“Before we do anything else, we need to eat.”
“Where?” Kate eyed a man bundling samosas into brown paper bags at a roadside stall.
“Laad Bazaar.” Marcus pointed to where the crowds were funneling into narrow alleys.
But Kate was too hungry to wait. “Hold on,” she said, and she approached the man and bought a samosa for each of them, fumbling the unfamiliar coins as she paid.
“Keema samosa,” said Marcus as he tore his in half, releasing spice-scented steam. “Hyderabad food is different to the rest of India. The whole city is a mix of Arab and Turkish cultures.”
Kate devoured her samosa, licking the drips of garlicky minced lamb and yogurt from her fingers. “These are incredible. Maybe I should get more?”
“Trust me, you’ll want to leave room . . .”
Marcus led her into a maze of alleys, past stalls selling spools of bright cotton, endless rows of golden bangles studded with gemstones, earthenware pots, and bags of spices in every hue. Soon they came to a central alley, where the aromas of spices, roasting meats, and piquant curry sauces blotted out the diesel and smog.
They reached a tiny hole-in-the-wall and Marcus stopped. An old woman in a pink sari with gold bangles tinkling up her arm seated them on wooden crates at an outdoor table covered with a checked cloth. They asked for a beer each, and Kate pressed the bottle to her cheek to cool herself.
“You order, please,” she said. “I eat everything.”
“Great.” Marcus grinned. There were beads of sweat at his brow, and his linen shirt was already damp and creased, but he looked so at ease sitting there in a crowded alley among the shrieking hawkers and crush of shoppers.
“How many times have you been here?” Kate asked.
“Four times. Once as a backpacker at eighteen, then three times for work.”
“Work?” Kate thought of the glossy fashion spreads and jewelry catalogs he was booked for years in advance, then his cover for National Geographic she’d spotted at Heathrow.
“Don’t look so surprised. You think I just do fashion and jewelry? I enjoy the fashion—it’s edgy and the people are fun. But it’s the people, not the fashion, that I find fascinating . . .”
“I didn’t mean . . .” Her ears started to burn.
“I know.” He waved his hand and smiled. “I like to explore, to try to capture what makes this world tick. Do you know how many war photographers do weddings?”
“Really?”
“True! Light and shade, Kate. You can’t just focus on the dark stuff; it’ll tear you apart.” Marcus paused, his jaw tensed, and Kate caught a glimpse again of the shadows that had crept across his face in the museum. He opened his mouth, about to say something else, when a parade of green plastic plates arrived piled with food.
“Heaven!”
Marcus talked her through the dishes. “Start with the buttermilk vada.” He pointed. “The fritters are made with fennel and spices, and the sauce is buttermilk with curry leaves, finished with a scoop of yogurt and some coriander leaves on top.”
Kate obediently scooped some onto her plate and began to eat.
“I’ve never tasted Indian food like this,” she said.
“These days people come to Hyderabad for the food, just like people in past centuries came for the diamonds and gemstones.”
“You’re not taking any pictures?”
Marcus shrugged. “Not of my food. Not my thing. I like to just . . . eat, you know? Enjoy the moment, savor the company.”
Kate lifted a napkin to her lips to hide the blush she felt creeping onto her cheeks. What was wrong with her? Maybe the heat and jetlag were catching up with her.
Next up was a lentil dal made zestier with tamarind; kebabs marinated in chili and coriander (so tender they melted in her mouth); and a creamy malai korma with potato and paneer dumplings. Kate’s favorite, though, was the dum biryani—basmati rice cooked with turmeric and other spices, then piled high with marinated meats, served with green chilies mixed in a peanut masala.
As she tore a piece of roti and dipped it in the leftover masala sauce, Kate studied the curves of the Charminar just visible at the end of the alley. Beside them was a stall dripping with strands of pearls. It wasn’t a stretch to imagine a similar scene centuries ago as diamond dealers and silk merchants loaded up oxen and braved narrow tracks on mountain passes as they traveled the silk route between here and Persia. She pulled out her notebook and recorded her impressions before tucking it away again to eat.
