Skip to main content

1740 Tsavorite Lane

Upon our return from India we spent a few days unraveling the sapphire mystery at Peridot’s home in Los Angeles.

Not long after I was hired to teach at the school of Gemology, Hercule Peridot completed his sabbatical there and resumed his duties at the University. He had long since retired from his teaching as a tenured professor of Geological Sciences. The son of a wealthy businessman, he never wanted for money. He had moved west to earn his Ph.D. from Stanford.

The access road was a narrow winding climb. What emerged was a low profile bungalow nestled in the Hollywood hills. Peridot’s home at 1740 Tsavorite Lane was rather spartan on the outside but would prove quite comfortable inside.

“Thank you for the kind invitation.” I said as we entered through the large turquoise door, the feeling of spaciousness was overwhelming. The entryway contained Amethyst geodes, sentinels guarding the front entrance. Large skylights filled the space with soft light.

“Welcome to my humble abode Adamas,” said Peridot with a sly grin.

It was a three-story, three-bedroom home built into the hillside; we entered on the second level, hardwood floors, and a spiral staircase near the fireplace. Books festooned the shelves, meticulously organized and carefully labeled.

“So this is your Petite Versailles,” I remarked with a smile.

Peridot nodded, “Why yes . . . I find it very comfortable.”

Peridot appreciated technology, nonetheless relished the smell and feel of bound leather books, his entire house a library. “During the planning my specific instructions to the architect - built in bookshelves throughout the house,” said Peridot. “This will be your room Adamas, make yourself comfortable, we will chat later this evening over dinner, to review our findings in Mumbai.”

My room was on the third level adjacent to Peridot’s study – I stopped to admire the panoramic view of the City of Angels.

Once unpacked, I couldn’t help but wander into his study out of sheer curiosity. On the shelves were mineral specimens, gemstones, and carvings. One piece in particular caught my eye. It was a rather large ring with an intense yellowish green stone. I examined it carefully. This is a spectacular gem, I must ask about it later.

During our many video chats in recent years I could now see how he was able to always stay within the frame of the video as he moved around his office. Mounted on the walls were three webcams that appeared to use face detection technology, “Voilà . . . so that’s how he does it,” I muttered to myself.

It was a large comfortable room well illuminated with diffused light from a skylight. There were four large flat screens above an imposing oak desk. As I stood examining the room my hand caressed the office chair; it was supple chocolate brown leather exhibiting a luster much like his shoes. There was a full bar with stools in the corner, a group of matching leather chairs surrounding a round table in front of a fireplace. The west wall was a large sliding glass door that exited to an inviting deck . . . in all the most luxurious room in the house, so it seemed.

Our trip had been a long one; rather fatigued, I withdrew to my room to get in a nap . . .

Bing – bong – bing – bong, the Westminster clock chimed, it must have been about five o’clock when I awoke. Built into the nightstand was an intercom, there was a message light glowing. The text message, “Dinner at 6:00, join me in the kitchen on the first floor – Peridot.” I glanced at my phone and the same text alert was there. My phone was synchronized with the intercom system. Incredible. I tapped it to engage the digital assistant, “See you then.”

Dinner was on the table when I arrived and Peridot was seated with book in hand.

“What are you working on?”

“Just a little recreational reading, Sir Conan Doyle. I find the adventures of Mr. Holmes very enlightening. They certainly exercise the mind,” said Peridot.

"Professor, in your office I noticed a ring. It was an intense yellowish green. I suspect it was a garnet.”

"You are correct Adamas, allow me to provide you a clue. The refractive index (R.I.) of that garnet is 1.740," said Peridot. He smiled, "When we approached the house did you happen to observe the street sign and address just above the doorway.”

"Of course - 1740 Tsavorite Lane." I broke into a hearty laugh, "That's a superb Tsavorite garnet specimen of you have there professor.”

"Thank you, would you like a little wine with dinner?”

Oui, s'il vous plait - have you heard from our client in India, Mr. Kaniyar?”

