Stone 588 (16 page)

Springer nearly said the Savoy, which was the truth. Instead he told her, "The Connaught."

"But of course," Libby said, "a marvelous hotel, and superb food." She took a sip of her Kir, pursed her lips, blotted them gently with her napkin. "However, Mr. Springer, from now on when you're in London you mustn't endure even the Connaught." She looked to Wintersgill. "We still have that place on Chester Terrace, I presume."

"We do," Wintersgill confirmed.

"Haven't been there in ages," Libby explained. "Not since the Wimbledon before last." She told Springer, "I do hope you'll use the place. It has a lovely large garden. Just give Wintersgill an hour or two notice so the servants aren't caught in their vetements de dessous or whatever."

"Thank you."

"I do work many times in London," Ernestine said, perhaps fishing for a similar open invitation.

"I'm sure you do," Libby said and gave Ernestine's hand two pats that advised patience.

What was Libby up to? Springer wondered. As caustic as she'd been earlier, she was all charm now. Something told him not to trust it, that Libby was digging him a pitfall with her niceness. However, he had to admit she seemed genuinely changed, high-spirited. It was probably impossible for her to look more radiant. She had assumed the hostess's prerogative and overdressed slightly—in an ivory silk crepe that was dramatic in its simplicity: cut straight across the base of the throat, attached tenuously at one shoulder in such a manner that only the round of that shoulder was exposed above a full, draping upper sleeve, which gradually tapered to a snugness at the wrist. The fabric, although opaque, accentuated the absence of a bra. On the ring finger of each hand was a diamond of twenty carats, rectangular cuts. The diamonds appeared identical. They transmitted equally intense scintillations whenever Libby moved her hands.

And move them she did.

Her hands were like a pair of birds with huge flashing eyes fluttering around her.

Springer believed the diamonds but not the hands. Those, he was sure, were not the hands he'd seen only a couple of hours earlier on the terrace, the hands Libby had taken such care to conceal. There was no gnarl or awryness, no clawlike rigor, none of that. The fingers of these hands were perfectly straight, ideally tapered, and how lithe they were, despite their age. The yet-lovely pampered hands of an older woman.

Springer was bewildered. The first explanation that occurred to him was that Libby had hoaxed him on the terrace. Perhaps she was a perverse practical joker and the deformed, arthritic hands he'd seen had been only a pair of ugly gloves made of the same fleshlike material as Halloween monster faces.

It didn't wash. Not only wasn't Libby the type. Springer was certain of what he'd seen, including her self-conscious pique.

He watched her now take up her glass, hold it between her thumb and second finger, and spin its delicate stem. How could those be the hands that hadn't been able to manage a cigarette?

The only other explanation was one that increased Springer's bewilderment. It would also explain why Audrey had been so insistent on coming here — with the stone — and why, ever since she'd come down to dinner, she'd been grinning like a cat with mice under both front paws. He hadn't had a chance to talk to her. She'd come skipping down the main staircase, given him what he had interpreted as a peck of encouragement, and taken him by the arm into dinner. During those two hours she'd been away somewhere with Libby, it was assumed by Springer that she was working wonders only to the extent of making points in his favor. It now seemed apparent that much more had ensued.

The stone.

No.

Although the evidence was right there being flaunted by Libby's transformed hands, Springer could not easily accept anything so incredible. It went against his rational grain, was asking even more of him than the damn pendulum stuff. But then. Springer thought, what about Joel Zimmer, the way he, the expert of all the GIA experts, had been baffled by the stone? That also couldn't be ignored. No matter, even if everything he was supposed to believe about the stone was true, it was going to take a lot of sinking in.

The Righting of Libby's hands.

It had begun the instant Audrey had put the stone inside her sleeping glove. At once, an energy extraordinary and unobservable had emanated from the stone and flowed throughout Libby's body, just as it had with Janet. According to the divine schema that was its influence, it sought out whatever discrepancies there were in Libby's system and found the osteoarthritis in her hands.

The metacarpals, the five shaftlike bones within the flat of each of her hands, were severely affected. Especially at her knuckles where those bones worked in conjunction with the phalanges, the bones of her fingers. There was bony buildup at nearly every joint. Some joints were worse than others in that regard, the joint cavities necessary for movement spurred or bound with the rigid substance. As a result, cartilage was worn away and her ligaments were no longer supple. Also, the synovial membranes, the thin, saclike layer of tissues that encased the joints from bone to bone, were ruptured in some places or thickened, and the fluid normally secreted by those membranes to keep the joints lubricated was inadequate.

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."