gem has a history."
"It ... may have."
"David, don't hedge with me. We're not bargaining yet."
He shrugged. "With one stone, how can I be sure?"
My eyes narrowed and, through a slit of a smile, I asked, "How did you
know
there were more?"
He took a deep breath and sighed loudly. "I am too old to be doing this. Such excitement I do not need."
"Bullshit. You thrive on excitement."
"But I could be wrong."
"Come on, David. I'm here because I trust your opinion as much as I trust you."
He rubbed his eyes, then leaned forward, propping his chin on his fist. He tapped on the tabletop. "Put the stone there."
I set it in front of him.
"It looks like an ordinary pebble, yes?"
"Sort of."
"Do you notice on the surface anything peculiar?"
"No. I'm not a jeweler."
"It is like an erosion," he said. "But ... what has such hardness as to wear down a diamond?"
"Another diamond."
"Very good." He rolled the stone over gently. "Such an erosion as this ... no scratches, no chipping ... what does it tell you?" He watched me carefully again.
But when I could only shrug, he said, "I could say it is likely that this precious pebble was carried in a pouch with many other stones for a very long time. Continuous rubbing together, over a period of years, would make the surface like so. They are not like that when they come from the earth."
"David, you're looking at one stone and building a history out of it. Where is this going?"
He was good at long pauses. When he had finished thumbing through his thoughts like a Rolodex in his mind, he said, "Michael, you are my friend. You I can trust. When I look at this gemstone, I get a feeling only a true lover of fine jewels can possibly get. It is almost ... mystical."
When he spoke, there was a dreamlike quality about the words. Even his tone of voice changed, giving them a hollow ring.
"There is a story of a jewel cutter named Basil, a most mysterious man who came to Germany from Russia when the Communists took over the country. It was Basil himself to whom the tsar went for his jewelry. There have been tales of the fabulous stones Basil produced for the Tsar, rubies, emeralds, diamonds, fantastic baubles few outside the royal family ever got to see. After the revolution, these cut stones all disappeared, probably broken up and sold to make more revolution."
"But Basil himself managed to escape..."
"Yes. When the Communists killed the tsar, they searched for Basil, but never found him. Many thought he was dead, but every so often wonderfully cut stones would surface with the remarkable beauty that bore the mark of Basil himself. He became a legend in all of Europe. Whispers had him operating out of Germany, but even there he remained a man of mystery."
"If Basil fled to Germany, how could the quality of his stones remain so high?"
"It is believed he brought a quantity with him from Mother Russia, though it's possible he found some new source. Always of top quality, they were."
"Why didn't he get into the open market?"
For a second, David came out of his reverie. "And show himself?"
I nodded.
"Michael, he was a Jew. Let us say that, on his person, he carried the last of his treasured uncut stones. The Communists would declare them stolen from the state, thieves and mercenaries worldwide would make of him a target. Death could come from any side. Imagine, in a simple leather pouch, Basil carrying a multi-million-dollar value that in this day would be doubled and tripled a dozen times over."
"So he took his time."
"Yes, he was very clever, this Basil. He never showed himself, fashioning his works of art only if he needed the money. But he was a presence, a living legend, Basil and his pouch of huge stones. Just before Hitler came to power, he cut his last known diamond, a ninety-six-carat masterpiece that now graces an oil sheik's collection."
"Do we know if Basil survived the Holocaust?"
"Michael, we do not. We know the Nazis searched for him. Oh, yes, how they searched. But they
"It ... may have."
"David, don't hedge with me. We're not bargaining yet."
He shrugged. "With one stone, how can I be sure?"
My eyes narrowed and, through a slit of a smile, I asked, "How did you
know
there were more?"
He took a deep breath and sighed loudly. "I am too old to be doing this. Such excitement I do not need."
"Bullshit. You thrive on excitement."
"But I could be wrong."
"Come on, David. I'm here because I trust your opinion as much as I trust you."
He rubbed his eyes, then leaned forward, propping his chin on his fist. He tapped on the tabletop. "Put the stone there."
I set it in front of him.
"It looks like an ordinary pebble, yes?"
"Sort of."
"Do you notice on the surface anything peculiar?"
"No. I'm not a jeweler."
"It is like an erosion," he said. "But ... what has such hardness as to wear down a diamond?"
"Another diamond."
"Very good." He rolled the stone over gently. "Such an erosion as this ... no scratches, no chipping ... what does it tell you?" He watched me carefully again.
But when I could only shrug, he said, "I could say it is likely that this precious pebble was carried in a pouch with many other stones for a very long time. Continuous rubbing together, over a period of years, would make the surface like so. They are not like that when they come from the earth."
"David, you're looking at one stone and building a history out of it. Where is this going?"
He was good at long pauses. When he had finished thumbing through his thoughts like a Rolodex in his mind, he said, "Michael, you are my friend. You I can trust. When I look at this gemstone, I get a feeling only a true lover of fine jewels can possibly get. It is almost ... mystical."
When he spoke, there was a dreamlike quality about the words. Even his tone of voice changed, giving them a hollow ring.
"There is a story of a jewel cutter named Basil, a most mysterious man who came to Germany from Russia when the Communists took over the country. It was Basil himself to whom the tsar went for his jewelry. There have been tales of the fabulous stones Basil produced for the Tsar, rubies, emeralds, diamonds, fantastic baubles few outside the royal family ever got to see. After the revolution, these cut stones all disappeared, probably broken up and sold to make more revolution."
"But Basil himself managed to escape..."
"Yes. When the Communists killed the tsar, they searched for Basil, but never found him. Many thought he was dead, but every so often wonderfully cut stones would surface with the remarkable beauty that bore the mark of Basil himself. He became a legend in all of Europe. Whispers had him operating out of Germany, but even there he remained a man of mystery."
"If Basil fled to Germany, how could the quality of his stones remain so high?"
"It is believed he brought a quantity with him from Mother Russia, though it's possible he found some new source. Always of top quality, they were."
"Why didn't he get into the open market?"
For a second, David came out of his reverie. "And show himself?"
I nodded.
"Michael, he was a Jew. Let us say that, on his person, he carried the last of his treasured uncut stones. The Communists would declare them stolen from the state, thieves and mercenaries worldwide would make of him a target. Death could come from any side. Imagine, in a simple leather pouch, Basil carrying a multi-million-dollar value that in this day would be doubled and tripled a dozen times over."
"So he took his time."
"Yes, he was very clever, this Basil. He never showed himself, fashioning his works of art only if he needed the money. But he was a presence, a living legend, Basil and his pouch of huge stones. Just before Hitler came to power, he cut his last known diamond, a ninety-six-carat masterpiece that now graces an oil sheik's collection."
"Do we know if Basil survived the Holocaust?"
"Michael, we do not. We know the Nazis searched for him. Oh, yes, how they searched. But they
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