Gregor von Rezzori - An Ermine in Czernopol

“You have the stone, you ass! You take it with you, to London or Amsterdam, and show it, so that the other stone will be exactly like this one. You want me to give you some security for putting a stone in your Jew fingers? You need to leave the security here for me , understand? Not that I mean to cheat you, but you shouldn’t be able to cheat me, either.”

Usher Brill rested his hand on his heart and smiled forgivingly with closed eyes. When he opened his eyes again they focused on the diamond on the table, and widened of their own accord. “You are a good man, Herr Paşcanu,” he said. “People can say what they want, but I say you are a good man. A hard man, but a good man. I have earned well by you. I’ve earned better by other people, just for your information, in terms of percentage. You are a hard man. Nevertheless, many people have risen high because of you. And the more you wanted them to grow, the bigger they grew. Why, I ask you, Herr Paşcanu, do you suddenly want to make the small people as big as the big people, and not, for instance, make the big people a little bit bigger? Aren’t you more in contact with Merores, Herr Paşcanu? Is Merores suddenly too high-class for a deal like this, now that he’s become a chevalier ? Just between us, are there many noblemen these days who wouldn’t give their eyetooth for a deal like this? Merores wouldn’t? Don’t take me wrong, Herr Paşcanu, but what for do you need Brill?”

“Miron!” old Paşcanu shouted so loud the room shook. He banged his cane impatiently against the floorboards and repeated: “Miron! Miron!”

“It’s a very confidential business, Herr Paşcanu,” said Brill. “Better don’t tell me anything. Diamonds you could use to find like crumbs of shabbos-cake on Monday under the table, but these days it’s not so easy. There are different people involved: officials, detectives, what do I know. Everything is written down. Buying a raw diamond as big as a ball will come out very expensive, if you can find one before it comes up for auction. It will be extremely difficult to have it cut in this extravagant form, please understand, without it being talked around for whom and why. You don’t want to give your money out for costume jewelry, Herr Paşcanu, I’m guessing. It will be an expensive business, Herr Paşcanu, and a difficult one for whoever does it for you. More than one person will have to go to London or Amsterdam, not just one, and serious people, no bokher or nebbokhanten like my son Bubi. And you won’t want to leave the stone rolling around inside some foreign safe, Herr Paşcanu. You will want it back. But the import duty on stones is high, Herr Paşcanu, and the export is no simple matter. Do you want to give gifts to the customs inspectors, Herr Paşcanu? I don’t imagine you do. You’ll need reliable people to take the stone abroad and bring it back, along with the second one as well. The commission will be high, very high. All in all, it would be a matter of twenty or twenty-five million, maybe more, for certain. It’s an investment that calls for more than just one personal fortune, Herr Paşcanu. I can’t shake the impression that we’re rocking a dead baby here. You are a well-known man, so I beg your pardon, but please permit me to ask again, Herr Paşcanu: What kind of security are you offering?”

“Miron!”

The castrato appeared in the door.

“Throw the Jew out,” said old Paşcanu.

Brill stayed where he was.

“Throw him out or else I’ll smash his head in, and yours as well!”

Brill started to leave, anxiously burdened by all the misunderstanding and the futility of explaining himself. Just before reaching the door he turned around, resigned to one last attempt. He shrugged his shoulders and lifted his blotchy, red-haired hands, opening his palms up as if he were presenting his case to old Paşcanu one last time, as if he were weighing his arguments for the tough old man one last time, for his own good, so that Paşcanu would see how serious and at the same time how clearly simple the matter was. And what he was offering in those open palms was none other than himself, Usher Brill, a man trapped by fate, unable to do otherwise … His wise, despairing gaze attempted to force this stubborn old man to show a little understanding. It was an urgent gesture, tragic and ridiculous and very human, full of the frailty of the human desire to make oneself understood. He sighed, nodded sadly, and dropped his arms. The castrato towered next to him, his flabby, masklike Mongolian face showed no expression: eyes, mouth, and nose carved out of a moonlit pumpkin.

“God is just. May he protect you, Herr Paşcanu,” said Usher Brill and walked away, disheartened.

A few minutes later Miron led a man in who barely reached his belt, and who sauntered into the room with overwhelming casualness, his hat tilted back on his neck, his hands in his pockets, and his shirt billowing out of his open jacket, like the clown in a tragedy. Without ado he plopped down in one of the plush chairs across from old Paşcanu and smartly crossed his short legs, showing off his elegant, orange-colored shoes.

“ Salut , esteemed prince!” he squawked. “What a fine morning! Well, is he going to take it on or not?”

“He is,” said old Paşcanu.

“Perfect, very excellent, wunderbar ! You have not drink for me: shorbet, soda water, orange juice— sans alcohol? Because it’s heating up outside, bozhe moi !”

It was Herr Perko, “the angel of the emigrants.”

He had earned this epithet with some daring undertakings in Russia during and after the revolution, smuggling packs of refugees across the border — not without having first relieved them of the last valuables they had on them. A certain Prince Krupenski, a fanatical connoisseur and breeder of roses, for which he had had mile-long greenhouses constructed on his vast estate, was one of his victims: on market days he could be seen on the cobblestones at the Theaterplatz, where he helped a small garden stall sell radishes — a man of seventy. Now and then he came to the villa district, where we lived, to work in a garden. One exaggeratedly tactful lady, who had heard his name whispered about, had a tray taken out to him with a ham sandwich and a glass of sherry during a break in the work. He thanked her kindly but requested to be treated as what he was, namely, a day laborer.

Herr Perko was also associated with the shady story involving the rescue of a purported daughter of the tsar, who through some miracle supposedly survived when the ruling family was shot. It was a proven fact that he had saved the lives of other members of the high nobility — and thereby acquired fabulous jewels. Uncle Sergei was of the opinion there was no point in hanging him, because the noose would refuse to touch his neck.

NO ONE will ever know exactly how old Paşcanu planned to carry out his swindle, because he never managed to pull it off. His intentions had made the rounds in Czernopol before the business ever really started. Bubi Brill, who had been crazy enough to get involved in the deal, was arrested as a diamond smuggler at the Dutch border just a few hours after leaving Amsterdam, and although the stone could not be found on his person, he spent a half year in jail, and was ultimately sentenced to pay an outrageous fine, which he avoided, but only because his father paid bribes amounting to nearly as much as the fine itself.

Herr Perko, meanwhile, had disappeared, along with the diamond.

It will also forever remain a secret how Paşcanu ever managed to come up with enough money to buy the diamond and smuggle it into the country in the first place. At his one and only hearing, which was conducted following the arrest of Bubi Brill, he was informed of the charges that would be brought against him: attempted fraud, smuggling, tax evasion, bribery, embezzlement, and other similar crimes, but he scarcely said a word. That same evening he was dead.