by Tobias Hill
The ground catches up with me. I stumble and almost fall. Yohei is there to catch me, and one of the guards. They laugh, and then Yohei stops laughing. ‘Katharine? Do you feel all right?’
I say something. Nothing important. I don’t remember. He looks into my face. ‘You’re white. Even for an English person. And you feel cold. We should get some air.’
‘No. It’s warmer in here. Just give me a minute.’ I stand with my back to the crowns. Someone comes off the moving belts and bumps against me. I don’t look round. Part of me wants to. I don’t let it.
‘Jesus. You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’
I look up at Yohei. I make myself smile. ‘I’ve come to the right place for that, haven’t I?’
He laughs. We laugh. We go. I don’t look back at the ghost inside the glass. It is three days before I return, alone. I go round and round the constructions of jewels, and look at only the one gem. It is the first stone I really love, although it won’t be the last. My first balas ruby. I want to reach out and touch it. I feel a movement inside me. A shifting in the blood.
It is addictive, the way stones lead you. Once you start, it’s hard to stop. Even if you don’t like the places you are led. Sometimes all it takes is one stone. The face of the Timur Ruby, for example, is carved with the names of its owners, all the way back to the vanishing-point when there are no more people to own it. First Akbar Shah, then all the others, step by step: Jehangir Shah; Salil Oiran Shah; Alamgir Shah; Badshah Ghazu Mohamad Farukh Siyar; Ahmed Shar Duri-i-Duran. This is the ruby among the 25,000 jewels of the King of Kings.
Or there is the Black Prince’s ruby, that malformed bolus. You can trace its uneven outline back through the frames of empty crowns, all the way to the English Reformation. And further: the jewel itself is transpierced and stopped, from the times and places before it was set in a Western crown. Further. The chemical structure is spinel. A balas ruby: aluminium, oxygen, magnesium. Furnace heat. A thousand years of darkness. In the end it is always the same. There is nothing left but stones.
I wake alone, in the night, and wonder if that is what I’m looking for.
* * *
I open my eyes. The stone house is silent around me. I have no memory of what has woken me, only an awareness of sound. I wait for it to come again and it does, a short cry.
It could almost be the voice of an animal, fox or hare. Something trapped. It has that need and wildness, although I know it is human. Beyond it is a rhythm of movement. Faint through the stone walls.
I wake up fast. There is a sense of danger in overhearing lovemaking. I feel my eyes and ears working at the dark before I am even thinking properly. My heart beating the blood awake. The cry comes again, and I know for certain it is a woman. It doesn’t disgust me, not yet. There is an attraction. Somewhere close to me, something crucial is happening, and I am no part of it. I am stopped, unlistened-to, listening.
I sit up. Even my sense of smell is heightened. Glött’s house reeks of limestone, like a church crypt. Beyond that is a suggestion of preservatives. Salt, camphor, turpentine. Underneath it all, the sour odour of age and loss.
In a cheap hotel they would mean nothing, the sounds of sex. I would almost expect them. But in the reclusive silence of Glött’s house, they are out of place. For a moment I picture the old woman and Hassan the giant involved in some complex position of intercourse, and I push the image away. A smile tugs at the corner of my mouth. The longer the sex goes on, the more comical it becomes.
And then even the joke is old. What I hear becomes a simple rhythm of body parts, breath pushed out of lungs, muscle working against muscle. It is monotonous as a coughing fit. I pull back my one sheet and stand naked in the cool dark, listening. It is hard to tell which direction the sound is coming from. Around me are the dim shapes of the bed, a desk, a chair. A clothes chest of sweet-smelling cedar.
I pick up the chair, invert it, and prod its legs against the ceiling. I do it hard. Only three times. The sounds go quiet. If I could apologise I might, but I can’t. Communication by chair stretches only so far.
I put it down, sit at the desk. Turn on the light. My watch is there, and my notebook. It is a Tollit & Harvey Major Pad, black, foxed, ringbound. Fat with use, as if the words inside are exerting their own pressure. In my bag there are nine more books, all the same, parcelled together. One is still empty. They show me where I have come from, these last five years. They tell me where I am going. It is three in the morning, and I am as alone as I have ever been. I get a pen from my bag and begin to write, and when I am too tired to do any more I put my head on the desk and I sleep.
