He reached over, pulled open the drawer of the little table beside my bed, and revealed the two Life Savers. "I am humbled by your generosity," he said, "and shamed by my suspicions."
"Uncle Claude," I told him, "I wanted to give you a present because you said that you had a present—you know, in your little box."
"Ah," Claude said, "the little box." He picked it up and turned it over carefully in his hands. "Have you two ever been to Russia?"
"No," Marcus and I said together, watching his slender hands curved around the box.
"Russia today," Claude said in a soft, slow voice, "is a gray place. You probably go to the movies on Saturdays, don't you?"
We nodded.
"Well, many of the movies you see are Technicolor: everything bright and clear, with music and singing and dancing and romance. Am I right?"
We nodded.
"But some of them are black and white: grainy, drab—"
"The mysteries," I said, "and spy movies."
"Well," Claude went on, "Russia is grainy and drab these days. But there was a time when Russia was a Technicolor place, all sunlight and glistening golden onion-shaped domes. Czars and czarinas, and music and dancing. And in that time—" He paused. He was telling it like a story, the kind of story that made you want to say, "Yes? Go on!"
We waited.
"In that time, Easter mattered. The Russian Easter. Now of course I'm not talking about your Easter Bunny—"
We grinned. Marcus poked me.
Claude grinned, too. "The Russian Easter was the biggest celebration of the year. The brightest clothes, the best food, the happiest music, and the most decorated eggs."
"They had eggs, too? Like ours?"
"Aha," Claude said. "You've hit on the essential difference. No, their eggs were not at all like yours. Maybe the eggs of the peasants were. But we're talking now about the eggs of the czars. There was a jeweler—the jeweler to the royal family—the man who made the crowns, you understand. And he began to make the most fabulous Easter eggs in the world."
"We make pretty good ones," Marcus said. "If you dip just one half in the dye real carefully, and then let it dry, and put the other half in another color—"
Claude held his hand up. "Wait, my man," he said. "I have no doubt that you make fine Easter eggs in your kitchen. But you must envision that I am talking now about crystal eggs, silver eggs, golden eggs—eggs encrusted with jewels: pearls, rubies, emeralds—"
"Diamonds?" I asked.
"Of course diamonds," Claude said. "The entire egg a work of art, an oval veritably encrusted with priceless gems. And inside the egg—"
Marcus made a face. "Egg yolk."
"No, no. Inside the egg, a hollow: a whole tiny world; and you can look in through one end and see it there, shimmering. A whole miniature ballet, perhaps: dancers on their toes, dressed like swans, twirling around a glittering lake—"
"I hate ballet," Marcus groaned.
"Well then, picture this: in another, a battlefield! An entire miniature army, complete with cannons, horsemen, generals; even, sad to say, the wounded and dead lying on the snow-covered ground."
"How could you get all that into an egg?" Marcus asked skeptically.
Claude shrugged. "That was the secret of the man who made them. If it had been easy, everyone would have made them. But they couldn't. Only this one man—and his secret died with him. Very few of these Russian eggs still exist, and they are guarded by armed guards."
His voice became a whisper, and he stroked the box in his hands. "As far as I know, I am the only person who has ever been able to smuggle them across the border successfully. Others have tried, of course, and failed. Their fates were horrifying."
I realized that I was chewing on my thumbnail, an old habit that I had been trying to curb.
"What happened to them?" Marcus asked, his eyes wide. Marcus loved hearing about horrible fates.
Claude didn't answer. He simply shook his head.
"Show us," I begged. "Open the box, Uncle Claude."
Now he smiled. "We must abide by the royal tradition," he said. "They must be hidden, and you must search."
"Oh, Claude," I groaned.
"When?" Marcus asked. "When will you hide them?"
"While you sleep. Tonight."
Mother was calling from the kitchen. "Louise! Marcus! Come and help me set up the dyes, would you? Stephie will be up soon and we'll dye the eggs."
"Well," I sighed, glancing again at the box. "I still wish you'd give them to us right now." I tried to look mournful, winsome, and worthy.
But Claude shook his head. "It's the rules, Louisamanda," he said. "The best gifts are the ones you must search for. I'm really quite amazed that your mother hasn't taught you that."
