The Tavernier Stones: A Novel

by Stephen Parrish

  “So you do love me.”

  “And what of it? It’s no skin off your ass.”

  “Do you love me enough to marry me?”

  She blinked. “What did you say?”

  “I said, do you love me … enough … to marry me?”

  “Is that a proposal?”

  “It could be. It depends on the answer.”

  “You mean, if the answer is yes, then the question is, ‘will you marry me?’”

  “Uh, yeah, that pretty much sums it up.”

  Sarah flipped her safety off. David immediately cocked his revolver. He said, “Why the hell did you just do that?”

  “To see if you would, and you did. You don’t point a cocked gun at your fiancée.”

  “I cocked my gun because you cocked yours!”

  “And I did because you want the answer before the question!”

  “All right, fine. Have it your way. Will you marry me?”

  “Not unless you ask nice.”

  “Jesus. Will you please marry me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. Now turn the safety back on and lower your gun.”

  “No, you first.”

  John stepped down off the ladder, positioned himself between the two, and placed the palms of his hands over the barrels of their guns. He pushed slowly downward until the barrels were pointing at the ground.

  At first David and Sarah just looked at each other. John gently nudged one, then the other. The two hesitated, then embraced awkwardly.

  “I guess it’s time for me to get a real job,” David said.

  “Same here,” Sarah agreed. “I guess it’s time for me to tell you that you’re all I have in the world.”

  David grinned. “Same here.”

  They wrapped their arms around each other and hugged tightly.

  John cleared his throat. “I hate to break this up, but we can’t stay in the sewer all night.”

  A commotion was rising on the street above. It sounded like a mob rioting. John had never witnessed a riot, but he couldn’t imagine any other source for such noise.

  “Do you have a handkerchief?” David asked Sarah.

  “Why?”

  “Do you or don’t you?”

  “Here. What are you doing?”

  David peered down the drainage pipe. “Saving our lives.”

  Zimmerman discovered that the first direction along the aqueduct, the one that penetrated deeper into the mountain, was blocked by rockfall. Cursing about the irreplaceable loss of time, he freed his gun from beneath his shirt, made sure the clip was locked into place, and ran back in the other direction. He estimated the successful party was no more than ten minutes ahead of him.

  But ten minutes was all it took to disappear into town.

  John led the way up the ladder and popped out of the manhole on the outskirts of the Marktplatz, next to the Heimatmuseum. Emerging unnoticed in the fray, he then helped Sarah and David out of the hole. All three watched in fascinated horror as the mob prepared to string the witch woman from a lamppost above the fountain.

  The lamppost was in the shape of an inverted L, like a child’s drawing of the hangman game. A rope had been thrown over the horizontal branch of the L. One end was tied to the woman’s neck. The other was in the ready grasp of four strong men. The woman fought to keep her balance on the wall of the fountain, her hands tied behind her back, a pillowcase thrown over her head.

  John looked at the statue of the miner boy in the center of the fountain. Now he seemed to be lifting the crystal in his fist to the streetlamp above him, rather than to a hypothetical burning torch. The crystal glowed as though illuminated from within. Too much time had passed, John decided, since the days when people could change their lives merely by digging objects out of the ground. The era of treasure hunts was over.

  A squat, round man in a bathrobe and slippers climbed onto the fountain wall and harangued the assembled vigilantes.

  “He sounds like a politician,” David said. “What’s he bellowing about?”

  “He’s the mayor,” John answered. “He’s confirming he heard the old crone speaking in tongues.”

  “I’d be speaking in tongues too,” Sarah said, “if I had a noose around my neck.”

  The mayor jumped back down onto the cobbles and gave a signal. As the four men pulled on the loose end of the rope, the woman rose into the air, her bleeding legs kicking frantically, their shadows flickering across the half timbered buildings bordering the square.

  The mob broke into a cheer.

  “Let’s get out of here,” Sarah urged.

