Tears of the Moon - Di Morrissey [68]
Just as she was enchanted with the rundown shell shed on the waterfront when she first went there, Olivia was excited by the atmosphere of the workshop of the Asian pearl cleaner. He greeted her effusively, fussily dusting off a bentwood chair, and rubbing his hands together with enthusiasm.
‘It is very good of you to come to my humble little place, Mrs Hennessy. It is rarely graced by the presence of a lady.’ He bobbed and smiled and clasped his hands. ‘You are most welcome any time.’
His singsong accent and excessive politeness amused Olivia, but she warmed to him immediately. ‘I hope that together we will make some wonderful pearls, Mr Metta.’
‘Oh indeed, indeed, Mrs Hennessy. We most certainly will. But already you have some very excellent pearls.’ He reached into a drawer and from a labelled black velvet bag emptied a small cluster of pearls from blue tissue paper into the palm of his hand, then spread them on the bag on the desk. ‘There,’ he said triumphantly.
Four pearls of intense gold and rosy lustre shone like beacons on a moonless night. Olivia gasped lightly. ‘Oh, they’re beautiful. Conrad, isn’t it exciting.’ ‘Only a few skins had to be removed,’ explained Toby. ‘Very simple little task, just like peeling an onion. A most lucky start. They will bring a good price even though they are not that big.’ From another bag he emptied two dozen smaller pearls. ‘Your petty cash,’ he laughed. ‘I lost four. They were flawed to the heart. So sorry.’
They paid his fee and accepted an invitation to Sunday tiffin. His reputation was such among the pearling masters of Broome that there was no racial discrimination when it came to accepting invitations to Toby and Mabel’s tiffin. Not only was the food good, but very little happened in Broome concerning pearls that Toby did not know about, and occasionally he discreetly let slip some useful information.
With the pearls rolled into a small chamois bag and tucked into Olivia’s handbag, the Hennessys continued on to the Continental Hotel to meet with Monsieur Jules Barat, the pearl buyer.
After exchanging introductions and greetings, Monsieur Barat carefully closed the door behind them.
The pearl buyer was a short man, quite young despite his courtly manner, with a large hooked nose, pointed goatee and gold-rimmed spectacles that magnified his bulbous brown eyes. He was immaculately dressed from Faubourg St Germain and the combination of his élan and distinctive Gallic style made him glaringly out of place in Broome.
They sat around a small wicker table and he opened a flat wooden case. Its lid was lined with green baize. Beside this he set up a small set of gold scales, a jeweller’s eyeglass, and a small notepad.
He spoke with a smooth and seductive French accent. He bowed slightly to Olivia. ‘Would Madame excuse me if I remove my jacket?’
‘Please.’ She gestured to him to go ahead, and he slipped his jacket on the back of his chair. Conrad, dressed in tropical linen and not haute couture, stayed as he was.
Olivia took the pearls from the little bag and placed them on the green baize. It was a modest collection and Olivia spoke up a little defensively. ‘As you are aware, this has been our first season. We expect to increase our output significantly with each season.’
‘Of course. Quality, not just quantity, is what we strive for in the jewellery business,’ he responded with a slight bobbing of his head.
Monsieur Barat went through what was obviously his personal ritual—the adjusting of the metal expanding bands that held up his shirt sleeves, the flexing of fingers, the wiping of his glasses, which he put to one side, the screwing into place of the eyeglass. Only then did he pick up and study each pearl. After careful scrutiny, he weighed each and made a note on his pad. Another thoughtful look at each pearl, holding them at a distance, and finally a calculation on the pad. He tore off the sheet, turned it around and slid it across to Conrad. After a brief perusal, Conrad silently handed the paper