An Image of Death (20 page)

“The problem is that the senior partners still think technology is just a word processor and spread sheet,” one of them said. “But they don’t
have
to go to the law library. They send associates like me.” She speared a piece of cheese Danish.

“Did you see Jennifer yesterday?” The other woman looked off to the side. “She doesn’t look so good.”

“And IP, the one department you’d think would embrace it, isn’t out front on the new system.” The first woman looked off to the side, too, as if a third, unseen person were at the table. “You know what I think? Everyone’s afraid to confront the Luddites. Nobody wants to upset the apple cart.”

“She’s lost weight, and she looked pale. I’m worried about her.”

I turned back to the cash register, wondering if either woman would remember this moment a month, a year, a decade from now. What they were drinking, what they were wearing, what they said—or didn’t say—to each other. Was that the way David and I had been communicating?

He was in the shower by the time I got back, so Willie and I set out breakfast in the dining room on a mahogany table. I took a blueberry muffin, cut it in half, and sat down opposite a large bay window with a view of the garden. Willie chose a raspberry scone and bit into it eagerly. It was Saturday, but he was wearing a crisp white shirt, tie, and dark pants. I pictured him in Antwerp on a weekend morning, strolling down the street, an umbrella in one hand, a bag of pastries in the other, eager to return home and devour his treat.

“How did you get started in diamonds?” I asked around a mouthful of muffin.

“You like them?”

“Who doesn’t?”

“That’s sure.” He brushed crumbs of scone off his face. “A diamond is art. Better than Rubens. Even Van Gogh.” He chuckled. “When I leave Freiburg, I take with me my mother’s diamond necklace. Is small stone, barely one carat. But I keep with me.”

“Your mother’s necklace?” I imagined how the memory of his mother, embodied in that stone, kept him alive through the dark days of the war. How that necklace, and who it belonged to, influenced his choice of career. How, even now, he cherished it, keeping it in a special place. “What happened to it?”

“I trade for a chicken in Belgium.”

So much for my imagination.

“
Nein
.” He held up a finger. “Do not
fuehl schlecht
. Feel bad. When I get to Jewish quarter in Antwerp, I meet diamond cutter. Marcel Berken. He needs help caring for equipment. I remember my mother’s diamond. I think maybe it is way to
ehre mein mutter
. Honor her memory. So I work for him. No money. Just food. But I learn how to set bench. Clean tang and dop. Oil wheel with diamond dust.”

“He’s the one who taught you how to polish diamonds?”

“For six months, I just watch. Is important. With diamonds, one wrong cut, stone is—kaput.” He made a brushing aside gesture with his fingers.

“Ruined.”

“
Ja
. Ruined.”

David came into the dining room, his hair still damp. When I passed him the plate of pastries, he flashed me a warm smile. I had been overreacting last night. He’d been stressed out. My doubts melted away. Tonight would be different.

“I learn slow,” Willie went on. “The first diamond I cut, I make like my mother’s
halskette—
necklace. Maybe she see it. I think she do.” He paused. “After ten years, Marcel tell me is time to open my own shop. ‘You are good, Willie’ he say. ‘You see
diamanten
. Diamonds.”

“See the diamond?”

“You take yellow stone. Or brown. Maybe greasy.
Haesslich.
Ugly. Worse than quartz in sunlight. But you know inside is—how you say….”

“You see the possibilities?”

“
Ja
. Possibilities. It may be brilliant. Or princess. Maybe something else. But always it brings out inner
licht
. Light.”

“I wouldn’t know a rough diamond if I held one in my hand,” I said. “What happened to the diamond you cut in honor of your mother?”

He patted his shirt pocket. “I have it still. I wait to give it to right person.” He stole a look at David. A flush crept up David’s neck. Willie finished his scone and pushed his plate away. “But enough from old man.
Was ist deine arbeit?
What work you do, Ellie?”

“I’m a filmmaker.”

David translated. “
Direktor
. Film.”

Recognition lit Willie’s eyes. “Steven Spielberg,
yah
?
ET
…
Star Wars?”

