Free A New Yorker's Stories by Philip Gould Page B

directed to the concierge at the very entrance of the shop. And as I passed several display cabinets on my way I was startled to discover the unique way bracelets and wristwatches were presented—floating, as it were, into space. The precious items were suspended without any obvious means of support. How ingenious, I thought. What was the secret? Closer inspection revealed a collar locked onto the inner surface of the object and set in place by a means of a plug into a corresponding hole in the base.
    My mission to Tiffany’s changed on the spot. Now I had two questions for the concierge.
    The concierge was a portly gentleman. He was just a little taken back by questions and reasons for coming to Tiffany but I saw he was used to accommodating visitors. He made a couple of in-house telephone calls which looked optimistic and pessimistic by turns. Finally he said he could not help me because the supplier would not wish to disclose its identity. It had not occurred to me that such an item would be considered a trade secret but I had to bow to the protocol of the house. Then I posed the second question about the employee of Tiffany. I was informed that administrative personnel were housed in an entirely different building about two blocks away. That revelation made perfectly good sense: why lose selling space to administration. Before trekking over to the other building I decided to take advantage of my presence in the store to visit the collections of Frank Gehry, one of the latest designers to join the distinguished ranks of fashion masters in the high-end jewelry business. Paloma Picasso was another name housed on the third floor. I entered the elevator and was about to go up when the concierge suddenly appeared beckoning me to step out of the elevator. What had I done now? Will I be thrown out on my heels, or held for questioning?
    No! He had just obtained information about the mounts, all written out on a scrap of paper. Terrific. I had the name and telephone number of a person who could help me, in my hand. Now our conversation changed. The gentleman from a Haitian family could speak French, of course, and so we did. We cut through a lot of formal talk to essentials about each other in about two minutes. We had become friends. More, later about the reference I had tucked away.
    The visit to the third floor was something of an anticlimax. The highly polished silver objects looked somewhat forlorn under the glass and spaced out upon the beige satiny grounds. Besides, I was still thinking of the clever ways of supporting and showing off jewelry.
    The trip to the administrative offices was another challenge. I had the name in my little book from two months ago. In the lobby the gentleman at the reception desk mumbled something about security and how things had changed in that regard. He asked who I wished to see and if I had an appointment. I mumbled back that I had an appointment citing the name of the person in my notebook. He asked to see a photo ID, which I produced and he then punched a monitor screen many times with his finger. I thought he was clearing my name from an intelligence center. Finally, he told me to go through the gates he had opened from behind his desk. I had passed the first hurdle. I had no idea where to go from here. I took a chance with the express elevator to the eleventh floor which I thought might be right from the illuminated tenant board at the entrance. No, nothing on the eleventh floor corresponded to Tiffany’s. Back to the lobby and a few discreet questions got me to the right floor only to be greeted by another receptionist behind a huge granite slab of a desk. She took my hat and coat to the paneled door closet. I was getting the royal treatment without disclosing my role, which made me a little uneasy. Who do you wish to see? Do you have an appointment? I couldn’t bring myself to say yes or no. I resorted to mumbling once more. “I have to see such and such a person,