100TWC - Day 19: Tears

I was glad to step out of the heat into the unremarkable, almost invisible, pawnbroker's that afternoon. The dust of the market had already formed a pale crust on my skin. I felt as though another moment in the crowded streets would be enough to petrify me like a wrongdoer in an ancient tale from the Arabian Nights.

The small brass bell sounded unnaturally loud in the quiet crepuscular interior of the shop. Traffic noise rudely disturbed the calm, which I restored by fastening the door closed behind me. An old man sat beside a makeshift counter at the back of the shop, examining a tooled silver dress knife with a jeweller's eyeglass.

The knife's owner stood a few respectful steps away from the shopkeeper, impatiently moving from foot to foot. At the sound of the door he had turned quickly to see who might be entering. Since I was no-one he recognised and I looked harmless enough, his attention had been recaptured by the ongoing valuation of his heirloom. At length the shopkeeper let out a breath he seemed to have been holding since long before I arrived.

"It is not the best workmanship. And there is some damage to the hilt. I offer two hundred dinar."
"It is an insult!" the man cried, snatching the knife from the hand of the merchant. "This has been in my family for three generations! It is worth at least ten times that amount!"
"Then I wish you good fortune in finding someone willing to pay it," said the trader with a shrug. He turned back to his counter, ignoring me completely.
"A thousand then!" said the owner loudly. "May my ancestors forgive me."
"I told you. It is worth no more than two hundred."
"You are trying to rob me!"
"I am merely being honest. Take it somewhere else. The tale will be the same."
"Can you at least give me five hundred?" the man asked, a note of desperation beginning to colour both his voice and his posture. "I have bills. Debts."
"Don't we all?"
"Look, four hundred. It must be worth at least that much for the metal."
"My friend I don't think you can be aware how much the price of silver has fallen. But I can see you are in dire straits. Two hundred and fifty dinars. It is my final offer."
The man hesitated. For one moment I thought he was going to bite. Barely better than ten percent of what he had thought the object was worth. But the weight of his ancestors' expectations overwhelmed him. He turned on his heel and walked out into the heat of the afternoon.

The merchant regarded me with a belligerent stare.

"Can I help you?"
"My master has cried rivers of tears in his quest for a special gift."

The merchant's demeanour changed instantly from confrontational barterer to supplicant. He edged past me to lock the shop door and pull down the shutters.

"Come with me, effendi."

He led the way past the counter, through a curtained entrance to the dingy living quarters at the back of the shop. Taking a huge bunch of keys from the folds of his robe he unlocked a small door, flicked a switch and started down a rickety old flight of stairs without another word or even a glance in my direction. I followed.

The basement was illuminated by a single bare bulb. The merchant had knocked it on his way past and now it swung rapidly to and fro, casting eerily moving shadows on the filing cabinets, old cast-off furniture and anonymously sheeted objects that filled the mould stained cellar. Incongruously, one wall held a bright, clean, polished steel safe. The merchant stopped, turning to look at me.

"Please."

I looked away. The buzz and click of the combination wheel's spinning filled the small chamber. The merchant swung the handle and, reaching inside, retrieved a small dark blue velvet bag. He closed the safe again and span the wheels.

In one corner of the room sat a large partner's desk covered in a clean white sheet. The merchant switched on a large desk lamp, flooding the desk with an achingly bright arc light. He loosened the ties on the bag and slid out the contents.

Flashing blue and silver in the harsh white light the largest single diamond I had ever seen slipped into his hand.

"Your master will be pleased, effendi, no? This is the stone known as the Tears of Munra."