brought here to be sold.”
“Who is your client, and why is he looking for this jewelry?” Mr. Zhang asked. “Is he from the Shanghai authorities?”
Oh ho,
I thought.
You do know something, and you don’t want to get in trouble.
“No. The client’s a woman, a Swiss attorney working for heirs of the original owner.”
Mr. Zhang exchanged a look with his cousin. “Who are these heirs?”
“I don’t know their names. The original owner was a Jewish woman from Salzburg, Elke Gilder. Her daughter, Rosalie, brought the jewelry to Shanghai. The heirs are Elke’s brother’s children.”
Mr. Chen started to speak but was stopped by a look from his cousin. Notwithstanding the fact that we were in Mr. Chen’s shop, Mr. Zhang was clearly in charge. “Do these photographs represent the entire contents of the box?” he asked.
“As far as I know.”
“Was anything else found?”
“Anything else.” I eyed the two men. “You mean the Shanghai Moon?”
Mr. Chen froze, as though any movement might break something. Mr. Zhang, though, just said mildly, “Yes. The Shanghai Moon.”
“I heard the story yesterday,” I told them. “That the Shanghai Moon might be in the company of these pieces.I also heard that these pieces aren’t worth killing over, but the Shanghai Moon is.”
Mr. Zhang smiled. “You’ve cleverly sidestepped my question.”
“As you have mine.”
His smile grew delighted. “I’m unused to being clever, but I suppose I have. Ms. Chin—the Shanghai Moon? Was it there?”
“I don’t know,” I admitted. “If it was found, my client wasn’t told.”
Mr. Zhang inclined his head. “Thank you for indulging me.” Something passed between the two cousins then; I couldn’t read it, but they’d reached a decision. “I hope,” Mr. Zhang said, “we are able to answer your questions as fully as you have answered mine.” He sipped some tea, waiting.
“Well, to start with, let’s go back to this question: Have you seen these pieces?”
“Yes.”
I nearly jumped off my seat. “Wong Pan, the man who stole them, he’s been here?”
“No.”
“But—”
Mr. Chen spoke. “We have seen them.”
“Why didn’t you—”
He raised a hand. “Yes, we have seen them. But not for sixty years. They are my mother’s.”
13
Under the bright lights in the jewelry store office, I stared from one old man to the other. “Your mother’s?” I said. “But these are Rosalie Gilder’s, that she—” I stared again: Mr. Chen’s rounded eyes, his sharp nose.
Oh
, I thought.
Oh, oh, oh.
“Rosalie Gilder? She was your
mother
?”
“Yes. Do you—”
“Chen,” I breathed. “Chen Kai-rong. He’s your father.”
Mr. Chen gave a bow of his head. “It does me honor to acknowledge them. I’m surprised to find you know their names, however.”
“They were in the book. Where I read about the Shanghai Moon. But of course, Rosalie’s—Miss Gilder’s, I mean”—I corrected myself, not wanting him to think I was taking liberties—“my client told me her name. And I found Chen Kai-rong’s name in her letters.”
“Your client’s letters?”
“No, your mother’s.”
A pause. “My mother’s—”
“I suppose,” Mr. Zhang interrupted gently, “Ms. Chin means the letters at the Jewish Museum?”
“Yes, exactly.”
“Oh,” said Mr. Chen. “Yes, of course.” He nodded a few times. “Yes, at the museum.”
Not sure why his face had clouded, I said, “I apologizeif you feel I’ve invaded your mother’s privacy. But she was a fascinating woman.” A thought struck me. “Mr. Chen, is she—”
Not that way, Lydia
. “I’d be thrilled to find her still with us.”
Mr. Chen smiled sadly. “As to that, I must disappoint you.”
It was true, I did feel disappointed.
Though really, Lydia,
I pointed out to myself,
if Rosalie were alive, she’d be near ninety
. But to me she was a scared, brave young woman I’d just met, and grown fond of.
