CHAPTER SIX, MANHATTAN, LATE SPRING 1994: SHOPPING
Oscar and Olivia spent the next morning in silence, tending to the business of the Mercedes, then to the business of getting her ready to leave. Oscar drove her to a local car rental. The young woman at the counter, tightly dressed and overwrought and waiting to be discovered, although for what Olivia couldn’t tell, processed her sullenly. Her voice ratcheted up and down as she went through the intricacies of the one-way/drop-off contract. Then there were keys, then the car, then the final strong embrace and turning-away, and six hours of thoughts of what to do in New York. Things to buy. Knitting materials. Perfume. Expensive jewelry to be sold in Russia for ready cash when needed. And anything else that might strike her as useful in a new life. She noticed neither the lushness of central Pennsylvania nor the squalor of New Jersey’s section of the Rust Belt. Her question to America, Can you give me a reason to stay? had been answered. Nor did she expect to find any reasons in the city that, like the capital, was engaged in the ruination of the nation.
She drove the final hour of her trip in somnolent blankness. As she entered the Lincoln Tunnel to Manhattan, she thought of other trips, excursions when the tunnel’s foul enclosure promised an explosion of life and perhaps of exaltation at the other end. Now it led only to poseurs and profiteers. She navigated the West Side skillfully and found her hotel, a quietly luxurious building on Central Park South. She checked in without incident, then collapsed into dreamless sleep.
The next day, too much in pain to walk, she drove down Fifth Avenue in order to make the mistresses of some Russian Mafiosi very happy.
What she saw at Bulgari and Cartier stunned her, took her breath away. She bought a couple small items and tucked them into her purse. But it was at Tiffany’s, where an older gentleman behind a counter, well-dressed but in no way fashionable, beckoned quite boldly to her, that she fell in love. He did not seem to want to sell her anything. He did not seem to want much of anything, except perhaps to suggest that she might be happier in some other store. But he did not seem in any way discourteous or malign.
“So is it that obvious that I don’t really belong here?” she asked in mild challenge.
“You never can tell,” he said, his brown eyes twinkling warmly. His elegant gesture let him take her in discreetly, her comfortable black loafers, the trim black tee shirt and neat, dark jeans, windblown hair free of all restraint, or even hairspray. The features of her face, fine and slightly worn, that dispensed with all makeup but a little rose lipstick. The fitted silk jacket that showed off her long, strong waist. No pistol to hide anymore.
“Very attractive,” the gentleman answered, “but not at all done here.”
“I made the jacket myself.”
“Also not done here. Not very much. People prefer that which is for sale, as though beauty followed price. If you will forgive me for saying so, the work on your face was very good, for anywhere but here. In New York, the surgeons would at least try to erase those scars.”
“If I told you I wouldn’t want to lose them, would you understand?”
His response was to reach into the display case and offer her an iris. Not the cut flower. A confection of gold, the metal engraved to show the carefully enameled veins, paved with tiny, flawlessly cut and color-graduated gemstones: amethysts for the petals, citrines for the beard, tsavorite garnets for the leaves and stem. He gave her a jeweler’s loupe to examine the work and she had the sense that he expected a knowing response, if only the knowledge of what it took to craft such an item.
“Did you make this piece?” she asked, realizing what she’d already realized unconsciously. This man was no mere sales clerk.
“Yes,” he replied, his voice acknowledging to himself that her question contained far more than idle curiosity. Nor was it prelude to some gushy, vacuous compliment. That mattered, too.
“And others?” He smiled happily and nodded. “I’m an engineer,” she said, knowing that he would know why she mentioned it.
“Do you make things?”
Her response came from her heart. “When they let me.”
He expressed his sympathy with an offer that creators understood. “Come back to my workbench and I’ll show you what I’m making now.”
“I would like that very much.”
The piece in progress was a collar of diamonds, black onyx, golden and golden-brown topaz, orange and red-orange mandarin garnets, reddish brown citrines, and brilliantly sparkling brown zircon, the plumage of a fantastic hawk designed so that the wings would embrace and frame a woman’s collarbones. It was hinged to lie perfectly smooth, just below the line of bone. There was a plaster cast of a woman’s neckline for a model.
“She is also a strong woman,” the jeweler said. “Ambivalent about that, not pleased to show it. But her husband thinks her neck and shoulders are very erotic and beautiful. He is right. So we, he and I, thought to call attention to that which troubles the lady and flatter it.”
“I don’t think that I have ever seen jewelry in these colors.”
