Box of Secrets

Box of Secrets

When I looked out of the window it was there. A brown paper package in the porch. I ran down the stairs, opened the door, picked it up and gently shook it. I could feel something moving around inside. So I brought it into the house and carefully placed it on the table in my craft room, where I have the tools to cut it open. It would look out of place in my living room, with its carefully chosen ornaments and décor.

You see, I’m a very sensual person. The way things look, feel and smell are all very important to me, so I studied the package carefully. In my world, taste and style are everything.

The brown paper was carefully and precisely folded to cover the enclosed box exactly. Every edge, every corner, was crisp. Tape was applied in perfectly straight lines, the stamps were placed precisely in the corner, and the address was obviously written by someone who was practiced at calligraphy. Strangest and sweetest of all, the package smelled of lavender.

What did all these things tell me about the sender?

He or she was precise, fussy and artistic. Everything about the package spoke of quality, of sophistication. I liked that.

You might think that I was in a hurry to open it, but you’d be wrong. I was enjoying the chase, the hunt, the investigation. A good meal is best savoured slowly, and this was no different.

So, first things first.

The package was about the size of a big hardback book, and just as heavy. There was no obvious place to open it, so I had no choice but to cut my way through the brown paper.

I took a razor-sharp craft knife and carefully cut the sealing tape along one edge, and then another and another. Then I peeled the paper back and pulled out the box inside.

It was a wooden box, the kind of box some people would store their jewellery in. It looked like rosewood, inlaid with a heart made of mother of pearl. This was not a cheap box. It was an antique, probably handmade in Italy, if my judgement is correct.

Whoever had sent me this knew my style.

It was a box that begged to be opened, so I obliged. A little gold clasp was released easily, and the lid opened silently and smoothly on its golden hinges. Inside it were six gift-wrapped parcels and a letter.

Each parcel was exquisite.

The first one was rectangular. It was wrapped in a Christian Dior silk scarf, and was incredibly heavy for its size. I gently unwrapped the scarf, drinking in the colours with my fingers. Inside it was a small gold bar, stamped with the US mint hallmark. This was authentic. Whoever had sent me this was rich, very rich.

The second parcel was contained in layers of tissue paper, red, white and blue. A golden thread held them all together. I smiled as I unwrapped a beautiful hand-carved copy of Houdon’s bust of George Washington. It was so perfect that the wood felt soft to my touch, and I could feel those piercing eyes really looking at me.

The third parcel was round. The paper was red velvet, tied with a green ribbon. I gently unwrapped it, and was once more treated to the aroma of lavender. My favourite scent. Inside was a ball, a porcelain ball. The cobalt blue and white design marked it as Ming dynasty, almost certainly from Jiangxi province. Only a handful of porcelain balls – made to entertain the children of the Chinese emperors – were known to exist, so the value of this was astronomical.

What had I learned so far?

That the sender loved ancient Chinese pottery, had money to spare, and was a US patriot?

Or did it mean that the sender wished those qualities on me? Was he or she encouraging me to be a rich patriotic collector of porcelain from the East?

Or was I trying too hard? Maybe I was overthinking the meaning of what was probably a random collection of presents from a well-wisher. Maybe an old friend from college?

I’d have to unwrap the rest of the parcels to find out.

Number four was long and thin, wrapped up in shiny silver paper, held together with a sticky heart label. I liked it. When I unwrapped it there was a pen inside, a fountain pen. It was a 1924 Montblanc, instantly recognisable to connoisseurs of fine pens. This was a pen meant for writing to royalty. It slipped into my hand like a well-worn glove. This felt like a pen which had been made for one person. A pen for life, and I loved it straight away. It was warm to my touch. I took a piece of paper and wrote my name on it. This was a pen for signatures. My signature. I sighed. This was the pen of my heart.

I began to feel that the sender of this package knew me and my likes very well. How I would like to meet them!

Now there were only two parcels left, and a letter, which I would leave until the end.

The penultimate parcel was flat and very thin. And extremely light. The white tissue paper (folded subtly) fell away at my touch, to reveal a leaf. Dull green, five lobed and with light veins, it was an ivy leaf. This was no doubt to remind me of my college years at Harvard. I had had ivy growing on the wall of every house I’d lived in ever since then, to remind me of those Ivy League years. They were happy days, days of learning, friendship and alcohol. And, of course, there I met Celia.

And at last I’m starting to realise the intentions of the present giver. Hopefully the last present will complete the picture.

Slowly - trying my best to extend the moment - I picked it up. It was a tiny coloured paper box, made with origami. A whiff of lavender escaped from it - Celia’s favourite perfume - as I unfolded the lid. Inside was a golden ring. It was just like the one my dear wife was buried with, the one I gave her on our wedding day. A smooth ring, with no jewels and no inscription. A plain wedding band, just as she had wanted it.

I remember our wedding day as if it was yesterday, and it marked a whole new beginning as nothing else could at that time in my life. I tried to slip the ring onto my finger, but it was too small. Never mind. It reminded me of her, and that is all that matters.

The contents of the box were now all arrayed in front of me on the table, and I rearranged their order so as to try and make sense of them.

First of all, the ball. As a child I loved ball games of all sorts. My dad and I played football, basketball, dodgeball - you name it, we played it. But my big success was being picked for the Little League baseball team. That made me a local hero, a celebrity. I’m happy to be reminded of that.

Then the pen. In high school I fell in love with writing. I kept a diary, and wrote numerous articles for school magazines. I even had a couple of them published in the town newspaper as well!

The ivy leaf obviously represents my college years, when I left home, started to grow up, grew my hair and learned some bad habits. But I also found amazing friends, a career, and a future wife.

After college I did my military service. I was injured, but recovered, and gained a promotion that helped me get a good job in civilian life. I did my duty for my country, and good old George Washington would have been proud of me!

And when I came out of the army I married Celia, who’d waited for me since our college days. Hence the golden ring. Dear sweet Celia, who stood beside me every step of the way as I climbed up the greasy pole of corporate success.

Which brought me money, lots of it. As CEO I had more than enough for us to live - and live well! - and so I invested in gold. Gold bars of all sizes! I think half of Fort Knox must have belonged to me! Oh, how that present reminded me of those days of stress and high achievement. Still, no amount of money could help Celia once the sickness began. And she didn’t live to enjoy my retirement with me.

So the riddle is solved. The puzzle is complete.

It was my life that I saw spread before me.

The presents had told my life story, and contained it within a box. And the sender? The clue must be in the envelope. It was the only thing left.

But before opening it I wanted to drink in the presents one last time.

They called up so many pictures of my life so sweetly and succinctly. The only thing missing was the retired version of me, the me that spends his time at home in his craft workshop, carving, cutting, painting and folding materials such as paper, wood, cardboard and foil. All on his own. Completely alone.

But the more I think about it the more I can see that the retired version of me is represented by the wrapping and the packaging, by the whole composition itself.

Now that is clever. I admire that.

And so to the last item. The envelope.

I don’t really want to open it. I don’t want to bring the process to an end, but I suppose I ought to.

I surveyed the whole creation.

The wooden inlaid box and the brown wrapping paper. The beautiful gifts which had been inside them. The colourful papers and ribbons which had been used to wrap them in, neatly folded in a pile.

My life before me, in six precious objects. Well, seven if I counted the composition itself.

I opened the envelope, and took out the stamps which were inside it. I would need these when I took the newly re-wrapped box to the Post Office this afternoon.

I gathered together my brown paper, tape and calligraphy pen. And the lavender water.

I looked around the room. What should I put inside it this time? I didn’t have long to decide. The post office closed at 5.30.