The Tavernier Stones: A Novel

by Stephen Parrish

  John heard footsteps, turned, and found Harry Tokuhisa approaching, watching him curiously.

  “I guess you’ll be wanting an explanation,” John said, glancing sheepishly at his transparencies.

  “I don’t need one,” Harry replied. “I can see what you’re working on.”

  “Harry …”

  “John, I don’t mind the lab being used for personal affairs now and then, if they’re kept in check. But this affair”—he pointed at the map—“just isn’t like you.”

  “I’m sorry, Harry. You’re right, of course.”

  “Don’t let it take over your life. Already I see signs that your work is beginning to suffer.”

  John looked down at his feet. It was the worst thing Harry could have said to him. His job was his life. The lost Tavernier stones weren’t.

  “I’ll do better, Harry. I promise.”

  “I know you will.” Harry patted John on the back and left the lab.

  John looked at the two tributaries again. Cellarius had obviously drafted them with a crow quill pen, because their widths varied with pressure, gradually growing thicker as they approached the Nahe. There was nothing arbitrary about their paths; the man who had held the pen had known exactly what he was doing.

  NINETEEN

  DAVID ALLOWED SARAH TO drag him into Philadelphia’s Academy of Natural Sciences Museum to view one of the exhibits. It was, if nothing else, an excuse to get out of the house.

  Surprising to David, Sarah’s interest seemed to be increasing. She had bubbled with excitement all day Sunday over what she had gathered on Saturday, and just that morning the Milk & Honey travel agent—“Quickdraw,” as she called him—had presented her with even more material.

  David, on the other hand, felt as though he were sinking. Following his visit to the University of Maryland on Friday, he had spent the weekend moping about the apartment. Sarah, to her credit, had prodded him, wanting to know if something about the campus had touched him. But he had only ignored her.

  “David, read this. This is interesting.”

  “Yeah, yeah.”

  She was standing in front of another placard. The more animated she became, the more bored David allowed himself to appear. Looking at museum artifacts was worthwhile—but mere text printed on posters? Did they have to visit a museum and pay an admission fee to read printed matter?

  “This one’s about Germany: ‘Before the dominance of Antwerp and Amsterdam, the cities of Germany led the European jewelry trade. Willibald Pirkheimer of Nuremberg asked Albrecht Dürer to buy diamonds for him when he visited Venice in 1505. That same year the Fuggers, an Augsburg family, sold two diamonds to Maximilian I for 10,000 florins.’”

  “Wonderful. The Fuckers of Augsburg.”

  “How much is a florin?”

  “Beats the hell out of me.”

  “‘The Fuggers bought the diamonds taken from Charles the Bold during his defeats in the battles of Grandson and Nancy.’”

  “Good for the Fuckers.”

  “David, hush. ‘Within a quarter of a century, diamonds were being treated as commodities. Another Augsburg family, the Welsers, lent money to Charles V to buy diamonds.’”

  “Perfect. The Welchers of Augsburg. The Fuckers and the Welchers.”

  They were on the first floor mezzanine, above the museum entrance. David glanced at the stairs and wondered how soon he could terminate the visit without hurting Sarah’s feelings. Yawning, he wandered away from the placards and idly shopped the gemstone cases. The collection was modest but included some interesting pieces: naturally colored amethysts that were intensely purple, a few decent opals, a couple of fine gold nuggets. He was surprised to see tugtupite, a rare mineral found only in Greenland.

  He looked at his watch. Ten more minutes of this, and he would insist on lunch. His stomach was growling, and the Four Seasons Hotel was directly across the street.

  “Over here,” Sarah said. “This is what we came for.” She was as excited as a kid in a toy store.

  “What you came for,” he reminded her.

  “It’s about signet rings. Read it.”

  “If I must.” David’s eyes scanned the placard.

  “No, dummy. Out loud. I want to make sure you absorb the information.”

