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Authors: Aileen G. Baron
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of water, standing close to her, patting her arm, trying to edge closer. She would behave as if he weren’t there, not moving, and give him a sideways glance and a smile.
In the evenings, he went out to the stationers and sent the day’s notes about the hoard to the Illustrated London News by Telex.
Each night he dreamt of Irena. Each morning, he woke with a headache and a stiff neck. The sofa was hard, with missing springs, and the lumpy pillows smelled of mildew.
After two days, Dimitar came to him and said, “We have to talk,” and told him to come to his shop.
He gave him the address on a piece of paper and told Chatham he expected him at one o’clock. Chatham took a taxi and gave the driver the address. They drove to a dingy street with empty shops, some with painted windows. Chatham found the number and opened the door.
He was surrounded by a cacophony of clocks, each ticking a different tock, each set at a different time, each banging out the hour, the half hour, the quarter to, from all four walls. Time assaulted him, with pendulums pitching in eternal arcs, with tinkling chimes and clanging tocsins, pushing one moment against the next with no chance of return.
Dimitar sat at a bench in a small room in the back of the shop, visible through an open door next to a grandfather clock that was proclaiming the hour.
“Come in, come in,” Dimitar said. “You are in the right place.”
He got up and moved slowly toward Chatham, eyeing him, nodding his head.
“Welcome to my shop.” He leaned toward Chatham, his breath as rhythmic as the clocks and pungent with undigested food. “You see. You come when I call. You can’t escape me.” He stepped back and gestured at the clocks on the wall and paused, turning to look at them. “And you are running out of time.”
Chapter Eight
Sofia, Bulgaria, August 9, 1990
“What do you want of me?” Chatham asked, raising his voice to speak over the din from the other room.
Another clock struck with a sonorous boom that quivered against the wall and shook small timepieces to attention. Dimitar seemed to be listening, counting. He pulled out a pocket watch, opened it, checked the time and nodded.
“You work at the British Museum?” Dimitar said at last in a deep rumble.
“I don’t have the authority to buy anything on my own.”
“No, no,” Dimitar said.
“Purchases go through the Keeper of Near Eastern Studies.” The discordant ticking from the next room beat at Chatham with a frantic rhythm. “It’s a complicated process, takes time. The Keeper is the chief curator. He recommends the piece to the Director, who has it authenticated before it goes to the Board of Governors, which meets once a month.” Chatham’s words came faster and faster, in rhythm with the frantic ticking of the clocks. “I can send the drawings first. That’s part of the reason I’m making them.”
“I don’t want to sell the gold to a museum.”
“What do you want?”
“We need the money or we will starve.”
“What then?”
“I read somewhere that when something is exhibited in a museum, it gains value.”
“That’s probably true.”
“I want to sell the gold to private collectors. That way I get more money.”
Chatham’s tongue ran along his upper lip. “You want to take the collection to an auction house like Sotheby’s? And you think that if you lend the Thracian Gold to the British Museum for a special exhibit, you can get more money when you sell it?”
“Exactly.” Dimitar nodded. “We sell the gold after the exhibit.”
“After the drawings are published in The Illustrated London News , there’s a better chance that the museum will want to exhibit it.”
“I give you a commission. The more money we get for the pieces, the more money you get.”
Chatham thought about it, licked his lips and tried to calculate how much commission would he get. The collection would be worth millions if they handled it right.
Dimitar gave him a sharp look.
In the evenings, he went out to the stationers and sent the day’s notes about the hoard to the Illustrated London News by Telex.
Each night he dreamt of Irena. Each morning, he woke with a headache and a stiff neck. The sofa was hard, with missing springs, and the lumpy pillows smelled of mildew.
After two days, Dimitar came to him and said, “We have to talk,” and told him to come to his shop.
He gave him the address on a piece of paper and told Chatham he expected him at one o’clock. Chatham took a taxi and gave the driver the address. They drove to a dingy street with empty shops, some with painted windows. Chatham found the number and opened the door.
He was surrounded by a cacophony of clocks, each ticking a different tock, each set at a different time, each banging out the hour, the half hour, the quarter to, from all four walls. Time assaulted him, with pendulums pitching in eternal arcs, with tinkling chimes and clanging tocsins, pushing one moment against the next with no chance of return.
Dimitar sat at a bench in a small room in the back of the shop, visible through an open door next to a grandfather clock that was proclaiming the hour.
“Come in, come in,” Dimitar said. “You are in the right place.”
He got up and moved slowly toward Chatham, eyeing him, nodding his head.
“Welcome to my shop.” He leaned toward Chatham, his breath as rhythmic as the clocks and pungent with undigested food. “You see. You come when I call. You can’t escape me.” He stepped back and gestured at the clocks on the wall and paused, turning to look at them. “And you are running out of time.”
Chapter Eight
Sofia, Bulgaria, August 9, 1990
“What do you want of me?” Chatham asked, raising his voice to speak over the din from the other room.
Another clock struck with a sonorous boom that quivered against the wall and shook small timepieces to attention. Dimitar seemed to be listening, counting. He pulled out a pocket watch, opened it, checked the time and nodded.
“You work at the British Museum?” Dimitar said at last in a deep rumble.
“I don’t have the authority to buy anything on my own.”
“No, no,” Dimitar said.
“Purchases go through the Keeper of Near Eastern Studies.” The discordant ticking from the next room beat at Chatham with a frantic rhythm. “It’s a complicated process, takes time. The Keeper is the chief curator. He recommends the piece to the Director, who has it authenticated before it goes to the Board of Governors, which meets once a month.” Chatham’s words came faster and faster, in rhythm with the frantic ticking of the clocks. “I can send the drawings first. That’s part of the reason I’m making them.”
“I don’t want to sell the gold to a museum.”
“What do you want?”
“We need the money or we will starve.”
“What then?”
“I read somewhere that when something is exhibited in a museum, it gains value.”
“That’s probably true.”
“I want to sell the gold to private collectors. That way I get more money.”
Chatham’s tongue ran along his upper lip. “You want to take the collection to an auction house like Sotheby’s? And you think that if you lend the Thracian Gold to the British Museum for a special exhibit, you can get more money when you sell it?”
“Exactly.” Dimitar nodded. “We sell the gold after the exhibit.”
“After the drawings are published in The Illustrated London News , there’s a better chance that the museum will want to exhibit it.”
“I give you a commission. The more money we get for the pieces, the more money you get.”
Chatham thought about it, licked his lips and tried to calculate how much commission would he get. The collection would be worth millions if they handled it right.
Dimitar gave him a sharp look.
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