At that moment two dealers paused to confer nearby. Very well dressed, evidently successful. They stood so close to each other the brims of their black homburgs brushed. There was an air of conspiracy about them as they alternately turned ear to mouth to keep their words out of everyone’s range. Nikolai observed them and thought they were probably pincering someone into selling too low or buying too high. As they turned to continue on their way, Loodsen greeted them by name. They looked right at Loodsen, but through him, didn’t say a word.
A sudden empathic pang dissolved all of Nikolai’s other intentions. “What’s your brother-in-law’s name?” he asked.
Ten minutes later Nikolai was around the block on Schupstraat with Loodsen wheezing and waddling beside him. They entered number 106, a well-maintained pre-both-wars building, and went up in a cage-type elevator to the fourth floor. Loodsen’s brother-in-law’s office was directly across the hall from the elevator. There was his name, DAVID NAGEL, lettered in black-outlined gold on the upper panel of the solid, highly varnished door. Nikolai and Loodsen went into a small entry, actually a cubicle about six by six. Most places of business in the diamond trade have this sort of first-line-of-security arrangement: a double entrance with two doors electrically interdependent, so that the exterior door giving to the cubicle has to be closed before the interior door can be opened. Loodsen and Nikolai stood in the cubicle. The receptionist peered out at them through a small partition of double-paned bulletproof glass. “It’s me, Jacob,” Loodsen said. The receptionist looked at Loodsen dubiously, but then the bolting mechanism of the inner door clicked and Loodsen went in, followed by Nikolai with hat in hand.
“Mr. Nagel is on the telephone,” the receptionist informed them, as though anything was far more important than what they were there for. “And he has another call waiting,” she added. She was a mature woman, severe in appearance, with dark hair pulled straight back to the point of pain from a hard, angular face. She was also noticeably pregnant.
Nikolai studied her briefly and wondered if it was possible that when she came into this life she’d been allocated just a certain small amount of pleasantness and squandered it as a child. Perhaps during an acute and rare attack of motherly instinct she’d given in to artificial insemination. He wondered what the person was like who had most recently kissed her. During the wait, he remained standing. He skimmed through a couple of the trade journals that were there on the table and was reading lies about what a high yield of sizable gem rough the System was getting out of Australia when the receptionist said: “Go in.”
Nagel was behind his desk in a contemporary black leather chair too formidable for him. He was a small, slight man of fifty or so. A gray man. Not only was his hair gray but also his suit and tie and shirt. There was even a grayish cast to his complexion. The only colorful things about him were the light blue of his eyes and the pink of his tongue, the tip of which flicked out every so often as though to sneak a taste of the situation.
Loodsen made introductions. He had telephoned to let Nagel know he was bringing Nikolai by. Nagel gestured Nikolai into a chair and offered a cigar from a sleek silver Bulgari box. Evidently he expected Nikolai to refuse, was merely showing off the box, because he almost closed the lid on Nikolai’s fingers. Nikolai chose a cigar and rolled it between thumb and forefinger. The dry crinkling of its tobacco-leaf wrapper told how stale it was. Without comment, Nikolai dropped the cigar back into the box, and Nagel, squirming a bit, returned the box to its exact place on his desk. Nikolai sat back as Nagel sat forward to get to business.
“I understand you have goods I might be interested in,” Nagel said.
Nikolai would let the six diamonds speak for themselves. He placed the briefke containing them on the desk. Nagel opened it. His facial expression didn’t change a twitch. He silently bare-eyed the diamonds for a while. Using a pair of black tweezers, he turned one over and picked it up by its girdle. His handling was swift and sure. It was something he’d done countless times. He examined that diamond with a loupe, then another, until he’d had a close look at all six. He betrayed more than mild interest. For an even closer look he swiveled his chair around to a binocular microscope. Magnified sixty-three times, the diamonds could hardly hide any secrets. Last, he weighed each diamond on a Mettler Electronic Scale, sensitive to a hundredth of a carat. The scale’s green numbered readout indicated each was precisely one carat.