When they’d finished eating, the old woman cleared their plates and poured them cups of chai, which was accompanied by crescent-shaped biscuits that tasted of coconut and saffron.
As Kate bit into her second biscuit, she said, “There’re millions of stalls here. How’d you know to come to this one?”
“My guide introduced me last time. Aarav. You’ll meet him this afternoon when he takes us to meet a couple of gem dealers.”
Marcus smiled at the old woman and raised his hands together in thanks. “That was incredible.”
It struck Kate how easygoing Marcus was with women. When she’d first met him she’d expected him to be what Sophie would call “a bit of a lad,” but he’d always been a polite and attentive colleague. They’d worked well together in London, as always. He’d solicited opinions from Saanvi and Gayle and peppered them with questions about each piece as he shot. It wasn’t so much that he was charming—for he certainly was—but that he was genuinely interested in the curators’ expertise. Kate was ashamed to think that she’d dismissed his rugged good looks and charm as part of a standard playboy fashion photographer package.
Marcus paid the old woman for lunch, and she beamed. “Thank you, sir. You come back. India is in your heart.”
* * *
Kate and Marcus wandered back out into the bazaar. She didn’t mind the dusty kids swarming about her, or peddlers poking at her shoulders and shouting at her to buy beautiful emeralds, beautiful gold bracelets, a golden sari. Women grabbed her hands and promised to make her beautiful with henna tattoos, others draped strands of pearls down their swanlike necks and swayed to Hindi pop music.
Kate stopped and bought a beautiful blue cashmere shawl for Molly and a burgundy one for Jessica. She also bought a handful of green glass bangles.
“For Emma—my niece.”
“Who needs an emerald watch?” Marcus chuckled as he handed over money for a magnificent sheer turquoise cashmere shawl. He offered no explanation as to whom he was buying it for, but he asked that it be gift wrapped. “They don’t have the exact green I was after. But this is lovely.”
Kate nodded. “It sure is,” she said as he tucked the gift into his camera bag.
They kept walking, Marcus with his camera in hand, discreetly taking photos as they walked among the crowds. He was so respectful of the people around him, never training his lens on someone’s face, instead taking a detail of a painted tile, the line of a copper pot, or a plate of grilled lamb kebabs steaming with coriander, cumin, and garlic.
They stopped to watch a spice merchant pull trays of spices from an old brick oven at the back of his stall and then grind them up to make garam masala. Kate bought a bag for Molly, who loved curry perhaps more than any other food.
“I’ll have a bag too, please,” said Marcus. “Though I’m not sure I could replicate any of the dishes we just had. Still, I might try my hand at that biryani. You could come and taste it for me, tell me if I get it right.”
“Where’s home for you when you’re not traveling?” Kate realized she’d never asked. They’d been acquaintances and occasional colleagues for years, but she had no idea where he was based.
“Sydney, mostly. Plus I have a shoebox apartment and studio in New York. Paris for the shows.”
She rolled her eyes. “Right, then it should be easy for me to make it from Boston for dinner . . .” As soon as she said it, Kate had a yearning to be curled up with a hot chocolate and a good book on her velvet sofa a
t home in Louisburg Square. She touched Essie’s sapphires at her ears as if they were Dorothy’s red shoes and could transport her home. She’d landed in a supersize Oz and it was both exhilarating and baffling.
Marcus checked his watch. “We have a bit of time before the first appointment Aarav has arranged. He’ll meet us at the diamond dealer—over on the far alley where you can see the Charminar. Very discreet. Eighth-generation dealer.”
“Should have some interesting stories from the past.”
“Definitely! I’m also really glad that you scheduled a trip to see some mining in Sri Lanka. The mines up near Ratnapura are something else. I think we can do something amazing with the pics—and your article—linking in this bazaar, then the mines, to give people a sense of the journey of a gemstone.”
“Hope so.” Kate grinned.
Marcus went still. “After Golconda Fort tomorrow, I’m going to Galle for five days for a beach break before I meet you up in the mountains. You should come. I know you planned to stay at the hotel here and do some writing, but who doesn’t love a few days by the sea?”
