Stone 588

by Gerald A. Browne

  At rock bottom of that paradox was the fact that The System had the comer on diamonds. Ninety percent of the world's output of gem quality rough, accumulated from its own high-yielding mines in Africa and through tight arrangements with Russia and other diamond-producing countries. Thus to be in the business of diamonds to any substantial extent, a dealer had to be in the good graces of The System and take care not to offend.

  Furthermore, the dealers, even the most significant, had to accept whatever quality rough The System chose to dole out. With nothing to say about what they bought, it would seem the dealers certainly would not put up with having no say about how much they paid for it. Nevertheless, that was how it was.

  A dealer showed up precisely at his appointed time at number eleven. He was accompanied to the sight room and his parcel was brought to him. He might as well have left at that point for what difference it made. However, as a matter of courtesy and perhaps curiosity, he opened his parcel then and there: broke its ornate wax seals to get to its contents, the rough diamonds he had bought. Probably there would be some of the fine quality that he'd requested—but, no doubt, more of the lesser quality The System wanted to get out of their inventory or felt that dealer deserved. The dealer swallowed his resentment and ended the transaction expressing his gratitude with a tone he hoped sounded genuine.

  Dealers tolerated this demeaning one-sidedness simply because it was more profitable over the long run. The rough diamonds in The System's parcels were usually, eventually, worth more than the pride or dollars paid for them. Anyway, that was the way the cartel known as The System did business, the way it kept control of the world's supply of diamonds and, often, of the lives of certain men.

  Edwin Springer was such a sight holder, as his father had been before him and as Edwin hoped someday Phillip would be. He would not, however, on this trip take Phillip to number eleven and introduce him. He'd considered doing that and decided Phillip would see enough of those people in his lifetime, spare him now.

  Phillip was impressed with London, and, although nothing direct had been said, he had the feeling that the city was impressed with him. Especially for the trip he had bought a new dark gray vested suit and three ties more conservative than he'd ever owned. Up to then he'd avoided wearing a tie whenever he could, believed a tie was a hang-up, a noose around his neck, but when he dressed in front of the mirror in his room at the Savoy he was quite conscientious about the knot he made.

  He also felt taller for some reason, as though he'd shot up a few inches in just a couple of days. He was already five-ten, only an inch shorter than his father, but he hadn't taken special notice of that or thought it important until London.

  While his father did business, Phillip had time to himself. He appreciated that his father hadn't told him not to get lost or warned him about the city, merely said they'd meet back at the hotel at such and such a time. Phillip had ample pocket money for taxis and he took them when necessary; however, he preferred to walk. There he went, down the Strand, careful not to gawk, his right thumb in the watch pocket of his vest. Young girls passing appreciated him with their eyes and he was aware but not entirely sure of them and they became opportunities lost.

  He went to the Tate for confrontations with Van Dyke, Gainsborough, Reynolds, and Blake. He was particularly taken with the Whistlers, those paintings titled like musical compositions, nocturnes and symphonies. He bought a cashmere sweater at Harrods for Danny, a camel shade, although he almost chose black. Walked Hyde Park from Kensington Palace all the way to Park Lane, watched perfectly groomed horses ridden by perfectly outfitted people along Rotten Row. Decided he wouldn't go to see the changing of the guard at Buckingham Palace and then unwittingly walked right into it. It seemed to him that every piece of brass in London was polished every day, that Christopher Wren built nearly everything, that the royal family had always been great customers, according to the numerous shops that displayed crowns and rampant lions and plaques bragging they were or had been royally appointed at one time or another. He didn't want to be so obviously a tourist but it seemed unavoidable. He even had to suffer the close-call cringe from having been just missed by a fast truck because he stepped off the curb of Kensington High Street after looking the wrong way.

  On his third London afternoon he bought four greengage plums at Fortnum & Mason and returned to the Savoy. In his box at reception was a message from his father. For business reasons his father would not be back until very late. He was to have dinner on his own. It was, Phillip thought, a good grown-up message.