  The three crossed the Marktplatz, weaving through jubilating Christians, working their way toward the Hauptstrasse.

  “Our first priority should be to get out of the country,” David suggested. “I can sneak the stones through customs. When we’re back on American soil, we’ll divide them up.”

  “Divide them up among yourselves,” John said.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Count me out. I don’t want my cut.”

  They stopped at the edge of the Marktplatz, and John turned around to survey the scene. High above the fountain, the old woman’s legs had stopped kicking, but her body continued to convulse in short, involuntary spasms. People were still streaming in from all directions, swelling the crowd.

  “Do you know what you’re saying?” David asked.

  “I know.”

  “One-third of the stones belongs to you.”

  “Don’t worry. Where I’m going, I won’t need them. I’ve seen enough of the world and its tinsel.”

  David frowned, then dug into his pocket and took out the ruby he had plucked from the skeleton’s fist. He handed it to John.

  “At least take this,” he said.

  John shrugged and accepted the stone. Meanwhile, the mob applauded the end of the show; the woman’s figure had become still.

  On the other side of the Marktplatz, Zimmerman scanned the crowd. He saw the old hag dangling from a lamppost. Best not to interfere with that. He saw Obersteiners streaming in from all parts of town to gawk at her. The mob had grown to the point that few of its members had witnessed any of the night’s events, and most who had were still in their pajamas. He saw children running about, as though they were at a fair rather than a lynching.

  He was about to give up when he happened to look across the crowd and spy David Freeman, Sarah Sainte-James, and another person on the far side, walking out of the Marktplatz and heading up the Hauptstrasse. He might have missed them except they seemed so happy.

  Happy. A witch was hanging from a lamppost. A man lay dead in the church. The flow of people was into the Marktplatz, not out. And these three kids just happened to be leaving. Happy. Moving briskly, shoulder-to-shoulder, almost skipping, as if in celebration.

  He opened the handkerchief again, the one he’d found tied to the manhole ladder, and pressed his fingers to the flat polygonal facets of the Ahmadabad diamond. He read the accompanying note:

  Zim: The rest are going to a good home. As is Sarah. Deal?

  From the opposite side of the Marktplatz, David turned around to look and saw Zimmerman. He stopped and made a shrugging gesture.

  Deal, Zimmerman mouthed.

  As the three strode away, Sarah and David wrapped their arms around each other’s waists. Then Sarah reached for the other man and hooked her free arm around his waist as well. They tightened together, united as one, and faded into the night.

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  The lost Tavernier stones captured front page headlines one last time: wide speculation that pagan chambers beneath the Felsenkirche in Idar-Oberstein served as a storage vault for the world’s most famous rocks was dispelled once and for all.

  The chambers did, in fact, exist; that surprised everyone. But the stones themselves turned out to be mere legend.

  And the big hoopla that took place in Idar-Oberstein on the evening of the summer solstice was only the work of vandals. Persistent reports that re
sidents of Oberstein had caught and lynched one of the vandals were adamantly denied by the town’s mayor.

  The paintings on the tiles in the main chamber beneath the church generated quite a lot of interest in the art world, receiving as much attention as newly discovered prehistoric cave art in France or Spain. Unfortunately, one of the tiles was broken, but restorers were confident it could be mended.

  In addition to the art find was a major archeological find: the Romans had built an aqueduct that passed through the mountain to the river and had linked it to secondary pipes that ran down from the castle ruins above the church. The purpose of the aqueduct was still under debate. In the centuries since the Roman occupation, the water passage had collapsed north of the church, but it was still passable on the south side toward the river, where it connected with the city sewer system. Early construction workers had apparently mistaken it as an already-existing branch of the sewer network.

  The find not only proved Romans had occupied the rock peak earlier than previously thought, it also proved Roman engineering skill was far superior to that generally ascribed to them. The textbooks would have to be rewritten.

