by Katharine Weber
“You see?” he commanded. “Study it well. Do you remember how it looked when I showed it to you last week and told you this one I would cut next?”
“A white pebble, a lump of salt?” Isabel had been tempted to taste it, but at ten, she knew better. She gave him back the loupe. She spent every afternoon after school in her grandfather’s little work space on 47th Street, way in the back of the third floor in one of the oldest buildings in the diamond district, while her mother gave piano lessons on the Bosendorfer in the apartment. The three of them lived together on West 76th Street, over a well-known funeral parlor.
Isabel watched her grandfather work at his bench, knowing that he mustn’t be disturbed unless he spoke to her first, knowing that his work was as delicate as brain surgery. She had been doing her history homework in the dim light at his old cluttered desk where his paperwork was stacked, waiting for the moment when her grandfather would stand up, take off his special magnifying headpiece with its lighted lens, stretch, turn off his work light, slowly stow his tools and then lock the tray of stones away in the clanking safe bolted to the floor under his workbench.
“Yes, that’s right,” he answered finally, after a pause so long she had turned back to the Battle of Gettysburg. “Like something unimportant you might bring home from the seashore. But its beauty was hidden. And now what do you see? It is revealed.” He spoke softly without looking up, as if he were taking to himself. “This is called an emerald cut. If you can let the properties of the diamond guide you, then you will have something wonderful. If you try to force it to be something it doesn’t want to be—pffft! It could shatter. Or it could resist you in a thousand other ways I will explain to you someday. Just remember that if you are wrong in your choice, then the stone will sulk and refuse to be what you want, because you are mistaken about its true nature. Then you have nothing.”
Walking to the subway, they passed brightly lit shop windows, one after the other, displaying nothing but bare blue velvet landscapes, empty red velvet stages, barren black velvet amphitheaters. Sometimes, on days they left a little early, Isabel would see hands reaching, reaching, reaching into the windows, taking away the precious merchandise to be locked up safely until the next day of business. She reached for her grandfather’s hand, and the rough calluses on his palm were like precious pebbles they carried home together.
"Diamond District" was originally published in Vestal Review and appears here by permission of Katharine Weber.
All content in SmokeLong Quarterly copyright 2003-2013 by its authors.
Katharine Weber is the author of the novels TRIANGLE (2006), THE LITTLE WOMEN (2003), THE MUSIC LESSON (1999) and OBJECTS IN MIRROR ARE CLOSER THAN THEY APPEAR (1995). Her short stories have appeared in The New Yorker, Story, Redbook, Gargoyle, The Readerville Journal, Southwest Review, Vestal Review, Connecticut Review, and elsewhere. More information is at www.katharineweber.com.
|Issue Fourteen (September 15, 2006): Everything by CB Anderson «» Twelve Steps Down by Mark Budman «» Hands by Stace Budzko «» A Boy Makes a Bow Makes a Man by Robert Earle «» Chancing by Utahna Faith «» Silver Spur Cafe by Sherrie Flick «» A Few Notes on the Remarkable Sighting of the Bishop-Fish of Smith Mountain Lake by R. L. Futrell «» Spooks by David Galef «» It'll Never Work Out for the Two-Headed Boy by Bayard Godsave «» Utilitarianism by Tom Hazuka «» Vandals by Jennifer A. Howard «» The Four Horses by G.A. Ingersoll «» Carrots and Plum Blossoms by Kit Coyne Irwin «» At the Well by Barbara Jacksha «» The Shanghai Cut by John McCaffrey «» Blank by Peter Mehlman «» The Reunion by Christopher Merrill «» Mullet Man, P.I. by Stacey Richter «» Bruce Holland Rogers by Bruce Holland Rogers «» Tamazunchale by Robert Shapard «» Three Steps for Nunzio by Ersi Sotiropoulos, translated by Kay Cicellis «» The Angel by J. David Stevens «» Translation by Melanie Rae Thon «» Diamond District by Katharine Weber «» Ancestors by Kathleen Wheaton «» Cover Art "Despair" by Marty D. Ison «» Letter From the Editor|