THIRTY-FOUR

Kezia

Claude Bouissou’s factory was located on the top two floors of a stone building in the sixth, accessed from the street via an Yves Klein–blue door with lion-head knockers. She entered the building just as another tenant was exiting, assuming Claude—or someone who worked for him—would be waiting for her. The entrance to the factory office was at the end of a dank corridor. The other doors she passed, those not belonging to Claude, were outfitted with modern surveillance cameras and featured freshly painted fonts. Clearly recent tenants compared to Bouissou.

She knocked repeatedly, eventually pushing open the door. The receptionist was either nonexistent or hadn’t shown up to work yet. Apparently Paul had a point about Parisian punctuality.

Kezia paced around the cluttered reception area. Saul would be dead in a minute if Rachel let him off his leash in here. There were watch faces in clear bags, mildew-dotted sketches in matte frames, towers of empty velvet sachets, jeweler’s pliers piled up like toucan beaks, cracked molds that only a hoarder would keep. The wide floorboards let in light from the workshop below. The floor was littered with metal shavings, jars of silver polish, and cleaning cloths covered in dark streaks where tarnished chains had been squeezed and yanked. There was also a tall wax plant by the door. It looked healthy. Kezia wondered if the plant hadn’t started off farther back in the room but was gradually trying to make its escape.

She sat on a sofa that emitted a wet-dog scent. Odor aside, to have a patterned sofa with deep canyons between the cushions when one worked with small jewels was just, well, dumb. She had a sudden metallic taste in the back of her throat from which she would normally deduce “brain tumor,” but on a table next to her were sheets of freshly sawed silver and brass, wrapped loosely in plastic with the ends open.

She wiped a scrim of sweat from beneath her hat. She yawned and blinked her eyes, instructing them to widen. Listening to the footsteps of workers below, she considered going downstairs and asking them if they had an ETA on their boss, but even if they did—how would that affect her subsequent actions? It wouldn’t.

At 11:42 a.m. the door swung open and Claude plodded past her. He had an absolutely unique physique: A practical hunchback, with a stocky torso and long legs made longer by a strangely high waist, to which he drew attention by tucking in his shirt. Like a pumpkin on stilts. His eyes protruded in an almost glandular fashion, caterpillars of fluffy hair resting above them. He took notice of Kezia only when he emerged from his office to retrieve a porcelain jar of sugar cubes from the receptionist’s desk. He apologized in a weak way that made her suspect he did a lot of apologizing.

Claude’s office was designed with the same tactics as the reception area, only tidied for sanity. The shelves were dusted, there were spore-free sketches framed on the wall, and the floor was clear of debris. Kezia sat in one of two studded oxblood chairs. A bonsai in a cloisonné planter blocked her view of Claude, so he moved it aside. He folded his fingers together, as if he were the one who had been kept waiting.

She explained the problem just as she had explained it over e-mail. He listened silently. From her bag, she produced two broken Starlight Express necklaces, each with missing segments of stars or moons. Claude, in turn, smacked down a padded display board. Kezia laid the necklaces, limp, injured, atop the velvety surface. Sophie would be delighted, she thought—Kezia had brought the thingies to the doll hospital like a good bauble mommy.

Claude flicked the magnifying glass of his loupe like a switchblade. “Now, let us see what we have.”

He leaned over the necklaces.

“I did not understand your e-mail and I do not understand now.” He spoke with his head down. “At what is it I am supposed to be looking?”

He unlatched and latched the clasp in a manner harsher than Kezia ever had. She could hear the scraping of the broken box tongue inside. She cringed but also knew that he was doing her a favor. Best to get it to break while she was sitting here with Claude, Doctor of the Diminutive.

“Well, I’m sure you can see the tongue isn’t making a clean connection.”

“Non.” He frowned in a bemused way. “I do not see that.”

“It’s not visible, but you can feel it.”

“I know. I am saying the same thing. English is not my first language.”

“Right.”

“Nor yours, I suspect.”

“Um.” She absorbed the slight and began again. “If you pick them up, the weight of the necklace pulls on the clasp. The metal bends upward and the magnets never meet. They get stuck. So what’s happening is that it gradually undoes itself.”

“It is absolutely not our responsibility if Madame Simone wants to take my clasps and attach the rocks to them.”

“Of course,” she said, unsure if this was true, “but if they all have the same problem . . .”

He was burrowing a hole in her forehead with a metaphorical push drill. She could feel the spiral bit of his disgust driving into her gray matter.

“It’s just that Rachel wanted me to get a look at the actual process.” She gestured at the floor beneath them. “So that we could . . .”

“Ferret out the bad ones.”

For someone whose first language was not English, “ferret” was impressive.

He was punishing Rachel through Kezia, taking advantage of the fact that her company needed him. Kezia was moving from intimidated to irritated. It’s not as if Rachel hadn’t paid for these clasps—150 of them, to be exact. She simply hadn’t come back for the remainder of the production order. What was Kezia supposed to do? Walk across to the Place Vendôme and ask the nice folks at Boucheron or Mauboussin to please stop working on that tiara for the queen of England because there was a mid-range American necklace named after an eighties roller-skating musical that needed everyone’s attention?

