The Jerusalem Diamond (5 page)

Harry nodded. “The scroll's discovery on the Mount would be an embarrassment to Islam, a sharp reminder that the Temple was there before the Mosque. And releasing the text of a treasure scroll prematurely would set off a gold rush, scholars competing with adventurers.”

“There is a more urgent reason for secrecy,” Akiva said. “Some of the
genizot
, the ritual hiding places, are believed to be in the Samarian Desert, somewhere east of Nablus.”

Harry whistled.

“I don't understand,” Alfred said.

“The region is now the West Bank. It is where some people wish to establish a Palestinian state,” Akiva said quietly. “It is hardly a place where our enemies want ancient Jewish artifacts to be discovered. Such
a finding would strengthen modern Israel's historical claim to the occupied land.”

“For the past year an Egyptian has been contacting trusted Westerners in Jordan, attempting to sell two gems. He says the stones have Biblical significance.”

“Ah. This is where
we
come in,” Alfred said, lighting a cigar.

“One of the stones is a red garnet.”

Alfred Hopeman smiled. “We seldom deal in semi-precious jewels.”

Akiva nodded. “You will be more interested in the other stone. A large diamond. Yellow, the kind you people call a canary.”

“What's your interest in this canary?” Alfred asked innocently.

“I have indicated that the Copper Scroll is thought to be a record of hidden treasures that had been taken from the Temple. David Leslau believes this canary diamond was one of those treasures.”

“From the Temple?” Harry was accustomed to working with precious religious gems, but the thought of an object from the Temple filled him with awe.

“Leslau thinks he knows where the diamond's ritual hiding place may have been. He says it comes from a violated
genizah
.”

Harry grunted. “How large is this stone?”

“Large.” Akiva consulted a small notebook. “Two hundred and eleven carats.”

Alfred Hopeman was looking at him strangely. “It's the Inquisition Diamond,” Alfred said at once. “I had it in my safe in Berlin for three months. It must have been 1930 or '31.”

“We understand it was '31,” Akiva said. “If it is the same stone. The sellers refer to it as the Kaaba Diamond.”

“That's what Moslems call it,” Alfred said, “after the building in Mecca all Mohammedans turn to when at prayer. When the Church owned it, it was called Alexander's Eye—after one of the Popes named Alexander. Some diamond, gentlemen, 211.31 carats cut as a briolette with 72 facets. Given to me for cleaning in '31 by the Naples firm of Sidney Luzzatti & Sons. Set in one of those headpieces—what do you call them, Harry?”

“A mitre. The Mitre of Gregory.”

“Yes. Years later, of course, some thief pried the stone out of the mitre and walked out of the Vatican Museum with it. That was the last I heard of it. Until now.”

“It was stolen from the Vatican in '46,” Akiva said, “and purchased without publicity in 1949 by Farouk of Egypt.”

“Ah,” Alfred said.

“That fills in the history,” Harry said to his father. He thought that Alfred appeared dazed. “Pa,” he said. “Are you all right?”

“Yes, yes. Of course.”

“It wasn't listed by the Egyptian government as part of the estate Farouk abandoned when he fled his throne,” Harry said. “I've studied the records of the Farouk auction. Some of the items were wonderful but most of it was
shlock
, he had terrible taste. The only outstanding collection was the pornography.”

“For little boys,” his father muttered. “A man can do several things with a woman, all the rest is contortion.” Alfred closed his eyes. He was kneading his cheek. “My God,” he said.

“No, it was not on the auction inventory,” Akiva said. He looked at Harry. “We want you to get the diamond.”

“You'll have to stand in line,” he said.

Essie, carrying a pastry tray and preceding a maid with the coffee service, stopped in her tracks and screamed.

Following her gaze, he saw that the left side of his father's face was composed of dough mixed with insufficient flour, the eye drooping shut and the mouth sagging deep toward the chin.

“Pa?” Harry whispered. He didn't know what happened within the human body when it suffered a stroke, but he knew his father had begun to have one.

Alfred swayed and he caught him. A slice of cake had fallen from the tray and for some reason Essie knelt to pick it from the rug. “Stop that!” Harry said to the plump, frightened face. “Call the doctor.” He held his father tight in his arms and rocked him.

Arrogant old bastard.

Beneath his lips the white hair tasted depleted. One of them, either he or his father, had begun to tremble.

4

ALFRED'S NOTEBOOKS

They placed his father in a room at the end of a corridor in which cardiac monitors squatted. Alfred no longer appeared arrogant to his son. The left side of his body was paralyzed. He was not wearing his dental plate; he yawned a lot and when he exhaled, his upper lip puffed and fluttered in a way Harry couldn't stand.

A woman resident came in and leaned over the bed. “Mr. Hopeman,” she said loudly, but he remained comatose.

After she left, Harry tried.

“Poppa.”

His father's eyes opened and gazed without seeing him. “
Doktor Silberstein, ich bitte um Entschuldigung
, I ask your pardon.” Why did his father beg forgiveness with terror in his voice, and who was Silberstein? Alfred drifted and dreamed, holding one-way conversations in unintelligible German.

His lungs filled with fluids that bubbled when he breathed, and people came and stuck a nasty little hose down his throat and suctioned out the poisons.

Afterward his eyes opened and found Harry's face. They searched
hungrily. “I …” Alfred tried to whisper something but no sound came. His eyeballs bulged, his hand fluttered on the sheet. He was trying desperately to tell something to his son. Harry lifted his pillow and held a water glass to his lips, but he was too weak to drink. Still, the moisture gave him his voice.

“ … should have told you …”

“What, Pa?”

“ …' quisition diam …”

“Don't talk. Just rest, Pa.”

