Time Snatchers (7 page)

In any event, Frank uses the top bunk now as extra storage space for all of his junk. From the look of things, he’s brought back souvenirs from every mission he and Lydia have been on plus all of his solo missions. If Lydia did the same, I’m betting the two of them could make a killing holding a garage sale. Some of Frank’s stuff, like the coins and pocket watches, doesn’t take up that much space, but throw in the upper half of a seventeenth-century suit of armor, a twentieth-century wet suit and a fifteenth-century crossbow, and that bed fills up in no time.

I’m tired. Two snatches is a lot for one day. Of course, Uncle wouldn’t call it two because I came back empty-handed from China. Well, I don’t want to think about that right now.

I let my thoughts wander, and an image from Beijing pops into my head—of the father swinging his young son through the air. I wish I had known my own father. The way Uncle tells it, just before she died, my mother signed the papers giving me up for adoption. “Your father was never in the picture, Caleb. He abandoned you and your mother right after you were born,” was all he said.

For a long time I used to think Uncle made up the whole story of me being adopted so that I’d see him as a hero, saving me from a life on the streets. And if it was a lie, I figured, then Uncle must have kidnapped me—grabbed me away from my parents just like Frank is going to do to that kid. Which, quite frankly, is what I wanted to believe. I just couldn’t stand to think of my parents as being dead or as having abandoned me. But now I don’t know what I think. A few times, I came close to traveling to my own past to find out the truth. But I stopped myself each time, afraid that if I did go back and found out the real truth, it would be too much for me to handle.

I reach under my bunk and search until I feel the driftwood. It’s in its usual spot snug between the bed frame and the mattress.

I found the hand-sized piece of driftwood three years ago on a mission to Tofino, Canada. I read once that real artists don’t start with a fixed idea of what their sculpture’s going to be. Instead, they try to uncover the sculpture from the piece of stone or wood. I don’t consider myself an artist, but I like that idea: taking layers off of something to discover what’s really underneath. It took me a whole year to figure out what my wood carving was going to be. I’m fairly sure that I’m uncovering a face, but the jury’s still out on whose.

My progress is slow, but I’ve got it to the point where you can see a bit of the nose and the eyes.

I flip the wood around and look at it from different angles. I wonder if it will have a happy or sad expression.

Running my fingers along the surface, I allow my mind and body to relax. With any luck, I can make some good progress before it’s time for supper. But after about a minute, I find it hard to keep my eyes open.

Nassim’s voice over the intercom wakes me.

“Good evening, people. Dinner will be in five minutes. The word for this evening is
piào liàng
, translation: ‘beautiful.’ Everyone must use this word in a sentence at dinner this evening.”

I groan. Uncle has been on this Mandarin kick for about a month now. He’s convinced that, with the Great Friendship, it’s just a matter of time before Mandarin becomes the language of choice for conducting business in the West. Don’t get me wrong. I like learning new languages as much as the next guy. But does it have to happen at mealtime?

With some effort, I trudge to the bathroom and wash my face. No matter how tightly I close the tap, water still drips from the faucet. “The only place where a leaky faucet is
piào liàng
is in the desert,” I think. Not bad, but I doubt the others will appreciate it.

When I get to the lounge, everyone is already there except for Uncle. I take my usual seat next to Abbie.

Abbie runs a hand through her hair and flashes me a smile.

Lydia is seated on the other side of Abbie. She likes that spot because she can see her reflection in the window. As far as she is concerned, there are not nearly enough mirrors in the world. Apart from loving herself, Lydia’s a bit of a mystery. She laughs hard at all Frank’s inane jokes, however, which puts her on his team as far as I’m concerned.

Across from Lydia is Raoul. Now, there’s a guy who gets my sympathy. He wants to do well but just hasn’t got the talent. He can’t seem to size up a situation and take appropriate action, which is almost second nature for the rest of us. And he tends to drop stuff. Again, not a great quality for a thief. None of this was obvious while Johan was his partner because I think he used to cover for Raoul. But now with Johan gone his flaws are more noticeable. It’s anyone’s guess why Uncle still keeps him around.