  “Very well. ‘Signet comes from the Latin signum, which means “seal.” Historically, signets functioned as signatures that authors impressed in clay or wax. Later they functioned as symbols of authority.’ My stomach is making frightening noises, you know.”

  “Skip down a little.”

  “‘The Egyptians were apparently the first to make signets, using a grinding powder from Naxos in the Greek Cyclades, one we know today as emery. They used it to carve designs—intaglios —into the surfaces of softer stones such as hematite, quartz, and garnet.’ One more minute of this and my knees will buckle.”

  “You’re almost there.”

  “‘The Egyptians taught the Israelites, who in turn taught the geeks—excuse me, the Greeks—and the Romans. Before long, signet carvers became quite skilled at their work, and signet owners were confident that only a talented artist could forge their symbols of authority.’ And they all lived happily ever after.”

  David raised his watch to eye level and pretended to be surprised by the time. “I think I’ll get something to eat,” he announced.

  “Wait!” Sarah said. “Here it is, the Michelangelo signet. ‘This often-copied image,’” she recited, “‘of a woman helping another woman to place a basket of grapes on her head, was taken from the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel.’”

  Below the placard was a glass case, and inside the case was a collection of signet rings. The centerpiece of the collection was an example of the Michelangelo signet.

  “Finally,” David said. “An artifact.”

  “I want it.”

  He laughed. “Well, you can’t have it.”

  “Look, the case is locked with a five-pin tumbler. You can handle that with your eyes closed.”

  “I’m not going to pick it. I swear I’m not.”

  “I’m surprised to find you squeamish.”

  “We can’t move that piece, Sarah. There isn’t anybody in the city we could pass it to.”

  “I don’t want to move it or pass it. I want to wear it.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding. It’s a man’s ring. It’s too big for any of your fingers.”

  “So, you’re a jeweler. Size it for me.”

  “You want me to saw into a shank that’s maybe two hundred years old—”

  “More like three hundred.”

  “—so you can wear it like a trophy?”

  “It’s mine, and I’m taking it.”

  “It’s not yours, and it’s not going to be.”

  “Pick it, David. Or iron your own clothes from now on.”

  David scanned the mezzanine, saw that it was clear, and leaned over the lock, pretending to study the contents of the case. A few moments later he straightened up.

  Sarah calmly lifted the glass top of the case.

  The room lights flickered.

  “Oh, shit,” David said.

  Sarah thrust her hand into the case and snatched the ring, then let the glass fall back into place.

  David took her by the arm. “Let’s get out of here.” They hurried downstairs to the ground floor.

  “Excuse me, miss? Sir?” A uniformed man came out from behind the ticket window as Sarah and David passed it on their way to the exit. “Both of you, stop, please.”

  “Get her!” David screamed. “She’s stealing a ring!”

  The man lunged at Sarah, who dashed for the exit. “Lady, please don’t do this!”

  David chased after them both. Just as the man’s hands were about to clamp down on Sarah’s shoulders, David tackled him from behind, and both men tumbled across the floor.

  As David scrambled to his feet, he found himself surrounded by security guards. He looked through the glass doors and saw Sarah running dow
n Cherry Street. She passed the Four Seasons and the Radisson, and his stomach grumbled once more. He knew she would turn south to Penn Center Station and disappear safely into the Philadelphia commuter crowd.

  A pair of guards took him by the arms. “You,” one of them said, “have the right to keep your goddamn mouth shut.”

  TWENTY

  GEBHARDT WOULD HAVE PREFERRED to conduct business on dry land. But Blumenfeld had insisted on getting out of the house, claiming she was tired of walking the streets of Mainz and loitering in its museums. Also, she was sure her husband suspected something: he was uncharacteristically quiet nowadays and often lingered nearby while she spoke on the phone.

  The two cohorts seated themselves in a large dining room on the highest enclosed deck of the Berlin, a river cruiser operated by the Köln-Düsseldorfer line. Three rows of tables, already set with long-stemmed wine glasses, spanned the length of the boat. But despite the capacity, the room was nearly empty, most passengers electing to sit above on the open deck, where the view was better.