While Nagel was thus occupied, Nikolai glanced at Loodsen, who was edgy, like a starved man about to be assured of his next fifty meals. Loodsen made an optimistic mouth and worked his eyebrows a bit. Nikolai looked past him to the wall, where a large print was hung: one of Klimt’s gaunt mistresses up to her throat in geometrics. From her, his eyes wandered to the near corner of Nagel’s desk and a chunk of kimberlite rock that contained a poor diamond of about eight carats in matrix. How ironic, he thought, that everything so emotionally crucial to him should now hinge on something as unfeeling as diamonds. He straightened his leg, causing his hat to fall from his knee. He bent over to retrieve it just as Nagel swiveled around and said: “Letikahane.” Nikolai thought Nagel was speaking Hawaiian.
“No,” Loodsen said. “They are river whites.”
“I know Botswanan material when I see it,” Nagel said. “These are out of the new mine at Letikahane.”
“They are rivers, extra extras,” Loodsen insisted.
“To you every fine diamond is a river.”
“They never saw Botswana.”
“Go sell cubic zirconium to the tourists. You don’t know shit about diamonds.”
“You stink.”
“I’m asking you to leave. We have business to conduct here.”
Loodsen didn’t budge.
“This is my office,” Nagel said curtly. “Here you show respect.”
Loodsen hunched his shoulders, made fists in his jacket pockets, and turned to Nikolai. “Do not let him tell you your goods are not rivers.”
Nagel took a long breath through his nostrils to cool his tone. “For your information,” he told Loodsen, “goods like these now coming out of Letikahane are on the average of finer quality than the best rivers ever were. So you see,” he said to Nikolai, “I am not trying to depreciate your goods. In fact, if anything I have just placed myself at a negotiating disadvantage, which should indicate how straightforward I am.”
A sarcastic grunt from Loodsen.
To give the impression that he was taking Nagel’s words to heart, Nikolai waited a long moment before asking: “How much a carat for my goods?”
“That would depend on the size of the lot. From what I gather, you have many more than just these six.”
“Anyway, more.”
“Are we talking about fifty more, a hundred, or what? I must know to make a price.”
“One-carat D-flawless rounds have a set price.”
“Yes, but …”
“I realize the price varies somewhat day to day. What’s it at now?”
“As of this afternoon, the going price was in the sixteen-to-eighteen-thousand range, depending on how good the make.”
“And these?”
“Beautifully made, top price.”
“Eighteen thousand a carat. That’s in dollars?”
“We normally quote and deal in dollars.”
“The dollar hasn’t been at its best lately.”
“If you’d rather we can convert to some other currency. French francs or pounds.”
“I guess dollars are all right.”
“So, how many one-carat stones are we talking about?”
“Let’s start with a hundred.”
“I sense, Mr. Borodin, that you feel the need to be clever with me, so to save us both that sort of energy I’ll come right to the point. I have a client, a principal, an American who is disenchanted with Wall Street. He wants to make a sizable investment in diamonds.”
“What would be sizable?”
“I have discretion to commit to a hundred millio
n.”
Nikolai tried to appear unfazed. He denied that his shirt collar suddenly felt a size too tight. There wasn’t really something in his throat that wouldn’t let a swallow go all the way down. He could have looked Nagel square in the eyes if he’d wanted to. He nonchalantly fussed with his hat, thankful now that he had it for a diverting prop. He took his time, shaped the brim and redimpled the crown, while he thought what a piece of cake this was turning out to be, a fortune falling right into his pocket. “All right, then,” he said, as though conceding, “let’s make it a thousand carats.”
Nagel was pleased. “All of this investment-quality,” he stipulated.
“Exactly. You won’t be able to tell one piece from another.”
“I’ll pay sixteen thousand a carat.”
“You just told me they were worth eighteen.”
“In such a quantity I expect a discount.”
