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98
Arthur leads me past infinite rows of magnificent works by Picasso, Van Gogh, Matisse, O’Keefe, Botticelli, Kahlo, Michelangelo, Rembrandt, Velázquez, and more, then stops before another door that blends into the back wall so seamlessly, it’s impossible to distinguish it until I’m standing directly in front of it.
“Few at Gray Wolf have seen what I’m about to show you,” he says. “And certainly, none of the Blues. Before we proceed, you must promise not to breathe a word of this to anyone.”
In the short time I’ve been in the Vault, I’ve glimpsed so many masterworks, it makes my head spin. So, what could he possibly be hiding beyond this secret door?
Still, I give him my word, then watch as the door opens, the overhead lights blink on, and Arthur leads me to a glass display case positioned in the center of the room. “I present to you, my most prized possession in this entire collection—the Antikythera Mechanism.”
He turns to me, as though expecting me to…I don’t know, applaud? Jump up and down and shout out in glee?
Instead, I stand awkwardly in place, glancing between him and some ancient scraps of time-worn metal, wondering what it is that I’m missing.
“So…” I steal a moment to rummage through my brain, searching for the sort of response that’ll work to convey the appropriate amount of interest, while also concealing my current state of confusion. “It’s the, uh…original, then? Which means, somewhere out there, there’s a…fake?”
The creases in Arthur’s forehead deepen, and for a man whose face rarely reveals what he’s thinking, his disappointment is worn plain to see. “I thought for sure you’d recognize it,” he says.
I move closer, screwing up my face and squinting, but all I see is an old pile of—
Before I can even register what’s happening, my hand instinctively shoots for the display case, fingers pressing against the glass, causing small half domes of fog to bloom around the pointed tips of my nails. Like a video set on time-lapse, I watch in astonishment as this ancient fragment of metal miraculously restores itself to its original glory.
Its case is made of a finely oiled wood.
The mechanism inside gleams with golden dials and knobs, a set of inscriptions I can’t decipher, and an assortment of stones and jewels that stand in for various planets and stars.
The restoration is so extraordinary, so exquisite in its craftsmanship and design, I can’t help but gasp at the sight.
But even more startling are all the memories the vision unearths. Like stumbling upon an old family album, my mind eagerly flips through a collection of faded pictures of long-forgotten afternoons spent with my dad.
The two of us sitting cross-legged, leaning over a heap of objects spread across a soft braided rug as he patiently teaches me how to reassemble the Antikythera Mechanism he keeps locked away in a drawer.
And how sometimes he’d hide the pieces around the house, then task me with using clues from the tarot cards to discover where they were…
His was a copy, of course, made of cheap plastics and dented bits of metal. But next to my prized set of model horses, it ranked right up there among my favorite diversions. Possibly because the only times I was allowed to play with it were when my mom was away. On those days, before her car had even pulled out of the drive, I’d start begging my dad to take the secret puzzle out of hiding.
Though I can’t remember him ever saying no, I can clearly recall the look of sadness he wore as he watched me reassemble, then disassemble the various parts.
In the movie screen in my mind, I view a clip of the unmistakable glint of sorrow clouding his gaze, as my dad held up a gleaming gold ball and said, “Tell me about this piece—tell me everything you know about the—”
From somewhere nearby, the gravelly scratch of a throat being cleared yanks me out of the reverie and back to reality.
In an instant, the vision is gone.
The memory of my dad recedes.
And I’m left staring at an archaic piece of metal behind a thick sheet of glass.
Too late, I remember Arthur is watching me.
