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Authors: Arianne Richmonde
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ribbon, and hands it to me.
“Thank you, Dervis. Oh, and by the way it’s Ms. – not Mrs.”
“Pardon?”
Poor Dervis can’t get his head around feminist American culture.
“I’m not married anymore, Dervis,” I explain. “Mzz is better for me than Mrs.” I smile at him sweetly.
I ride up in the elevator and race to my front door, but typically, I can’t find my keys. In a panic, I empty the entire contents of my handbag on the floor. I discover them. They were hiding themselves, lodged in my address book. Why I still have an address book when all my numbers are in my iPhone, I do not know, perhaps the weight of paper reassures me. Or the infallibility. I fumble with my keys and unlock the door. This package is making me nervous.
I walk into my messy bedroom, place the box on the bed and stare at it. It is not my birthday. My heart is racing. Is it possible that….? No, surely not.
I open the box. Inside is another one, also donning a ribbon, the box much smaller. I lift off its lid and again, another box, oblong in shape. Also, tied with a ribbon, but one made of silk.
My hands are trembling. Another box now – in pale blue leather edged in gold, but it isn’t new. It is slightly tattered. I open it. It’s velvet-lined and has the name of a Parisian jeweler of La Place Vendôme inside – the most expensive jewelry quarter in Paris. The box is antique. I can’t believe what I’m seeing. Did the young doorman make a mistake? Surely this must belong to Mrs. Meyer on the eleventh floor? I check the name on the first box again, Ms. Pearl Robinson , written in large, black letters. No mistake.
I gaze at the stunning piece of jewelry nestled in the leather box: an exquisite double strand of pearls with a diamond and platinum, Art Deco clasp. This definitely looks vintage – they don’t make designs like this anymore. There is no way this is a copy. And the worn blue box – unquestionably antique.
I lift the necklace out of the box, delicately. It’s a choker; the pearls perfectly round, graduating very subtly in size – fine lustrous pearls with overtones of cream, rose and hints of pale honey and bronzy gold. I hold them up to the light – the myriad colors shimmer with unfathomable depth. I cannot count the different shades; if I were an artist and had to paint them I’d need to mix at least forty hues of subtle colors to do them justice. I think of their origin, each pearl starting its life off as a grain of sand locked in an oyster shell – how each one turns into a perfect, complete jewel. Naturally iridescent, polished by nature, not man.
I unhook the intricate clasp of the necklace and walk to the large mirror in my bathroom, terrified my fingers will fumble – please don’t let me drop this work of art on the floor! I lay the chocker about my neck, the clasp at the front so I can see what I’m doing. A perfect fit. Its beauty is breathtaking. I gasp. My namesake – Pearl. My nose starts to prickle as tears well in my eyes, now glistening like pools of water – like the pearls. I stare into the mirror in disbelief. Nobody has ever given me a gift this special. But no note? Nothing? I go back and search amongst the boxes on my bed and inside one of them I find a small envelope. I open it. A handwritten card reads:
Pearl,
These Pearls belonged to a unique Parisian lady called Delphine Aimée. This necklace was a wedding present from her husband, designed especially for her. She was a happy woman, a shining star — one of the greats. This choker will bring you good luck. There are precisely 88 pearls. Eight is a lucky number. Eighty-eight is an untouchable number. It is the symbol of infinity – the double directions of the infinity of the universe. It is the period of revolution, in number of days, of the planet Mercury around the sun. It is the number of constellations in the sky. It is the number of keys on a piano.
It is your number, Pearl.
Alexandre.
I am suddenly aware of
“Thank you, Dervis. Oh, and by the way it’s Ms. – not Mrs.”
“Pardon?”
Poor Dervis can’t get his head around feminist American culture.
“I’m not married anymore, Dervis,” I explain. “Mzz is better for me than Mrs.” I smile at him sweetly.
I ride up in the elevator and race to my front door, but typically, I can’t find my keys. In a panic, I empty the entire contents of my handbag on the floor. I discover them. They were hiding themselves, lodged in my address book. Why I still have an address book when all my numbers are in my iPhone, I do not know, perhaps the weight of paper reassures me. Or the infallibility. I fumble with my keys and unlock the door. This package is making me nervous.
I walk into my messy bedroom, place the box on the bed and stare at it. It is not my birthday. My heart is racing. Is it possible that….? No, surely not.
I open the box. Inside is another one, also donning a ribbon, the box much smaller. I lift off its lid and again, another box, oblong in shape. Also, tied with a ribbon, but one made of silk.
My hands are trembling. Another box now – in pale blue leather edged in gold, but it isn’t new. It is slightly tattered. I open it. It’s velvet-lined and has the name of a Parisian jeweler of La Place Vendôme inside – the most expensive jewelry quarter in Paris. The box is antique. I can’t believe what I’m seeing. Did the young doorman make a mistake? Surely this must belong to Mrs. Meyer on the eleventh floor? I check the name on the first box again, Ms. Pearl Robinson , written in large, black letters. No mistake.
I gaze at the stunning piece of jewelry nestled in the leather box: an exquisite double strand of pearls with a diamond and platinum, Art Deco clasp. This definitely looks vintage – they don’t make designs like this anymore. There is no way this is a copy. And the worn blue box – unquestionably antique.
I lift the necklace out of the box, delicately. It’s a choker; the pearls perfectly round, graduating very subtly in size – fine lustrous pearls with overtones of cream, rose and hints of pale honey and bronzy gold. I hold them up to the light – the myriad colors shimmer with unfathomable depth. I cannot count the different shades; if I were an artist and had to paint them I’d need to mix at least forty hues of subtle colors to do them justice. I think of their origin, each pearl starting its life off as a grain of sand locked in an oyster shell – how each one turns into a perfect, complete jewel. Naturally iridescent, polished by nature, not man.
I unhook the intricate clasp of the necklace and walk to the large mirror in my bathroom, terrified my fingers will fumble – please don’t let me drop this work of art on the floor! I lay the chocker about my neck, the clasp at the front so I can see what I’m doing. A perfect fit. Its beauty is breathtaking. I gasp. My namesake – Pearl. My nose starts to prickle as tears well in my eyes, now glistening like pools of water – like the pearls. I stare into the mirror in disbelief. Nobody has ever given me a gift this special. But no note? Nothing? I go back and search amongst the boxes on my bed and inside one of them I find a small envelope. I open it. A handwritten card reads:
Pearl,
These Pearls belonged to a unique Parisian lady called Delphine Aimée. This necklace was a wedding present from her husband, designed especially for her. She was a happy woman, a shining star — one of the greats. This choker will bring you good luck. There are precisely 88 pearls. Eight is a lucky number. Eighty-eight is an untouchable number. It is the symbol of infinity – the double directions of the infinity of the universe. It is the period of revolution, in number of days, of the planet Mercury around the sun. It is the number of constellations in the sky. It is the number of keys on a piano.
It is your number, Pearl.
Alexandre.
I am suddenly aware of
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