We rose reluctantly and headed for the door. "You won't forget, will you, Uncle Claude?" Marcus asked. "After we're asleep tonight, you won't forget to hide them?"
Claude popped the green Life Saver into his mouth and grinned. "Never fear," he replied. "Pas de peur," he added. "That's French."
"I think maybe he is a fraud, like Tom and Father said," Marcus muttered as we got ready for bed that night. "Don't you?"
"No," I said decisively. "He's just a—"I hesitated, not at all sure how I wanted to describe our uncle; the conversation I had overheard between Claude and Mother had puzzled me without changing my feelings toward him. "He's a dream-chaser," I said, finally.
Marcus made a face. "Look," he said. "Father said that Claude is down-and-out. He doesn't have any money. So why would he be carrying around a box full of jewels? Why didn't he sell them, if they're worth all that money, like he says?"
"Because he meant them for us He brought them all the way out of Russia at the risk of his life, for us. You don't trade something like that for groceries or to pay the rent." Suddenly I remembered something. "Marcus! Remember when Mrs. Bostwick died?"
"Yeah." Marcus looked at me. "Yeah, I do. Is it the same, do you think?"
Mrs. Bostwick had lived down the street, a few houses away from us. She had been an ancient, disagreeable woman who rapped on her windowpane angrily if we chased a misthrown ball or a runaway kitten into her messy yard. Her lawn was a tangle of uncut weeds, and her house was ravaged, an eyesore of peeling paint and loose, dangling shutters.
Finally, one winter she had died. Her death was discovered only when a town official went to the house to discuss her unpaid taxes. Father had written the story for the paper himself, and it was reprinted in papers all across the country.
She had died of malnutrition and of cold. The oil company had stopped delivering oil when her bills had gone unpaid for a year, and she was found in the coldest part of February, lying in a bed, covered with layers of blankets, and wearing three sweaters and a shabby coat. There was no food in the house, none at all.
Yet the house, Father's article had pointed out, was filled with Oriental rugs worth a fortune and with antiques that, had they been sold, could have fed and housed her for years. There was a diamond ring in a jewelry box and a string of real pearls.
A niece had come from Chicago, after Mrs. Bostwick's death, and Father had interviewed her for the newspaper article. "We didn't know," the niece had said in dismay. "We had no idea. I guess she couldn't bring herself to sell anything. They were family things. She was very proud of her family things, and she was determined they would stay in the family."
Now Marcus and I thought about Mrs. Bostwick. "Claude could be like that," I pointed out. "Those Russian eggs are family things to him. He meant them for us so of course he wouldn't sell them. Anyway, Claude's not starving. He's not cold."
"Yeah." Marcus nodded, agreeing. "But I think it's crazy. I'm going to sell mine."
"Your egg? With the jewels and the army and cannons and everything? You'd sell it?"
"Sure. Maybe not till I'm older. When I'm old enough to have a car, that's when I'll sell it. Who wants a dumb egg, when you can have a car?"
"Boy, I'm not. I wouldn't sell
mine, even for a car. I'm going to keep mine on that shelf in my room, the one where my horse statues are. I'm going to keep it forever, and then when I die my kids will have it. And I'll never sell it, even if I'm starving. You're a jerk, Marcus, if you sell yours for a stupid car."
"Well, I haven't decided yet," Marcus admitted. "I have to see it, first. Maybe I'll change my mind. Maybe I won't sell it."
We got into bed and pulled the covers up around us.
"We'll be the richest kids in this town," I whispered. "We'll be richer than Francis Hartmann, even."
"Yeah. Richer than Francis Hartmann." Marcus's voice was sleepy and satisfied.
"I wonder if he's hiding them right now, right this minute." I listened for footsteps in the hall, but the house was silent. I hugged my pillow and wondered where Claude would hide the fabulous eggs. The ordinary Easter eggs were always hidden in obvious spots—under the couch cushions and on top of books in the bookcase.
But these weren't ordinary. These were our whole future—Marcus's and mine—and like all priceless and fragile futures, they would not, I knew, be easy to find.
6
Stephie was up first in the morning, as she usually was, except for Tom, who had gone off at dawn to deliver the Sunday papers. She scampered around downstairs in her pajamas, carrying her bright-colored Easter basket filled with garish pink grass.
