Heart of the World (13 page)

“Yeah.” I usually pack a scarf or two; they weigh nothing, take up little space.

“Jungle print, right? White background? Got the silver necklace with you, the collar-hoop thing?”

“Yeah.”

“You bring a sewing kit or something? Safety pins? The little gold ones, like you use to fix a bra strap.”

“I might have a couple. Hold on.” In the bathroom, I checked the cosmetic kit's side compartments. It seemed to me I'd tossed a few pins in it a long time ago. One had worked its way open; it stabbed my index finger. I sucked the wound while walking phone and pins back into the bedroom.

Roz said, “Okay, lay the scarf down flat, on the bed, the floor, whatever. It's a square, right? So fold one end up, and you've got a triangle. Okay, now put the necklace at Point A.”

“The apex?”

“Whatever. Fold the point of the scarf over the necklace and pin it, so there's like a channel thingy, with the necklace inside.”

“I need more pins.”

“Go to a store and spring for a needle and thread. It'll look better.”

Three safety pins semi-secured the necklace. “Okay,” I said, “I got a triangle with a necklace on top.”

“What you got is a halter. It ties in back. Try it.”

I slipped off my T-shirt. The necklace, a Cape Cod flea market acquisition, didn't have a clasp, just a gap in the metal. It was rigid and silver, about a quarter-inch thick. I fumbled the ends of the scarf behind my back.

“Speaking of bra straps,” I said.

“Duh. Take it off.”

I did. The scarf clung to my breasts.

“I feel naked,” I said.

“Your nipples show? Good.”

“Roz, I don't know about this.”

“C'mon,” she said. “Trust me. You got great shoulders. Your back's got muscles I'd kill for. Ooh, yeah, when you buy the thread, get baby oil. Oil your back. Baby oil's great for that, plus if you score at the party, you're way ahead of the game. Guys love what you can do with a little baby oil in the right place.”

“Let's stick to clothes.”

“Hey, sorry. I know you and Gianelli are an item again, but I figure he's here, you're there, it's a party, models and shit, South Beach, lifeguards—”

When I didn't respond enthusiastically, she sighed and got back to business. “Okay, the black pants you brought, they the drawstring ones?”

“Yeah.”

“Great. Okay, you wear them really low. You want your stomach on display. And turn up the cuffs so they're just below the knee. What you really need is a tat.”

Not in this life, I thought.

“They might have one of those rub-ons. On the small of your back, low, it would look so cool. Or on your shoulder. And get some eyeliner. You didn't bring any?”

“Guess.”

“Shit, what do you have for shoes? You got heels?” I had 2
¹
/2
-inch business pumps. Stuart Weitzman, on sale, Filene's Basement, but somehow I didn't think Roz would be impressed. “Shoes, you can't fake,” she said sternly.

“Where am I going to find a store that sells elevens?” Women's shoes
effectively cease at size 10. I know tons of women who'd spring for stylish shoes in big sizes; most of us believe it's a conspiracy.

“Ask around,” Roz advised. “Lotta cross-dressers in South Beach.”

“I'm not in South Beach, Roz.”

“Then get size 10 sandals, open toe, open heel. Spikes.”

I shrugged and the cool silk rippled across my breasts. The top actually looked pretty good. I imagined it paired with low-slung slacks and precarious heels. I could always kick them off if I needed to run.

Roz said, “Call back when you get the stuff and I'll walk you through it, okay? Thread, a packet of needles, shoes, a temp tat, if you can find one, makeup.”

“Get me something on Naylor by then.”

“If it's there, I'll get it. ‘Bye.”

There was no message on my cell saying I'd missed a call, so Mooney hadn't rung back while I was talking. Damn. It was too close in my small room, too quiet. The pulsing tick of the bedside clock only emphasized the blaring silence. I felt restless, worried, in need of exercise. After five minutes of floor pacing, even Roz's shopping trip seemed preferable to waiting for the phone to ring.

CHAPTER 11

The desk clerk advised against walking to a
mall barely half a mile away. Too hot out there. Maybe I should have listened, but the idea of a walk appealed to me. Before the heat enveloped me like a fog, I'd considered jogging.

