“You've been watching me?” she asked, a playful note in her voice.
Alex laughed. “Aside from the obvious reasons, I couldn't help but see that you really know your stuff.”
“I did my doctoral work on the Hope Diamond. You spend all those years researching and writing, it better stay with you.”
“Impressive. A Ph.D. at what … “ he paused, not wanting to assume her age.
“Thirty. Two years ago.”
“I must say Dr. Mitchell. You are one fascinating woman.” Alex forced his eyes away from her and redirected them to the notepad on the table. He paused, gathering his thoughts. “So, this curse, help me understand it. Did something tragic happen to everyone who owned the diamond?”
“Well,” she said. “This is where staunch proponents of the diamond's curse run into trouble. If you take a quick glance at history, it certainly seems that its owners all suffered something terrible, but when you dig into the confirmed facts, you find that it often skips a generation or two.”
“So where did the idea of the curse come from?”
“Good question and one that's hard to answer. In reality it comes partly from legend, partly from religious belief, partly from superstition, and partly from the famous jeweler Pierre Cartier.” Abby slowly worked on her fish while she told Alex the story. “What you have to understand is that the diamond originated in India, a country steeped in Hindu mysticism. Everything means something in Hinduism. And diamonds are no exception. Even the color of a diamond has meaning.”
“For instance?”
“Well, each color is associated with a different Hindu god. White diamonds belong to Varuna, god of the sea; yellow diamonds to Shakra, goddess of learning; and blue diamonds are associated with Yama, the god of death. So right from the start Mir Jumla connected the huge blue diamond with death, and he passed that idea on to Tavernier.”
Alex scribbled furiously on his legal pad as he tried to keep up with Abby.
“As a matter of fact,” she continued. “The mystical quality of diamonds was so ingrained in Hindu culture that archeologists have found Sanskrit texts, which describe the belief that any diamond that had spots, crow's feet, lines, cracks, or blue color should be avoided because they were a source of sorrow.”
“So how do you separate fact from fiction? Because it seems that a lot of the people who came in contact with the diamond really have led tragic lives.”
“Ah, therein lies the rub. There actually is a great deal of truth in the legends surrounding the diamond. It has to go back to what we know for sure. There are large gaps in the diamond's history that no one can verify with any certainty. But what we can confirm is that Tavernier bought the diamond, in Golconda, India, and that he held onto it longer than he did any other jewel he owned. The question we have to ask ourselves is why,” Abby said.
“Interesting. Why not sell it immediately and make a profit?”
“Exactly.”
“Any ideas?” Alex asked.
“A few. Maybe he couldn't find a buyer, but I doubt that. Tavernier dealt with the upper echelon of European aristocracy. They would have gobbled up the diamond immediately had he put it on the market. Maybe it wasn't safe to sell the stone so soon after purchase because technically it shouldn't have been offered to him in the first place. Yet that doesn't seem likely either. The Indian sultan would have no means of knowing what stones Tavernier possessed or when he sold them.”
“So what's your theory then?”
“I think he kept it for himself because he loved the stone, had grown deeply attached to it, and didn't part with it until it would have been financially ludicrous not to.”
“Are you saying he was possessed with the stone?”
Abby stared deep into her wine glass. “Or by it.”
“The curse?”
“Just an opinion and—”
“—completely unverifiable,” Alex finished for her.
“Exactly.”
They sat in silence for a moment. “It does make one wonder,” Alex finally said.
“Which is why the Hope Diamond has captivated the imaginations of so many people for hundreds of years. There is something compelling about a mystery we just can't solve.”
Alex scratched a few words on his notepad and then asked, “So he held on to the diamond for fifteen years. Who finally bought it?”
“King Louis XIV, and he paid dearly for it.”
Isaac passed through the doors of the Bluefish Grill unnoticed. A quick scan of the room revealed his brother sitting at a small table in the corner with Abby. They appeared to be deeply engaged in conversation. Alex had always possessed a gift for connecting relationally, and it had come in quite handy over the years. Yet there was something about the look on his face that bothered Isaac. Alex enjoyed his work, but at the moment it appeared as though he was enjoying the company as well.
Isaac kept his distance from Alex's table. Soon he made eye contact and strolled toward the men's room.
“Would you excuse me for a moment?” Alex said, rising from the table.
“Of course.”
He pushed open the men's room door and quickly checked out the small room. Two men in their late fifties stood at the urinals, discussing a disappointing round of golf they had played that day. Only one of the three stalls was occupied, and Alex entered the one next to it. A contact lens case dropped to the floor beneath the partition, and Alex picked it up and put it in his pocket. He waited a couple of moments, flushed the toilet, and exited the stall. He ran water over his fingertips, dried them on a paper towel, and returned to the table without a word to Isaac.
“Sorry for dominating the conversation tonight,” Abby said.
Alex smiled. “This is an interview after all. You're supposed to do all the talking.”
“My throat is parched.” She sipped her wine. “Why don't you tell me a little about yourself?”
“There isn't much to tell. I'm a journalist. I live in the city. And I travel a lot. So much of my time is spent living out of a suitcase that I wonder why I even bother paying rent.”