The sun wakes me, hot on my hair and the crook of my arms. I open my eyes and see the notebook under me, its hard black cushion smeared with drool. I wipe it clean, push the chair back. Push back my hair, knead the ache out of my shoulders.
Light from the courtyard blankets the room. I feel tucked up in heat, sleepy and irritable as a girl. To wake myself up I take out what I will need to work. I don’t unpack because I don’t plan to be here long enough for that.
My loupe, which is a jeweller’s magnifying glass. My last ruby. My dollars which, along with the ruby and the seal, are the only valuables I have left. My pen and notebook are on the desk and I take them too. My head is where it should be and beginning to work. My watch. It is late, I have overslept, but I am not here for employment, after all. Only for information. My father once held the Brethren.
Yesterday’s clothes are on the floor and I put them on, a Daks shirt and good jeans, the colour still deeper than indigo. Hassan is playing his wooden flute, I can see him in the courtyard as I dress. I rub a clean circle on the dusty glass. He is leant against the wall ten feet away with his back to me. His head is cocked to one side. I see how the hair is cut back behind his ear, the skin exposed over the skull’s raised bone. I imagine what it would be like to kiss him there. He is a beautiful man, a statue of a man, but I am not looking for men.
Inside the lid of the clothes chest is a mirror. I look down at the reflection of my throat, the hollow under which a chain would hang. I don’t have jewellery of my own any more. It has been a long time since I wore jewels for pleasure. As if nothing will do except the Brethren. All the same, I feel underdressed in my travelling clothes. In transit people only meet knowing they will never meet again. And that is the way I like it. All things kept simple, no time for friends or enemies. I go back to my bag. There is a comb inside, toiletries, a minimum of make-up. I work at my hair until it shines before I leave.
The hallway smells of coffee. There are dusty alcoves in the east wall, and someone has left flowers there. Two tiny water-lilies in a blue-lipped dish. It is done so carefully and the care is so unexpected that I feel ashamed. It’s a long time since I did as much for anyone, although I dislike cut flowers, their deadness. I turn left down the corridor towards Glött’s room.
At the end of the corridor is a staircase to a lower floor. It shouldn’t be here. I have gone the wrong way, and it surprises me. My sense of direction is not poor, but in Glött’s house I am lost. There is something about the low white halls, the rareness of windows, the absence of light. It is like being underground. I follow the stairs down.
Before I reach the bottom the air begins to change. There is a damp warmth, and a faint smell of resin sweetened by steam. It is an odour I associate with both Chinese food and Turkish baths, and with Glött I sense that either thing is possible. The first two doors I come to are locked and no light shows under them. The third is larger, and wide open.
Wet footprints zigzag across the tiled hall. I turn on the light and look in at the German’s private sauna and pool. The room is empty, but the water is still disturbed, rocking against green-glazed tiles. From down the hall comes the sound of a woman’s laughter, young and at ease with itself. I turn towards it. At the end of the hall are double doors and I walk through.
It is a kitchen, long, high, and comfortable. A place to consume food as well as pr
epare it. Between the roof beams, grimy windows let in big blocks of sunlight. There is a lot of wood, expensive and oiled. Wheelbacked chairs and four heavy, scored tables.
A young couple are eating breakfast at the nearest table. They are blonde, tanned, sleek as the Armani perfume man. Similar in their beauty. They could be lovers or siblings. Both are dressed in swimming costumes. Water still beads the girl’s shoulders. The boy looks up at me and smiles. Fox teeth.
‘Good morning! You must be the stone girl.’
‘Stone girl?’ His accent is clear, precisely Germanic. The words confuse me only because his stress is wrong, he has emphasised ‘girl’ instead of ‘stone’. The mistake is more elementary than his English itself. I don’t quite have time to wonder why before he is talking again.
‘I am sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you. Maybe you would prefer me to call you the stone lady.’
‘No. I–’
‘But you are Katharine Sterne, yes?’
‘Yes.’