  Gebhardt knew that Blumenfeld didn’t care about the view. She wanted to continue the “saturation.” And the disappointment on her face, as she watched him gaze idly out the window, was obvious. As for Gebhardt himself, he acted the way he felt, and the way he felt was that they had reached a dead end.

  The Rhein River was beautiful from its source in the Alps to its mouths on the North Sea. But it was most beautiful in Germany, especially between Mainz and Köln. And it was legendary between Bingen and St. Goar, where the channel narrowed ruggedly and castles peppered the bluffs.

  Across the river from Bingen’s harbor were steep, terraced vineyards, the vine culture dating back to the Roman occupation. Although the sun was already low, it shined warmly on the vines as the boat pulled out of the harbor.

  Gebhardt looked out the window. Waves from barges passing close by lapped inoffensively against the hull of the cruise ship. The churning surface of the water reflected the dull green hues of vineyards blanketing the hills. If not for the rumbling of the ship’s engines, it would have been hard to tell whether the ship was moving or the scenery was reeling slowly by.

  A loudspeaker began a commentary in German, repeating everything afterwards in English and French.

  “So much for peace and quiet,” Gebhardt muttered.

  The first landmark, visible even from Bingen’s harbor, was the Mäuseturm, a thirteenth-century tower jutting up from the middle of the channel in starkly medieval orange and white. In its prime, it had served as a lookout for Burg Ehrenfels, a castle built on the north bank without a clear view downriver. The castle, picturesque even in ruins, had been destroyed by the French during their pillage of 1689.

  Ruins of more castles drifted lazily past on the hilltops.

  “After half a dozen or so of those brick piles,” Gebhardt said, “they all begin to look alike.”

  “Pity,” Blumenfeld responded. “You should visit some of them. That one, for instance.” She pointed up at Burg Rheinstein, its gray, menacing battlements growing out of the schist and slate high above the south bank. “The interior is splendid.”

  “I’ll take your word for it. I like it down here, where the air is dense.”

  The boat docked at Bacharach and picked up more passengers, including a large group of Japanese tourists. Gebhardt commented that should his party come to power, there would be fewer such elements in the country, and therefore more seats on the boat.

  “Yes,” Blumenfeld agreed, “and fewer boats.”

  The jewel of Bacharach was its picturesque Gothic chapel. Looming on the hill above, Burg Stahleck was yet another medieval fortress defeated in 1689, yet again by the French.

  “This is where I’d live, where I’d buy a house,” Gebhardt nodded toward the town. “It’s pretty and unpretentious.”

  “Oberwesel for me,” Blumenfeld said. “The architecture is better preserved.”

  The boat stopped at Oberwesel, too. While they were waiting for the tourists to board, Blumenfeld ordered another glass of wine, then frowned at the stem of the glass. “I read in the paper that Dr. Spengler had a bizarre accident over the weekend.”

  “Yes,” Gebhardt answered. “It was a tragedy. He fell down the stairs of his university office building.”

  “Funny how such an accident can break so many bones.”

  “One can never be too careful.”

  She sipped her wine. “According to the paper, first he fell down a flight of stairs, then he somehow rolled across the landing and fell down a second flight. It was during the first fall he cracked his skull, and during the second he broke his neck and died.”

  “He had a bad day.”

  “I gather if he had broken his neck during the first fall, the second might not have been necessary. Did he, by any chance, reveal anything interesting on the way down?”

  “No, unfortunately, he was reluctant to cooperate. He got so scared on the upper landing, looking down, that he started crying and peed his pants. He called out his wife’s name over and over. I thought maybe the first flight of stairs would inspire him to share information with me, but it only gave him a headache. A splitting headache.”

  “Poor bastard. I also tasked you to find—”

  “—the wine, I know. As we speak, an amphora of Château Aliénor d’Aquitaine is gathering dust in the cellar of an Ingelheim merchant. It happens to be for sale.”