Claude dropped a sugar cube in his tea and licked his fingers, which were murky beneath the nail beds. Her vague suspicion that he had blackballed Rachel for duping him was becoming less vague.

“All right,” she said, “what about the enamel problem?”

“What enamel pr—”

“Oh no, honestly. Look.” She picked a necklace up by the scruff of its neck like a cat moving her cub. “This one has an entire segment missing. It’s not supposed to look like a paint-by-numbers kit.”

He leaned forward. She could see the blackheads dotting his nose. She and the Starlight Express were in the shit together and she was not going to fail it now.

“It sounds to me like you already know the technical aspects here because apparently you are a jeweler disguised as an errand person, so if you please, forgive me if I offend your knowledge as you have offended mine . . .”

Kezia started to speak, but he casually waved her attempt away.

“It is necessary for the clasp to be flat on top so the pigment can flow and set. You see? When Madame Simone ordered her samples, she specified the cloisonné go around the edge like so. You see? I personally myself advised her against this decision. I said to her that it would lead very easily to chipping.”

“You told her that?” Kezia gulped.

“Of course I told her that. Also, I told her the clasp was not the good shape inside and magnets are very complicated. And now? I am sitting in my place of business, which I have operated for twenty-six years, and I am getting lectured by a child who is dressed like Madeline.”

Evisceration complete, he scanned Kezia’s face for signs of tears. But she had not flown across the globe to cry.

She put both palms against his desk. “So, can you fix it?”

“Hold on.” Claude pushed himself from his chair. “Stay here, please.”

He rose quickly and walked ungracefully out of his office, his pumpkin torso staying level. Kezia exhaled and faced forward. She touched the necklaces, soothing them as Sophie would.

“The mean man’s gonna kiss it and make it better,” she whispered.

After a few minutes, she heard muffled voices and rattling downstairs, the sound of Claude speaking to his employees as he hunted for something. She took a stroll around the office, mindful for sounds of Claude returning—which, if this morning was any indication, would be in about six weeks.

There were rolls of chain hanging from spools in a corner, like a knitting shop run by masochists. There were in-boxes filled to the brim with carbon copies of orders. She touched the lens on a spectroscope. Then she moved to where Claude had been sitting. The desk was covered in circular tea stains. The only superfluous objects were two hefty wooden picture frames. The first photograph was black and white with Claude and another man playing pétanque, bocce’s ladylike little sister, on the Île de la Cité, the silver balls gleaming in grayscale, Claude’s partner winding up to take a shot. Something about the way Claude stood, examining the second man’s actions with a combination of affection and judgment: these two were lovers.

The second picture frame had a borzoi in it. A young chestnut-haired Claude was crouched down in the street with the dog’s lanky paws on his knees and a poster for the 1982 Paris Open on an advertising column. She picked up the frame, wiping dust from the corners, but put it back down when she caught sight of the sketches framed on Claude’s wall.

There were six of them, each a drawing of a different piece of jewelry, each done on brown paper and viewed at a slight angle— the undersides of the rings and settings just visible—so that one expected them to start spinning at any moment. A set of rings, a cross, two cameos, a necklace, another necklace, and a brooch. Kezia had seen this style of documentation before.

In the past, most good jewelry was custom made, drawn out for an individual buyer in painstaking detail (unlike Rachel’s sketches, which were more like cocktail napkin renderings). They also had all their information right there on the same page—the weight of the stones, the origin and name of the jeweler, the year of fabrication. But there was something off about these. For one thing, they all seemed to be done by the same artist. Yet the jewelry itself was so different. An impossibility confirmed by the spread of the dates: 1814, 1843, 1856, 1874, 1883, 1890. What septuagenarian has a steady hand since birth? And in so many different places: Calcutta, Dublin, some place called Warwickshire, which she guessed was not in the continental United States.

The rings were brushed gold set with rubies, almost like championship rings and meant for a male hand. In the margin, along with the date and dimensions, someone had drawn a skull and crossbones.

The brooch was gaudy, a cluster of diamonds in the shape of a trotting greyhound. There was no break in the shape or clarity of the stones except for the fact that the diamonds got smaller at the snout and tail . . . and the star-cut one in the belly was 15.37 carats. Meant for someone who wanted others to know she could afford it.

The cameos were plain and what she would expect of cameos— carnelian with neoclassical profiles of white people.

Even the necklaces were different. Both were huge but the first was formally structured with each diamond serving as a kind of arrow, pointing at the substantial drop-cut sapphire in the middle. The second was like a maharaja’s idea of medieval chain mail with hyacinth opals and padparadscha sapphires hooked to gold filigree, extending from chin to sternum.

“Those are funny, non?”

Kezia knew Claude was standing there. His breathing was somewhat asthmatic. Perhaps because his lungs were in his armpits.

“They’re beautiful. But what are they? Who drew them?”

“I did, of course. We make all those. Apparently I do not know how to make a clasp for Rachel Simone but these”—he pointed—“these we can do okay.”