"Red!" Stephie crowed, taking an egg from its hiding place on the windowsill behind the curtains. "A red one!"
Marcus and I hung back and watched. Suddenly, to both of us, the game seemed a thing for babies. Yet last year we had joined in, dashing around to find the eggs.
"Marcus? Louise?" Mother said. "Here are your baskets. You're not going to let your sister find them all, are you?"
We each took a basket from her and looked at the woven straw and the bird's-nest filling of artificial grass. We glanced at each other. Half-heartedly, Marcus plucked a bright blue egg from the porcelain dish on the mantel and dropped it into his basket.
Then he said, "Stephie, do you want this blue one?"
She took it, placed it carefully in her basket with the others, and pranced off again.
"Is there more coffee, Hallie?" Father called from the kitchen.
"Coming," she called back and then turned to look at Marcus and me. "What's the matter?" she asked.
I set my empty basket down. "Uncle Claude hid something special for Marcus and me," I explained. "So we don't need the eggs. Stephie can have them."
"Where is Claude?" Marcus asked. "Isn't he up yet?"
"Hallie!" Father called again. "Is there any more coffee?"
She went to the kitchen. "Claude's gone," she called to Marcus and me. "He said he had to catch the early morning train."
"One, two, three, four, six." Stephie was counting her eggs with glee.
"You forgot five," I told her automatically. "One, two, three, four, five."
"Gone?" Marcus headed after Mother. I followed him. "What do you mean, Claude is gone?"
She poured more coffee into Father's cup. "Look at this, you two," Father said, pointing proudly to the first page of the newspaper. "Now that is some photograph."
We looked dutifully at the large photograph reproduced on the page: a silhouette of a tree branch with a few tiny sprigs and buds; behind it, the sun was rising beyond the hills to the east of town. The caption said, "He is risen. He is risen indeed."
"Now normally," Father said, "I don't go for any religious connotations in headlines or captions. But I make an exception at Christmas and at Easter. The subscribers expect it."
"Yellow!" Stephie exclaimed. "I found a yellow one! One, two, three, four—"
"Why did he leave?" I asked Mother angrily. "Why didn't he tell us he was leaving? That's not fair! He hid something for us. What if we can't find it?"
Mother sighed and tucked a strand of loose hair back behind her ear. "You'll find it," she said. "You kids are the world's experts at finding things—that's why I always keep the Christmas presents at your father's office until Christmas Eve."
Marcus grinned. It was true. For years we had found and peeked at every Christmas present long before Christmas morning, until she had stopped trying to hide them at home.
"And as for why he left on the seven A.M. train—who knows? I thought he was leaving tonight. But when I got up this morning, he was gone. Claude is completely unpredictable—you know that. He did leave you two a note, though. Matt, what did I do with that note that Claude left on the table?"
"Another green!" Stephie shouted happily.
Father looked up and glanced around as if he were searching for the note. "I don't know," he said and went back to the paper.
"Find it," I pleaded. "It might have clues."
Mother shuffled through the stack of papers on the table. "Let me think," she said. "He left one for me, too. It just said, 'Catching the Sunrise Express. Thanks for hospitality. Love, Claude.' I put mine with yours, and then I put them both—" She stood there with her head tilted, trying to remember.
"Here!" she announced triumphantly. "In my apron pocket." She reached in and took out two pieces of paper. One was open and crumpled, and the other neatly folded. She handed the folded one to me.
"Don't hog it, Louise," Marcus said, peering over my shoulder as I unfolded it. "It's for both of us."
"Right," I said. "It says at the top : 'Louisamanda and Marcus the Newbold.'"
Mother chuckled. "He always called himself 'Claude the Newbold' when he was a little boy," she said.
I read the note aloud. "'I have other ports of call so must make a dawn retreet.'" I looked up at Mother, a little embarrassed. "He spelled 'retreat' wrong," I said.
"That's not all it says," Marcus said impatiently. "Here. Let me read the rest." He grabbed the paper and went on. "'They are well hidden. All treshures are well hidden, of course. Search hard, my comrades. Uncle Claude.'" He looked up and said petulantly, "There aren't any clues. And he spelled 'treasure' wrong, too."
