23April
If it werent for the relentless curiosity I inherited from my father, the antiquarian, I would have simply walked past that strange glint among the heaps of demolition waste and chalked it up to a broken bottle. But I didnt I stooped, lifted the deepblack object, and held it up to the lamplight.
It turned out to be an old signet ring of darkened silver, set with a large stone that had lost its fire over the years. In the glow of the streetlamp the stone gave off a faint, velvety blue shimmer.
Ive always been better at old things than at people. My fingers, almost of their own accord, traced the interior of the band, feeling the wornout prongs and the faded engraving. My heart jumped. I glanced around the backstreet was empty and slipped the find into my coat pocket.
Back home, under the magnifying glass, there was no doubt left. A genuine sapphire. Father has told me countless times that such a stone is a talisman of faith, hope and love.
The seal was ancient, and once I cleaned the stone with a soft cloth its true colour emerged a rich cornflower blue, not perfectly clear but with a gentle mist. It wasnt a fortune, yet for my modest budget it was a serious sum: enough for a downpayment on a flat or a luxurious holiday.
What would you have done?
I immediately began hunting for excuses not to tell anyone about the find. The ring had been lying in the rubbish of a derelict house the owner was long gone, it would have ended up in a dump anyway. I found it, therefore it was mine.
Then I thought of Emily. A month ago she had wept and said, Youre as reliable as a Swiss watch. But Ive realised life isnt only about reliability. It needs reckless acts, risks! Im sorry, Im going with Steven.
Crazy act? I had smirked, rolling the heavy ring between my palms. Ill pull off a stunt that would make all your Stevens jealous. Ill quit, book a ticket to Santorini, stay six months, post pictures and you can watch and weep.
I didnt know the exact value of the ring, but the antique shop I called gave me a rough estimate, and the thought of such a gift to fate made my stomach flutter. My hand tightened around the ring, my fingers trembling.
I conducted a proper appraisal: I searched for information on the seal, compared the stone to photographs. Everything matched. Then I sat down and started planning. The process was intoxicating. That night I didnt close my eyes, picturing ocean waves and swaying palms.
Would you have slept? Of course not
Later, perched on the windowsill, I mused, To sell it would be to part with it forever. And that would be a story. Pragmatism won. I need a buyer who appreciates its antiquarian value, not someone who will merely melt it down.
Anyone who owned such a treasure would have a lot to think about. My imagination needed room to breathe.
Santorini thats settled.
What comes next?
Finally I could remodel the flat, I thought. I could finally afford that lens Ive saved for three years. I rose, walked to the window, and looked over the sleeping city. Or I could simply put the money in a savings account and stop worrying about tomorrow.
Morning brought a call from Tom, the friend whos always coaxing me into hikes, which I always decline because of work. Ill go this time, I thought, eyes on the ring lying on the kitchen table, and drifted back to sleep, lulled by sweet dreams.
When I awoke, the ring was still there it hadnt been a dream. Deciding to mark the start of a new chapter, I headed to that upscale restaurant with floortoceiling windows, the kind that intimidates you with its price tag.
There, at the bar, I saw her Emily, nursing a coffee alone. Her face was weary, lost.
I wanted to turn away, but something clicked inside me. I approached the maître d.
Do you see that young woman? I said quietly. Id like to settle her bill. And could you give her this?
I slipped the ring from my pocket. It rested in my palm, heavy and mysterious, as if holding the secrets of its former owners.
What? But thats
Just give it to her. Tell her its from someone capable of a bold deed, and that he wishes her happiness, whatever form that may take.
I didnt wait for a reaction. I turned and left, feeling the ground shift beneath my feet. I had just handed over not merely a piece of jewellery but my ticket to freedom. For what? To prove what? That I wasnt greedy? That I wasnt calculating? That her reproach was unjust? Or simply to see astonishment, not envy, in her eyes? That true madness isnt selfishness but the ability to let go?
***
Emily sat in the nowempty restaurant, unable to move. In her hand lay the ancient ring, heavy, cold, undeniably real. Beside it was a note from the maître d: From someone who is capable of a deed.
She understood everything.
It was an answer not the one she had hoped for, not a plea to return. It was something larger. A gesture from a man who, at great personal cost, proved he could perform the most selfless act of recklessness. He didnt spend the money on a car or a holiday. He gave the ring away, simply. As a sign of what? Forgiveness? Love? Freedom?
She thought of Steven, the argument theyd had over a café bill the night before, and recognised the quiet, overwhelming power of such a gesture. She realised that a deed isnt about bravado but about the quiet strength of letting go.
***
I was halfdrunk that night, still in my work clothes. I dreamed of walking on a beach where, instead of sand, sapphires glittered beneath my feet I woke with a throbbing head and empty pockets, remembering the ring, the restaurant, my reckless gesture.
I lay there, eyes closed, the familiar scent of the perfume Id once given her on her birthday drifting in.
I opened my eyes and propped myself up on my elbow. In the doorway stood Emily, the ring clenched in her fist.
You? Why? I began.
I returned Stevens gifts, she whispered. And this she held out the ring. Its now ours. We could sell it and go to Santorini together. Or we could keep it. If youre agreeable.
I stared at her, utterly sober and oddly elated. I had done the deed. And that deed, worth a small fortune, gave me something far more valuable.
