18mm Blues (42 page)

What was he to do inasmuch as medicine and psychiatry hadn't supplied an answer? Was he to spend the rest of his life feeling the fraud, avoiding heated demands, scheming to dodge them?

There had to be an answer. Perhaps he could find it. Might it be in a certain type of woman, in some particular aspect of a certain type. A quality of her voice, a shade of her eye, an ever so slight, subtle thing as her graceful or possibly ungraceful way of sitting? No use putting his hope there, he decided. He'd previously culled his preferences.

Then aphrodisiacs.

He thought he'd try anything, however his logic prevailed when presented with such purported panaceas as: male beaver fat, the ashes of frogs' legs, mandrake root, alectoria stones and swallows' wombs. A so-called sexpharmacist in Tokyo guaranteed results from both rhino horn and monkey testicles. Costly stuff. When neither had the slightest effect he was amused at himself for having tried them, reasoned that he hadn't been ignorant enough for them. He heard tell of a substance newly developed in a research laboratory in France as an anesthesia, which in small doses affected the part of the primitive human brain where sexual impulses are based. He followed down the lead and found it was not newly developed, rather
nearly
developed, which meant that one of the ingredients of the substance was hope. The next time he inquired he was told the laboratory was no longer pursuing that project.

It was by coincidence that blue pearl became a consideration. Kumura happened to be visiting his widowed mother in Hagoya for a few days. Late one night he was in his father's library, which contained a collection of very old to most recent books on pearls and pearling. He happened to slide out a volume entitled
Pearls as Remedies
. He broke the book open to any page, which turned out to be the third page of six pages devoted to excerpts from Robert Lovell's tome entitled
Panmineralogicon
, published in Oxford in 1661. The paragraph his eyes chose to fix on dealt specifically with the efficacy of blue pearl in the treatment of various ailments such as those involving the heart, eyes, nerves, and blood. It was, according to Lovell, exceptionally effective in reversing sexual dysfunctions.

Kumura was mildly curious, mainly amused. It smacked of dried monkey gonads, he thought, otherwise wouldn't Lovell have been more specific?

A footnote referred him to another page farther on citing the Pharmacopeia of India, which stated that beyond doubt blue pearl was a sexual stimulant and a panacea for impotence. The recommended dosage was one-quarter to one-half grain, powdered.

Blue pearl was also prescribed for impotence by Marabari, a noted thirteenth-century physician of Kashmir. By Li-Shu-Chin, the sixteenth-century naturalist. By the 1877 catalogue of the Nate Exhibition in Yedo, and as well by the nineteenth-century physician to the Maharaja of Tagore, one Sowindro Mohun, who claimed for blue pearl the curing of various disorders, including, most emphatically, sexual weakness. There were three entire pages relating case histories in which blue pearl had done the trick.

Who would love thought it?

And who was thinking it now?

Not he, his well-educated sensible mind scoffed. The desperate ego-tattered side of him was only slightly less pragmatic.

He read on and fell asleep there in the library with the volume
Pearls as Remedies
across his chest. But he didn't sleep well. Imagination invaded his unconsciousness with blue pearls, had them ricocheting around in the container that was his head, being spat at him with machine gun rapidity by hostile oysters.

Bright blue pearls.

He'd never seen one. Though pearls had been the family business since 1874 and made the family fortune, he'd never heard mention of one by either grandfather or father. He asked his mother if to her knowledge there'd been any blue pearls. She started at the question, studied him for a long moment and pulled up the corners of her mouth into what could be taken as either a knowing grin or a commiserative smile.

That reaction by his mother motivated him to put word out to the trade that he'd pay well for any natural pearls of blue. In response he was presented with quite a number of pearls that appeared a bit blue, had a hint or cast of blue as opposed to the usual white, pink or cream. None, however, were the deep, lively blue specified in the remedy book.

Months went by.

Blue pearls forfeited their place in the front of Kumura's mind.

A Burmese dealer showed up with two he'd obtained from an alcoholic beach person who'd found them among other tidal leavings in Mergni. They were only about the size of baby garden peas, were lumpy and ulcerated, so malformed they looked like some melted man-made substance. Nevertheless they were pearls and bright blue and that was what mattered.

Kumura paid five hundred for them.