Nikolai had intended to sell the diamonds five hundred carats at a time, if he could. He reasoned that in those amounts he’d be able to get the highest possible price while causing the least stir on the market. Moving five hundred carats here, five hundred there would hardly cause more than a ripple. However, the circumstances Nagel was presenting were too convenient not to take advantage of: a private buyer, someone who would salt away the stones in order to enjoy their appreciated value five or ten years from now. Nikolai doubted he could find a better fit. “I want eighteen,” he said.
“But you’ll take seventeen.”
“Seventeen five.”
“Seventeen five is fair,” Loodsen chimed in.
Nagel shot Loodsen a lethal glance, then told Nikolai unequivocally: “Seventeen is my offer.”
Nikolai believed Nagel would charge his client eighteen. That and then commission. “Done,” Nikolai said.
“Done,” Nagel agreed. “How do you want to receive payment?”
“A wire transfer to my bank in Geneva.”
“Which is?” Nagel had pen ready.
“Zwensen and Company, two-eighteen rue de Rive, twelve-eleven Geneva,” Nikolai replied, as though he’d been long familiar with that name and address, instead of having known it only since yesterday. He and Vivian had flown to Geneva for the sole purpose of setting up an account to receive their anticipated millions. Archer had suggested this particular private bank, and a phone call by him had smoothed the way. The director of the bank, Herr Heilig, had personally looked after them, advised on how best to do a transaction of this sort, and opened an account with the deposit of a mere fifty Swiss francs rather than the normally required ten thousand minimum.
“When would you say we might finalize the deal?” Nagel asked.
“How about tomorrow?”
“No problem. Shall we make it here at two o’clock?”
“Fine with me.”
Nagel explained how the deal would go: “You bring your thousand carats. As soon as I have looked at them and found them to be of investment quality, I will notify my client so that he can instruct his bank to transfer the seventeen million to your Geneva account. We will wait here for the short while required to complete the transfer, no more than a half hour. You will phone your bank and verify the funds have been received. Everything will be done more or less simultaneously. Does that suit you?”
“I assume you will see that Jacob gets his cut.”
“He’ll get his,” Nagel said ambiguously.
“How much? I want to know.” Nikolai made it sound as though the deal depended on it.
“One-half of one percent.”
Nikolai mentally moved decimal points and divided by two and realized Jacob’s end would come to eighty-five thousand. Certainly adequate compensation for a walk around the block.
Jacob smiled gratefully at Nikolai.
Nikolai tried to think of any loose ends. The deal seemed simple and clean. He conveyed his satisfaction with it by standing and extending his hand to Nagel. Nagel’s hand felt narrow and bony, like something that all the juice had been squeezed from.
“Where are you staying?” Nagel asked casually.
“At the Excelsior.”
“Good sensible hotel. Perhaps you’d enjoy some amusing company this evening.”
“No, thanks. I brought my own.”
That night an early dinner.
Both Nikolai and Vivian thought they were hungry, but they just nibbled at their main courses and visually appreciated the sweets.
They were staying at the Rivierenhof, not at the Excelsior as Nikolai had told Nagel. Nikolai wondered about that fib. It hadn’t been premeditated. In fact, it had surprised him when it came out, and after the meeting when he was on Shupstraat he decided the reason for it had been instinctive caution. That made him wonder all the more.
Except for the fib, Nikolai reported his afternoon to Vivian. She wouldn’t settle for mere highlights, wanted to know word for word what had been said. Throughout dinner she pumped him for details and impressions. Nikolai realized it was her way of making up for not having been there, so for good measure he invented a few things that he believed might color it more for her. Such as his having detected a bugging device incorporated in the Klimt lithograph.
“For what reason would he have a bug?”
“Who knows? Perhaps he uses it to review what was said, inflections and all, giving himself that much of an edge.”
“Or maybe it’s his protection against renegers.”
“People in the diamond business never renege. A word is as good as a written contract.”
“You believe that?”
“It saves on legal fees.”
“This Nagel, did you get a good look at his eyes?”
“If you mean his irises, no.”
