The Cloisters(30)

“I don’t know when we’ll be back,” Rachel said. “Later, I guess. If you need a time.”

It didn’t matter to me. If anything, it solved the problem of Leo, of what our next interaction would be like, the first after I had seen him that weekend.

In the town car on the way downtown, Rachel said, “We’re going to see Stephen Ketch.”

I didn’t know if I was supposed to know who Stephen Ketch was, but I stayed quiet, hoping she would continue and I wouldn’t have to reveal my ignorance.

“It’s a personal errand for Patrick. Not for the museum.”

At this, Rachel seemed annoyed, and it struck me that things between her and Patrick might have become more strained since the dinner with Aruna, since he had brought me in. I wondered what it was like for her to have the balance upset. When I didn’t respond, Rachel looked up at me sharply, expectantly.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I don’t know who Stephen Ketch is.”

Rachel sighed and watched the buildings flash by outside the window of the car. “You’ll see,” she said.

John drove us past doorman building after doorman building in the direction of the Queensboro Bridge before stopping. We could see where Sutton Place ran along the East River, and it was one of those rare places where the city gave you space to breathe, let the buildings recede into the background, and the sky take over. I followed Rachel down the block, but before we could reach the river, she stopped in front of an iron gate flanked by two brick alcoves and topped with a wrought iron filigree. A Victorian light dangled from a black chain.

It was an alleyway, almost. A small notch between the buildings that I might not have noticed were I not on foot, and were I not being brought there by someone who knew where to look. It was inconspicuous and beautiful. Hidden, but once noticed, it refused to give up your attention—narrow and historic, and a departure from the busy blocks we had passed on our way south. Rachel rang a bell to the left of the gate, and deep in the alley, behind another door, I heard the bell sound. No one came out to meet us, but the gate buzzed, and Rachel pushed through. We walked until we came to a glass door with the words KETCH RARE BOOKS AND ANTIQUES, hand-lettered in gold, on the front.

The interior was not what I had expected. It was dark and the ceiling was low. Everything appeared hemmed in by clusters of vintage glass bottles and paintings stacked on the floor. Every spare inch of wall space was occupied with books, some in glass cases. The air-conditioning sputtered at the back of the shop, and whirring fans had been placed in the corners to assist in moving the cool air around. Everywhere things were in the way—a Louis XIV chair, a blue-and-white vase, a sculpture, a tin knickknack.

A short, wide man who I could only assume was Stephen sat behind a large oak desk in the deepest recess of the room, making notes in a ledger. I paused to look at some of the glass cases where cheap spotlights were trained on the more expensive pieces: a handful of antique rings with genuine precious stones in them, all with their tags flipped over, prices obscured. I lingered over a gold ring with a smooth red stone set in the center, uncut, simple. It looked like it could have been ancient, Roman in origin.

In Walla Walla, the antique stores had been full of dusty farm equipment and furniture baked by the hot western sun. Every now and again, you would find an item that had made the trip east with its original owner, a chest painted with flowers, or a mirror, darkened with age. But mostly, the things that were considered antique were actually quite new. Fifty years old, a hundred maybe. Here, there were pieces from the seventeenth century, paintings that were dated before the emigrant trails were first opened west from Independence, Missouri.

I hadn’t spent money since arriving in New York—aside from my MetroCard and groceries—but in the antique store, I found myself wondering what amounts lay hidden on the underside of the tags. Out of the corner of my eye, I watched Rachel follow Stephen through a door at the back of the room, and I could hear them, through the thin, prewar walls, going up a short flight of stairs. Alone in the shop, I idly pulled a book off the shelf only to discover it was a first edition of Oliver Twist. I put it back and made my way closer to Stephen’s desk.

At the end of the shop, the clutter became even more overwhelming, and I imagined Stephen living like an animal in his burrow, a cozy nest of antiques and rare books for batting and comfort. I peeked down at his ledger, where objects and prices were recorded in a blocky script—reliquary, St. Elijah, $6,800, I read—just as the door opened and both he and Rachel reappeared. She was holding a box wrapped with green ribbon.

“Is there something here you’d like to see?” Stephen asked. It wasn’t an unkind request, no hint of reprimand despite the fact he had just caught me snooping.

“You have some lovely pieces,” I said.

He looked at Rachel and she nodded.

“Let me show you a few.”

I realized then that he had a wildly short frame and that the majority of his presence came from his girth, which he struggled to fit back behind his desk, and then back out again, a ring of keys jangling in his hand.

As he passed me, he grabbed my hand and felt around the base of my ring finger. His touch was pleasant: warm and dry and soft; and he motioned that I should follow him, while Rachel stayed behind to browse a few books on the shelf next to his desk.

“Looking has its pleasures,” he said, leading me to a glass case, “but there is no replacement for feeling the real thing.”