There was no sidewalk, just dusty gravel by the side of the road. People gawked at me in passing from behind the tinted windows of air-conditioned cars.
Look, Ma, a tourist attraction, a woman using her legs for transportation
. Heat and auto exhaust steamed off the gravel and tried to choke me. The air felt too thick to breathe and I was sweating like I'd played a tough volleyball game by the time I hit my destination.

The mall was anchored by a Burdine's so cold it made my damp T-shirt stiffen. I wondered whether all the stores cranked the AC as high, and whether they did it to make the outdoor temperatures seem even worse. Shopping's not my strong suit, but dime stores and shoe stores, while not up there with hardware stores and gun shops, suit me better than most. I hurried through Burdine's, goosebumps prickling my arms, and checked a mall directory.

I found a pair of open-toed Barbie-sandals with clear plastic spikes in a shop that catered to the beach trade. Swimsuits and heels are not a usual pairing in Boston, but that's what this place carried, I swear, bikinis and heels, like they went together, like hot dogs and beer. The shoes were 10s, but I could walk in them, and they were on sale. I could have
tried three other stores, but as much as I'd wanted to leave my hotel room, that's how much I suddenly wanted to be back. I checked my cell to make sure the battery was charged, soothed myself with the thought that Vandenburg could reach me here. Mooney could reach me. Paolina could reach me.

I bought the other required items, minus the tattoo, at a Walgreen's, remembering at the last minute to add a disposable razor, a necessity for legs and underarms in wintertime Boston mode. As I left the store, a sign caught my eye.

Jaira Jewels was a small shopfront with more security than a little costume jeweler in a mall might require. I checked my watch, then my cell: no messages. The lawyer hadn't called yet. The party would probably start late. I studied the discreet display in the window. A sign requested customers to please ring the bell, so I did, waiting thirty seconds till a buzzer sounded. The door made a clicking noise, and I walked inside aware that I'd been scrutinized by a video system and found un-threatening. Maybe it was the shopping bag with the shoes.

Inside, it was dark and a little musty. There was a faint smell of oranges, like someone had just peeled one in a back room. A waist-high glass case divided the long narrow space, leaving enough room for a thin salesman to squeeze behind the counter. The wall opposite the counter had glass-fronted display cases, too, but these were attached to the wall at eye level. The back wall featured two large framed mirrors; one or the other or possibly both were one-way glass. Behind them, probably a workroom, and watchful eyes. I studied the contents of the cases on the wall. Wristwatches, Breguets and Rolexes, a couple of high-end, diamond-studded Baume & Merciers, a few nice art-deco pieces Roz would have liked. I'd just turned my attention to the long display case when a man came silently out of the back room, pushing aside a beaded curtain.

A smile brought out deep creases beside his dark eyes and emphasized the lines running from the corner of his mouth to his beaky nose. The smile was welcoming and gentle, hopeful, as though he'd been waiting for me all day. I wondered how many casual customers wandered in and impulsively dropped five thousand bucks on a watch.

“If I can help you, show you something, answer any questions, please, you have only to ask.” His English was smooth, but accented.

“Thank you,” I said. “You have some lovely pieces.”

He nodded solemnly. It was a courtly gesture, almost a bow.

“Do you buy gold?” I asked impulsively.

He shrugged. “Sometimes, on occasion.”

My eyes swept the velvet backing of the low case. Pearl cluster pins and amethyst pendants, a group of glinting blue sapphires. Nothing remotely like the little man.

I took the small felt bag from my backpack. The dark man watched as I shook the birdman onto the counter. Without a word, he opened a slim leather folder and placed it flat on the counter. The inside of the folder was black velvet. When he lifted the little figure onto the fabric, it caught the light.

“Ha,” he said, after studying it for a minute, “this is very nice.”

“What can you tell me about it?”

“You mean, how much?”

“That, yes, but what is it, where did it come from?”

“It's not yours?”

“I inherited it.”

He pressed his lips together, and I got the feeling that if I'd been a black male, he'd have slipped into the back room, checked a stolen-property list, and possibly called the cops. The fact that I was a Caucasian female made him think I might be telling the truth.