“I’ll bet if you’d noticed you would have seen his irises change color every now and then. What shade were they, anyway?”
“Pale blue.”
“With silver striations bunched up at six o’clock to nine o’clock, right?”
“Hell, I was never that close to him.”
“His irises probably went from pale blue to gray-green whenever he lied to you.”
“Irises do that?”
“Especially when they’re telling giant, crucial lies. With just fibs it’s hardly discernible.”
Nikolai was relieved to hear that. He locked eyes with her. “I love you, Viv,” he said, and after an adequate beat: “Did my irises just change color?”
“I should hope not. Anyway, I couldn’t really tell. Your eyes are so dark and deceitful-looking to begin with.” She smirked playfully. “Are you certain you saw Nagel’s bug?”
Nikolai nodded. He wished she’d drop it. His fibs were infecting his truths.
“Well,” she said, “I suppose being Russian you should know a bug when you see one.”
Nikolai exaggerated a Russian glower and scratched his head in several places as though bothered by lice. He enjoyed his own sense of humor. Vivian did a stony-faced stare. The waiter came and asked if they would have coffee.
“Demitasse,” Vivian ordered, affecting her longest possible a. In practically the same breath she told Nikolai: “Am I ever proud of you!”
“Why?” He wanted to hear it from her.
“The way you handled yourself doing business today. You amaze me.”
“Are you being serious?”
“I’ve never been more so. Think of it, darling, and try to suppress your modesty. You come here to Antwerp, a strange city, knowing absolutely no one, without even a twice-removed reference to go on, and within mere hours you’ve swung a deal that’s enormous. Didn’t you know you weren’t supposed to be such a slick capitalist?”
Nikolai was saved from having to reply by the arrival of the demitasse. The waiter showed off with his pouring of it, flourished the silver server so the brown-black stream that came from its spout was more than a foot long and stopped abruptly without a drop spilled. Nikolai imagined how many customers the waiter had scalded perfecting such technique, how many law
suits he had caused. There was risk in just about everything.
Vivian used silver tongs to pinch two cubes of sugar into her cup. “Not to muffle any of your thunder, Nickie darling, but your success today proves something I’ve always believed: there’s no big trick to getting filthy rich. Of course, it helps to be a bit filthy to begin with, but really all that’s required is a headful of smarts.”
“Or a bowlful of diamonds.”
“Seventeen million dollars,” Vivian mused. “And you’ve hardly made a dent in your hoard.” She brought her tiny gold-rimmed cup to her lips and wriggled her extended pinkie at him. Between sips she asked: “Would you mind terribly if I married you for your money? Among other more important reasons, of course.” Before Nikolai could reply that he was agreeable to marrying her and remaining married to her under any conditions, she was off on another sideroad, relating how that afternoon she’d found her way to a delicatessen there on Pelikaanstraat, a kosher place called Moskowitz’s, where she’d sat at a counter and had potato pancakes with sour cream and cherry jelly, which were delicious. However, occupying the seat next to her had been an American woman who volunteered loudly that she was from Larchmont, New York, and was disappointed with Antwerp because she’d searched in vain all over the city for a little lizard to add to her collection. The woman had what must have been close to a dozen gold and platinum pins in the form of lizards on the lapels of her suit as well as a couple at the neckline of her blouse. She was veritably crawling with them: lizards studded with green garnets from head to tip of tail and with tiny diamonds or rubies for eyes. “Repulsive little monsters,” Vivian said, and, after hardly enough time for a synapse: “You know, probably the most tragic thing is to have tons of money and not an ounce of taste. Thank the angels that shall never be our problem. We’ll never have linens on our terrace tables dyed precisely to match the shade of our nearby hibiscus blossoms. It will never occur to us to have a swimming pool constructed in the shape of a heart or with mosaic mermaids on the bottom.” A final sip of her demitasse. She set her cup down and held her hand over it to prevent the waiter from doing an encore of his audacious pour. “Damn, I wish you’d thought to get a close look at Nagel’s irises,” she said while Nikolai signed the bill.
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