  “Good work. Weinbrenner delivered a child right around the time of her arrest. I have a suspicion about who the father was. Here’s a chance to put your ‘history’ training to work: take a look into the Weinbrenner family genealogy and see what you can come up with.”

  “What has that got to do with finding the lost Tavernier stones?”

  “Indulge me. Now, what’s the next step in getting Cellarius’s keyword?”

  “There’s a guy in Bonn who seems to be the acknowledged expert on code breaking.”

  “Good. See if you can pry something from him without killing him. Failing him, try the Americans at some of their military installations. They rather devote themselves to that kind of thing.” Blumenfeld laughed. “America: the source and hapless market, all at the same time, for turquoise. But God bless them, they drink our Liebfraumilch so we don’t have to.”

  She returned to frowning at the stem of her wine glass. Gebhardt, gauging the deterioration of her mood, finally asked, “All right, what?”

  “I’m troubled … by your diminishing enthusiasm.”

  “My enthusiasm is a function of our success. We haven’t had any.”

  “Oh, I think we’ve come a long way. We have a long way to go, that’s true, but we’re making steady progress.”

  “We have no idea where the lost Tavernier stones are. We don’t even know what continent they’re on. We can’t even say for sure they exist.”

  “I trust Tavernier, who said they existed. He drew pictures of them.”

  “Tavernier also said there were lions in India and two-headed snakes in Siam.”

  “I’m getting upset, Mannfred.”

  “That makes two of us. The search for the lost Tavernier stones has turned into an Easter egg hunt. If we don’t make some real progress soon, I can think of more profitable ways to spend my discretionary time.”

  The cruise ship’s loudspeaker announced the approach of the Loreley, then began the traditional song by Heine and Silcher.

  “I’m going up top,” Gebhardt said. There was no response from Blumenfeld, so he left the table and climbed the steps alone to the upper deck, where wind blowing through the bottlenecked valley whipped his clothes. He crossed to the starboard side of the boat to get a better view.

  Most boat passengers had paused in their drinking, talking, and card playing to do what Gebhardt was doing: listen to the music and stare at the Loreley. The landmark was little more than a big rock on the north bank of the Rhein, but it was one too famous to ignore. According to legend, boats used to wreck in the narrow passage be
cause a maiden singing on top of the rock distracted the pilots with her lovely voice. That she was stark naked was not documented as having had any effect on their piloting. After the channel was deepened and widened, and the passage made safer, the maiden never returned.

  Gebhardt, like everyone else, gave the rock its due, hesitant to admit even to himself that what he was really pondering was what the hell the big deal was all about.

  He felt a presence immediately behind him and turned to find Blumenfeld standing there. Her mouth was open and she seemed transfixed. But she wasn’t looking at Gebhardt or even the Loreley; she was looking over the side of the boat, at the water below.

  Gebhardt thought for a wild moment she was going to jump. “What is it?” he asked. “What’s wrong?”

  “Spengler’s death on the stairs. You said he called out his wife’s name, over and over.” She was still looking at the water.

  “Yes. Yes, he did.”

  “What was the name?”

  “Interesting you should ask, because I’ve never known anyone by that name before, and it’s been bouncing around in my head ever since. It was a pretty name, an exotic one: Carminea.”

  “Carminea?”

  “Yes. He cried out for Carminea. Over and over.”

  John was spending his lunch hour in Long’s Park on Harrisburg Avenue, a mile northwest of Franklin & Marshall. It had been a favorite haunt during his college days. Despite hurrying there on his bicycle, he knew he wouldn’t make it back to work on time and that Harry Tokuhisa would be counting the minutes, wearing an expression of injury.

  Long’s Park was where the poor went to escape from their futile routines, to sit on benches and eat egg salad sandwiches. And to warn their children away from the water: dominating the park was a manmade lake garnished with a pair of fountains. The lake’s wildlife didn’t mind or even seem to notice the people. Both populations, one hardly wild and the other not quite tame, enjoyed the park and its regenerating powers.