The Burmese dealer thought perhaps Kumura had lost his mind and, just in case, demanded cash.

Kumura put off trying the blue pearl remedy. He believed it would turn out to be merely another grasping measure and that the most he'd get out of it was temporary hope. No more than a speck of hope but better than none, so might as well prolong it a couple of weeks.

The time came. Kumura didn't make an important production of it. Alone, in the gloaming of a Saturday evening, he put on a silk robe and sat in a chaise on his terrace overlooking the sea. Sipping a brandy and soda laced with blue pearl while his hearing divided its attention between Mendelssohn's Concerto in E Minor, Opus 64 and the birds chirping at the evening light.

He drained his glass, closed his eyes.

His thoughts wandered and decided on a road that returned him to an experience he'd had back in his virile days. January in Paris. At the Crillon with an American fashion model he'd met earlier at the Ritz bar. She was there in Paris to work in the Spring Collections. He was there on the excuse of business but really on the chance of the likes of her. She was a good half head taller than he in her stocking feet. Perfectly thin for the sake of clothes, with the small breasts that were mandatory then. How craving her breasts were, as though they'd been neglected. He loved them, gave them their due. The entire length of her body was greedy for sensation, the backs of her knees, her wrists and other pulse points, the pits of her arms. She was too proud to be ashamed, a private exhibitionist. She lay back gracefully, as though his eyes were cameras. Her well-tended fingers unfolded her vagina for him and he saw a reason other than passion for her immodesty. She was lovely down there, dainty and lovely, a delicate fleshy orchid, with her clitoris come out. Was she aware of how lovely she was down there? Aware by sense or comparison? he'd wondered. Though worthy of the tenderest homage, she was one of those who preferred less of tender, let him know in candid terms what she preferred, a trace of command in her tone but her voice never raised above a whisper. Let him know what she was feeling as he did those preferred things to her, whispered her descriptions in a surprisingly pleasant medley of sweet talk and obscenities.

At the time he'd suspected she'd be one he'd not forget, so he'd made the most of her.

He returned to himself on the chaise, opened his eyes. Didn't trust the feeling, thought it might be imaginary, a phantom sensation, like people have who've lost a limb and feel as though it's still there.

But it
was
there, had gorged and distended and forced itself up and out through the overlap of his robe below where the robe was sashed. It was hard and usable and had transformed to that condition by his merely mentally meandering to a memory. That memory had come forward for its portion of reliving numerous times previously and all it had ever done was exemplify for his regret what used to be.

Neither had the miraculous occurred. It was incredible but not miraculous, had a rational explanation. He'd just happened upon a remedy, that was all there was to it: an ancient passed-over remedy too esoteric for contemporary consideration, he thought, accepted, concluded, end of doubt.

Blue pearl.

A month later, fate had proved how timely and provending it could be when Bertin/Lesage had sought out Kumura with a bagful. How little Bertin understood their true value. And now, so many years later here was Kumura in the bedroom of his Mizner house in Bang Wan contemplating the last of those blues. No outlook for another supply. After this time, after this Celia, at 14.8 grains per dose (the Pharmacopeia of India had been way off on that point), there'd only be enough for nine more instances.

He tried not to think of that, to focus his mind on the pleasure at hand. He unfolded the briefke that William had delivered, examined the pink sapphire it contained. A cushion-cut pink Ceylon of ten carats, a nice one. It was intended for Celia. The arrangement was
service-compris
but it had become his custom to throw in a little extra when deserved.

He put the sapphire back into hiding and took up the eighteen-millimeter blue. With extreme care, but no concern for its value or beauty, he fractured it with the jaws of a nickel-plated monkey wrench, making sure the larger pieces and fragments of it fell into a smooth marble mortar. Using a pestle, he crushed the pearl into a powder, then transferred some of the powder to the plate of a small electronic scale, adding a bit more at a time until the readout told him 3.7 carats precisely (four grains equal one carat).

While he was at it he measured out nine more such portions and enclosed those in briefkes, placed the briefkes (his immediate potent future) in his wall safe among other precious things.

He poured a goblet of claret, a 1969 Haut-Brion Graves, and dropped in the remaining portion of powdered blue pearl. Stirred the concoction well with a forefinger and gulped it down, feeling the grit of the fine powder on the membranes of his throat. There was, he saw, still a slight powdery residue in the goblet. He splashed in more wine, swirled the goblet vigorously and drank before there could be any settling. Examined the goblet to make sure he'd gotten every particle.

