A Fine Passage by France Daigle Read Free Book Online Page B

which he is clearly familiar, but he reveals neither what it is he’s looking for nor whether he finds it, expressing neither surprise nor satisfaction. Hans, watching the silent occupations of the merchant, wonders if he was right to choose a jeweller at random.
    At last the man stands.
    â€œDo you mind?”
    He flattens the canvas bag on his palm and lays the six small precious stones on top, moves into the next room, still without saying anything. Hans trusts him. He has a feeling the diamond merchant is a modest man.
    The merchant reappears, regains his position behind the sort of desk. He spreads the diamond bag carefully over the surface and sits down. Once seated, he places his elbows on the not-quite desk, pressing his hands together, as though in prayer but somewhat more loosely, without the fervour of prayer. He exhales in short bursts on the tips of his fingers, which touch the centre of his lips.
    Ever since she mailed it, Claudia can’t stop thinking about the letter the man who’d shown no sign of reading entrusted to her.
    â€œYou look worried. Something wrong?”
    â€œI guess I can’t wait to go home. I’m not doing much of anything here.”
    Claudia knows she can say this sort of thing to her mother without offending her.
    â€œToo bad we didn’t have more free time, but your father is so busy.”
    â€œHe looks tired.”
    The mother pauses a moment before replying.
    â€œI hurt him badly recently.”
    This confession surprises Claudia.
    â€œI was intending to tell you the whole story, but I haven’t had the nerve. Now time is pressuring me.”
    The mother pauses again, finds the courage to continue.
    â€œI’m not sure that I still love him.”
    Another pause.
    â€œTo tell the truth, I think I’ve tried my best. But I can’t go on any more. It’s beyond me.”
    The mother pauses once more, then realizes there’s nothing more to say.
    â€œIt’s awful, I know.”
    And though she recognizes that this is an ideal moment to embrace her daughter, to reassure her, the mother can’t quite bring herself to do it. She fears the worst. She fears that love no longer reassures at all.
    The diamond merchant’s slow pace is beginning to intrigue Hans. The man leafs through his reference book again, goes over a calculation, turns his gaze once more upon the six small diamonds. Hans thinks maybe he should have thrown the diamonds off the bridge yesterday. Because he did indeed walk across the Golden Gate on a Tuesday. He even stopped awhile along the railing, and he admired the gentle roiling of the sea at the bay’s entrance.
    â€œThey’re perfect. Exquisite, even. I can’t pay you what they’re worth, but I would very much like to have them. For a jeweller friend of mine. He’s terribly talented, but to tell the truth, it’s a talent he can’t afford. Life is strange, isn’t it?”
    With this question, which is really an affirmation, the diamond merchant extends his arm almost lazily to reach a ring binder on the shelf, then brings it down, places it before Hans, and begins to turn the pages. It contains a series of photographs of original works of jewellery combining an infinite variety of metals and stones, the curves and lines of which create highly uncommon effects, as though the stones were floating or suspended in air.
    â€œJewellery looks larger in photos. This one, for example, is hardly bigger than a dime.”
    Having pointed out the jewel in question, the diamond merchant continues to turn the pages of the binder.
    â€œHe’s an odd bird, really. He lives — I should say survives — in a small village in northern Italy. But at heart, he’s a vagabond.”
    The man extends a hand, picks up a postcard, rereads it in silence, smiles at something, places the card on the not-quite desk.
    â€œAvignon.”
    Hans turns the pages of the binder