I looked at Mr. Zhang,
“Who is your client, and why is he looking for this jewelry?” Mr. Zhang asked. “Is he from the Shanghai authorities?”
Oh ho,
I thought.
You do know something, and you don’t want to get in trouble.
“No. The client’s a woman, a Swiss attorney working for heirs of the original owner.”
Mr. Zhang exchanged a look with his cousin. “Who are these heirs?”
“I don’t know their names. The original owner was a Jewish woman from Salzburg, Elke Gilder. Her daughter, Rosalie, brought the jewelry to Shanghai. The heirs are Elke’s brother’s children.”
Mr. Chen started to speak but was stopped by a look from his cousin. Notwithstanding the fact that we were in Mr. Chen’s shop, Mr. Zhang was clearly in charge. “Do these photographs represent the entire contents of the box?” he asked.
“As far as I know.”
“Was anything else found?”
“Anything else.” I eyed the two men. “You mean the Shanghai Moon?”
Mr. Chen froze, as though any movement might break something. Mr. Zhang, though, just said mildly, “Yes. The Shanghai Moon.”
“I heard the story yesterday,” I told them. “That the Shanghai Moon might be in the company of these pieces.I also heard that these pieces aren’t worth killing over, but the Shanghai Moon is.”
Mr. Zhang smiled. “You’ve cleverly sidestepped my question.”
“As you have mine.”
His smile grew delighted. “I’m unused to being clever, but I suppose I have. Ms. Chin—the Shanghai Moon? Was it there?”
“I don’t know,” I admitted. “If it was found, my client wasn’t told.”
Mr. Zhang inclined his head. “Thank you for indulging me.” Something passed between the two cousins then; I couldn’t read it, but they’d reached a decision. “I hope,” Mr. Zhang said, “we are able to answer your questions as fully as you have answered mine.” He sipped some tea, waiting.
“Well, to start with, let’s go back to this question: Have you seen these pieces?”
“Yes.”
I nearly jumped off my seat. “Wong Pan, the man who stole them, he’s been here?”
“No.”
“But—”
Mr. Chen spoke. “We have seen them.”
“Why didn’t you—”
He raised a hand. “Yes, we have seen them. But not for sixty years. They are my mother’s.”
13
Under the bright lights in the jewelry store office, I stared from one old man to the other. “Your mother’s?” I said. “But these are Rosalie Gilder’s, that she—” I stared again: Mr. Chen’s rounded eyes, his sharp nose.
Oh
, I thought.
Oh, oh, oh.
“Rosalie Gilder? She was your
mother
?”
“Yes. Do you—”
“Chen,” I breathed. “Chen Kai-rong. He’s your father.”
Mr. Chen gave a bow of his head. “It does me honor to acknowledge them. I’m surprised to find you know their names, however.”
“They were in the book. Where I read about the Shanghai Moon. But of course, Rosalie’s—Miss Gilder’s, I mean”—I corrected myself, not wanting him to think I was taking liberties—“my client told me her name. And I found Chen Kai-rong’s name in her letters.”
“Your client’s letters?”
“No, your mother’s.”
A pause. “My mother’s—”
“I suppose,” Mr. Zhang interrupted gently, “Ms. Chin means the letters at the Jewish Museum?”
“Yes, exactly.”
“Oh,” said Mr. Chen. “Yes, of course.” He nodded a few times. “Yes, at the museum.”
Not sure why his face had clouded, I said, “I apologizeif you feel I’ve invaded your mother’s privacy. But she was a fascinating woman.” A thought struck me. “Mr. Chen, is she—”
Not that way, Lydia
. “I’d be thrilled to find her still with us.”
Mr. Chen smiled sadly. “As to that, I must disappoint you.”
It was true, I did feel disappointed.
Though really, Lydia,
I pointed out to myself,
if Rosalie were alive, she’d be near ninety
. But to me she was a scared, brave young woman I’d just met, and grown fond of.
I looked at Mr. Zhang,
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