Enjoyed an additional twenty minutes of anticipation before ringing for this Celia.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

The Andaman Sea was having one of its kindlier days. Its regular conspirator, the wind, was being lazy. Gusts, off-springs of the wind, were playing on the sea's surface, swirling and skipping about. Only a wave here and there was high enough to have a crest. Flying fish used those for lift and momentum, to get their winglike fins spinning. They were accustomed to more launch in the Andaman. The sky was also at its best. So whole and indefectable it might have been overall a piece of fine cloth, or the encompassing membrane of an enormous pure soul.

With a prevailing wind of less than four knots Grady had set only the ketch's mainsail, and that only for stability. The mainsail, deprived of bellow and not even catching enough wind to crowd out its slack, didn't look as though it was enjoying itself. The
Sea Cloud's
eighty-horsepower diesel engine was doing its thing. Eight knots steady.

Grady was at the helm. Julia and William were close at hand in the padded cockpit. There wasn't anything to do but keep on course. How right Kumura had been when he'd said this new Hinckley fifty-footer would practically sail itself. It was equipped with the most recent sailing and navigating devices, such as a furling system to unwrap and wrap the headsail, and a Magellan GPS (global positioning satellite) NAV5200 receiver to reckon in degrees and minutes precisely where the boat was at any instant.

That morning the skipper of Kumura's motor yacht had met Grady in the docking shed and thoroughly checked him out on the
Sea Cloud
. Explained all the electronic devices and shown him where everything was stowed. The boat's interior was extremely well designed, not an inch of wasted space and yet it didn't seem cramped. Lockers, bins, shelves, drawers. Life preservers were in here, spare sails in there, extra anchor here, flares there, firearms here. The latter consisted of an automatic rifle, machine pistols and a pair of Glock .40 caliber semiautomatics. Several loaded magazines and clips and boxes of rounds. Grady wondered why such an arsenal but didn't ask, figured it was Kumura's boat and Kumura knew what comforts he might need.

Kumura was also concerned with Grady's needs. While Grady was getting checked out on the
Sea Cloud
, diving gear, wet suits, backpacks, fins, regulators and everything else needed were brought aboard and stowed. Grady had planned on him and Julia and William driving to Phuket that afternoon to buy the equipment and supplies they'd need, however Kumura had seen to it. At least he'd seen to having someone see to it. A dozen air tanks were lugged aboard and strapped securely in place. After the tanks came the galley supplies, staples and delicacies. And a supply of liquor and soft drinks, cases of Evian. Servants were still bringing aboard and making everything right when Grady returned to Kumura's house to fetch Julia and William.

So, they'd been able to get under way at noon that day rather than tomorrow. They were now an hour and a half out from Bang Wan on a heading of west by northwest. The coast of Thailand was still in sight but wouldn't be soon. At the same rate that it was diminishing Grady was feeling better and better. Thinking about how far he'd come. Not from Bang Wan but from a year ago. A year ago he'd been all tangled up emotionally with Gayle and her cheating, all tangled up ambitiously with Harold and his duplicities. Ridiculous how a fellow as sharp as people said he was could get into such a mess. One moment he'd been in the clear, next he couldn't see the forest for the trees. Gayle and Harold. The mark of them would always be on him. They'd happened to him. He'd allowed them to happen. He was ashamed of that. It certainly didn't recommend him. Julia had asked about them once, been told honestly and had never asked again.

Anyway, all that was behind him and he was wiser now, happier, had better prospects, what with the pending offer of the high-paying prestigious job with Kumura. After the Harold debacle he'd vowed never again to work for anyone in the gem trade, however he felt Kumura was an exception, not a hustler or business bully. On top of that, Kumura was exclusively in pearls and distanced from the hypocritical day-by-day milieu. It would take a lot not to make that job appealing, Grady thought. He pictured himself in San Francisco in that driven Bentley, in that elegant office, in that bracket. All that right there ahead of him, close enough to smell, almost close enough to bite a chunk of. Kumura wasn't leading him on, Grady assured himself. Kumura had no reason to lead him on.