  He didn't go straight up to his room. Instead, he went to the lounge off the lobby, where he was shown to a small round table situated along a velour banquette. He ordered tea and was pleased when along with it came several little frosted rolls that he hadn't asked for. He was sipping and nibbling and envisioning the world as a sphere, and where he was on it, when—"They're tastier when you butter them," he was told by a woman's voice.

  She was seated alone at the next little table: a woman in a navy blue felt cloche hat with wisps of brunette hair showing at her temples. Her dress was also navy, of a lightweight material, high at the neck and contrasted by a narrow white collar. She wasn't beautiful, none of her features, not her nose or mouth or eyes, was predominant; however, they went together in an equitable, pretty way. Her eyes were exaggerated by makeup, darkly outlined and shaded.

  "Here, let me," she said, and before Phillip had a chance to decline she reached over, broke open one of his rolls, and smeared it with butter.

  She was an older woman in Phillip's eyes. At least thirty. Her teacup was half empty, her rolls partially eaten. Evidently she'd been there but he hadn't noticed. He thanked her for her attention. She was very pleasant.

  "How do you find London?" she asked.

  "I like it."

  "I see you've gotten to Fortnum & Mason."

  His greengage plums were wrapped in that store's paper and tied with its identifiable ribbon. He subdued the impulse to open the package and offer her one.

  "What have you been doing for amusement?" she inquired.

  He told her he'd gone to a play the night before. She didn't, as he expected, ask him which play or whether or not he'd enjoyed it, so he continued on, told her all about it, a Noel Coward play.

  She didn't interrupt but listened intently, although, when he was through, she told him she adored the play, had seen it twice. "I get fidgety at plays," she confided.

  "So do I." He laughed.

  "Thank goodness for intermissions. Shall I pour for you?" She assumed control of his teapot and, while she was at it, signaled for a fresh one and had the waiter move her table closer to Phillip's.

  "That's better," she said, settling. "Much better." Her voice had a throaty quality to it that, along with her British stretching and broadening of vowels, captivated Phillip. Especially so when she said who she was: Lady Irith Ward-Lambdon. She taught him how to correctly pronounce her given name. "Like the flower, iris, only with a lisp."

  When he told his name she said it aloud twice as though she were tasting it. It sounded different, better said by her, Phillip thought.

  They talked for another two hours. Phillip commented lightly on Lord Nelson's column in Trafalgar Square, wondered if Nelson had been such a hero why he'd been put way up there where no one could really see him.

  Lady Irith thought that a very good point.

  Phillip told her how close he'd come to being smacked dead by a truck on Kensington High Street.

  Lady Irith cautioned him to be careful, very careful, as though his safety truly meant something to her.

  Her nail enamel and lipstick matched, Phillip noticed.

  Enough tea, enough of the lounge.

  Offhand, she suggested, "Why don't you show me to my rooms?"

  Her rooms were on one of the highest floors, a large suite. She invited him in. First thing, she removed her hat, fussed her hair neat in the mirror. They sat opposite one another, and although Phillip tried to
make conversation she apparently was all talked out. Except for her eyes. He almost believed he could hear her eyes but he wasn't sure enough. She kept them right on him. He wasn't made to feel uncomfortable; however, he couldn't give it right back at her, eyes to eyes, had to glance away. He thought, if anything, he would have to go over to her.

  At that moment she thought how attractive this young man was. Hair dark as her own, slate-blue eyes. Not a pretty boy, fortunately—his were strong good looks, virile. She purposely hadn't asked his age, not to draw attention to that. She'd decided on seventeen, possibly only sixteen. No matter, he wouldn't bolt.

  Lady Irith got up, smiled at him, and left for the bedroom. Her dress was wrinkled in the back from so much sitting, Phillip noticed.

  He remained where he was for two extremely long minutes and then went in.

