Stone 588

by Gerald A. Browne

  During the Righting of Libby's hands the circulation of blood through the arteries and veins of her arms was markedly increased. At the same time the large multinuclear cells known as osteoclasts proliferated in the areas of her hands. They were being asked to work thousands of times more swiftly than they normally did in disintegrating and absorbing the bony buildup.

  The osteoclasts got busy. The interfering bone tissue in and around each joint was broken down into minute particles. Like conveying vessels, the osteoclasts carried the particles off into Libby's bloodstream to be processed as waste material.

  Within an hour the spacings between the joints were clear.

  Next came a supply of chondrogen, the substance that is the basis for cartilage. It was needed for the making of fresh cartilage cells.

  The cells were made.

  They accumulated rapidly, formed into ranks like eager soldiers, and created the fibrous tissue that was only one twenty-four-thousandth of an inch thick. The tissue attached itself properly from bone to bone across the joint.

  Libby's ligaments, in turn, were similarly repaired, their fibers rearranged so they were parallel or interlaced as they should have been. Pliancy and flexibility returned, and her ligaments were once again a healthy, shiny, silver-ish color.

  It was time then for white tissue cells composed of the protein collagen to bundle together. They arranged their four-sided shapes into single-file rows. Each cell was connected to the next by a cementing substance. Thus bonded, they became the delicate synovial membrane that wrapped each joint like a well-sealed package.

  As soon as the joints were perfectly sealed, the membranes began their secreting of the synovial fluid that diminished friction, served as a permanent lubricant, and reestablished normal articulation within Libby's joints.

  Throughout the Righting, Libby experienced no sensations. There might have been some, but sleep was her anesthesia. She slept an hour longer than she'd intended.

  Now at the dinner table Libby was saying, "Jacqueline de Ribes . . . there's a noble nose for you. And how noble of her to go around profiling it as she does. Wouldn't you agree?" She put the question to Springer.

  "Everything you say is true," he told her.

  Libby placed her hand lightly on his shoulder. "Am I being too much of a bore?"

  He got a whiff of her perfume, decided if she could charm he could charm. He smiled his best smile. "That's a very effective perfume you're wearing."

  "I'm pleased that you like it." She offered him the inside of her wrist for a sniff. "Most people don't appreciate subtle qualities. Jean Paul Guerlain personally supplies me with this fragrance."

  "It has an oriental topnote."

  "My, you do have a keen nose." Libby's insinuation was slight but unmissable. "In fact," she explained to everyone, "this particular perfume was the runner-up when Aime Guerlain was creating Jicky in 1889. Can you imagine?"

  "What's it called?" Townsend asked.

  "It's mine," Libby replied. "Literally. Comes with a plain, tastefully understated label with m-i-n-e handprinted on it."

  "Guerlain created a perfume especially for Sarah Bernhardt," Springer said. It was something he'd read and happened to recall now for ammunition.

  Libby put on a pout. "I know that's true, but how could you steal my thunder like that?"

  A contrite shrug from Springer.

  "Pas grave. " Libby smiled. Her hands were palms down on the table's edge, flanking her plate. Springer watched her fingers extend and retract, her perfectly shaped and buffed nails lightly scratching the linen cloth. He'd seen cats do that and had always thought they were reaffirming their ability to claw.

  The second course was served.

  A mousse aux deux poissons.

  And then the third, to freshen the palate.

  Sorbet de citron vert d I'Armagnac.

  During these courses Libby remained at the helm of the conversation, steering it in various directions and always making sure Springer was on deck.

  "I suppose in your business there's a great deal of thievery."

  "It happens," Springer told her.

  Townsend concurred.

  "Nothing I detest more than a thief," Libby said, hardening her eyes. She ignored Audrey, who evidently did not entirely trust the fish mousse and was holding her pendulum above it. "I hope Dante is right about thieves, don't you?" Libby asked Springer.

  "Right," he said.

  "In Dante's hell thieves have no sense of self, so they're constantly changing from humans to beasts."