“Everyone needs a place to come home to.”
“Home is a concept I lost a long time ago,” Alex said.
“That's pretty sad. Don't you ever find yourself wanting to slow down?”
Alex stroked the stem of his glass. “I can't say that I actually know how to slow down. I fear it would be tremendously boring.”
“But living at breakneck speed can't give you much time to establish … friendships.” Abby winced. She had almost said relationships.
“Ah, yet another thing I'm not good at.”
Abby leaned back in her chair and studied him for a moment. “You don't strike me as the kind of guy who is bad at anything.”
“What do you mean?”
“Oh, just that you're confident and intelligent and successful. I can't imagine you have a lot of insecurities.”
His eyes glinted as he studied her. “I'm afraid you have me pegged. One of my worst character traits is that I don't often find myself in need of confidence. Some people find it quite annoying.”
“On the contrary, I admire people who are confident. It's not something I come by naturally.”
“Could've fooled me.”
“Yes, well, I've spent a lifetime trying to prove myself.”
“The art community doesn't strike me as being an exclusive men's club.”
“It isn't really. But establishing myself as an expert among my father's colleagues is another matter. He's brilliant, so I'm expected to be brilliant, and differentiating myself as an individual has been difficult.”
Alex shrugged. “They've entrusted you with the Hope Diamond event. That's a pretty big deal.”
“More like a disaster in the making. That thing is going to be the death of me.”
“How so?”
Abby tapped her finger on the white linen tablecloth as she decided how much to share. “Well, the truth is I'm not sure I'm up to the
task.”
“You're being a bit hard on yourself, aren't you? You earned a doctorate from Cambridge at the age of thirty. That's pretty impressive.”
“Cambridge?” Abby grinned. “Somebody has been doing his research.”
“Busted. I Googled you.”
“Funny, I tried to Google you, but I didn't find anything.”
Alex dropped his gaze. “That could either be a sign of a dismal career, or the fact that I often write under another name.”
“Really? What name?”
He met her gaze and offered a sinister smile. “If I told you I'd have to kill you.”
Abby laughed. “Isn't it a little early in our relationship to be keeping secrets from one another?” There it was again, that word. Relationship. She'd used it unintentionally, but a blush of red crept across her face nonetheless.
Alex pulled away from the table and leaned back in his chair. “When the article comes out, you can meet my alter ego.”
“I can't wait.”
“Now,” he said. “Back to this Tavernier fellow. He eventually sold the diamond to King Louis XIV. How did he manage that?”
“Tavernier acquired a reputation throughout Europe as not only the premier jewel merchant, but a top-notch storyteller as well. He learned early on that if he could weave a story around a particular gem, it increased the value. So the king invited him to Versailles on December 16, 1668, to present his current jewel collection and tell stories of his travels.”
“I'm assuming he did an outstanding job because the king bought the jewel.”
“He didn't just buy the diamond, he incurred the wrath of his Minister of Finance, Jean-Baptiste Colbert, because he spent such an extravagant amount.”
“What was the purchase price?” Alex asked.
“Four hundred thousand livres. Or the equivalent of $3.6 million in today's currency.”
Alex let out a low whistle. “A shrewd businessman.”
“One of history's most notorious. When you study Jean-Baptiste Tavernier, he makes Donald Trump look like a carpet salesman.”
“So do you think it bothered Tavernier to let go of the stone?”
“I imagine there must have been some remorse. But whatever twinge of regret he had was easily soothed by the gross fortune he made.”
“I must say, this is turning out to be one fascinating interview.” Alex took a sip of his wine. “For more than one reason.”
An hour later Alex walked Abby to her apartment, making sure to stay a few steps behind. He unscrewed the cap to the contact lens case and took out what appeared to be a penny. As Abby fiddled with her keys, he slipped it into her purse.
“Thank you for dinner,” she said. “I really enjoyed it.”
“The dinner or the company?” he asked, tilting his head to one side.
Abby's cheeks colored and she laughed. “Both, actually.”
“Likewise. And thank you for letting me pick your brain.”
“Any time,” she smiled.
Alex looked at her for a moment, noticing that her eyes were the same reddish brown as her hair. Warm. Comforting. Soft.
“Do you mean it?” he asked.
“Mean what?”
“Any time?”
The corners of her mouth turned up into a smile. “Yes, I guess I do.”
“Good. Then I'm going to take you up on that offer.”
“Please do,” she said. Her voice hovered just above a whisper.
Alex took a step closer. “You know, for all the talking we did, I still only have a fraction of my story. May I call you again?”
She grinned. “About the story I presume?”
“Yes,” he said with a mischievous grin. “And no.”
They looked at one another for a moment, not quite sure what to do. Finally, Alex leaned in and brushed his lips against her temple. “Goodnight, Abby.”
“Goodnight,” she replied, suddenly nervous.
He ran his thumb over her fingers for a moment and then left.
Abby entered her apartment in a daze. Alex had left her with an unfamiliar flutter in her stomach. She walked to the window and watched as he left the building and made his way to his car. She stood there in the dark and felt the color rise in her cheeks once more when he turned to look up at her apartment. He stared for several seconds, and Abby felt quite sure that a smile spread across his face.
