Florian's Gate (32 page)

“It's a term you hear all through the Eastern Bloc,” Gregor explained. “It means Western cash. Transferable currency.”

The older man spoke. Gregor nodded and said to Jeffrey, “He says to tell you that valuta means cash that you can buy something with. Money with a purpose.”

The smuggler began speaking, the older man nodding and translating. Gregor passed it on. “You stand in line for everything today in Russia. A fistful of rubles won't buy you bread. His sister has a sick baby, and last month waited three days in line for condensed milk. Each night the people in line would mark their place on one another's palms, agree to a certain time to be back the next morning, and return and
check carefully to make sure no one had broken into place. It's been like that since early last winter. Sugar, milk, bread, meat, paper, soap—everything is either hard to find or just not available.”

“So how do they survive?”

When the translations were made, the man took his rag-covered bundle, set it firmly into Jeffrey's hands, looked him hard in the eyes, said hoarsely, “Valuta.”

Jeffrey unfolded the rags from the smaller of the two parcels. It was a tiny case, no larger than his palm, of aged cedarwood. He had seen enough of these, and of the seal embossed on the top, to know that it was an original case from the House of Fabergé, court jewelers to the Czars of Russia. At least, that was what it appeared to be. He willed his hands to remain steady, and opened the box.

Inside rested a crystal
flacon à sels
. He recognized it immediately from the pictures he had studied. Almost every book on Fabergé contained an example, as it had been a favorite Christmas gift of the Empress Alexandra. It was designed as a container for either smelling salts or special healing salts brought in from some distant land, but as with many Fabergé items, it was probably rarely used. Such an item, even when originally acquired, was seen as a work of art to be enjoyed as such, rather than something that required a function.

The crystal jar was slender as a lady's finger and octagonally shaped, the tiny dividing ridges chased with gold laurel bands. The cap was hand-fashioned from red gold in the form of an Eastern crown, and topped with a cabochon sapphire. It rested on a silk lining stamped with the Imperial Russian Eagle and the words
Fabergé, London, Paris, St. Petersburg
in Cyrillic, the Russian alphabet. Jeffrey had seen the words often enough in his reference books to identify them immediately.

The object within the second bundle was equally impressive: a slender gold box, perhaps twice the size of a pack of cigarettes. On its underside was scripted
Jean Fremin,
Paris, 1759
. Jeffrey did not recognize the jeweler's name, but traditionally only artists with better-known houses signed their work. The sides were decorated with carefully etched desert scenes done with royal blue enamel, or
basse taille
. Jeffrey opened the lid to find that the inner lining contained a miniature painting done on ceramic. It showed a young woman seated in her drawing room. The colors, preserved by second-firing the ceramic once the portrait was completed, were as vivid as the day they were painted. The miniature was held in place by an intricately scrolled bezel of gold.

Another round of translation ended with Gregor asking, “How much do you think they are worth?”

He was accustomed enough to the question now not to cringe. “Please tell them that I cannot give a true figure until they have been evaluated by experts. Which I am not.” He waited until this had been translated, and saw the small man nod his understanding. He went on. “But if they are real, which I think they are, they will be worth quite a bit.”

The tension was palpable as Gregor translated and returned with, “How much is that?”

“At least ten thousand dollars. Minimum. Per item.”

Gregor took out a pen and a piece of paper. As he wrote down the figures, he said to Jeffrey, “My insistence on this little act almost cost us the first deal with the gentleman seated to my right. He had clearly intended to use his mastery of Ukrainian as a means of exacting a larger commission. But I stood my ground, and he has come to see that my insistence on honesty has earned us more new business, and therefore more profits, than he would ever have gained from one large killing.”

He picked up the paper, held it over one piece and then the other, and said each time the single word, “Dollar.”

The Ukrainian's eyes grew round, then he nodded and spoke sharply. The translation was, “It is agreed.”

“Make sure he understands that we won't know anything about their real worth until the evaluation is completed.”

The translation came back, “He wants two thousand dollars now for both pieces. He needs that to buy essential things for his family. The rest he will receive later by means that we have already worked out. And two hundred dollars more for our friend here.”

“All right.” Jeffrey brought out the money. The man watched him count, scooped up the money, shook hands swiftly all around, and headed for the door.

“Wait,” Jeffrey called out. “Ask him what it's like over there.”

The small man turned from the door long enough to give him a haunted look. Through Gregor he replied, “Hell.”

Gregor was visibly in pain by the time they returned to the car. “All this movement has aggravated my condition. I fear that I must take a few days off and rest. I am indeed sorry for having let you down.”

“You haven't let anyone down.”

“Perhaps, perhaps not.” Gregor spoke to the driver, who nodded and started off. “Would you please allow me to make one stop on the way home? It is personal business, some medicines I must drop off, and which must be done today.”

“Sure.”

“Thank you.” He gave instructions to Tomek, then continued, “The problem we face with my being ill, you see, is that I have arranged our buys to a rather precise timetable. Many of these people face extremely dire needs. For us to postpone our visits raises the risk that they will seek other buyers, even if they know they may well be cheated.” Gregor shifted in his seat, searching for a more comfortable position. “I shall endeavor to heal as fast as possible.”

Their way took them out beyond the rows of high-rise concrete tenements that ringed the city, into the verdant green countryside. The roads became increasingly narrow and potholed. They turned into a small grouping of nondescript houses, stopping before what appeared to be a Victorian
manor. Its pale yellow paint had long surrendered to the march of winds and rains and winters, its fenced-in yard equally neglected.

“Where are we?”

“This is what I do with my income from the antiques,” Gregor replied. “That is, here is one such project. Would you like to come along?”

“Sure.”

“Splendid. It won't take long.”

