell me, what do you know about the Romanov Dolls?”

  Curial looked for a plant where he might dump the tea. Finding none, he reluctantly took another sip. “Only a little, I’m afraid, but that’s why I’m here. You see, my mom used to visit the Manhattan Art Collective when she was a little girl.”

  Ardankin’s eyes lit up and he raised a finger. “Where the Romanov Dolls were mysteriously donated in 1947?”

  “Exactly. She loved those dolls—but when she was ten, they were stolen. The rest of her life she was fascinated by their disappearance.” Curial looked away from Ardankin into the corner of the room. “She died six months ago.”

  Ardankin nodded, a somber look on his face. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

  “I want to know more about those dolls,” Curial shrugged, “to keep the memory of my mother alive.”

  Ardankin pointed his finger at Curial and chewed on his lip. “Or maybe you want to find the Romanov Dolls?”

  Curial laughed. “Wouldn’t you?”

  Ardankin leaned back and danced his fingers together. “An
old man can only dream.”

  Curial pressed the cup to his lips again, but this time refused to actually sip.

  “I’ve been through all the police reports related to the theft itself and I can’t figure out where to go next. My mom thought the answer might lie here, in Russia.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, the only thing we really know about the dolls is that they belonged to Czar Nicholas II. Then the next we hear of the dolls, they were given to the MAC in 1947. That’s a pretty big gap. And my mom, I think she just figured maybe there was more to the story. And maybe, just maybe those dolls found their way back here.”

  “Ahh, your mom sounds like a smart lady indeed but unfortunately, I don’t know much more than you. You are correct, according to the official record, we hear mention of Czar Nicholas II giving a set of dolls of extraordinary beauty to his son Alexei on his fifth birthday.”

  “He gave a set of dolls to his boy?”

  “Not just his boy, the future Czar. After having several girls, Alexei was the one to insure the Royal succession of the Romanov family. As you know, the dolls were magnificent and it makes sense that Nicholas would want a magnificent gift for a boy who was such a gift to him.”

  “And that’s it?”

  “Until the dolls showed up at your museum in 1947? I’m afraid that’s it. I’m sorry, Mr. Diggs, that you came so far for so little. Is there anything else I can do for you?”

  Curial shifted in his seat. He pulled out a sheet of paper with a symbol sketched on it.

  “Just one thing and it probably doesn’t mean anything. My mom discovered that there was a small symbol etched into the very bottom of the largest of the Romanov Dolls. She thought maybe it had something to do with who made it. I’m not sure how it helps but…could you take a look?”

  He handed the picture to Ardankin who took the paper along with a pair of reading glasses. He balanced the reading glasses on the bridge of his nose while first holding the paper at a distance, then bringing it closer.

  “Do you recognize it?” Curial asked.

  Ardankin stared at the paper for another moment then turned to Curial. He shook his head. “I’m afraid not.”