"Wait," I said, and snatched the paper back. "There's something written on the bottom." The writing was tiny, and I squinted at it, but it was meaningless.
I pronounced the unintelligible words phonetically. "Ya tebya lyublyu."
"Same to you," Marcus muttered. "Let me see it."
But when he read it aloud, it sounded the same. "Ya tebya lyublyu."
"Let's try it backwards," I suggested. I took a pencil from the kitchen drawer and printed the words carefully in reverse. But it still meant nothing. Uylbuyl ay bet ay. "You'll buy—" I started, but it made no sense after that.
Father looked up and chuckled. "You'll buy some worthless stock in a nonexistent oil well," he said. "That's what Claude tried to sell me, this time."
"Matt," Mother said, with a sigh, "you don't know for certain. It might actually have been worth something."
Father grinned. "I know he's your only brother, Hallie," he said, "but he's a con artist of the first order." He picked up the paper again.
But Marcus and I were barely listening to him. We were poring over the note, trying to decipher the words. It was obviously a code; and just as obviously, it related some hint to the whereabouts of the jeweled eggs.
"Is it French?" I asked Mother.
But she shook her head. "No."
"Swedish, maybe?"
"I don't know," she said. "But it doesn't sound like it. It doesn't sound like any language I've ever heard."
Stephie wandered into the room, her basket filled to the top with eggs, some of them cracked. "I'm hungry," she announced.
"I'll fix some breakfast for everyone," Mother said.
The front door opened and Tom came in, hanging his jacket in the hall on his way to the kitchen.
"Look!" said Stephanie to Tom. "Look at all my eggs!"
"Nice," he said to her, admiringly, and she smiled with satisfaction. Tom picked up the front section of the newspaper.
"Some picture on page one," he said to Father, who nodded, pleased
, and turned back to the first page so that they could admire the photograph together.
"Ya tebya lyublyu," I murmured to Marcus.
"Ya tebya lyublyu," Marcus murmured back solemnly. Somewhere in our house was a hidden treasure; and somewhere, in the secret words, my brother and I held the key to it.
7
We searched. How we searched, Marcus and I! We started in my room, Easter morning, since it had been where Claude slept and would have been the obvious place to hide something.
There was no sign that Claude had been there at all. His suitcase was gone; the little box was gone; and he had even removed the blue sheets from my bed and put them into the laundry hamper in the bathroom.
"Think, Louise," Marcus commanded. "It's your room. Where would you hide something?"
I shrugged. "I always hide stuff under the bed," I said. "But we looked there. Or under my clothes, in the bureau, but we looked there."
"And we looked in the closet," Marcus said. "Even in all the shoes."
"Ya tebya lyublyu," I repeated. "That first part sounds like 'the table.' Do you think it could mean 'the table' in some other language?"
"Maybe." We glanced around my room, but there were only two tables. The one beside my bed had only the small drawer where Claude had kept the Life Savers. We had looked in there. The other table, under a window, was where I did my homework. There were no hiding places in it.
I sighed. "It's not in this room," I said. "And it wouldn't be in the other bedrooms, because he hid it while everyone was asleep last night."
Marcus tested his ragged tooth with the tip of his tongue. "This house is full of tables," he pointed out. "Up in the attic and down in the basement and out in the shed—he could have gone there."
We looked through the window to the large, decrepit shed at the end of our driveway. Years ago, at the turn of the century, Mother said, a family probably had housed their cow or chickens there. They had stored wood there to heat the house in winter; now, of course, we had an oil furnace. Now the shed was dusty and cobwebbed and filled with junk. Marcus and I played in there, summers, fixing up forts and clubrooms, holding initiations, planning battles with the neighborhood kids. Each of us—even Tom—at some time or another, had been angered by some injustice and had run away, carrying a paper bag filled with food stolen from the refrigerator. We had ignored Mother's pleas to think twice, to be mature, to reach a compromise, and we had run away—always to the shed, where we had huddled miserably until evening came, shadows lengthened, the air grew cold, and we could hear mice scuttling and rustling. Then we would come home, trudging back along the driveway with tear-stained faces, to apologize and be welcomed back.