  She wasn't undressed or anything, just standing there waiting for him. She put out her arms and he went into them, and they held pressed for a while and he breathed the fragrance of her expensive powder on the fine skin of her neck. She was careful with her mouth, skimmed it slowly across his cheek to come upon his with gentle and reassuring hunger. Her hands, both of them, moved down and she withdrew herself from against him enough to find him down there. She was pleased that he was already so hard. It confirmed her.

  Phillip was not the first much younger man for Lady Irith. He was her second. The first had occurred under somewhat similar circumstances at the Hotel Hermitage in Monte Carlo. That time the idea of the perversity of what she had dared do was more exciting than what she'd actually done. That, she felt, would not be so with Phillip. There was no fumbling or clumsiness to him; his hands, his fingers, were confident while they traveled her. He stroked and respected her skin as though it were delicate fabric and helped himself with tender assertion to whatever part of her he wanted. She had anticipated his lovemaking would be vigorous. The quality of it, however, so astonished her that it was a while before she stopped externalizing and gave entirely into it.

  Lady Irith's body was a ripened woman's body. The first for Phillip. Unlike those intermediate merely promising shapes he had experienced. There was an insistence rather than defensiveness to her wanting. When he was above her and in her she drew her legs up so the backs of her calves were against his shoulders to have as much of him as possible. She rolled over and haunched up to have even more from behind. She made little animal whines that sounded somewhat painful, and when she had adequate breath she described aloud what he was doing to her.

  After the first comings she went into the bathroom for only a short while and returned looking as fresh as though nothing had happened. Brought a warm wet washcloth and towel and tended to him. She plumped and piled the pillows caringly. He lay back on them. She lay front down across the foot of the bed, the upper part of her supported by her elbows, her forearms and hands flat on the sheet.

  "What a marvelous lover you are," she declared.

  "So are you," he told her, as though he'd had many comparisons.

  "Who taught you to love like that?"

  "No one." Certainly he hadn't learned much those two times Danny had led him to the Upper East Side apartments of girls who were paid for it.

  "You're just blessed, is that it?" Lady Irith grinned.

  "Could be."

  Positioned sphinxlike as she was and with her eyes darkly made up, she reminded Phillip of a painting by Dante Gabriel Rossetti he had seen at the Tate. A femme fatale, irresistible and evil, who would take pleasure from depletion.

  For the rest of the trip Phillip saw very little of London. Whenever his father inquired about how he'd spent the day he was prepared with places and descriptions borrowed off the pages of a tourist guidebook. He disliked having to fib.

  Phillip gained some useful insights from his brief, fiery entanglement with Lady Irith. He learned that women were not really so physically mysterious, and that, with them, he should always have the confidence to rely on tenderness. They were so easy to please when they wanted to be. He also learned from a phone call Lady Irith made—while bare in bed with him—to her husband in Sussex, sweetly informing him that she'd decided to do a few more days' shopping in town. "Might as well get what I need while I'm at it," were her exact words Phillip would remember.

  That fall Phillip began at New York University. Every weekday morning he subwayed downtown to his first class, and often he felt he got more from that ride and those making it than from the droning lectures he had to endure. He had difficulty deciding on a major study. He thought he'd head into law until he had a dull talk with a couple of bored lawyers. He finally settled on business and that turned out badly. He found the courses uninspiring. Time Management, Effective Supervision, and Marketing Plans were unrealistic and overcomplicated. He'd already been exposed, too influenced by the simpler honor-of-word no-cash-register 47th Street way of doing business. Nevertheless, he persevered, received his B.B.A. degree, and that was that. He went right to work full-time at Springer & Springer.

  Edwin was relieved. His shaping had paid off. Careful not to spoil, he started Phillip out with more responsibility than salary.

  Meanwhile, Phillip's older brother Norman was practicing medicine in Washington, DC. Norman had determined his direction early and never swerved from it. He had taken his premed at Cornell and graduated at a precocious eighteen; he also got his M.D. there with highest honors. He interned spectacularly at Mass. General, became a favored assistant to the Head of Cardiology. To add extra icing to his already impressive credentials he spent two years at the Center for Cardiac Care in Lyons, France, reputed to be the most advanced clinic of its kind in the world.