Turning toward her bedroom, Abby peeled off her work clothes and tossed them in the hamper. For a moment she considered taking a shower and then decided she was too tired. Instead, she brushed her teeth, washed her face, and put on an old tee shirt. No sooner had she climbed into bed than the phone rang.
“Surely not,” she said, looking at the clock. She grabbed the phone. “Hello?”
“You said I could call.”
Something began to flip uncontrollably in her abdomen as a smile spread across her face. “That I did.”
“Did you mean it?” His voice was deep on the other end of the phone—intense.
“Yes.”
“Good. Because there's something I wanted to say.”
“And what would that be?”
“Just that I really had a great time tonight.”
“And here I thought you were calling me to get the rest of the story, Mr. Weld.”
He laughed pleasantly. “I've got time. Why don't you tell it to me?”
She sat up in bed and crunched her eyebrows. “Really?”
His voice shifted from flirtatious to serious, and he said, “Yeah, why not? I've got a deadline, remember? Unless, of course, you've got other plans tonight.”
“Like sleep?”
“You can do that anytime.”
Abby looked at the clock, its minute hand inching toward midnight.
“What do you say, Dr. Mitchell? I could use a bedtime story.”
She hesitated, feeling somewhat adolescent. Wasn't this the kind of thing she did in high school? Yet she only debated for a moment, considering that the alternative was hanging up the phone. “Sure, why not?” Abby pulled the covers up to her chest and lay down her head on her pillow.
“So good old Tavernier kept his greedy little hands on the diamond for nearly two decades. What could have possibly convinced him to part with it?”
“Oh, surely you've figured that out by now, Alex.”
“What do you mean?”
“He wanted the same thing every thief wants—money.”
There was a prolonged silence on the other line that Abby took for interest. She leaned over, switched off her bedside lamp, and told Alex exactly how Jean-Baptiste Tavernier sold his soul to the cursed diamond.
8
VERSAILLES, FRANCE, DECEMBER 6, 1668
RARELY HAD JEAN-BAPTISTE T AVERNIER TRAVELED IN SUCH LUXURY AS HE did now. It was not the king's personal coach that carried him through the cobblestone streets of Versailles, but one sent by Louis the XIV nonetheless. It was for moments like this that he endured such hardship during his career.
Only a month before, Tavernier received the summons for which he had been waiting patiently for fifteen years. Though he could have sold his precious blue diamond any number of times, he chose instead to keep it until presented with the right opportunity.
It was no small honor to be invited to the king's court, but Tavernier was specifically asked to tell of his travels and to bring the king any jewels he thought worthy of the Crown. The lust of a wealthy aristocracy for precious gems was a never-ending thirst that Jean-Baptist Tavernier was uniquely equipped to satisfy.
The carriage moved closer to the Château Versailles, home to King Louis XIV, as it rolled through a tree-lined park on the outskirts of the estate. As the carriage rounded a bend, the palace came into view, its heavy stone buildings sprawling out over acres of pristine gardens.
“Monsieur, nous approchons le palais,” the driver shouted, announcing their approach to the palace.
Tavernier took a deep breath and caressed the leather pouch hidden beneath hi
s robes.
Today we part, my beautiful.
The king's court was a complicated place for such a man as Tavernier. He fell somewhere between the ranks of nobility and commoner. He was not important enough to command the king's respect, nor was he simply an afterthought. Tavernier was a curiosity in the eyes of Louis XIV, and today he would play that to his full advantage.
The carriage pulled to a stop before the palace steps, and Tavernier took a moment to prepare himself before stepping down. In order for things to go as planned, he must proceed carefully.
The coachman swung open the carriage door, and Tavernier descended into the gravel courtyard. A great expanse of manicured lawn, speckled with fountains and ornate topiaries, surrounded him. He savored this royal moment. On the steps leading to the massive palace doors stood Jean-Baptiste Colbert, the Controller General of Finance.
“Good afternoon, Minister,” Tavernier said. He bowed as expected.
Colbert returned the greeting with a slight nod, guardedly eyeing Tavernier's odd attire. Colbert was a tall man with a pencil-thin mustache and mounds of curly black hair. Unlike so many of the king's courtier's he had no need for a wig. Nature had supplied him in abundance with the required mane. Over his breeches and coattails, Colbert wore a heavy black velvet cloak and white lace collar indicating his status as officer in the royal court. The wrinkles around his eyes and the tight lines embedded at the corners of his mouth belied his age and his natural bent toward stoicism.
“Heureux pour vous rencontrer, Monsieur Tavernier,” said Colbert after careful observation.
“I'm pleased to finally meet you as well, Minister Colbert.”
“I have heard much about you, monsieur. Your travels are as legendary as your diamonds.”
“No doubt blown largely out of proportion,” Tavernier said. “I fear you may find yourself horribly bored by my company.”
“Nonsense. His Majesty assures me that you have many a grand tale to tell. Now please follow me. The king awaits you in his private apartment.”
“I am eager to make his acquaintance.”
“I will order one of the butlers to take your valise to your suite. His Majesty requested an audience with you the moment you arrived.”
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