Star Wars
was Lucas, but I didn’t object. “Not exactly. I produce industrials. Corporate videos.”

He canted his head.

“Let’s say one of the diamond schools in Antwerp wants to make a video about diamond cutting. Or De Beers wanted to showcase some of their better quality stones. They might hire me to make that video.”

Again David translated. “
Industriewerbung.
”

“I see. This is
gut?”

“It’s a living.” Except when someone drops off a tape that shows a woman being murdered. “Oh.” I turned to David. “I haven’t had a chance to tell you. Officer Davis thinks they found the location where the tape of the woman was shot.” I filled him in on the Russian dentists’ murders, carefully avoiding any mention of Celestial Bodies.

“
Was ist das?
”

David explained. When he was finished, Willie said something in German. All I heard was
Russisch.

“What did he say? All I could make out was Russian.”

David waved a hand. “It’s not important.”

I remembered my father’s propensity to compare Russian and German Jews, usually to the detriment of the Russians. I’d always thought it was just an American practice.

David looked over, as if he knew what I was thinking. “It’s not what you think. He was just saying he has to be careful with Russians. Especially now.”

“Why is that?”

“That part of the world is in such chaos that people are desperate. They’ll do anything to get by. He says you have to know who you’re dealing with.”

I pushed the half-eaten muffin away. Is that what had happened at home? The dentists were Russians—had they come into contact with other, more desperate Russians, who, for whatever reasons, caused their deaths? Were their murders the result of a robbery gone awry? Or, given what Davis said about the Russian mafia, an extortion or blackmail scheme that backfired?

Or were the dentists’ deaths linked to the tape? Were they killed because they knew the dead woman? Or had something to do with the tape of her murder? And if that was the case, how long would it be before the killers discovered that I had something to do with the tape, too? I shifted uneasily. “I sense you don’t think it’s such a good idea for me to be involved with Russian dentists, cleaning ladies, and women with tattoos.”

“You sense right,” David said solemnly.

I was about to go on when Willie cut in. “
Was ist
‘tattoo’?” He asked. “I not understand.”

I gestured toward David. “Tell him.”

I caught the words
tätowierung
and
fackel
. Tattoo and torch. Willie’s eyes widened. “
Tatowierung?
What look like, this
tätowierung?”

“Here. I’ll show you.” I got up, took a piece of paper off the kitchen counter, and sketched out a rough version of the stars and torch. Willie took it, squinted, and put on his glasses. Then he looked up. “
Sage mir das noch einnal
. Tell me again.”

David began repeating himself in a clumsy mixture of German and English. A moment later Willie held up his palm. “
Genug
.” Enough. David stopped. Willie looked over, his eyes bright. “I know this
tätowierung
. I see it before.”

I stared at Willie, swallowing hard. “You’ve seen it before?”

He pushed himself back from the table, stood up, and went to the bay window. “Two, maybe three years ago, a young girl bring me rough stones.
Gelb. Braun.
Yellow brown. Not bad. Probably from Africa. So I ask, where is
certifikat
?”

I cut in. “Certificate?”

David explained. “Any diamond that’s bought or sold today requires a certificate that tracks their origin from the mine to the trading floor to the jewelry counter.”

“Why?”

“There’s always been illegal trafficking in diamonds, but it’s become particularly fierce recently. Blood diamonds, they call them.”

I frowned. “Isn’t that where rebels smuggle diamonds out of Africa, sell them, and use the proceeds to buy weapons?”

David nodded. “It’s not a large part of the market, but the word is these guys’ll kill anyone who gets in their way. Women, children—if you’re too close to the mines, or the couriers, or the rebels, or any other thing they don’t happen to like.”

“Why don’t they ban the sale of diamonds from those countries?” I asked.

“They’re indistinguishable from legally mined stones. And there are plenty of dealers who don’t ask questions. So they get absorbed.” David’s expression was grim. “You can imagine that doesn’t please De Beers or the other large dealers. So they pushed through a law that requires a certificate on every diamond that’s traded.”

“And this woman didn’t have a certificate.”