“You’re right, it’s very rare. Jet was sometimes used in ladies’ jewelry, especially mourning jewelry of the Victorian era. Onyx and carnelian were sometimes used together in Art Deco jewelry. Still, these days, the taste is for colder colors, more brilliant, so we do most of our work with those colors. But this is a woman who looks best in warm colors. She is not conventionally pretty, very hawk-faced, with that sort of intelligence. Rather than try to hide her character, her husband thought he should celebrate it. In a few weeks, they will have been together forty years.”
“Does she know about this?”
He smiled and shook his head. “Not at all. Her husband hired a sculptor to cast her, so she may be able to make some guesses. But not this.”
“It is utterly magnificent.”
“And that is the word for her.”
And for you, Olivia thought. She faced him, a master jeweler and a happy man, in his conservative suit of good wool, impeccably tailored and cared for, with his neat, clean hands, the nails very short, the skin scarred by old cuts. She smiled. Sharing his pleasure, she let him show her the rest of his works in progress. “When I get tired of working on one,” he explained, “I work on another. It keeps me fresher.”
“Do you always let people see your unfinished work?”
He shook his head. “No, only people who are genuinely interested. Over the years, I’ve developed almost a sixth sense as to who is serious and knowing, who not. Whether or not they are buying is, at least right then, less important. Many come back later, as they can. Truly, though, most people don’t ask so many questions about technique, materials, and tools. Nor would they understand my answers. So I don’t often give them. May I ask what kind of engineering you do?”
It was her turn to smile and shake her head.
He understood. He looked at his watch. “As a senior master craftsman, I am permitted latitudes of various kinds. It is eleven, which for me is more than midday. I get here at six. Let us have a glass of champagne and some fruit, and we will discuss ways and means regarding any purchases you might care to make. Today or,” he smiled as if he knew that there was more travel in her future, and that she was no tourist, and that he’d dealt with such persons before and from time to time helped those he respected, “whenever.”
She blinked. “I suppose you can tell those who are serious from those who are not.”
“I can. But there is more than that. Seriousness about the creation is common enough. Seriousness about creation—that is different. Very few people are really interested in my craft. In my world, most people are interested in beauty as status. A few are interested in beauty for itself, and not the effortless kind. Many people purchase my products. Very few are interested in my skills.”
“I am. But I haven’t much time, unfortunately.”
“Just passing through?”
“Something like that. To be direct, I would like the iris.”
“I know. And I bel
ieve several other pieces as well. There is nothing wrong about wanting beauty for its own sake. Or as a financial investment, so long as you understand that as a financial investment, you would do far better to simply buy gold bullion or,” he paused, “the new kinds of securities on offer these days. Derivatives, I believe they’re called, although from what they derive, I know not.”
“I prefer that which derives from your skill.”
“I can argue with neither your logic nor your compliment, Madame.” He wrote a figure down for her. “This is acceptable?”
“I thought Tiffany was prix fixe.”
“When you are dealing with work and sums like this, it is common to ask us to sharpen our pencil. If you would tell me something, I will do your negotiating for you. With whom do you bank?”
“Bank of America.”
“Very easy. They have a branch near here, of course.”
“If you give me directions—“
He waved his hand dismissively. “You will do nothing of the sort. We work with all the banks. You will make a phone call and tell them what you want, and they will send a courier here. This is New York, my dear, and even by city standards, you are spending a significant sum. Demand to be treated accordingly.”
The man’s idea of sharpening his pencil was to add a pair of earrings, the gold also worked into long, stylized plumes, substantial as bones, set with diamonds, sapphires and more green garnets, crowned with the most translucent and luminous moonstones. He recomputed the bill so that the bottom line was unchanged
“We can courier these to your hotel, if you like. But if you are going to be out and about, these purchases would be better in a safe, just in case. You will get tracking forms and signatures and also an insurance valuation and we will arrange insurance for you. This is a secure process.” He smiled. “We do this, too, you know.”
“I should by now.”
“Where else are you going?”
“A yarn shop. A perfume shop. Perhaps…”
“Perhaps where you are going, such treasures are not so readily available as here.”
“Yes.”
“May I ask where?”
“A place that needs me.”
“Are you not needed here?”
“No,” she answered firmly. “I am not.”
The man refilled their glasses and passed her a small plate of fruit and cheese and crackers.
She touched the rim of her glass to his. “To the first brave souls who suspected that stinking fruit and rotting grain could produce such wonderful drinks. My name is Olivia.”
“George. I’m sure you have a busy day ahead of you. Shall we tend to the transaction?”