“Uncle has asked that we start without him,” says Nassim, and immediately I can feel the tension in the room go down.

“He will join us as soon as he finishes up with a client,” he continues, and the tension ratchets back up a notch.

“Caleb, will you say the prayer, please?”

I look down at my plate. Saying the blessing is still fairly new. Uncle introduced the idea a couple of weeks ago, saying that studies show that saying a prayer before eating has spiritual and physical
health benefits. Healthy or not, I hate it. We’re not allowed to say the same one twice, and all the variations of the easy ones are already long used up. Then I remember something I saw on a Domino’s pizza billboard on West Broadway.

“A slice is twice as nice as rice. Amen.”

Nassim opens his mouth as if he’s about to say something but then closes it.

Frank gets up. “Abbie, would you like to help me serve the Peking duck?”

She jumps out of her seat, as if her pants are on fire. “You made Peking duck, Frank? You’re amazing.”

And there it is. She thinks he’s amazing just because he can cook a dead bird. But this isn’t the first time I’ve heard Abbie say the words
amazing
and
Frank
in the same sentence. Why anyone would be impressed with Frank easily makes my top ten list of life’s greatest mysteries (I have it as number four, right between Stonehenge and the Pyramids). Maybe it’s his looks: I suppose he could be considered handsome by some members of the opposite sex, what with all those muscles and teeth. Not that he has more teeth than average—they’re just so blindingly white. Or maybe it’s his take-charge attitude. Whatever. In my book, Frank is totally false: he cares only about himself. Plus, if he sees you as a threat, he’ll do everything in his power to take you down.

I slouch in my chair. Much as I can’t stand Frank, I have to admit he’s good at everything he does, including cooking. And with the Great Friendship, he’s expanded his repertoire to Chinese dishes.

A minute later, he returns, toting a huge platter with a shiny brown roast duck on it. Abbie is right behind him with a plate of cucumbers and a bowl of sauce.

He starts carving up the bird with expert strokes. Frankly, I’m
surprised that Uncle okayed this meal. That duck must have been
très
expensive.

Just then, Nassim sits up ramrod straight. Next, I hear crisp, military-like footfalls coming down the hall. Only one person walks that way.

“Good evening, all,” says Uncle as he sweeps into the room. He’s wearing a bright yellow silk robe with red dragons up and down the sleeves, which, as he likes to point out, is a
hanfu
, the same kind of robe the emperors of ancient China wore. But it doesn’t end there. He’s got a funny-looking black hat on that looks like the ones university students wear when they graduate. Except that his has strands of pearls dangling from the front and back. And to top it all off, tucked into his belt is the most amazing sword I’ve ever seen: polished dark wood handle encrusted with rubies and emeralds and a wicked-looking blade.

“Good evening, Uncle,” we all say at once.

He tilts his head up and breathes in. “Glorious!” he says. “Who is responsible for this wonderful aroma?”

“Frank cooked tonight, boss,” says Nassim.

“Excellent,” says Uncle, taking his seat at the head of the table and digging in.

We eat in silence. The key to eating when Uncle’s around is to finish before him because he doesn’t like people eating when he’s talking. The problem is he’s a speedy eater, and sometimes it’s really tough to keep up.

While I chow down, I sneak glances to see how far along he is. On my third glance, Uncle’s already dabbing his mouth with his napkin.

“A wonderful meal,” he proclaims. “My compliments to the chef.” He tips his head toward Frank.

“Thank you, Uncle,” says Frank, beaming.

“No. Thank
you
, Frank!” Uncle repeats. “Did you know, people,” he continues, “that in addition to his fine abilities as chef, Frank completed fifteen snatches so far this month?”

While everyone else oohs and ahhs, I’m doing some quick calculations in my head. By my count, including the Great Friendship flag, Frank actually has sixteen snatches to my eighteen. But Uncle said fifteen. He must not have counted the Great Friendship flag as one of Frank’s completed snatches. But why not?

“Before we begin with the sentences you have been asked to prepare,” says Uncle, “I’d like to tell a short story.”

I fidget in my seat. It’s going to be a long night. Despite what he said, Uncle doesn’t tell short stories.