Willie explained. “I cannot sell for good price without
certifikat.
So I tell her
nein
.”

“What did she do?”

“She try to convince me to buy. But I say to her something, too.” His eyes twinkled. “I say young woman like her, to find different job. Too many danger. She listen, then put stones back in bag.” Willie pointed to his wrist. “That’s when I see. The same.” He motioned to the sketch of the tattoo. “I ask her what
is das
? She say, it is nothing. Long time ago.”

The nerves under my skin jangled. “Do you know anything about her? Her name? Where she was from?”

He shook his head. “It is long time ago. But she is
jeang
. Young.
Huebsch.
Pretty. Dark hair.” He paused. “And we speak Russian.”

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY-FOUR

Arin arrived back in Yerevan during the summer of ’93 with Tomas, one suitcase, and three boxes. She was surprised at how easy it was to pack up four years of her life. Had her stay in Georgia been that empty, devoid of significance?

She was dismayed to find that conditions in Armenia were just as harsh as in Georgia—in some ways worse. In addition to a floundering economy, a blockade by Azerbaijan and Turkey had disrupted everything. The streets of Yerevan were filled with uncollected garbage; power and heat were in short supply. With no money to pay anyone, there were few jobs. Yet, perversely, store shelves bulged with luxury goods from the west. The problem was no one—at least, no one Arin knew—could afford to buy them.

She moved into her parents’ apartment in a building that ticked and creaked and groaned. Her parents had been apparatchiks, her mother an office administrator, her father a minor party functionary. But her mother was now unemployed, and her father worked only two days a week, most of the time without pay. Her mother grumbled that things had been better under the Communists. Her father said it could be worse. Her mother agreed; the Turks could always invade again. Arin couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen her mother smile.

Except with Tomas. When he giggled, full of delight at what life had to offer, Arin’s mother would sweep him into her arms, nuzzling him and crooning nursery songs Arin vaguely remembered. And when he cooed, his entire body creased in smiles, her father’s eyes twinkled for the first time in years.

Soon her mother began to take over Tomas’ care. At first, Arin was reluctant: She knew Tomas better. As time went on, though, Arin realized Tomas was rekindling the joy in her parents’ lives, bringing laughter and love back into their home. Her mother even started to hum again. Arin’s only regret was that Sacha wasn’t there to see it.

Once she was settled, she started to look for a job. Her first stop was the hospital where she had nursed Sacha. They needed plenty of help, her aunt said, but they couldn’t pay. Maybe in a month or two. Next Arin tried the bank but met with the same response. Then the museums and the factories that had once thrived under the Soviets. Everywhere was the same: they needed workers, they couldn’t pay.

When she couldn’t find work at the outdoor market, Arin began to feel desperate. Rounding a corner back to Republic Square, she came across two women in too much makeup and not enough clothing, lazing against the side of a building. Their hostile stares warned her not to tarry. She was invading their territory. As she edged away from them, an image of Mika flashed into her mind. She pictured her friend in a squalid brothel, staring at the ceiling while men pawed over her.

She skirted the corner with a shiver, coming face-to-face with a couple who, seeing her shiver, crept away from her. They thought she wanted a handout, she realized. That’s how bad it was: people afraid to walk past each other for fear of being prevailed upon. She backtracked to Abovian Street and the shopping district, where she strolled past silk dresses, Hermès bags, and electronic gadgets. Again she wondered who could afford these lavish goods.

A flock of pigeons flew down and alit behind her. Their heads bobbed as they foraged for food. They probably expected her to feed them, but she had nothing to give. She waved her arms, and the pigeons lifted off. She walked on.

At the end of the block she stopped at the window of a jewelry store, its wares seductively arranged on a layer of shiny white satin. In the center was a dazzling necklace firing sparks that seemed to come from within. Eight diamonds nested on an ornament that was strung on a thin gold chain. The stones were perfect round brilliants; fifty-eight facets apiece, each cut in a precise arrangement of bezels, stars, and pavilions. A catch released in her mind. Her grandfather had taught her that, she recalled with a start. Years ago when she was young.