I have two pieces
of furniture in my home that I consider heirloom: an 18th century secretary, or
ladies’ desk, and a massive chest of drawers probably owned by a French bourgeois
family in the 1800’s. Both have crossed the Atlantic Ocean three times, coming
from France in the early Sixties, then back in the Eighties when my parents
moved back to Paris after two decades in the States. In the early Ninetiess
when my mother died and I decided my father would be better off in America with
me, the desk and chest of drawers returned to America one last time.
The desk has an
elegant folding top and six small drawers, plus a few vertical pigeon-holes for
paper, blotter and envelopes. There is a fake front drawer, and a ‘secret’
compartment beneath a horizontal sliding door. The chest of drawers is a massive,
looming thing, scarred and darkened by time, its top cracked and badly filled
by several generations of do-it-yourselfers. Unlike the desk, it is not
elegant. Its ornamentation is basic, workmanlike and utilitarian.
Even as a little kid
in Paris, I knew both these items had mystical powers. I believe, though I am
not sure, that they originally belonged to my maternal great-grandfather, an
architect of some note reputed to have designed the Banc de France and, family
legend has it, ornamented the building’s gables with gargoyles bearing the
likeness of people he didn’t like, notably other architects. Hidden from view
and sculpted in granite, I was also told, is a likeness of his mistress’ torso,
her naked stone breasts overlooking the City of Lights.
The desk figures prominently
in my earliest memories. My mother hid packs of her American cigarettes--Pall
Malls--in its secret recess. There were also decks of cards there, along with
score pads, since she was an avid bridge player; a fountain pen set whose ink
had to be replenished every few days; photo albums of her family (but none of
my father’s whose forbears were a mystery); old war-time cigarette lighters
with black wicks; and assorted colored pencils with which my mother sketched the
streets visible from our apartment windows. On top of the desk, where other families
might display travel and vacation mementos, was a fired clay replica of a Tang Dynasty
horse. This was a gift from my mother’s best friend Marie Louise, a hugely
talented but impoverished and alcoholic artist who often spent the night on our
living room couch.
The chest of
drawers was in the dining room. My mother kept table cloths and linens there,
as well as heavy, inherited silver-plated place settings--three kinds of
knives, four sorts of forks and spoons of varying size--used when my parents
entertained. The drawers were equipped with massive lion’s jaw handles that I
suspect were not original, and I remember my father using candlewax on the
drawer’s tracks to make them slide more easily. The middle drawer--where
tablecloths and napkins were stored--always stuck. Sixty years later, it still
does.
Now in America,
both pieces of furniture have found different uses. The desk, in my living room, holds the
collection of clippings from my newspaper days, Moleskins notebooks in assorted
colors, a shiny assortment of state-issued quarters in small cloth pouches, and
a half-dozen empty wallets. The secret compartment holds a cheap pair of
Japanese binoculars and those small, black power supplies that come with
wall-mounted vacuum cleaners and other rechargeable items that I have lost or
thrown away. The Tang horse is still
there.
The chest of
drawers has winter wear--sweaters, heavy socks, flannel shirts and leather
gloves. Atop it sits a menu from an old French brasserie, and two oil-lamps
dating back a couple of hundred years.
Sometimes I get
sad thinking that at some point in the relatively near future, these relics of
a much earlier age will probably be sold and lose their histories. But for now
they’re a link to a very real past, a different era in a different country
without television, computers, modems, microwaves and self-cleaning ovens. I might
never be able to go home again, but these reminders of a simpler time are
strangely comforting. The past isn’t gone, it is alive and safely stored in the
antique drawers.