“Well,” he said, lifting it, “for a start, pre-Columbian.”

Roz had told me that; I knew that.

“From one of the cultures wiped out when the
conquistadores
showed up. The old cultures. Indian, if you take Indian to mean tribal. I got a guy works for me would know it like this.” He snapped his fingers. “He'd say, ‘That's early Calima' or ‘That's late Quimbaya,' but I don't know exactly where this came from. I've never seen a piece quite like it. You inherited it? You have more?” He had a habit of running his tongue over his teeth.

“Just the one.”

“Well, I can tell you the gold is not pure. Too red in color. One of the tribes, I forget which, had a dozen words for gold, from bright yellow all the way to copper. A lot of tribes used a gold and copper alloy.
Tumbago
, I think, or
tumbaga
. In the modern reproductions, you don't see it too often.”

“This is a modern reproduction?”

“A good one, too, possibly Cano stuff, but it isn't quite—I don't know.”

“Cano?”

“Galleria Cano. Latin American outfit, but they've got a branch in New York. The Cano family has been involved with gold for generations. They sold the Gold Museum in Bogota most of their permanent collection.” The man ran a finger over the narrow band that edged the wings of the tiny figure and nodded approvingly. “This is very detailed, very nice. Cano uses the lost-wax method, like the ancient tribes.”

“What's that?”

“I don't want to bore you.”

“Please.”

He gave his little courtly bow again. “They use a dental paste, very rubbery, to make a mold of an original. Once you have the mold, one for each side of the figure, then you join the two halves of the mold so they swing open.” He made a shape with his hands, the sort of thing a child might make to show how an alligator bites. “Like the two sides of a shell, you see?”

“Yes.”

“Into the mold, you pour black wax, molten wax, and you let it cool. You check the mold to make sure it corresponds exactly to the original. The artisan fixes it, then positions it on a special stand with five hollow rods. The rods are the supports.”

I nodded.

“Then the artisan puts thin coats of plaster on the mold. With a brush, many layers until he has a solid mold. Then he heats it, so the wax inside melts and drains out through the supports. You see? Lost wax.”

“So the mold is hollow.”

“Yes, and into the hollow, the artisan pours molten gold.” His eyes gleamed when he said the words ‘molten gold.' “Today they spin the mold on a centrifuge so the gold penetrates to even the smallest part of the interior, but the Indians, they probably didn't do that. When it cools and hardens, you break the plaster.” He held up the figure. “And there it is. Beautiful, no?” The little figure looked smug, as though he was enjoying his stint as center of attention.

“The Spanish,” the man added with disdain, “melted down the gold.

They sent it away in ships, in plain flat bars or pieces of eight. People still go hunting for those galleons, off the coast, all over the Caribbean.”

I wondered if he was a treasure hunter, if that accounted for the gleam in his eye, if working with gold provoked a lust for it. I touched the little birdman. The black velvet backing and the overhead light combined to ignite the golden shape.

“Is it a bird or a man?” I asked.

“Both, I guess. I wish the guy works for me was here. He'd tell you. Animals stand for different things in different tribal cultures. Some of the Indians thought they could transform themselves into animals, become jaguars or tree frogs. Some of these little statues are familiars, some fetishes, some fertility things, but the birdman, I think, is sort of a religious figure. The tribal leaders, not the war leaders, but the spiritual leaders, the shamans, they had visions, you know?” He glanced at me to see if I was following.

I smiled. “Hallucinogenic visions?”

“Some did it through deprivation. Starved themselves till they saw visions, or refused to sleep. But drugs played a part. They used things we don't even know about, mushrooms, leaves, all kinds of plants. They used snake venom and the glands of certain frogs. The shaman would go off into the mountains or the jungle and come back in a month or two, and talk about his journey, about how his soul took flight. Pretty soon, he had everybody believing he'd been somewhere else, on another plane of existence, with the gods, with the holy spirits. The birdman was a representation of the shaman, of the symbolic flight, so this little guy here, he's probably some kind of spirit guide. If you want, I could call the man works for me, ask him.”