The Collector

1.“Nora, where are you? I am leaving. Don’t wait for me. I will eat a bite in the car. You know how these things work. It may be my golden day, today.”
“Tim, I heard this before. Promise me, darling, that you will not come home with another Ming-like vase or carafe. I have found two behind the couch yesterday. It may take few days, but I always discover where you hide your treasures.”
“I have no doubt that sooner or later you’ll dig out what I bury. Once, however – if I recall well – your search lasted two entire weeks. I was very proud of myself.”

“I had let you win. I knew exactly where that horrible candelabrum was. Every morning I woke up with murderous ideas. I remember that I used to write with my fingertips on the kitchen tablecloth at breakfast ‘Break it’ and ‘Oops’.
“You love me, Nora. I am the luckiest man on earth. It’s for this reason that a miracle will happen. I am sure, dead sure, that one of these days, I will find a priceless masterpiece in a thrift store, yard or furniture sale. You will be a very rich lady.”
“Tim Conder, you’d better be on the lookout for something very old and worthy incredibly close to you.”
A puzzled look had the effect of designing a soft smile on her lip.
“Me.”
Tim placed a swift kiss on her cheek and twirled away towards the door feeling light and clean. This ‘after a shower’ sensation energized him, erasing a week at work spent faking enthusiasm for a job he secretly despised. He glanced at the passenger’s seat where the newspaper lied. He had circled in red the most promising garage-yard and estate sales classifieds and scribbled quick notes along the margins. He had prioritized all the sales in town in order of importance and distance. The side notes contained advices to himself, such as the best routes to follow and some key streets and crossroads. This was his ‘natural’ GPS system and he was ready to swear on its efficiency. He went even as far as to remind himself how to bargain on the initial price. His tactic was simple and he had perfected it weekend after weekend. His body spoke first. He assembled a sad look, rolled his eyes helplessly, and only at that point he murmured, “Oh, it’s a lot of money! Then, he went on with the usual, “Is that the best you can do?” or its variation, “What’s your best price if I buy it right now?” Most of the time, he ended up carrying victoriously in his arms a small painting, a set of baseball cards, hundreds of black-and-white photographs, canvas of all sizes, sculptures, and so on. Gushes of adrenaline impaired his other sensations. He calmed down only after he had secured his desired possessions in the trunk of his car or in the car seats. He kept a white cloth in the glove compartment and a small bottle of water. Whenever the pressure and the anxiety beat him badly, he passed the wet cloth all over his face and neck.
2.He turned on Grove Street and stopped the car in front of a wobbly estate sale sign. He parked at best and sprang out running to the main door, which was wide opened. He sighed. It was getting worse. The dining room was huge with red painted walls. A grey sofa stretched along the room and several mid-size paintings hung dignified. Tim fell in love immediately with the central painting showing a sad woman with a rather long neck looking far outside the scope of the frame. An old lady approached him and said with a melodious voice, “It belonged to my mother, and before her to her mother. I am forced to sell it, you know. I cannot stay here.”
Quick slave of its beauty, Tim forgot his technique, and asked her, “How much?”
“Eight-hundred, firm,” the gentle voice echoed.
“It’s a lot of money”, he scrambled out of habit.
“Perhaps. For me, it’s priceless.”
Tim remained silent, nodded, and left to inspect the other rooms, attic included. There, he found a crowd eager like him to discover extraordinary pieces. He felt disinterested and humble. He did not want to compete with those aggressive treasure hunters. He came down feverish afraid that someone had already bought his painting. He raised quickly his eyes, and there it was. He noticed a couple in a corner of the room. They looked like two bio researchers, and from time to time they lifted their heads and looked at his artwork. He had already mentally bought it. He was its owner now. He didn’t feel guilty playing with the crazy idea hat it was his own birthday gift to himself, just 9 months ahead of the calendar date. The problem was the money. Nora would have been upset to discover that he had touched their savings. Well, it would have been a secret. The painting was probably worth a ton and he would have made a great investment.
“What’s your best price if I buy it right now?”
“Eight-hundred like before. I told you,” repeated the old lady with a sugary intonation. “That couple is interested too. You should decide fast or you’ll risk to lose the sale.”
“Do you accept checks?”
“Sorry, cash only. I will wait 30’, the time it will take you to go downtown. There are few banks there. Your pick.”
“Deal done”, and Tim left hastily.
The rest of the day looked like a dream: the trip to the bank, the hurried withdrawal from the bank, the purchase, and the careful almost tender packing. Finally, the triumphant moment, he put the painting under his arm. He started to think of a clever hiding place and ended up with three options, under the bed, behind a pile of winter clothing and in the trunk of the car. These were very poor choices and Tim felt ashamed. Perhaps, his friend Charles would have agreed to keep it in his house. He called Charles.
“Hi, Tim speaking. Charles, my friend, I’ll go directly to the point. I need to tuck away something.”
“Like what, my friend? I have room for a bunch of books, lottery tickets, and bananas.”
“A painting, Charles.”