  Dr. Norman B. Springer.

  Washington was quick to take him to its most important hearts. Their anginas and hypertensions and infarcts became his charge. All the better that he was young: He was up-to-the-minute in knowledge. Good that his fees were high: It expressed self-confidence and kept him exclusive. A medium-high-up in the State Department was first to find him, and from then on he was a badly kept top secret.

  "The Ambassador just got back from two bad weeks in Cairo. He's feeling shaky and his eyes look like pissholes. We're worried. Can you fit him in this afternoon? Doesn't matter how late."

  Norman rarely got up to New York except for the big holidays, and he even had to miss some of those. He phoned often, talked to his parents and brother, asked about Janet, became more of a voice than a person. "If you need me for any reason I'm here," he would say long distance and Phillip would hold back from saying, "Exactly."

  One Christmas visit he and Phillip went out together for a drink. Phillip wanted to go to a casual neighborhood place where they could talk easily and recoup some of their relationship. Norman chose the Oak Bar at the Plaza.

  The Oak Bar was jammed with serious drinking well-offs. Cigar smoke and babble. Phillip suggested they go someplace else. Norman parried with the excuse that they'd already checked their coats. He seemed in his element, the way he apologized as he forged roughly through the crowd, aggressively wedged into and widened a space at the bar, demanded a pair of Dewar's on the rocks as though he'd been long slighted.

  They touched glasses.

  Norman said a perfunctory "cheers" and took a gulp.

  They had thought they'd have a lot to talk about, but now they didn't know where to start. Actually they didn't have much in common, not even in their looks. Norman was shorter, about five-eight. His upper body was too chunky for his legs. The gray in his hair and the natural slackness of his mouth added years to him. On the starting line of going to jowls, was the impression he gave. The one obvious resemblance between these brothers was their eyes, of an identical shape and slate-blue shade.

  "You look tired," Phillip said.

  "Thanks."

  "Been going with anyone?"

  "Not seriously. No time for it. You?"

  Phillip nodded. "You don't know her." He waved away a puff of cigar smoke that had floated into his face. "You know,
you ought to at least be hving with someone, have her take care of you."

  "I've got a housekeeper," Norman said with a tinge of insinuation in case Phillip let it go at that.

  "I hope she's blond, Swedish, and grateful."

  "Gray, Irish, and dependable," Norman admitted.

  Phillip imagined what Norman's routine was like, thought he probably ate and fucked on the run, looked after everyone's heart but his own. Numerous times over the years he'd envied Norman's independence, Norman's having a profession that, no doubt, evoked more response than was possible from his own mute stones.

  But not any more.

  The way he now saw it Norman was the less fortunate, leading a sacrificial existence. Phillip wished there was some way he could come right out and express his empathy without the chance of its being taken as belittling.

  "I've got a shot at the White House," Norman said.

  "You're going to make an attempt on the President's life?"

  "You might put it that way—but don't!" He glanced around. "Not in a place like this. Full of spooks."

  "Sorry."

  "What I meant was I might have the President as a patient. Nothing definite yet, but there have been overtures."

  "How do you know?"

  "His people have been checking, stirring up my background, authenticating it. Making sure I'm really who I am. Besides, the Secretary of State tipped me off on it and he's not the mind-fucking sort."

  "I hope it works out."

  "It could mean a lot."

  Norman was obviously delighted with the prospect and Phillip was proud of him, but they kept it light.

  "I thought you didn't make house calls," Phillip quipped.

  "Only White House calls."

  "Anyway, congratulations. I hope it works out." Phillip extended his hand.

  "It's too early yet. Don't want to jinx it." Norman declined the handshake and ordered another round of Dewar's. "Sorry I didn't get up to see Janet this time," he said. "For sure next time."