  The story of the lost Tavernier stones was over. Only crackpots continued searching, and the newspapers paid them no mind.

  Barclay Zimmerman remodeled the Ahmadabad Theater in the Kensington neighborhood of Philadelphia. He sand-blasted its red brick façade until it shined in multispectral hues. He applied fresh paint to the old supporting beams. And he ripped out the marquee whose letters had to be changed manually and replaced it with a flashy digital one.

  He even paid to make the rotating candy cane on the barber-shop next door rotate once more.

  The interior of the Ahmadabad received even more attention. Exquisitely embroidered curtains were imported from Würzburg. All four walls were surfaced with antique tiles bought in Munich. And the wooden balcony railing—or “balustrade,” as Zimmerman now called it—was carved by hand in Idar-Oberstein.

  A theater without elegance was just a room with a projector.

  The first movie Zimmerman showed after the remodeling was complete, an afternoon matinee, was a Disney feature. The theater filled to capacity with boisterous children and their frazzled parents.

  Gerd Pfeffer returned to his home in Hamburg and transferred the contents of the amphora via plastic funnel to a conventional wine bottle, which he then resealed with a cork. He placed the bottle in his wine cellar, on the rack that normally contained his most valuable Burgundies.

  Of course, he had no demonstrable knowledge the wine was poisoned. And he was, as far as his friends and colleagues were concerned, completely clueless about the affair his wife was having. Certainly he could not be aware that his wife and her lover—Mr. Dick—sampled routinely from the Burgundies before doing unspeakable things to each other in the bedroom.

  Knowing that Mr. Dick would not be the only one to fall victim to the Witches of Pauillac in the days ahead, Pfeffer hesitated while pouring the contents of the amphora into the plastic funnel.

  He hesitated. Then he continued pouring.

  Early that same afternoon, he was back at work, sitting at a large, round conference table with his detectives. Through the conference room window, he could see the 125-meter clock tower of St. Jacobi Church. He kept an eye on his watch. The tower clock was more reliable, if only because thousands of downtown workers and residents would complain if it were too fast or slow. Pfeffer’s watch, on the other hand, would inspire no such rebellion.

  His team of homicide detectives, a cluster of eleven men and women with varying levels of experience, waited nervously and impatiently at the conference table for Pfeffer’s attention to return to the meeting. They were usually full of antics and practical jokes, their personalities characterized by a lack of restraint and a disdain for formalities. But today they sensed that something had happened to Pfeffer during his trip out of town. Also, they knew all about his wife and couldn’t bring themselves to break the news to him.

  Pfeffer watched as the minute hand of the St. Jacobi clock jumped one notch to twelve, then checked his watch and made a small adjustment.

  “Is everything okay, boss?” one of the detectives ventured to ask.

  “‘Who can find a virtuous woman?’” Pfeffer answered, quoting a proverb that had been on his mind all morning. “‘For her price is far above rubies.’”

  When David Freeman showed up at Dr. Cornelius Bancroft’s office in the Smithsonian Institution, he could tell that Bancroft was surprised yet pleased. Despite their past differences, his former mentor was clearly happy to reconcile with the best student he’d ever had.

  David introduced the young lady he had brought with him as Sarah Sainte-James, his fiancée. Then he asked Bancroft outright for a job.

  “Well, there is a research associateship still available,” Bancroft said. “But it doesn’t pay much. It was established for a graduate student or an advanced upperclassman. If you had any inkling whatsoever to return to school …”

  “I have lots of inkling,” David said.

  “… then the associateship could be yours. And if you needed any supplemental income, we might be able to scrounge up a part-time job for Sarah too.”

  “Actually,” Sarah said, “I’ve opened my own modeling agency.” She handed Bancroft a business card. “I have international experience,” she said brightly. “And, as it turns out, I’m pretty good at helping people present the best of themselves.”

  “Did the two of you have lunch plans?” Bancroft rose from his desk and reached for his jacket.