  Springer thought that sounded like everyday life.

  "People who steal try to make up for their lack of identity with things that belong to others." Libby paused for a nibble of mousse. Her tongue flicked at the underside of her fork. "A thief has nothing of his own. No matter how much he manages to steal he remains impoverished."

  Wintersgill cleared his throat and contributed. "That, of course, is predicated on the belief that what we own helps us realize what we are."

  "I believe," Townsend said, "only someone with a superior sense of self can own precious things without those things owning the person." He raised his chin in Libby's direction as though she exemplified this.

  Springer thought how well suited the moment was for a holdup.

  The main course.

  Noisettes de veau aux concombres et morilles. Much was made over the wine that came with it. And justifiably so. It was a Chateau d'Yquem, vintage 1858. "A favorite of Czar Alexander the Second and all the Romanovs," Libby informed them. She had, she said, come onto it in the 1950s when a White Russian emigre in Paris had reluctantly agreed to sell her two dozen cases that had been miraculously saved from the ravages of the revolution. While other White Russians fled with their gold pieces and jewels, this foresightful fellow had made off with the best of the Czar's wine cellar. "It's now worth four thousand a bottle," Libby said, lifting her glass in tribute to its contents.

  Springer was dubious about the White Russian's sales pitch. He couldn't imagine anyone running for his life encumbered by such a burden. Most likely he'd only saved the labels. Springer took a sip. It was by far the finest wine that had ever passed over his tongue. It tasted like four thousand a bottle. This was the life. A hundred dollars a swallow. He glanced at Ernestine. She was making the best of it, had already emptied her glass and was being served a refill. He winked at her. She nearly smiled.

  Soon enough the excellent food and, even more, the wine reached Springer. By the time he'd finished off two portions of the Soufflee au Calvados that was dessert he was feeling thoroughly convivial, viewing Libby in a more favorable light and not resenting Townsend so much.

  Libby announced they'd take coffee in the small library.

  That room with all its agreeable boiserie and leather bindings awaited them. The down-filled cushions on the three sofas were plumped high and smooth. The lighting was to everyone's advantage. As soon as they were all seated espresso was served, accompanied by a very fine decanted cognac. A silver tray layered with a linen doily held precise lines of chocolate truffles.

  Audrey practically attacked those.

  "Do try one. Springer," Libby urged. She'd dispensed with the Mr. many words ago.

  Springer popped one in his mouth. At once the chocolate began melting and his tongue involuntarily curled greedily around it.

  Libby remarked that the truffles were made for her by a chocolatiere in Vienna whose identity she kept as confidential as her sins.

  "Did you know," Audrey said, "that one of the things in chocolate is . . ." — she paused to get the syllables in order—"phen-yl-thy-la-mine . . . which in the brain is connected with the emotion of loving?"

  "Lovemaking?" Libby asked.

  "Can there be one without the other?" Audrey said archly.

  "That being the case ..." Libby took up three truffles. She ate one and with a flourish extended one to Ernestine, whose mouth opened as though remotely controlled. Before Ernestine could swallow Libby fed
her the third truffle and gave her right cheek a couple of good girl pats.

  Townsend and Wintersgill were restrainedly amused.

  There was a lapse in the conversation.

  Into it Libby put: "Springer has a most unusual stone. Perhaps with a little persuasion he'll show it to us."

  "What kind of stone?"

  "You'll see," Libby promised.

  As far as Springer was concerned, there was no reason to be secretive about the stone. His only concern was what ridiculing comments Townsend might make. The man's fingers had held so many of the world's finest famous diamonds.

  Fuck Townsend. Springer gestured to Audrey and she took the stone from her carry-all. She placed it next to Libby's espresso cup on the large glass table. Libby picked it up and handed it to Wintersgill. He looked at it briefly, grunted, and deferred to Townsend, who held the stone up to the light, squinted, and said what he saw: "Dirty diamond."

  "What's so unusual about it?" Wintersgill inquired.

