“Could you email me a picture?” the curator asks. Nell’s briefly stymied by this suggestion, by the sudden thought of the necklace going out in the world. At her silence the curator rushes on, covering. “It’s a bit of a formality. In this case, I’m sure I’d be interested in the piece. Why don’t we choose a day for me to come look at it?”
Nell’s certain she doesn’t want a museum curator coming to the farm, doesn’t want Baldwin or Pansy to start asking questions.
“I can bring it in,” Nell says quickly.
“It’s best for me to come to it,” the curator says. “I’d hate for something to happen to it while traveling. And really, it shouldn’t be disturbed from where it’s resting without a fine art packer handling it.”
Where it’s resting is around her neck. Where it was resting was stuffed in an old liquor sack and crammed in a dressing table. This woman is probably picturing some sort of buried treasure scenario, a dusty attic, or at least a proper jewelry box. Nell can imagine the woman’s white gloves, her pocket loupe, and an LED penlight.
“No, really. I’d prefer to bring it in,” Nell says with what she hopes sounds like finality.
There’s a long pause and then a sigh. “Of course, Mrs. Quincy.” The name makes Nell wince. “If you insist.”
The Quincy name must have some magic left in it because an appointment is made for the very next day.
In the same clothes from the wake, the only decent things she’s brought, Nell walks through the glass and marble atrium of the Cleveland Museum of Art. She hears efficient click-clack footsteps behind her before she turns.
Reema Patel is wearing a dove gray flannel shift dress, the cut severe, toned arms on display. Though the color would make your average woman look like a corpse, it makes her skin glow and enhances the dark circles under her eyes, adding gravitas in counter to her beauty. Her hair is a glory—black, enviously shiny, and cut in a thick hem at a professionally appropriate two inches past her collarbone. On her feet are a pair of burgundy suede heels low enough to run in.
Nell’s relieved there’s no one from the development office joining them as she follows Patel to her office. Nell sits in the modern and uncomfortable chair across from the tidy desk. There’s a framed diploma from Oxford on the wall, which explains why Patel’s accent sounds more English than Indian. Nell notices a diploma from Yale as well before turning her attention back. She doesn’t want to appear the snob judging schooling.
They exchange the usual pleasantries, with Patel offering condolences on Loulou’s death and an obligatory comment on her longevity, and Nell commenting on the new Pompeii exhibition downstairs.
And then Reema Patel sits back, waiting for Nell to start.
She wonders how many times Patel’s been subjected to “treasures” from Granny’s attic—reproduction tourist trinkets presented by an eager, slightly haughty face. Nell’s suddenly embarrassed, rethinking her visit. Surely if this necklace were real, it’d have been kept downtown in the safe-deposit box that housed all the “good” jewelry, the specific bequest notwithstanding. Nell’s pulled family strings that she doesn’t feel entitled to use to get this meeting. Patel would probably prefer Nell announce some legacy from Loulou, specifically bequeathed to the Asian collections.
But there is no way around her visit now, and Patel looks like she’ll quash dreams with sensitivity. Nell pulls the whiskey sack from her handbag, wishing she’d thought to put it in something cleaner.
Patel leans over, as if a delicate relic has been placed on her desk. Nell’s gratified by this show of deference, and it’s effective in conveying Patel’s seriousness. As Patel gingerly opens the bag, Nell notices that Patel’s nails are short with jagged cuticles, a pleasing juxtaposition with her posh clothes.
When Patel removes the necklace from the sack, a little gasp whooshes between her lips. She places the jewel reverently on the dusty velvet, her head nodding faintly as she tucks her hair behind one ear. She bows closer until her nose is almost touching the sapphire, and it looks, incongruously, as if she’s smelling it. Then she raises her head quickly, sneezes violently, and scrambles for a tissue. She turns to her computer, typing quickly on the keyboard with one hand as she blows her nose with the other.
Nell remains silent, though a barrage of questions runs through her mind.
After looking back and forth between the screen and the necklace, Patel swings the computer monitor toward Nell. Nell counsels herself not to beam, not to look greedy, but she can’t help smiling; on the screen is a black-and-white picture of the necklace.
“I’m not a gemologist,” Patel starts. “But this,” she says pointing to the screen, “is the Moon of Nizam, also called the Sapphire of Baroda. It belonged to the maharaja of Baroda. It’s been missing since the 1920s.”
All that registers is that this is one of those gems that actually has a name, and that it’s missing.
“Missing?”
Patel nods. “Maharajas would sell their jewels to the British. They’d never admit it, of course, and once the jewels were out of the country . . .” She leans back, rummaging in her desk drawer. “Also looting during Partition. Sometimes they made gifts.” She reaches up to make air quotes and then goes back to searching.
Nell hazily remembers glancing on the case of the Koh-i-Noor, the largest diamond in the British crown jewels, during an international law seminar back in law school. India wants it back, claims it was looted as war booty by the British East India Company and then given to Queen Victoria for her crown. Britain claims it was a legitimate gift, though the twelve-year-old maharaja who bestowed it had just had his territories conquered and occupied by the British army. Pakistan has requested return, claiming original ownership. The Taliban has even claimed rights. Each time there’s some summit in London or the Olympics come to the UK, Nell sees the Koh-i-Noor pop up again in the news. She mentions this to Patel.
“India keeps getting shot down on that one,” Patel says. “There’s little hope there. But they have successfully repatriated some of the jewels of lesser maharajas when they come up for sale or . . .” She pauses here. “. . . things. Tell me about this,” she says.
Nell recounts the story of finding the necklace. Patel is nodding and ransacking her desk. Nell considers mentioning the will and that the necklace is hers, but that seems private, still unreal, and oddly boastful.