A set of new swings and slides on one side of the entrance gate stood in glaring opposition to the house's general state of disrepair. To the other side of the path leading toward the front door was a massive pile of coal.

Gregor noted the coal spill as they walked toward the entrance. “Ah, it arrived. Excellent. Only nine months late. Just in time for next winter, I suppose.”

“What is this place?” Jeffrey asked.

“A state-run home for young orphans,” Gregor said, pushing open the door and shouting into the dark interior. “I work with the very young and the very old, you see. I seek out the ones who are least able to work for themselves.”

A slatternly woman in a filthy apron and gray-grimed dress waddled out on dilapidated slippers, dried her hand, and offered it stiffly to Gregor. He bowed over it as though greeting royalty, turned and pointed to Jeffrey. The woman gave him an indifferent nod and pointed back down the murky hallway.

“She is now alone, at least as far as the state is concerned. Her two assistants were let go, as the state no longer had money to pay them. She is responsible for cleaning, cooking, and tending to the needs of sixty-one children.”

“That's impossible.”

“I have hired two young village girls to come in and help her. But all the state orphanages are suffering from funding cut-backs, and I can only do so much.” He turned and walked down the hall. “Come. Let me show you something.”

They entered what had once been a formal sitting parlor,
and was now a sort of holding pen for young children. There was not a stick of furniture in the room. Some of the children held ragged toys, others blankets, but they were not doing anything. Five- and six-year-old children just sat and rocked constantly, hugging themselves and humming a single note. Their blank faces yearned for what they had never known.

Gregor stepped through the doorway, and immediately they
surged
toward him, gluing themselves to him, reaching for any part possible to touch, to hold, to hug. Their little voices keened a wordless cry.

“They have food and clothing, these children,” Gregor explained over the clamor. “But they have no love. If you are feeling brave, I dare you to smile.”

Jeffrey did. Gregor bent over, shook a child loose from his sleeve, and turned the boy around. He pointed toward Jeffrey and said something. Immediately several children turned and searched his face, then
flung
themselves on him.

“Alcoholic parents, unwed mothers, families who cannot afford another child,” Gregor said above the loud keening. “Most are not the victims of disaster, but of neglect—which of course is a disaster all its own, as far as these children are concerned.”

Uplifted faces searched Jeffrey's face with a yearning that threatened to pull his heart from his chest. He stroked a little face, found his wrist held with a ferocity born of lonely panic.

“The children here are neglected,” Gregor said. “They are intellectually and emotionally starved. Their parents are either dead or too tired, too worried, too beaten down, or too drunk to give them the love and the attention they need. We—myself and the people with whom I work—try to set up visiting schedules using people with a good heart and a strong faith. We have book-lending trucks for the older children. We arrange for doctors to make regular visits. We set up groups small enough to give each child some personal attention, and take them out to show them a bit of the outside world. We try to awaken hope, to stimulate thought. It is so
much more important than giving them a piece of candy or another bit of clothing.”

As they were leaving the house, with a dozen-dozen little faces pressed to the windows, Gregor told him, “It is far worse in the handicapped children's homes. I would not dare to take you there on your first visit. Under the Communists, these little people were simply written off. They spend their time lying in bed for lack of wheelchairs and people to push them. They need everything, my dear boy. Everything from toys to baths to hands who will bathe them with love.”

Jeffrey was immensely relieved that the first call to come through that evening was the one to Alexander. He shouted over the static, “How are you feeling?”

“Not well, I'm afraid. It seems that I am powerless to silence voices I have no desire to hear. It makes me wonder if perhaps there is not some message which I should heed. Much as I detest the notion, it is not one that I am able to shake.”

Jeffrey resisted the urge to tell of his conversation with Gregor. Now was not the time. “Gregor has been taken ill.”

“Ah,” Alexander sighed. “This trip has proven to be a veritable deluge for you, Jeffrey. Perhaps you should return home and wait for a more opportune moment to make your debut.”

“I'm doing okay, really. I've found some good pieces, and Gregor says there are some other things that we'll lose if we don't move swiftly.”

“Gregor tends to know best about such things.” Alexander's voice gathered a bit of strength. “I take it you have a plan.”

“I really need an interpreter, someone I can trust. I was wondering if I might ask Katya to join me.”

Alexander was silent a moment. “I have had a most delightful time coming to know your young lady. The more we talk, the more I am reassured with your choice.” There was another pause, then he said, “I find myself unable to face the prospect of returning to Poland at this moment. I must
therefore agree with your idea. You will impress upon her the need for secrecy.”

“As hard as I can.”

“Very well. Do as you see fit. I would be grateful if you would try to call from time to time. I realize that it is sometimes harder to find a telephone line to the outside world than it is to find the crown jewels of Russia, but nonetheless I would like to hear from you when it is possible. Your calls do me more good than I shall ever be able to convey.”

“I'll try every night,” Jeffrey replied. “Take care of yourself.”

“I shall do my utmost, although I must say that my efforts seem of little avail just now. Perhaps you might ask my cousin to remember me in his prayers.”

“I'll tell him,” Jeffrey replied. “But I imagine it's going to be superfluous. I don't think he's ever stopped.”

The call to Katya took another four hours. After apologizing his way around an extremely irate roommate who answered the phone, he said, “I need you.”

“Where are you?” The voice sounded totally asleep.

“Don't you want to know who this is first? Katya, wake up. This is the real world calling.”

“Jeffrey?”

“Katya, come on. I can't give you time for coffee. It took three bribes and two shouting matches to get through to you once.”

“Aren't you supposed to be in Poland?” She worked the words out around a yawn.

“Where do you think I'm calling from? Of course, the way these phones operate I might as well be on the dark side of the moon. Katya, are you awake yet?”

“Sort of.”

“I need you. My world is unraveling here. I can't even talk to my driver.”