Carla Neggers: Cut and Run

He smiled sadly. “It used to be that any Peperkamp could have identified what you now hold in your hand. On today’s scales, Juliana, the Minstrel is a D grade, the highest grade for a white diamond. Few are one hundred percent pure and colorless, but the Minstrel comes as close as any rough can. In the business, we call it an ice white.”

“What will happen when it’s cut?”

“If it’s cut, Juliana. Not when. For four hundred years we’ve guarded the Minstrel’s Rough from that very end. Surprising, isn’t it? A family of diamond cutters protecting a rough from their own tools. We’ve had four centuries to study this stone, and should it ever have to be cut, we know its secrets. I have markings, which I will teach you. They will tell a cutter precisely where to strike in order to preserve weight without sacrificing beauty. But you must understand: the value of the Minstrel lies not only in what it will be when cut, but also in its legend.”

“Jesus, Uncle Johannes. What legend?”

“In 1581, when the Minstrel’s Rough first came to the Peperkamps, it was the largest uncut diamond in the world-and the most mysterious.”

“But that was a long time ago…”

“Not so long. The Minstrel’s Rough is still the largest and most mysterious uncut diamond in the world.”

Juliana’s heart beat faster than it ever did when she had preconcert jitters. “Why mysterious?”

“Because its existence has been rumored for centuries, but never confirmed. What you are holding, my Juliana, only Peperkamps have seen for four hundred years. No one else can prove it exists.”

“Uncle Johannes, I don’t even like diamonds.”

“Your mother’s influence,” he said gently, and smiled. “I understand, but it doesn’t matter. In each generation, one Peperkamp has served as caretaker for the stone. In mine, it was I. In your generation, Juliana-”

“Please, don’t.”

He took her hand. “In yours, there is only you.”

Johannes Peperkamp returned to his seat in the wooden pew beside his two sisters. What a trio they made. At fifty-one, Catharina was still as slim and pretty as a girl, her eyes dark green like her daughter’s, but rounder, softer, and her hair still as pale blond as it had been forty years ago when her big brother had whisked her out on the canals to go ice skating. Johannes wished she would smile. But he understood: she was protective of Juliana, afraid he or Willie would let something slip about a part of their shared past that she’d never told her daughter. And he already had, hadn’t he? The Minstrel’s Rough, however, had not been a slip. He’d planned what he’d tell Juliana for weeks abut had always hoped she’d already know, that her mother had long ago related the story of the Minstrel.

He should have known better.

Averting his eyes from those of his younger sister, guiltily sensing the fear in them, Johannes smiled briefly at Wilhelmina. Ah, Willie. She’d never change! She was as plain as ever with her stout figure and square features, with her blue eyes of no distinction and her blondish hair, never as pale and perfect as Catharina’s, now streaked almost completely white. She was sixty-four years old and didn’t give a damn if she were a hundred.

Willie might have approved of his visit backstage with their niece, but, never one to hide anything, she’d have insisted he tell Catharina. How could he? How could he explain his ambivalence, the duty he felt to generations of Peperkamps coupled with the horror he felt at what the Minstrel’s Rough had come to mean to his own generation-to Catharina and Wilhelmina, to himself? Their father had passed the Minstrel on to him in 1945 under circumstances even more difficult than those Johannes now faced. How could he ignore the responsibility with which he’d been entrusted? He’d had to give the stone to Juliana. There was no other choice.

You could have thrown it into the sea, Catharina would tell him again, as she had so long ago.

Perhaps he should have listened to her then.

And Willie-dear, blunt Wilhelmina. She’d make him tell Catharina and then she’d make him tell Juliana everything, not just what he’d wanted to tell her. What you are holding, my Juliana, only Peperkamps have seen for four hundred years. No one else can prove it exists. They were the words his father had told Johannes when he’d first seen the Minstrel as a boy.

Now they were a lie.

Yet what did it matter? The past was done.

Juliana returned to the makeshift stage and smiled radiantly at her audience, and Johannes felt a surge of pride and admiration. After the shock he’d given her, she’d composed herself and began the second half of her concert with the same blazing energy, the same flawless virtuosity, as she had the first half.

Within minutes Catharina elbowed her older sister in the ribs. “Willie-Willie, wake up!”

Wilhelmina sniffed. “I am awake.”

“Now you are. But a minute ago your eyes were closed.”

“Bah.”

“No more snoring. Juliana’ll hear you.”

“All right.” Wilhelmina sat up straight in the uncomfortable pew, for her a major concession. “But all these sonatas sound the same to me.”

“You’re hopeless,” Catharina said, but Johannes, at least, could hear the affection in her voice.

If the past had not been what it was, thought the old diamond cutter, feeling better, Juliana never would have been born. She’s our consolation-Catharina’s, mine, even Willie’s. And now, through her, not just the Peperkamp tradition but the Peperkamps themselves would continue.

Len Wetherall settled back against the delicate wrought-iron rail in front of the Club Aquarian, enjoying the sunny, cold mid-December afternoon. He was a people watcher, and there was no place better to watch people than New York. Here, for a change, he could do the watching; he wasn’t always the one who was watched. He was three inches shy of seven feet tall, an ex-NBA superstar, black, rich, and a man of exquisite taste and enormous responsibilities. He knew he didn’t blend in on the streets of SoHo any more than he did anywhere else. But here no one gave a damn.

People were moving fast, even for the city. Len watched a pink-haired woman in a raccoon coat swing around the corner, covering some ground. She had on red knit gloves and red vinyl boots, and her mouth was painted bright red. Her eyes-

Len straightened up, buttoning one button of his camel wool overcoat. Her eyes were the darkest emerald green, and he’d recognize them anywhere.

“J.J. Pepper.”

When she spotted him, she grinned, her teeth sparkling white against her bright lips. Even in the harsh afternoon light, her eyes were as mysteriously alluring as everything else about her. She came right up to him, stood on her tiptoes, and he bent down and planted a kiss on her overly madeup cheek. His wife, Merrie, couldn’t understand why J.J. wanted to paint up her hair and face like that. “She must be a real light blond underneath that colored mousse she uses,” Merrie had said. “And I’ll bet her skin’s perfect. Why would she want to cover up all that?”

Why, indeed? But Len had learned not to ask J.J. Pepper too many questions. She’d just give him one of her dazed looks, as if they weren’t operating on the same planet, and avoid a straight answer. He’d asked her once how old she was, and she’d said, “Oh-around thirty.” Like she was making herself up. The colored hair, the vintage clothes, the gaudy makeup, and the rhinestones were all a part of her look. They were what she wanted other people to see. Her package. During his fifteen years with the Knicks, Len had listened to everybody’s ideas about how he should be packaged. He’d learned the hard way just to go on and be himself. J.J. would learn, too, sooner or later.