Peridot looked up from his book, “Why yes, received an e-mail just this afternoon. It seems our friend, Mr. Davies, did return for the stone. He could be anywhere in the world by now. We may see his carefully-crafted doublet again I'm afraid.”

“Let’s not concern ourselves with that matter right now, enjoy your dinner . . .”

to be continued.

Comments

Most Popular of All Time

Morning Coffee

In this episode, Morning Coffee . . . Now, I’m not saying everyone needs coffee. Some folks get by just fine on, I don’t know, sunlight and positive thinking. Me? I’m pretty sure I started drinking the stuff sometime around the Reagan administration. Reading John Gierach’s "Ode to Campfire Coffee" in Trout Bum (a book that should be required reading for anyone who sees sleeping on the ground as recreation) got me thinking about how we’ve managed to complicate something as fundamentally simple as boiling water and adding grounds. Taste, you say? Look, black coffee is an acquired taste, like tequila or cilantro. I just don’t get it. Gierach, bless his heart, mostly drinks his java streamside, probably while wearing wool socks and waders and contemplating the mysteries of the universe. As for me? My outdoor coffee experience is a bit different. Picture this: the High Sierra, where campfires are banned (to avoid agitating Smoky Bear), and I’m huddled over a Whisperlite , coax...

A B+ Kind of Life

Welcome back to this week's On the Fly . Retirement has taught me something unexpected: life gets a lot more enjoyable when you stop chasing perfection. Lately, I've been having an absolute blast playing executive par-3 courses like Rancho Carlsbad . A short iron, a sunny morning, and nowhere to be except the next tee—that's my kind of day. This Thursday, though, I'm raising the stakes. I'm heading to The Links at Lakehouse in San Marcos, a full-size par-71 course with enough water hazards to keep the local fish well-stocked with my golf balls. After shooting a 64 on a par-3 course, I've set myself a new goal: shoot an 89 before my birthday next August. Why 89? Because on a par-71 course, that's bogey golf—one extra stroke per hole. For non-golfers, think of it this way: par is like earning 100% on a final exam. Bogey golf is a solid B+. You got the job done, learned something, and probably had a lot more fun getting there. The older I get, the more I appre...

Resurrecting the '90s Graphite

Let’s face it, there’s a certain danger in reading John Gierach's Trout Bum . His wit, self-deprecation, and sharp, effortless satire are entirely infectious. If you aren't careful, his words will inspire you to drop everything, wade into a freezing river, and try to outsmart a creature with a brain the size of a lentil. In my case, re-reading Gierach recently didn't send me straight to the river. It sent me digging through the dusty, spider-guarded corners of my garage. In the early 1990s, seeking a natural escape from Manhattan's concrete canyons, I decided to learn to cast a fly rod. I bought an Orvis Rocky Mountain —eight-and-a-half feet, three ounces, built for a five-weight line—and had absolutely no idea how to use it. To avoid aimlessly whipping the water like scrambling eggs, I took fly-fishing lessons from Al Cucci, co-author of Hatches , on the Delaware River. With his guidance, I fished renowned waters: the AuSable in New York and Michigan, and New Jersey...

The Endless Work of Wisdom

It always makes me smile. The moment people learn I've officially entered what I like to call the Great Un-Working (retirement), they almost immediately ask the same question: “So . . . What do you do now?" I think they're expecting me to say I'm restoring a vintage sports car, hiking the John Muir Trail, or finally becoming fluent in French.   Instead, I tell them: "I live life deliberately." That's usually the point when I get a polite nod, followed by the unmistakable look of someone wondering whether I've simply found a more sophisticated way to say, “I’m becoming a bum.” Apparently, "living deliberately" sounds suspiciously like unemployment, just better branding. The truth is, what living deliberately looks like for me right now is taking time to synthesize a lifetime of experiences into these weekly reflections. It's slowing down long enough to ask what those experiences have taught me, while keeping the door wide open to the poss...