‘Of course you are. And Eva has you here to work on the stones.’ His mouth is closed now. He is still smiling. There is something distracting about his eyes, I find myself looking away from them. From the far side of the kitchen, two washing machines look back. Round black eyes in a square white face. ‘You must be hungry. Join us.’
‘We have eggs and coffee and ham.’
The girl’s voice has an undertone of laughter, as if she has said something funny. She is pale and perfect, a corn-fed German blonde. I feel a stab of envy, hard and sexual. She pushes her plate towards me.
‘Here. Have mine, I’m full.’
‘Perhaps she doesn’t eat ham,’ says the boy. The girl looks up at me.
‘You do, don’t you?’
I shrug. ‘Anything. Ham’s fine.’
The boy pours me a Pyrex glass of coffee. The girl watches me sit and eat. They don’t introduce themselves. Beside the boy’s plate are a packet of tobacco, cigarette papers, and a Ronson lighter. He makes himself a cigarette with quick efficiency, lights it, sits back. I catch a whiff of paraffin on his fingers. Brass and nicotine. Evening smells. I wonder how it is that I feel excluded from something I have just been invited to.
‘So. Have you seen the stones?’
My mouth is full. I swallow, meaning to speak, but the boy is already talking again. ‘Oh, you will have a treat. They are quite something, the Glött stones. Some of them have been in the family since the first Fuggers.’
The muezzin begins outside, somewhere close. I speak up against it. ‘The Fuggers? Joseph Fugger?’
‘I always thought it sounded like a Jewish name. Still, there is nothing so wrong with that, these days. But they are the same family, yes, Fuggers and von Glötts. You didn’t know?’
‘No.’ I think of the old woman’s father, crying over the Brethren. Glött herself. You are very clever, to find me here. Or very lucky. ‘No, I didn’t. And you are related to Eva?’
His eyes crinkle as he pulls on the cigarette. It makes him look older. ‘Yes. But you must be careful, Katharine, not to call her that. She doesn’t like it, not from anyone. Excuse me.’ The girl is trying to meet his eyes. He turns away from me with stiff politeness. An old-school restaurateur, or a host.
‘It’s late, Martin. We have to go.’
‘Of course.’ They stand up together. Martin smiles down. ‘I am sorry. Please enjoy your breakfast.’
‘Thanks. I think I will.’ I watch them out of the door, the sound of their footsteps echoing back. When they are quite gone I push the food away and sit drinking coffee and thinking of Joseph Fugger and Eva von Glött. A little piece of evolution, from the prototype capitalist to the miserly recluse. And on the heels of their images comes another thought: great jewels have a way of returning to their pasts. It is like the whisper of an old record left to play too long, the hiss of the phrase repeating and repeating.
Across from me are Martin’s cigarettes and Ronson lighter. I wonder if he left them on purpose. I don’t take them for him because, I suspect, the less I have to do with Martin the better. It isn’t that I don’t find him attractive; it is partly the attractiveness that repels me. I have known other men like Martin, other women like the girl. And I distrust beauty in people. When the coffee is finished I go and find Eva.
I pass my bedroom, the alcove, the flowers. Three wide steps lead down to ground level. There is an inner window and I stop to look out. Outside is a tiny courtyard, no more than a well of space in the rambling body of the mansion. I can see up three floors to blue sky, and down to cobbles. A single tree grows in their centre. It is something exotic, I don’t recognise the species. It reaches upwards towards the light, cramming leaves against walls and windows.
There is music somewhere, a cello and piano. The acoustics of the hallway make it sound as if it is coming from behind me, but I keep walking. A larger hall opens out on the left. At the far end of it hangs a jet bead curtain. A stone door in a stone house. When I get there the music is still playing.
The curtain whispers and clicks as I part it. Glött doesn’t hear. She sits with her eyes closed, a cigar in her hand. On the sofa beside her is a plate of figs. A mouse is eating the figs, which are bigger than itself. It senses me before the old woman does, vanishing down the back of the sofa.