“Your little fixation again. Nora is my friend too.”
“Help me. It’s my elephant on the table!”
“Is it valuable? How much can you resell it for?
“I have no idea. I know an art historian who authenticates works for auction houses. I’ll give him a call.”
“Fine, I am at home. I will talk to Virgil so he does not pee on it.”
3. “I am sorry, Mr. Conder. The artist is a very famous Hungarian painter. Unfortunately, this is a copy, a good one, but nothing more than a copy. The original is in a museum in Hungary. Many Hungarian masterpieces disappeared during the second world war, so I always hope that an important work turns out somewhere. Not this time, hélas. Its value is $250.00, max. $300.00”
“Thank you, Mr. Sanders,” said Tim. His hopes had gone, evaporated. He felt strangely empty.
Well, no more birthday gifts for him for several years. He was determined to pay for his foolishness.
Nora had been watching Tim. He seemed down. It was the third day that he had aimlessly toured the house like a sailor lost at sea. Saturday and Sunday did not even put his nose out pretending to watch TV or to read a book whose content was so absorbing that he forgot to turn the pages. She quickly laid down a plan of action. If he did not want to leave the house, then she would have prepared an excellent meal and bought his favorite bottle of Irish whiskey. On the menu, steak, asparagus and potatoes, ice-cream and plenty of whiskey. Perhaps a small gift would have perked him. She resolved to go out early that Saturday and stop at the antique shop in Riverside Road. That place was a real bric-a-brac, a chaotic display of curious objects and paintings.
At 9:00 a.m., whipped lightly by a wintery Saturday breeze, she was ready. Tim seemed apathetic when she mentioned some last minute shopping needs. Great, no questions or quizzical looks followed her.
The shop was more chaotic than ever with piles of collectibles, oriental furniture, umbrellas, dubious fur coats, heavy books and metal and wooden boxes. Rows after rows of paintings and posters forced the visitors to jump from delicate ladies of the ‘20s to fierce battleship scenes with dooming waves. Some of the paintings were so dark and oily that she was happy to circulate her gaze around the pastel flowery patterns of plates and bowls. She did not understand her man. She even detected a few dead flies and one huge wasp sitting on a leafy crown. She felt covered with dust, started to sneeze, and realize that before her eyes started to cry, due to an old dust allergy, she had to flee that place. She had almost stepped out, when her eyes were caught by a black curvy object. At a closer look it appeared to be a clock. She had not spent 2 hours for nothing, plus Tim would have been busy cleaning and fixing it, forgetting in this way whatever bothered him. She lifted it like an Oscar and was able to save $10.00 on the price tag. Still $50.00 was a considerable sum of money, but she adored that taciturn bear-like man she had married.
4. Dinner went well. Tim enjoyed every sip and crumb and cracked few jokes. He liked the gift and promised to clean it. At first, she taught that the clock would have ended in the garage or worse in the attic, then one Sunday afternoon she saw Tim in his room surrounded by bottles of vinegar, packs of salt and pots filled with heated water.
Several days later Tim emerged from his room with a splendid shiny golden clock and a 360-degree smile.
“I googled it. It’s a Rococo clock. It might have belonged to a prince or king.”
“Or princess or queen, added Nora. Now, darling, it is yours and you are my Prince. Prince Charming.”
“Nora, I don’t deserve you. I went around for years acting like a maniac and I have never found anything as beautiful as this; and you… you found this marvel the first and only time you went to an antique store.”
“Call it, green thumb or … bronze thumb.”
“It’s such a splendor. Surely, it’s a special work of art. I am going to call Mr. Sanders. He will establish its royal provenance.”
Nora did not want to spoil his joy and nodded gently.
The news arrived one week later. They had in their possession a fine royal piece once probably owned by an English prince. Its value was around $20k, perhaps more.
“Mr. Sanders said that he will find a collector or, if we prefer, we can sell it at an auction. We don’t’ have to do anything. He is waiting for us.”
“It’s fantastic Tim, absolutely mind-boggling.”
“I am dying to tell everything to Charles. He thought you hated antiques.”
“I am sure that he will be happy for us.”
“We’ll buy few bones for Virgil and perhaps we will pay for a vet visit. That poor dog leaves a pee trail everywhere he goes.”
When Nora came back from washing the dishes, she found a very thoughtful Tim scratching his chin. “What happened? Did Charles say something annoying? He acts like a hermit sometimes.”
“On the contrary, he gave me an idea. Well, we could donate the profits from the sale of the clock to Priest Andrew. I heard that the roof of the orphanage is falling apart and when it rains the children wear swimming suits. They try to make it fun, but it’s also very cold there.”
Tim had spoken with passion and his nose and pronounced cheekbones were dramatically red.
Nora thought for a second, came closer to Tim and with tears in her eyes she said proudly, “It’s an amazing idea. We will have a new roof for the orphanage and tea and cookies for the children; and Priest Andrew will sing Allelujah!
“There is more.”
“What’s that?”
“I will kiss you like that in front of everyone.”
Tears crossed slowly her face. She was happy.