“This particular story is true,” Uncle says. “Some of you may have heard it before. It is the story of the beginning of Timeless Treasures.”

We all smile. Each of us has heard the story at least a million times. But it’s one of his all-time favorites, and it would be unwise for any of us to point that out.

“At the time, I was a young man, not much older than each of you,” begins Uncle. “One of my favorite activities was to wander through Central Park late at night and see what I could see.”

What he really means is “steal what I could steal.”

“One night, while prowling the park,” he continues, “I came upon an old woman seated on a bench. She looked no different than any of the other deranged people I had often encountered on my nocturnal wanderings—her hair was a frazzle of gray, and she wore layers and layers of mismatched clothes. A shopping cart next to the bench contained all of her earthly possessions. I approached her very
carefully with my hands in full view. One had to be that way with the old ones, you know, because some of them grew their fingernails quite long and weren’t shy to use them if they felt threatened.

“In fact, the old woman was not particularly pleased to see me. I distinctly remember her baring her yellowed teeth, much like a cornered animal, and growling at me to leave.”

“So what did you do, Uncle?” asks Lydia. Leave it to her to encourage him. Why is she even asking the question? We all know exactly what he did.

“Well, Lydia,” says Uncle, “I actually would have left the park at that point, had I not noticed that one of the old woman’s hands was clenched tight around something and that, even as she was warning me away, she kept sneaking glances at her fist. I sensed that whatever she held in her hand was very important. At that moment, I made up my mind not to leave until I found out what it was.”

“How did you get her to show you, Uncle?” she asks.

If I wasn’t afraid that Uncle might intercept it, I would have mindlinked Lydia to tell her what I thought about her inane questions.

But Uncle doesn’t appear to mind. He smiles at her and continues.

“I reached into my pocket, withdrew a silver dollar and offered to give her the coin if she would show me what was in her hand. I know what you are all thinking. Why should I give something for nothing? But in fact I was about to gain something very valuable from the old woman, my friends. Something that made my little trade of the coin worthwhile.

“I could tell that she did not entirely trust me, so I laid the coin on the bench next to her. Quick as a wink, one of her hands reached out, snatched up the coin and buried it deep inside her clothes.”

“Did she show you what she had in her hand then?” asks Lydia.

“Not right away,” continues Uncle. “In fact, she just growled again at me to leave. But a bargain is a bargain, and I was not about to depart until the old woman had held up her end. Since she was not forthcoming, I had to convince her to open up her hand. One can do that, you know, with fingers. Particularly old, brittle fingers.”

I cringe. That part always gives me a queasy feeling.

“At last,” he continues, “I could see what those old arthritic fingers held. It was a yellowed and creased slip of paper folded in four. I unfolded it and discovered that it was a playbill from Radio City Music Hall. The playbill advertised the 1965 Christmas Spectacular starring the world-famous Rockettes.

“Although it was old, the image on the playbill was clearly visible: a line of a dozen or so long-legged and scantily dressed dancers, standing storklike on one leg, smiling faces tilted up toward the bright lights of Radio City Music Hall. There was a crude circle drawn in black ink around one of the dancers.

“‘Is that you?’ I asked the woman, pointing to the circled dancer. But of course I didn’t need to ask. I already knew that it was. And do you know what I did then?” asks Uncle.

“No, we don’t, Uncle,” Lydia lies.

“I placed the playbill back in her hand and went on my way.” He pauses for a second before continuing, for dramatic effect. “Ever since that chance meeting in the park, the image of the old woman’s gnarled fingers clinging to that ancient playbill, grasping, one might say, at a piece of the past, has been etched in my mind.

“And several years later, when I came upon an opportunity to develop a way to travel through time, it occurred to me that I could do a great service to humanity by providing people with access to precious pieces of the past, much like that old woman’s playbill.

“The rest is history, as they say. I recruited each of you, my very
first time snatchers, to assist in the retrieval of special treasures from the past.”

Uncle pauses again, and I wonder if he’s waiting for us to clap or something. It’s a great story, all right. The thing I’ve always wondered about is what happened to his silver dollar. My guess is he didn’t go home without it.