“Flaw.” Alfred strained to speak. Failed.

“The diamond is flawed?”

The old man squeezed his eyes closed, opened them quickly.

Harry wanted to make sure.

“The Inquisition Diamond has a flaw?”

His father nodded, breathing heavily.

“I don't care,” Harry said. “To hell with diamonds. Just rest, so you can get well. Understand?”

Alfred lay back. His lids slammed like garage doors.

Sitting by the bed, Harry slept also. Soon the resident touched his shoulder nervously. When he looked at the bed it was as if his father had gone for a stroll, leaving his body behind.

Jeff came home, uncomfortable in a suit he was outgrowing. He went to Harry and hugged him without speaking. They sent him back to school immediately after the funeral, protesting but relieved. Della, who had loved the old man, wept bitterly at the grave. She observed
shiva
, the ritual mourning, with Harry and Essie. Slippers on their feet, they received visitors seated before the shrouded mirror on cardboard benches furnished by the funeral home. When he was a boy everyone sat on hard wooden boxes in a
shiva
house, obeying the precept that mourners should not seek comfort. The disposable bench represented a modern adaptation of tradition, he realized. Somehow, he would have preferred sitting on a real box. The first two evenings his father's apartment was crowded with people from the industry who spoke gravely with one another in English, Yiddish, Hebrew, French, Flemish. The polyglot sound was so like the murmur of the Diamond Exchange that he managed to draw comfort from it.

Essie intended to observe a full seven days of mourning in the Orthodox way, but by the third morning he felt trapped. Akiva came that afternoon.

“I hope my stirring up old memories didn't contribute to his illness.”

“His blood pressure was tremendously high. He was always skipping his medication, despite his wife's nagging. The doctors said it was inevitable.”

The Israeli looked relieved.

“You never got to tell him what you wanted.”

“We wanted him to brief you on the Inquisition Diamond. We should like you to buy that stone.”

“So would some other people.”

“You are a Jew, Mr. Hopeman. You would not represent anyone else in this matter?”

Harry sighed. “Probably not.”

“Israel is a tired woman with three suitors,” Akiva said. “The Jews are married to her—since 1948 we have a legal right to hold her body, so to speak. The Arabs and the Christians, jealous lovers, each grasp an ankle. All three pull her wildly in different directions, so at times it seems they will tear her like a herring. Now each of the suitors wants this diamond as they want the land. Certain Arab groups are desperate to use it as a propaganda object, a talisman that can help them make the next conflict a true
Jehad
, a Holy War. And make no mistake, it could be used in that way.” He shook his head. “It is the struggle for the Holy Land, on a smaller scale. They don't care that the diamond has a Jewish history. There are records proving that later it was owned by Salaheddin himself. For almost a century it was set in the crown adorning the
maksura
, the seat of the highest spiritual leader, in the Mosque of Acre, where Salaheddin held out for two years against the Christian might of France and England and won a place as the greatest military hero in Moslem history.”

“The Catholic claim is even stronger and more recent,” Harry said. “They've owned it since the Inquisition, when it became Church property in Spain. They want it back because it's theirs. It was stolen from them.”

The Israeli nodded. “For a long time, it was a part of the great collection within the Leonine Walls.”

“And what makes David Leslau think it came from the Temple?” Harry asked.

Akiva hesitated. “I shall not discuss that with you until you have committed yourself.”

“I'm not committing myself to anything. I just buried my father.”

“Truly, I needed no reminder. Take all the time you want. But we need you, Mr. Hopeman. The man who goes must be qualified in a number of ways in addition to expertise. We must consider loyalties, age, physical fitness. Willingness to accept a certain amount of risk.”

“With a knowledgeable buyer, there isn't that much risk.”

“It would not be your capital. We have arranged. The money will be donated by a small group of very wealthy persons in this country and in France. I was not speaking of investment risk,” Akiva said mildly.

Harry shrugged his shoulders. “Forget it. Some of us will undergo any discomfort for a diamond deal. Nobody I know risks injury or death.”

“The risk is truly small. And there are all kinds of profit, Mr. Hopeman.”

“To hell with your shit. I'm just a businessman.”

The Israeli regarded him thoughtfully. “It has occurred to me that when it is important for you to be a businessman, you are a businessman. When it is important to be a scholar, you are a scholar.”

Perhaps the assessment was too accurate; Harry felt great resentment. “Right now, I have a clear picture of what is important to me and what is not.”

Akiva sighed. He took a business card from his pocket and placed it on the polished surface of Essie's dining-room table.

“Call me as soon as you can,” he said. “Please.”

The will provided generously for Essie; everything else was Harry's. He couldn't bring himself to go through the clothing. He kept one tie as a remembrance; as for the rest, the Salvation Army would have some exceptionally well-tailored patrons. He packed Alfred's letters and papers into two cardboard cartons and tied them with twine. The Vaseline jar containing the jewels went into a paper bag, and then he called a bonded messenger and sent it, bag and all, to his vault.

On the evening of the fourth day the apartment again began to fill
with friends of Essie's, faded grandfathers with mournful eyes, old women with bunions.

“I have to get out of here,” he told Della.

Essie followed them to the door, furious at what she considered an insult to his father's memory. “There's silver, dishes …”

“Everything else is yours.”

“Don't be so generous. Who wants it? I'm going to my sister's in Florida. A small apartment.”

“I'm coming back tomorrow,” Della said. “I'll take care of things.”

Essie looked at him. “You'll finish sitting
shiva
at home?”

He nodded.

“You'll go to the synagogue every day? Or join a
minyan
at the Diamond Club? And say
kaddish
for a year?”