Florian's Gate (10 page)

“I love that word,” Jeffrey told her. “Courtship. It sounds so formal.”

“That's why I use it. Your grandfather was a very formal, courtly person. He had the finest manners of any person I have ever met, except perhaps Alexander. But where Alexander acted with such polish, my Peter acted with heart.”

She wiped at the wet spot in the corner of her mouth with
a handkerchief as delicate as the hand that held it. “Whenever I visited Peter's flat—which was a ghastly, crowded affair, I assure you—Alexander was never there. His things were on the bed beside Peter's, and next to his in the closet. But the man himself was never around. Never. I did not actually meet him until after Peter and I became engaged. I don't know what I expected, but I was shocked at what I found.”

“I can imagine.”

She looked at him. “He still cuts a handsome figure, does he?”

“Very.”

“I'm so glad. Our heroes should have the right to age gracefully. Back then, Alexander was undoubtedly the most dashing man I had ever met.”

“Why did you call him a hero?”

“Well, first of all because of their escape. From what I recall it was quite an adventure. I'm afraid I don't remember the details. But there was much more than that. Much more. He financed your grandfather's first jewelry store here in America. Ah, I see you did not know that. Yes, and a home for us. And Gregor's education in London—that is, until he decided that he was called back to Poland. That was the way Gregor always described it, that he was
called
. Alexander never accepted a penny in return from anyone. He refused to even discuss it. He called such talk a dishonor.” She smiled into the distance, repeated, “Your grandfather thought the world of that gentleman.”

“Why was Alexander never home? I mean, when you used to go over there.”

Her eyes twinkled mischievously. “Because he was out gambling.”

“What?”

“I only learned the truth after Peter and I returned to America. In London they simply wouldn't discuss it. Such a thing was horribly incorrect. His family were old aristocrats, you see, and had a lot of trouble accepting the fact that the
war had left them penniless. You cannot imagine how destitute they were when we first met. Your grandfather had one jacket, two pair of trousers, and two shirts to his name. That was all. Still, the idea of Alexander earning the money to pay for the lion's share of their living expenses with cards was simply not to be discussed with anyone. But he was so successful at it that they dared not complain. They couldn't afford to, you see.”

Jeffrey leaned forward in his chair. “Successful.”

“Incredibly. So successful that he was eventually banned from some of the gambling clubs. Gambling is legal in Britain, you see, but only inside licensed clubs. Yes, Alexander only played blackjack and poker and bridge, games where his amazing ability with numbers gave him an advantage.” She was clearly enjoying herself. “You didn't know that either, did you?”

Jeffrey made do with a slow shake of his head.

“He trained as a mathematician in Poland. No, I take that back. Something else. Something to do with calculating odds.”

“Statistics?”

“Thank you. He had just started his studies, I seem to recall something about being quite young, so young that he could not enter university and was being tutored privately. Then the war broke out and everyone's life changed for the worse.”

“Amazing,” Jeffrey said. “A professional gambler.”

“Not just, young man. Not by any means. He took courses at the university and worked a daytime job loading trucks.”

“And gambled.”

“Almost every night, sometimes until dawn if he was in a private game. Peter was very envious of Alexander's ability to live on two or three hours of sleep a night, rarely more.”

“I bet I can guess what he did with the money,” Jeffrey said.

“London was full of refugees, or displaced persons as they were known then. Many were quite wealthy, or had been. Most had something to sell—jewelry or silver or rare boxes,
perhaps a small painting, anything that could be easily carried as they made their escape from wherever they had come.

“They were terrified of the London dealers, and rightly so. They were offered pennies for treasures that had been in their families for generations. There was so much being sold, you see, and so few people with money to spend. So Alexander began seeking these people out, and when he found something he liked, he would buy it for twice, three times, sometimes as much as ten times what the dealers were offering.

“He bought only the best and tried to pay a fair price. An honorable price, was the way he put it. He was building friends as well as a collection, you see. That has always been his way. And these friends remember him still, him and his honesty and the respect he gave them when they had nothing and were no one. Those who are still alive come to him even today, to buy or to sell. And their children. That, Jeffrey, is the measure of Alexander Kantor.”

