Vimal removed it and cleaned the cement off and examined it through the loupe. Yes, it was good.
Now the brillianteering, cutting the facets into the stone. Vimal’s task, like that of every diamantaire, was to maximize the three essential qualities of diamonds: brilliance (the white flash of light as you look straight down at the stone), fire (the rainbow shades refracted from the sides), and scintillation (the sparkle that flared from the stone when it was moved).
Vimal sat on a stool in front of a polishing station, which was a sturdy table about four feet square and dominated by a scaife—the horizontal cast-iron platter that would spin at three thousand RPMs and against which cutters pressed the diamonds to create the facets. On the wall was a rack containing a number of different dop sticks—armatures on which diamonds were cemented for this grinding process.
Vimal selected a dop and mounted the stone to it. He then started the scaife, about the size of the old LP record turntable his father still had. Oil, impregnated with diamond dust, dripped onto the platter and, resting the dop stick’s two padded legs on the workstation, he pressed the diamond against the scaife for a second or two, lifting it to study the progress through the loupe, and grinding away once more. Slowly the facets emerged, first on the girdle—the side—and then the crown and pavilion, the top and bottom of the stone.
The smell of the warm oil—it was olive oil—wafted around his face. And at the moment, there was not a thing in the universe but this stone. Not Adeela, not his brother Sunny, his mother or father, not poor Mr. Jatin Patel. Not his sculptures at home, The Wave or Hidden.
He was not thinking about killers searching for him.
Only this diamond and its emerging soul occupied him.
Touching the stone to the spinning scaife for a fraction of a second, lifting, examining…
Again, again, again.
The oil dripped, the turntable hissed, minuscule amounts of the stone vanished into oily residue.
The art of diamond cutting is about resisting that addictive urge to overwork a stone. And so—an hour later or twenty hours or ten minutes; he couldn’t say—Vimal Lahori knew the job was done. He shut the scaife off and it spun to silence. He sat back. He gasped, starting with surprise. Four of the other cutters had silently left their stations and had come up behind Vimal to watch him cut the parallelogram. They were huddled close. He had been completely unaware of them.
One, who identified himself as Andy, asked, “Can I?” Holding out his palm.
Vimal gave it to him. Andy flipped the loupe down and examined it. “You added an extra facet on the crown. I would not have thought about that. What is the angle?”
“Seven degrees.”
Andy passed it around. The others laughed and examined it through their loupes. The image of their identical astonished, almost reverent, faces was comical.
“Boil it,” another said.
Vimal carried the stone to the wash station, where he boiled it in acid to remove the cement, oil, dust and other materials adhering to the stone.
This could often be a very tense moment. You might think your gem was cut perfectly—only to find that a bit of cement or oil was concealing a mistake. Vimal never worried about this, though. Oh, in his eight or so years of diamond cutting, he had made mistakes. Had ruined stones (and been screamed at by Mr. Patel or his father). But he knew instantly when a cleaving or sawing or faceting went wrong. There’d been no errors on this stone. It was as perfect as it could be. The worst inclusions had been in the portions removed (and the remaining ones were in the heart of the diamond and invisible to even the best eyes). The facets were sharp and symmetrical. The balance of brilliance and fire and scintillation, faultless.
He picked up the finished stone with tweezers and looked it over once more—this time not to assess, but simply to admire.
Vimal Lahori had discovered, and released, the stone’s soul.
As he studied the finished diamond, noting the flashing of color and white light, he was stabbed by a sudden sorrow that Mr. Patel was not alive to see his work.
Then Mr. Nouri stepped into the workshop—two cutters had gone to get him. The bulbous man, with his graying complexion, smiled at Vimal and took the tweezers from him. He dropped the loupe and examined it. He muttered something in Hindi, it seemed, a language Vimal knew little of. His face registered astonishment.
“You didn’t flatten the culet.” The very bottom of the pavilion. These were often ground flat, which made a sturdier stone, less prone to chipping. A flat culet, though, tended to darken the diamond. (Vimal believed that the famed Koh-i-Noor had been ruined when it was recut in the nineteenth century on orders from Prince Albert, Queen Victoria’s husband; the resulting broad, flat culet imparted a muddiness to the otherwise magnificent stone.)
“No.”
Expecting resistance at his impractical decision.
But Mr. Nouri said, breathlessly, “A brilliant choice. Look at the light. Look at it! The damn customer—whoever they’ll be—will just have to be careful. They’ll live with it.” Squinting. “And an extra facet on the crown.”
“It was necessary.”
“Of course it was. Yes, yes. My goodness, Vimal. What a job you’ve done!”
But Vimal didn’t have interest in, or time for, praise. He had to leave and now.
“I should go. Now, you said, twenty-five hundred.”
“No.”
Vimal stiffened.
“Three thousand.”
They both smiled.
That much money would get him out of the city. If he lived cheaply he could make it stretch until he got a job, something modest, menial—perhaps at a university that had a fine arts program. Even janitorial or in the cafeteria. He felt the first blush of what approached joy that he’d experienced in ages.
The man put the diamond onto its sheet and folded the paper, slipped it into his breast pocket. “I’ll get your money.” He stepped out of the workshop and into his office.
Vimal stepped to the basin in the corner to wash up; scaifing is dirty work. As he walked past the others they were regarding him with variations of admiration or awe. He didn’t like it. Anything that cemented his ties to the diamond-cutting world left a bad taste. He washed his hands and, as the others returned to their workstations, Vimal walked to the doorway and stepped into the office.
Mr. Nouri was putting cash into an envelope. He was offering it to Vimal when the door to the stairwell opened and two figures entered.
Vimal gasped, stabbed by dismay. He was looking at Deepro Lahori. His father. With him was Bassam Nouri; the young, stocky man looked down.
No, no…
“Papa. I…”
Squat, gray-skinned, his father strode forward angrily.
“Deepro,” Mr. Nouri said, frowning, confused.
Papa looked at the envelope. “That’s my son’s money?”
“Yes, but—”
His father snatched it from the man’s hand. “I’ll take care of it for him. He’s not responsible at the moment.” To Vimal he snapped, “You will come home. Now.”
Mr. Nouri was understanding that Vimal had not been completely honest earlier. He said to Vimal, “He didn’t know? You lied?”
“I’m sorry.”
Then Papa walked to the rack of jackets. He reached into the inner pocket of his son’s and lifted out his wallet. That and the envelope holding the cash vanished into his own coat.
Now the answer to the betrayal became clear. Papa nodded to Bassam, a look of thanks. So his father had offered a reward to anyone in the community who saw or heard of Vimal.
Vimal was furious, torn between screaming and sobbing.
He turned his cold eyes toward Bassam, who looked away and muttered, “He’s your father. Respect.”
Vimal wondered how much had been the price on his head. In the mood for blood, Vimal turned suddenly to his father. The man was only an inch taller than his son and was not as broad in the shoulders, nor was he anywhere near as strong. An image of himself pushing his father down, rifling his pocket for his wallet and the cash and sprinting out the door came to him.