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 apologize if 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, the cousin. “Is your relation in the Chen family line?”
“Yes. My mother, Mei-lin, was Chen Kai-rong’s sister. But Ms. Chin, this is not the time for reminiscence. We have more urgent matters before us.”
“The jewelry.” I nodded. “You haven’t been offered it?”
“No.”
“But you want to find it before it’s sold.”
Mr. Chen answered that one. “Yes, of course. Anything that was my mother’s is precious to us.” Again the smile. It faded and he said, “However, the piece not pictured here… the Shanghai Moon… you’ve heard nothing?”
“No. I’m sorry. If it was your mother’s, I understand how much it must mean to you.”
He nodded. The hungry look was gone from his eyes, replaced by a stoic disappointment.
“My cousin has been searching for the Shanghai Moon all his life,” Mr. Zhang said.
“When it disappeared, what-” I was stopped by a tiny shake of Mr. Zhang’s head. He cut his eyes toward his cousin, who, with an air of resignation, was pouring tea.
What was Mr. Zhang telling me? Not to ask any more questions in front of Mr. Chen? What could that mean? Nothing in that story could be news to Mr. Chen. Mr. Zhang shot a look at the phone on the desk. Got it: He’d call me later. Well, okay, for now. I had his card, too.
“Gentlemen,” I said, “whether or not what happened to my associate and the police officer has anything to do with the Shanghai Moon, it still may have to do with the rest of this jewelry. If you hear from Wong Pan, or anyone else who wants to talk about these pieces, will you let me know?”
“Yes, of course,” said Mr. Zhang, and Mr. Chen nodded. “But there is still another matter.”
“What’s that?”
“The heirs.”
“What about them?”
“You say you don’t know who they are.”
“I don’t know their names. They’re grandchildren of Rosalie’s uncle, Horst Peretz.”
Mr. Chen lifted his eyes to me. “Ms. Chin, are you familiar with Jewish naming practices?”
I shook my head.
“My father chose my Chinese name. My mother gave me a European one. Horst Chen Lao-li. An odd name, is it not? Ms. Chin, Jewish people do not name babies for living relatives, in case the Angel of Death, coming to collect the elder, should make an error. When my mother named me for her uncle Horst, she knew he was gone. She gave me his name so he would be remembered. There was none other to remember him: He died childless.”
It took me a moment to process this. “Then who are these clients?”
“Whoever they are, they are not who they claim to be,” said Mr. Zhang. “That in itself is worrisome, wouldn’t you say?”