“So what did he do with those first pieces?”

“Alexander was a man with vision. He knew that prices would eventually rise, especially if he dealt only in the very finest. So he rented a bank box and placed all his purchases in there for safekeeping. Then the box was replaced with a larger drawer, then two, then three, and so on.” Her eyes shone with remembered pride. “I can still recall the first time he showed me his collection. It was the day before my wedding. He took Peter and me to Claridge's for lunch—you must go there once for me, Jeffrey. Promise me you will.”

“All right.”

“Thank you. Yes, then after lunch he took us down into the bank vault and opened up all five of these great drawers that he and a guard pulled out of a wall of locked boxes. He opened them up and said that we were to pick out whatever piece we liked the most as a wedding present.

“You should have seen the treasure. When I collected myself, I told him I couldn't possibly do such a thing. So he gave me an emerald necklace, pressed it into Peter's hand because
I refused to touch it, it was all too much for me, I had only met him once before. I still have it over there in the rosewood box on my vanity. I intend to give it to whichever of you boys marries first. I do so hope I'm still around to see that day.”

Jeffrey leaned back in his seat and said softly, “Incredible.”

“Yes, that is the perfect way to describe Alexander. He is an incredible man. Always a gentleman, always generous and gallant. Yet always a loner, preferring to go his own way. All his life he has held who he is and what he does out of sight from the rest of us. I truly believe that is why he decided to remain in London and set up his business there. Because he preferred to be alone.”

“I have to go.” Jeffrey rose his feet, leaned over to kiss the withered cheek. As he raised back up he asked, “Why doesn't he ever come to see you?”

“Because it is his nature,” she replied simply. “You will discover with time, Jeffrey, that people do not always act in a logical manner. Alexander loved my husband. He has not been to see me since the funeral. Period. I could become angry and destroy the affection I hold for him, or I can accept what is beyond my power to control. He writes me with unfailing regularity, at Christmas, on my birthday, and again at Easter. He never fails to mention how he misses my husband. I do not agree with how he chooses to deal with Peter's absence, but I will not allow this to come between me and the memories of a man my husband adored. I simply will not allow it.”

As he was leaving, his grandmother called after him, “Jeffrey, please. Do it for me.”

He stopped, felt the old familiar tug-of-war begin inside himself. His hand gripped the doorknob with white-knuckled intensity.

“Think of it as a last request from one who has loved you all your life,” she pleaded. “Go and see your brother.”

He nodded, not trusting his voice, and left.

Jeffrey's Tuesday morning began as usual. The trash men
and the builders arrived at half-past seven, banging dustbins and racing heavy diesels and trading curses in broadest Cockney. Jeffrey swung out of bed, checked the weather by craning and locating the one patch of sky visible in the corner of his bedroom window. He decided to skip his morning run through Hyde Park and instead take breakfast in Shepherd Market.

Even in early June there were mornings when low-lying clouds clamped themselves firmly over the city, a lingering reminder of winter's steel-gray cold. But if the air was dry, as it often was, by midmorning the clouds would lift away, leaving an afternoon of breathtaking beauty. On such days lunch hours were stretched to include lazy strolls through Mayfair's numerous parks and squares. Every bench was full, ties were cast aside, blouses opened another notch. Every possible square inch of sun-starved skin was exposed to spring's gift.

Scattered among these weeks came days when the air took on a jewel-like clarity. Heavy winds and heavier showers scrubbed the air to a newborn brightness. London's buildings and parks and monuments positively sparkled. Dawn runs through Hyde Park became mystical exercises, each breath a perfume-laden draught.

South Audley Street, where Jeffrey's minuscule apartment was located, ran from Grosvenor Square and the United States Embassy to Curzon Street. It was by London standards a broad and smooth-running thoroughfare, one long block removed from Park Lane and Hyde Park. So many films and television programs had used its thoroughly Victorian facades as backdrops that the equipment required for a full-scale shoot caused more irritation than excitement.