  “Plans, yes,” David replied. “But the financial means to realize them, no. At the moment, we’re flat broke.”

  “Then it’s on me. Welcome home.”

  Before leaving the office, David set a black felt bag gently down on top of Bancroft’s desk. The bag leaned slightly, suggesting it was full of small, heavy objects. He held onto the bag for a few seconds, relishing the last moments of ownership. Then he let go.

  “Anything interesting in there?” Bancroft asked.

  “Just some specimens for the museum. They can wait. But my stomach can’t. Let’s eat.”

  “If you don’t mind, someone else will be joining us at the restaurant, a previously arranged lunch date with another research associate. It’s funny: this guy is also a former university student, he was also in the jewelry industry, and he’s also returning ‘home’ to academia. When it rains, it pours.”

  “Oh my God,” David said. “I hope it’s not anyone named Zimmerman.”

  Bancroft laughed. “Don’t worry, there’s very little chance you know him. He was in the legitimate jewelry business, and he lost his job due toa… circumstantial misfortune.”

  “That’s a relief. There are some people in my past I’d just as soon leave there.”

  “You’ll like this guy, and I have a feeling the two of you are going to work together splendidly. His name is Bowling.”

  The first thing John Graf noticed when he arrived at the farm was the smell of dirt. It was the smell of home.

  There would be a price, he realized as he circled the barn looking for his father. He would lose much of his individualism as a member of the community. He would submit to group authority and thus renounce almost every personal preference he had. He would drop cartography and take up farming.

  He would never see Sarah again.

  He found his father hoeing in the tomato garden, chopping each stubborn lump of clay until it surrendered and fell to pieces. John grabbed another hoe leaning against the barn and walked out into the field to join him.

  Clarence Graf halted in mid-chop when he recognized his son’s face. John was afraid he would drop his hoe and walk off. But the old man could see that John was dressed plain, and instead he squinted in curiosity.

  John went to work beside him, chopping at clods with “take that” thrusts of the hoe. After a moment of watching, his father returned to the chore as well, but kept his head turned slig
htly away.

  John didn’t look at him. Because he knew that if he did he would embarrass him by discovering tears in his eyes. The reward, he decided, was indeed worth the price.

  After a few more minutes of hoeing for the sake of hoeing, John absentmindedly reached into his pocket for the ruby David had given him.

  “What’s that?” his father asked gruffly, as though glad to come up with something to say.

  “A present. For Rebecca.” He handed the stone to his father.

  Clarence Graf fingered the bauble, enjoying its tactile qualities. He stuck out his lower lip and grunted approval. “I’m sure she’ll like it.”

  “You wouldn’t happen to know where she is …”

  The old man raised his six foot four frame above the tomatoes and squinted across a field of low corn. There, silhouetted against the horizon, a young lady ran toward them through the stalks, her arms raised in triumph, her long skirt billowing forward with each thrust of a knobby knee.

  BIBLIOGRAPHY

  The Story of Maps by Lloyd A. Brown (Dover Publications, 1979). Dover has kept this 1949 publication in print, and wisely so. It’s the best one-volume history of cartography on the market.

  Travels in India by Jean-Baptiste Tavernier, translated by Valentine Ball (Macmillan, 1889). Yes, Tavernier really existed, and most of what I wrote about him is true. But sadly, the seventh voyage, as I have described it, is fiction. This narrative is for serious readers only. Reprints are available from various publishers.

  Diamonds: Myth, Magic, and Reality, edited by Robert Maillard (Crown Publishers, 1980). An excellent all-around book about diamonds, especially for beginners who want a comprehensive and engaging approach. A brief biography of Tavernier, with some of the drawings he made of stones now missing, is included.

  Legendary Gems or Gems that Made History by Eric Bruton (Chilton Book Company, 1986). If you’ve ever wondered whether there was an authoritative history of all the world’s famous gemstones, including those whose whereabouts are unknown, your search is at an end.