He was the only person I had ever met who was always so elegant, so right. When my husband died ten years ago, we received such a mass of flowers that my son spread them out on other graves in the cemetery. Among the heaps of lilies and roses, there came to the house a miniature bouquet of tea roses in an antique silver vase with no note, the echo of its mate so long ago in Buenos Aires. I put it by my bed. It was a great comfort to see when I opened my eyes in the morning.
In the past six years or so, though, I haven’t once seen the man: at this age, it is not unusual to have dear friends one hardly ever sees. I had heard he’d retired to a place in the British Virgin Islands, was living a quieter life, blessed with sand and sea. Still, it was odd that only a very few days after I had shown my granddaughter the photograph in Buenos Aires, Ancel de Chair called me on the telephone. “My darling bergère,” he said, “it has been far too long. I am in town this week and would simply love to meet you, if you have a free moment.” Of course I said that I would be delighted. But I didn’t want him to think that I wasn’t as busy as he, and so I suggested a time one week later. Out of vanity, or pride, I don’t know, I invited him to the apartment. I’m not sure what I expected, only that I am still fine-looking, that I have money now, the right apartment, wonderful pictures on the walls that my last husband collected so carefully. I am, at last, comme il faut, and maybe I only wanted him to know that. Maybe I wanted something more. I’m not sure.
In any case, the morning of the visit, just yesterday, I worked hard to gather the right cakes and tea, and Rosa flew about, trying to rub the surfaces spotless. I felt foolish, young again. I hadn’t been so nervous about a man visiting since the day I sat in the women’s dorm in Madison, shivering with excitement, my hair in curlers, waiting for the time when I would walk downstairs for my inaugural date with my first husband.
At last, the intercom murmured, the elevator whirred open, and my old friend stepped into the apartment. I had always remembered him tall, and had worn heels for the occasion, but he seemed shrunken, and when he kissed my cheek with his dry lips, he had to crane upward. His eyes were sunbursts of wrinkles, his hair, once so sleek and so black, had thinned and whitened and was combed over his bald spots. But when Rosa took his overcoat and scarf, his suit was as beautifully tailored as ever, and he wore the old, enormous yellow diamond tiepin. His canny eyes had seen my first distress, and he laughed.
“Old age humbles even the great, my dear,” he said. He stepped back, holding my arms, and said, “Well, not you, don’t you look lovely. You look half your age.”
“You old charmer,” I said and felt myself warming, and led him into the sitting room, where he sat and admired the view, the wind in the bare winter branches, the flurries of snow kicked up from the treetops. He took a neat bite of his cake, and spoke of various things, the biography someone was writing of his life, an interview on public radio, how he’d invested rather stupidly in a business run by his son, only to see the company disintegrate as if composed of ashes. “Oh, well,” he’d sighed, “isn’t that life,” and I agreed that it was, and talked of the boards I sat on, my granddaughter’s wedding coming up, my third husband’s death ten years earlier and how lonely it sometimes was in the great apartment all by myself.
Like this, we chatted amiably for an hour or so, until Rosa took the teapot away to refresh it. Then, when the kitchen door swung shut and we were alone, he leaned toward me with a curious smile. “As I am sure you have already suspected, this is not, unfortunately, only a social visit, my dear. I came to you,” he said, “because we are very old friends, and I know you’re a woman of tremendous delicacy.”
“Oh,” I said, putting my teacup down, very carefully. I studied the park, a crow bobbing on a branch, and looked back at him. “Please,” I said. “Go on.”
He sighed, ran his elegant hand down the length of his thigh. His voice purred on, telling me that, as I suspected, he was in straitened circumstances, a life lived rather too well, poor investments, et cetera. He had heard, from who knows where, that my granddaughter was getting married. He thought that perhaps I might want to offer the child a gift that would outshine any other gift. An only grandchild, the apple of my eye, deserves something invaluable. Something she could fall back on in a time of need, God forbid she’d ever have one. But, and he shrugged, one never knows, does one?
He lifted my hand from my knee, and placed very gently into it the large yellow tiepin that he’d detached during his speech. He said, “Maybe have it reset into a necklace. My great-great-grandmother, Henriette Ancel de Chair, wore it in a necklace,” he said. “A lovely choker at her throat.” He pressed my hand closed and nodded.
I stood and walked to the window, my back to him. I held the diamond before me, and it glowed, a living creature in the dim winter light, the brightest thing in the city. I had tears in my eyes like a foolish girl. Of the millions of things I had to offer now, it was a wound to find he’d ask for this. My throat hurt, and when I could speak, the words came out in a rasp. “How much?” I said.
He quoted a number. I looked at the diamond, blinking. A price like that was more than double what the diamond was worth: a price like that, it was plain, and he was asking me to give not one, but two gifts. He counted on my having learned enough subtlety in this life to know he was asking for charity and to understand that he had too much refinement to call it what it was. For a moment, I felt lost, a bumpkin again, stuck in a tight space with a dizzying ladies’ man a hair away. I considered owning this thing, his pride. I thought of reducing those many years to a transaction, one scribbled check. I thought of my kind last husband, of how hard he’d worked for his money, and with that thought, I grew a bit heated. Ancel de Chair was asking for repayment for what: graciousness to a country yokel back when he hadn’t had to be gracious to me? Flirtation? Friendship? I never knew I’d have to pay for that.
My head was beginning to pound. I was not yet old, and I hoped my life was still long before me. I was not yet old and had given already to so many charities.
I turned around, holding the tiepin like a buttercup, and pinned it gently back into his tie. “I’m sorry,” I said, softly. “I have already bought my granddaughter an entire set of china.”
Ancel de Chair brushed crumbs off his trousers and stood, a small smile playing on his lips. “Of course, of course,” he said. “I understand. One must think practically, and I shouldn’t expect frivolity from you, my dear Iowa shepherdess.”
“Wisconsin,” I said. “Actually.”
“Well,” he said, “well. I’m flying to London tomorrow, and have a great deal to pack. Thank you ever so much for the tea. Very tasty, indeed.”
He moved toward the door and took his overcoat from the closet. “Wait,” I said, “just a moment. Wait,” I said, but he was flushed now, and tucking his scarf around his throat.
“Oh, darling, don’t worry about me, it is quite all right. I really must go.” He leaned toward me to kiss me on both cheeks, but came close to my ear, and said a curious thing.
“By the by,” he said, “your milk has gone sour. I thought you should know.”