His neighborhood was flanked on all sides by the lore of centuries and filled to the brim with wealth. South Audley Street was a ridiculously posh address, made affordable only because the American who owned the flat was a friend and client of Alexander's. In the late sixties—back before
London's property boom had pushed Mayfair prices into the stratosphere—he had purchased it both as an investment and a holiday flat. He let it to Jeffrey half as a favor to Alexander and half as a security measure; in recent years thieves had taken to marking down all flats not regularly occupied and robbing them at their leisure.

According to the agreement, Jeffrey had the flat fully furnished for eleven months a year. In July the owner and his wife flew over from California to spend a month doing the London social scene. For that month Jeffrey moved into rooms at his club. The arrangement was ideal. It brought a tastefully furnished Mayfair flat down to an affordable price, and allowed Jeffrey to savor the experience of making the heart of London his home.

By American standards, the flat was only slightly larger than a moving crate. The living room looked down on a busy city street and was just big enough for a glass-topped dining table, an ultra-modern sofa, two matching chairs, and an unadorned Scandinavian corner cupboard. The bedroom, whose tiny window overlooked an alley, was much too small for its American-size bed. Jeffrey had to do the sideways shuffle to arrive at his clothes cupboard. Dressing took place in the front hall.

The bathroom was down a narrow staircase that was both steep and dangerous, especially after a round of local pubs. The kitchen was an afterthought, an alcove so narrow that two people could not pass each other.

The monthly rent was more than his father's mortgage for a four-bedroom house on one of Jacksonville's main canals. Still, Jeffrey was enormously glad he had followed Alexander's urging to accept the offer. The Grosvenor House Hotel, which was half a block behind his flat, charged four hundred dollars a night for a standard double room. A furnished studio flat two doors down from his was advertised for rent at more per week than he was paying per month. And the location suited him perfectly—two blocks to his shop, one to Hyde
Park, and three from the fabulous English breakfasts in legendary Shepherd Market.

Shepherd Market was a collection of narrow winding streets and tiny cottages more suited to a quiet country village than the heart of London's West End. Tradition had it as the gathering place for drovers bringing their flocks to market, back seven or eight hundred years ago, when London-Town was still confined to its original walls. In those early days, drovers slaughtered their flocks behind local butcheries, and put themselves up in cramped little rooms above the local pubs.

By the time Queen Victoria began her reign in the nineteenth century, the drovers were no more. Yet Shepherd Market survived the centuries and the transitions, retaining its reputation as a gathering place for the less genteel, and gaining a name as having the largest selection of courtesans and streetwalkers in all England.

Jeffrey's walk to breakfast was for him a stroll through a living museum. At the Hyde Park end, Mayfair was mostly brick and stone festooned with an abundance of Victorian foppery. Queen Anne cottages stood cheek-and-jowl with more recent construction, yet to Jeffrey's unabashedly biased eye, the charm had been preserved. In the relative quiet of his early morning walks, he imagined himself transported back to a time of top hats and morning coats and ballooning skirts and hansom cabs.

Jeffrey was in love with Mayfair. All of London held him enthralled; for that matter, the fact that he slept and ate and worked and played on an island perched at the upper left corner of Europe filled him with sheer explosive delight. But he
loved
Mayfair.

To Jeffrey Allen Sinclair, Mayfair had all the makings of a magical land. There were so many hidden nooks and crannies and tales and characters that he could spend a dozen lifetimes within its confines and never drain the cup of adventure.

Jeffrey crossed over Curzon Street, walked the narrow foot
passage, and entered a collection of streets never intended for car traffic. Shepherd Market lanes were fifteen feet wide or less, and lined with tiny cottages housing a variety of cafes and shops and pubs and restaurants. Jeffrey's own favorite was a corner cafe with hand-drawn glass panes, warped as though pebbles had been dropped onto their still surface and then frozen in place. The cafe's ceiling and walls were plaster framed by ancient uneven beams, its tables set so close together that a diner who ate with elbows extended was simply not welcome. Jeffrey had long since learned to fold his morning paper into sixteenths.