Over the course of the conversation I gathered that she was calling from a lovely 18th century West Indies plantation home in Barbados. She chatted and giggled in that way she does, and she and Mr. Thompson swapped inside jokes and laughed. Sissy joined in and promised to make her salted roasted almonds for some undetermined future date when they would convene. I sat and perfected my technique of maintaining a relaxed smile while almost having a heart attack, which I had been working on all day.

            Mr. Thompson and Sissy said their goodbyes to Claudette and we exited the study. It was then that it dawned on me that Claudette had been the woman in the mysterious oil portrait in the hallway!

            In the adjoining library, which was also filled with exquisite art and antiques, we were seated and served yet another gin and tonic along with a tray of finger sandwiches. Oh yes, lunch. Why not have a picnic in the middle of a virtual Metropolitan Museum of Art? I turned and quietly asked Sissy, "Is it okay that we've had all these cocktails?" I had to return to the office after this! Sissy lit a cigarette and said, “Darling, I’m going to have a lot more than this,” as she chuckled. I lit a cigarette, too.

            That moment of mutual resignation was suddenly broken when, without warning, the library doors flung wide open. A cluster of eight flailing (exquisitely dressed) arms transported by eight (impeccably tailored) clomping legs scurried into the room. Somewhere in that cluster of hurried limbs were four gentlemen who had bolted into the room with great excitement and some aggravation. Mr. Thompson stood and began speaking with them immediately, without even introducing us. Sissy leaned over and informed me that they were curators of four separate museums from different cities from across the country (Cincinnati, Kansas City, Seattle and... can’t remember the last one). The rapid conversation continued between the five men, during which I heard phrases like "unheard of" and "import laws" and "priceless" tossed about.

            Soon Mr. Thompson changed his demeanor and, turning to all of us, announced that he had something to show. Something that we, and particularly they, the curators, would have never seen before–recently or any other time.

            The four curators were seated as Mr. Thompson walked over and drew the heavy library curtains himself. It actually got quite dark inside the room. Two small and very bright desk lamps were brought over to the coffee table in the center of where we were all sitting, which were turned on simultaneously like little spotlights. Suddenly everyone's face was lit from underneath due to the light reflected off the table–a spooky effect that would become more appropriate as the proceedings continued.

            For the first act, in fluttered the house boy, knowing he was on stage and tickled to death. The four curators looked on with anticipation. What was about to happen? I actually went from feeling suddenly privileged to feeling a bit apprehensive. The house boy produced a silver-domed serving tray, which he brought from behind his back with an extended gesture. This caused the four curators to "ohh" and "ahh!" He lowered the silver domed tray into the lit area on the coffee table, which gleamed in the two lights. The four curators leaned forward with big smiles, almost rubbing their hands with delight.

            The boy lifted the tray lid. On the tray was what appeared to me to be nothing more than a sand-colored cup turned on its upside and with a crude painting on its side. But when the four curators looked upon it, a small avalanche of gasps came forth. They stood up, went for a closer look and almost just touched it as though it was the Holy Grail. Thompson then said, “wait a minute.” The tray was placed on the table and in walked the house boy with yet another tray holding three more of the same pieces. Well, I thought that two of the curators were going to faint because they did have to sit down again.

            But Thompson wasn’t finished with his show. Following in a steady procession, the house boy presented four large jugs, which the things we had seen had merely been the lids of. Once the jugs were on the table, all jaws were on the floor. Well, I'll honestly say mine wasn't, until I learned exactly what was going on.

            I came to understand that, in collections of such things, only cracked fragments of what had been mere single lids to these pieces had been seen. Now, not only were there four perfect lids, but astoundingly, four perfect jugs. These were funerary pieces. Ancient, and absolutely, positively impossible to have brought out of China. But Mr. Thompson has his ways. So there we sat. It was something that I may not ever see the likes of again.

            For the first time since they had entered the room, the four curators were speechless. Their quiet moment was merely an intermission because what followed was a huge discussion. There was big business going on. Sissy and I continued to eat finger sandwiches–a perfect lunch–occasionally winking at each other and smiling as we pretended to know exactly what was being said. I didn't need to. I was just sitting there in Mr. Thompson’s apartment surrounded by awe-inspiring artifacts, my feet resting on an imperial Chinese carpet, his lovely dog (who had found her way into the library and, amongst all the excitement, curled up in a cocoon right beside me – occasionally rubbing her head lovingly against my hand). I was just drinking it all in as I continued to sip my cocktail.

            As the business proceedings grew more complex, I decided it was time to return to work. I happily went through the reverse machinations of etiquette required in saying goodbye to people, events and situations you have experienced for the first time, and bid my adieu.

            The elevator took me back down to earth. As I walked through Central Park, down towards 57th Street, I thought of the afternoon. It wasn't even 2 o'clock yet.

            Lunch. It's my favorite sport.