  The lump of melting truffle in Audrey's cheek was made more pronounced by her smug smile.

  Springer sighed and sipped cognac. This was all old ground to him.

  Libby allowed some silence for emphasis before she replied, "It heals."

  "What do you mean, heals?"

  "Exactly that," said Libby.

  Townsend scoffed. He glanced at the stone again. "What are you trying to pull off, another crazy thing like those copper bracelets? Remember, back a way how everyone believed wearing a copper bracelet would ward off rheumatism and all sorts of problems? Is that what you're trying to get going?" Townsend's tone shaded Springer as a small-time promoter.

  Libby silenced Townsend by holding up her hand. She held up her other hand and displayed them both, gracefully. "It heals," she contended. She backed up her statement by relating in detail what had happened: her two-hour nap with the stone inside her sleeping glove, her delight when she awakened to find her hands rectified.

  Wintersgill had become so used to making it a point not to notice Libby's hands that now he found it difficult to remember them as they'd been. They certainly weren't unsightly now, so some sort of transformation must have occurred.

  Townsend had been more observant. He'd noticed the change in her hands right off, at the start of dinner. Those two large diamond rings had drawn his attention to them, of course. He had sold numerous expensive rings to Libby in the past before her hands became ugly. None since. In certain ways, Townsend believed, he knew Libby better than anyone else. He had developed a special sense about her, a sort of barometer that measured her receptivity, told him when her wants outweighed her resistance. It made no difference what had caused the change in her hands. Perhaps next week or next month they would be uglier than ever. What did matter was that this dirty diamond had his premier client completely convinced. He doubted that Springer had the good business sense to realize the advantage. "Interesting," Townsend commented. He placed the stone on the table, told Springer, "Why don't you drop around tomorrow and we'fl talk about it."

  Audrey picked up the stone, sealed it in its plastic envelope, and shoved it into Springer's jacket pocket, 'it's not for sale," she said.

  "Would you care for a cigar?" Libby asked Springer, signaling a servant before he'd had a chance to reply. Offered in a sterling replica of a cigar box were Monte Cristo Habanas, the finest from Cuba by way of London. They smelled better unlighted, was Springer's opinion, as he, Wintersgill, and Townsend puffed up individual clouds.

  The conversation hopped along from a recent auction of old masters at Sotheby's to what we had to do to recapture the America's Cup to the truth behind a recent Palm Beach Murder. Ernestine in her Prussian way was telling a joke that to be funny required the word cunt to be said. Libby came to her rescue.

  "It's been ages since I've bought a piece of jewelry."

  "Last week," Audrey quipped.

  "I mean an important piece." Libby frowned. "I've never owned an original piece that was truly important."

  Springer would have bet against that.

  "Always it's some necklace that once belonged to Empress Marie-Louise or a bracelet that was made for Catherine the Great," Libby complained.

  Townsend studied her for a moment, sat back confidently.

  "What I want is a piece that I'll be remembered for, one that someday a few hundred years from now someone will buy knowing it was once mine." Libby looked to Audrey for concurrence. "That's a reasonable desire, isn't it?"

  A why-not? shrug from Audrey.

  "That's what I want and that's what I shall have," Libby decided.

  "Describe the piece you have in mind," Townsend suggested, assuming he would be the source.

  After a thought Libby said, "A necklace. Contemporary, simple. The sort of thing Bulgari might do except with diamonds only. I can't bear what so many jewelers are doing with semiprecious stones these days—with topaz and tourmaline and the like, setting them large as goose eggs as though that somehow compensates for their commonness." She turned to Springer. "Don't you agree?"

  He agreed.

  Libby asked him, "Could you find for me perhaps ten or a dozen diamonds that are perfectly matched?"

  "What size?"

  "Say, twenty-five carats each."

  Springer hid the expression he thought must surely be on his face with his brandy glass. A large sip put his stomach back where it belonged. His eyes avoided Townsend.

  "D color," Libby stipulated, "and flawless inside and out."