“Marcus . . .” Kate felt flustered as they stepped out of the shop and warm bodies bumped into her, pressing silk and sweaty cotton against her sticky skin. “Aren’t you . . . meeting someone? I heard you on the phone . . .” Kate ducked her head. She didn’t want Marcus to see how embarrassed she was at being caught eavesdropping on his phone call to aaa olivia.
“Yes, I plan on having a few days’ break with Liv.” Marcus hesitated for a moment. “She’s my daughter.”
* * *
Later that afternoon, as the light faded and the call to prayer rang out across the city, they walked among the surging crowds. Kate’s shoulders were knocked and she was almost forced against the wall as the street heaved with bodies. Never had she seen so many people. Marcus stopped at a shop selling vintage framed photos. Kate pulled out her notebook and wrote about the line of jewelers across from them, each with flashing lights in the windows, and samples of gold chains and pastel gems arranged on velvet pedestals. Hawkers were out the front, each louder than the last.
A man with no teeth grabbed Kate’s arm and tugged her inside to where Marcus stood. “Come see.”
The hunched shop owner pulled out a black-and-white photo of a striking Miss World winner from 1966. Her poise, long glossy hair, and licorice eyes suited the diamond crown and scepter. But it was a reproduction painting that caught Kate’s eye—it could have been a scene straight out of Bollywood, with a white man lounging on a red velvet seat dressed as a Hyderabadi businessman in a burgundy-and-gold qaba skirt, fur-lined gold robe, and a silk cream turban studded with rubies and diamonds. Kate instantly recognized the figure as one of the most famous early foreign diamond merchants.
“Who’s that?” asked Marcus, narrowing his eyes to read the caption.
Kate smiled. She’d seen this face in many of her history books. “Jean-Baptiste Tavernier. He wrote volumes about his travels in Golconda. He came six times from Europe in the seventeenth century. But there were other European diamond buyers from Britain, France, Holland, and Belgium. The East India Company had their own British gem traders on the ground.”
She thought of the Golconda diamond that had caught her eye at the museum. There was every chance the diamond rough would have been sold in a market just like the one she now stood in. But where did it go next? How did that Golconda rough end up in a champlevé ring abandoned in a London cellar?
Marcus asked the shopkeeper the price and paid for the painting without haggling.
Kate raised an eyebrow. “You could probably have bought the original oil painting for that!”
Marcus shrugged and held it out. “We flew here business class, caught an air-conditioned taxi, and checked into a hotel that used to be a palace. Men like these guys would have come by ship, risking shipwreck, pirates, or scurvy. Or come overland, risking disease, robbery, and murder. Also, can you just imagine the heat?”
“Not in those robes, I can’t.” Kate tapped the picture. “But I agree, that’s the lure of gemstones.” She thought of George saying he wouldn’t necessarily sell to the highest bidder. “It sets something afire in our soul when we touch a beautiful gem,” she whispered, almost to herself.
The Bazaar
HYDERABAD, INDIA, 1630
Ekmel stood at the edge of the bazaar setting up his stall. Just steps away the creamy minarets of the Charminar stood like sentinels, ghostly in the morning mist, as the hum and bustle of the markets started to rise.
The gem merchant unfurled a roll of hide across his table, but left the gemstones and jewels tucked under his turban. He preferred to stick to the edges of the market, staying well clear of the carpet peddlers, beggars, and loudmouthed diamond dealers who screeched and bickered across the middle aisles until the market closed before evening prayers.
Women draped in black dresses and veils weaved among the vendors, prodding at fish and chickens in cages, buying bagfuls of dried fruit and nuts, loading beans and rice into baskets on their backs. The smell of roasting kebabs, cardamom, and stewing apricots filled the crisp air, mingling with the sweat of horses and oxen and the pungent hair of goats corralled in a pen at the southern end.
Ekmel had just finished arranging some gems in a wooden box when he noticed a young man standing still and silent among the chaos. The youth met his gaze with a raised chin, a pride out of kilter with his gaunt face and filthy bare feet. Ekmel closed the box and locked it as the youth pressed through the crowds and made his way toward him.
As the youth approached, Ekmel rested a hand on the dagger at his belt. He wanted this beggar—or slave—gone before his customers arrived.
“I have something I wish you to sell for me.”