The music swells. A sound system looms in the corner behind the television, a black pillar inlaid with red lights. The old woman’s eyes are still closed. I take her in while I have the chance. She looks strained, as if the music makes it hard to breathe. She is wearing black slacks and a man’s shirt, grey with white herringbones. On someone so old the effect is androgynous, and I wonder if it is intentional.
She feels me watching, looks up sharply and turns the music off in mid-crescendo. The quiet it leaves behind is punctuated with the sounds of Diyarbak’r traffic. Car horns, distant, slight as the voices of finches. Glött reaches for her glass. She drinks without looking at me. Her hand is shaking. Only a little.
I go and sit down beside her. ‘Good morning.’
She snaps her face up again. As if she didn’t frown enough the first time. ‘What?’
‘I said good morning. Do you remember me? My name is Katharine–’
‘Of course I remember you.’ She mutters something in German, an angry old woman with shaky hands. I don’t move, not yet.
‘What was that music?’
‘Eh?’
‘I said what are you listening to?’
She looks away. ‘Messiaen.’ The light catches in her blue eyes. ‘Camp music.’
‘Camp?’
She makes a sound of irritation, Tch. ‘Camp, camp. Messiaen composed at a stalag in Silesia. In my time Silesia was Germany. Now they tell me it is Poland. Messiaen was captured by the Germans, very early in the war. There were musicians in the camp. The great composer wrote for them. There was a cellist. His instrument had one string missing. These things make the music what it is. My first husband met him several times.’
I watch her glance up towards the picture on the wall. Absently, checking his presence. ‘Is that him?’ I say, and she nods, not looking at me.
‘Yes. They shared an interest in music. And rainbows.’ She smiles tightly.
‘He’s handsome.’ We look at the photograph together. The dead man’s dark hair, his soft eyes. ‘Is he German?’
‘Yes. He was also Jewish. For many years he was a distinguished officer in the army. His family were acquainted with Hindenburg. We left Germany after Hitler came to power. That in itself was hard for him. His family had lived there for almost as long as my own.’
‘Did you love him?’
‘He was a remarkable man.’ The way she says it, it sounds like a weakness. Her hands have begun to shake again. I watch her remembering. Below her wattled neck hangs a long rope of riverine pearls. They are misshapen. Beautiful as old skin.
The quiet begins to reassert itself. I let it only because it is useful. In normal circumstances, people will say a great de
al to avoid silence, but then these are not normal circumstances. The house of Eva von Glött is full of quiet. It occurs to me that she is entirely at home with silence, that it may even be part of the reason she is here.
She speaks as I am about to give up, words falling out of her. ‘He died when he was still very young. I believe he thought he would live for ever, but then the young often do. Do you think you will live for ever?’
‘No.’
‘No, I can see you don’t. I distrust music because no one burns it, Katharine. Even the Nazi can love Schubert. Writing, on the other hand, is unequivocal. Do you believe one can be stunted by love?’
‘Of course not.’
‘Even if it is unfulfilled? It can be unfulfilled in such a great number of ways.’
Her voice is lucid with alcohol. The words I don’t understand. She turns her head away, dismissing me. All the same I see that she is crying. Her clothes are fine under the jewels. The shirt well made, Turnbull & Asser or van Laack. It almost fits her. I wonder if it was his.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say, as if there is anything I should apologise for. ‘I didn’t mean to disturb you. I wondered if you remember anything this morning.’
‘About what?’
‘The Brethren. The Three Brethren.’
Her wet eyes register nothing. She has forgotten. The despair shifts inside me, half-awake to its own strength, and then the old woman is cackling with bright hilarity. ‘The Brethren!’ Her head swivels. ‘We have an agreement, Katharine Sterne. First you will work for me. Then I will remember. Yes?’
‘You have an unusual memory.’
‘I have a perfect memory. The main thing for you, my dear, will be my father’s papers. Somewhere there are details of the jewel’s price, dates, places. Transaction papers. I will remember in time.’ She subsides back into the sofa. A sharp old bird, brooding on her own thoughts.
‘They have stories about you, in Diyarbak’r.’
‘What stories? Who?’
‘Someone I met. He said you employ many workers. That you have your own aeroplane. What kind of business are you in?’