  "It'll take some looking to come up with perfectly matched stones of that quality and size," Springer said.

  "He'll find them," Audrey quickly assured her.

  "How much would you be willing to spend for this necklace?" Springer asked.

  "Ten to fifteen million. How does that sound?"

  "About right," Springer said nonchalantly.

  "You, Springer, will supply the diamonds, and you, Townsend, will make the piece." Libby looked to Townsend for agreement.

  He managed a believable smile and said, "No problem."

  Springer knew Libby was throwing Townsend a bone. Most of the profit would be in the diamonds, the headaches would be in the design and the mounting.

  "No objections from the Foundation, I take it," Libby said to Wintersgill, who bulldogged his lips to convey it was a minor matter and shook his head no.

  Springer was already wondering how he was going to finance such an order. He didn't have that kind of capital or credit. He was no Townsend.

  As though reading his concern Libby told him, "Although this is more or less in the family and trust is not a question, to help smooth the way Wintersgill will arrange with one of our banks for a letter of credit for up to fifteen million. You may draw from it as you need."

  Wintersgill said he would take care of that tomorrow. He jotted it down on a little pad that he took from his inside jacket pocket, as though fifteen-million-dollar expenditures were so commonplace they required such reminding.

  Springer thanked Libby.

  "No," she said, holding up her hands, admiring them and smiling softly. "Thank you."

  Springer and Audrey said their good nights and departed for the city at eleven thirty.

  Townsend left shortly thereafter. He left alone.

  As soon as Townsend was gone, Libby and Wintersgill went upstairs.

  The young woman, Ernestine, did exactly as she'd been instructed. She remained in the ground floor reception for fifteen minutes before going up, to that extent hyphenating the evening and making this part of it seem more voluntary.

  Ernestine's shoes made subtle gritty sounds on the stairs. She'd been told not to try to be quiet; in fact, to exaggerate each step. So, when she reached the upper landing and proceeded along it, the clicking of her high heels was cadent, the stride of a woman not to be denied her destination. All the way down the landing to the wide hallway of a wing: she counted off four doors on the left.

  She entered.

  The room was larg
e, with a high ceiling, done romantically in pale brocades and gilt. It was strategically lighted so there would be no hard edges or obvious realities: a flattering magenta tint. The bed had no spread or top sheet on it. Its pale linen covering was fitted, stretched so tight it appeared a surface incapable of being disturbed.

  Wintersgill was on the far side of the bed. He was nude, standing stock still. Ernestine did not acknowledge him. Her eyes gave him no more than they gave the furnishings. She moved apparently aimlessly about the room, though actually it was a bit choreographed. Pausing to study a Degas, running her hand over the flower heads carved on the crest of the backrest of a Louis Quinze fauteuil, touching, as though mildly interested in, the hard intricate ormulu mount on the corner of a commode.

  She had been told not to hurry. To allow the setting to accept her. She lighted a cigarette and sat at a mirrored dressing table. Studied her reflection, was successful as she could be in conveying the impression that she truly appreciated herself. The minuscule gold flecks on her eyelids shimmered.

  A nearly imperceptible ringing sound was heard. It faded.

  Ernestine undressed. As though she were alone and impatient to be free of her clothes, she took off everything except her shoes. She had a long body, thin but not unsubstantial. Only the studs of her hipbones were a bit too pronounced. Her navel looked like a vertical knife puncture. Her breasts were circular rises not full enough for even slight pendancy. Aroused-looking nipples.

  She stood with most of her weight on one leg, making her buttocks asymmetrical, a widened space between her thighs. As though mindless of what her hands were doing she reached down and tugged at her pubic hair, left and right of herself. It seemed a secondary consideration that she went over to Wintersgill.

  She stood off from him a way and looked him up and down, walked around him, examined him. He remained unmoved. It was up to her how she would arouse him. She would not, she told herself, get caught up in it. No matter what. She cared nothing for this man. He was to her as much of an object as he was pretending to be. The money when it was over was the only thing. She would keep the money in mind when she did anything.