The man sighed. Every day skinny boys and youths just like this one streamed over the mountains from Golconda Fort and beyond, walking barefoot for days just to sell stolen slips of silk, dusty surcoats, or stolen gemstones at the market. He shooed them all away, just as he should shoo this youth away—however, there was a dignity about this youth that he couldn’t explain.
“What is your name, boy?” he asked.
“Sachin.”
“Show me what you have,” Ekmel said with a sigh.
The boy reached under his turban and removed a filthy cloth. He untied the string and tipped a rough into his palm.
Without hesitation, Ekmel lifted the diamond rough up between thumb and forefinger and reached for his eyepiece. The stone was of the clearest water. He stood with the boy and whispered in a low voice, “Golconda.”
The youth nodded.
Ekmel glanced around the market to see if any of the king’s men were nearby. They’d been known in recent months to raid the market stalls and throw any traders who bought stolen diamonds from slaves into the dungeons—or worse. Still, he felt sorry for this weary youth.
Ekmel said, “I have a foreigner meeting me here this morning to look at diamonds.”
“Can you sell him this one?”
“Perhaps.” Ekmel shrugged. “But my commission will be higher given the circumstances . . .”
The youth’s expression remained unchanged.
“I’ll take half.”
The boy pursed his lips, but nodded.
“Go!” Ekmel urged. “Eat some food and return here in one hour.”
Sachin nodded, his ribs rippling through his dusty skin.
Muttering to himself that his wife would wring his neck if she found out, Ekmel tucked his wooden box under his arm for safekeeping, took a coin from his purse, and walked the boy across to the food stalls. In his native tongue, Ekmel ordered a plate piled with steaming yellow rice topped with a spicy lentil stew.
Instructing the boy to keep out of sight, Ekmel turned to go back to his stall.
“Please . . .”
Ekmel turned back.
“You will sell the diamond for a fair price, won’t you? My brother died and we need to make an offering. My family .
. .” His voice faded, as if he’d run out of breath and was too tired to speak.
Ekmel nodded curtly. “I will see what I can do.”
* * *
The foreigner arrived at the agreed time, but instead of the usual dark waistcoat and pants he’d worn to the bazaar these past months he was dressed in the Persian style, with a qaba skirt in red silk and a matching burgundy robe. On his head was a golden silk turban with a ruby the size of an eye sewn at the center.
Taking this adoption of local dress as a sign of goodwill, Ekmel spread the diamonds he’d removed from his own turban into the wooden box lined with silk, allowing the foreigner to take his time as he picked through the gemstones. Finally, Ekmel slipped the diamond from the youth into the box, and held his breath as the foreigner picked up the youth’s rough and turned it over in his hand.
“We can have it cut for you, sir,” Ekmel offered, gesturing toward the cutters and polishers huddled over stone wheels at the far end of the bazaar.
The foreigner shook his head. “My buyer prefers to cut and polish his own. I’ll take this diamond today, with those pink sapphires.”
Ekmel nodded and named his price. As he expected, the foreigner bargained hard. He was about to settle on a figure, when he glanced up and saw Sachin watching. The boy had said he wanted a fair price for his family.
So, against his better judgment, Ekmel held firm. “This diamond, sir, is from Golconda. You can tell . . . the purest water.”
Eventually, the deal was done, gold exchanged.
“Prepare the stones for travel,” demanded the foreigner.
“Certainly.” Ekmel placed the diamond rough with the three sapphires in a small leather bag, then placed it in a wooden box and wrapped the box in a square of white cotton cloth. Finally, he sealed the parcel with red wax and pressed his merchant’s seal into the wax with his ring.
Ekmel handed the box to the foreigner. “If I may be so bold as to ask, sir, where are you from?”
“Antwerp,” the man replied. “But these stones will travel with me to Bandar Abbas.” The foreigner leaned in conspiratorially, buoyed perhaps by the excellent deal and the smell of sweet chai and simmering stew teasing from across the alley. He whispered, “I have a letter of introduction to a Dutch jeweler—Polman—who has a reputation for buying the best stones. Prefers to cut them himself.”
The Lost Jewels Page 11