Her jaw went slack. With this kind of variety of skill, the technical detail alone, Claude should be designing for Van Cleef. She couldn’t believe it.

Then she caught herself. “Wait a minute. Why are the dates so far apart?”

He laughed loudly, holding his torso.

“Because, Madeline. Il ne faut pas se fier aux apparences. Of course I did not do those. You think if I were doing those, I would be taking the commissions from your boss? They are from an old book. Créations imaginaires based upon créations imaginaires.”

He waved at the pictures with a polishing cloth, as if blessing them.

“They are the jewels of famous literature. This one,” he said, pointing at the chain mail, “is Becky Sharp’s from Vanity Fair. Not the American magazine. And the author, Monsieur Thackeray, he was born in Calcutta at this address. Here. See? Then, this one, these cameos are Middlemarch. So I am told. I have not read it, it sounds like women’s matters. This one is the brooch of Emma Bovary, modeled after her dog, I think. Totally impractical. This one is the amber cross of Fanny Price. And these ones are my favorite. Can you guess who is the person they belong to?”

He pointed at the rings. Kezia leaned in closer. Fourteen-karat gold men’s rings, size 10. Two blood-red stones with few inclusions, one slightly more modern-looking than the other. She vaguely remembered that years ago it had been trendy for jewelers to melt pieces of foil on the backs of their diamonds to make them seem more brilliant. Below the rings, at the very bottom of the frame: 21 Westland Row, Dublin, Ireland. The address meant nothing to her. But deep in the stones of both rings she could make out the faintest hint of two shapes. They were two faces, a young man in the modern ring and an old man in the vintage one. Then it hit her, the ghost of two weeks of freshman European Lit came bearing gifts:

“It’s Oscar Wilde. These are Dorian Gray’s rings!”

She wished Nathaniel were here for this, to see her get it right.

“Well done,” Claude said, his irritability burning off like a fog. “The French love Oscar Wilde. That is why we buried him here.”

“Uh-huh.” She fought a smile.

Oscar Wilde had no say in it. The French liked him and so they took him.

“They are from a book. Limited edition. For les fanatiques of jewelry. Not many customers for these types of secret jokes.”

“I guess not.”

“Anyway, look at this.”

Claude pulled a piece of metal from the polishing cloth in his hand. It was a skeleton of the Starlight Express clasp, a mock-up. There was the wire outline of a star, but it wasn’t shooting anywhere just yet. Claude had modified the clasp from a flat rectangle to a soft-edged triangle. Kezia knew that this would immediately solve the mechanical problem, but she wondered about the enamel. Would gravity not cause it to run down the side? Would Claude have to torch-fire each one by hand? And how long would that take? And would Rachel murder Kezia while they waited?

“We spin them in the kiln slowly. Like a pig with an apple.”

“That sounds like a plan to me.” Kezia held the little prototype, relieved. “And one more quick thing . . .”

“What?”

Exasperation paced around the edge of Claude’s voice. Claude was not unlike the enamel itself, softening and then hardening and then softening again. She needed him to stay soft for her next question, to push Rachel’s words out of her mouth: “Can you have them ready in two days?” She chickened out. Instead, she pointed at the last necklace.

“What’s this one?”

“This? This one is the most simple.”

The French town at the bottom of the page was unfamiliar. The diamonds were flawless and that sapphire was huge. The blue charcoal was perfectly even, filled into the borders of a 114-carat stone. It wasn’t clear how this necklace would work in real life. An impractical object. Then she spotted a tiny shape at the center of the sapphire. A teardrop. Kezia took a step back.

“Guy de Maupassant. This is ‘The Necklace.’ Jesus.”

“Très bien, Madeline!” Claude clapped his calloused palms together.

“A stone like that would belong in a museum.”

“Americans love that, no? To think of jewelry as a dead thing. This is why you keep the Hope Diamond next to your dinosaur bones.”

She blinked at him, dumbstruck. She looked back at the teardrop, fighting the impulse to reach out and touch it. Poor, poor Victor.

“Okay, so.” Claude brushed an unruly sideburn. “Here is what we will plan: A complete order of clasps with the new shape, yes? Looks better this way. More like real outer space. I can have them ready but not before Monday in the morning. This is the absolute best I can do.”

“That’s perfect.” Kezia was ecstatic. “Thank you, thank you.”

She had actually pulled this off. She couldn’t wait to call Rachel and let her know. Though, with the time difference in Tokyo, she would have to. Rachel was either asleep or getting drunk at some three-seat bar located beneath a manhole cover.

“You know, when it was released, the French papers hated it.”

“Hated what?”

“The story. ‘The Necklace.’ They ripped it apart. In those days, they were printing short stories on the covers of the newspapers. Can you imagine? Ballet reviews and short stories. Front page. Autres temps, autres moeurs. But when ‘The Necklace’ appeared, some of the people, they burned their newspapers. Very good publicity for Maupassant, though not on purpose.”

“Why?”

“Because all press is good press, yes?”

“I mean why would anyone want to burn ‘The Necklace’? I thought it was supposed to be the world’s most perfect short story.”

“Have you read it?”

She shook her head.

“Oh, it is unbearably sad.”