Ginny Aiken - Priced to Move

The men trade looks—yet another time. “There’s nothing else,” Mr. Ne Aung says, his eyes cast downward. “What else could there be?”

Before I have a chance to speak, Max jumps in with another good question, to my surprise. “Aren’t you the one who saw him last? Shouldn’t you be the one to tell us what else there could be?”

Mr. Ne Aung takes a sharp breath, blinks, then puts on a smile, one that feels just a tad sad. “I’m sorry. I don’t suppose there’s anything more one can say or do now that he’s dead.”

“What do you mean, there’s nothing more to do?” Miss Mona asks with way too much oomph. I appreciate the effort. “I thought we came all the way ’round the world to buy us some great rubies. We haven’t bought a one, and I need Andie to sell rubies for me.”

“We can help you , madam,” Mr. Win says.

He speaks!

While Miss Mona and Mr. Ne Aung haggle back and forth, I can’t shake a funky feeling. Something in the cobwebby back corners of my mind screams: that vendor knows more than he’s sharing. About Mr. Pak.

And then some.

But what?

I keep my eyes and ears open as I pick out the one-only stones I think we should buy. I nod or shake my head when Mr. Ne Aung talks price; I don’t want Miss Mona to pay more than a decent value, where the vendor can make a living and where the network can make a profit.

Then we go on to the parcels we will divide to sell the similar stones in volume at a more reasonable price. They’re of lesser quality than the one-onlys, but still better than what one can find anywhere else. The finest Madagascar rubies come close to some of these stones in color and clarity—but no fluorescence.

All this time, Max says nothing more. I suppose he said enough.

And he gave me plenty to think about, Lord. What did all that mean? Aside from those men knowing way more than they were willing to say.

Through the rest of the meeting, my head buzzes with the certainty that Mr. Ne Aung knows more than he’s said.

I want to find out what it is before we leave Mogok.

With God’s help.

Of course, my curiosity and determination can’t hurt.

I hope.

11 00

The next day, we return to the mine. Hannah films while I kick up clouds of dry peanut-butter-colored dust with every step I take. It’s so bad that by the time I get to the mouth of the mine, my hair looks more nutty than carroty.

Yeah, yeah. Nutty fits me better than carroty.

I continue to interview miners as the mine manager interprets for me, and we film the primitive means by which the world’s best rubies are brought out from where God hides them underground.

When the manager shows me the day’s production, Miss Mona peers over my shoulder. “That’s too bad! There’s almost nothing there. And those bitty bits you do have are too small to cut.” She looks my way. “Aren’t they?”

I hand her a small piece of rough. “This one might make a decent accent stone in the hands of a good cutter. But it’s no Hollywood A-lister’s rock, that’s for sure.”

Max holds out a hand. “Could I see it? It doesn’t look anything like a ruby.”

“Here you go. And that, Max, is why it’s called rough. It hasn’t been cut or polished yet. That cut and polish is what brings out the amazing red of Burmese rubies.”

He returns the stone to the mine manager, then scratches his chin. “If there’s so little stuff coming out of these mines, why are we here? Wouldn’t it make more sense to go check out other sources of rubies? Or maybe we just look for some other gems period. Sapphires are good.”

Sapphires are good. Sure thing, buddy. And Cartier just sells watches.

Before I say anything I shouldn’t—I can bite my tongue every now and then, you know—I offer a quick prayer. I glance down, but when I catch sight of my filthy Nikes, a groan explodes all on its own. I look just like Charlie Brown’s pal Pigpen. Ah . . . the perils of gemology.

But I digress.

Back to Max. “True. Sapphires are great, but carat for carat, the best rubies can run many more thousands than even diamonds, alexandrites, or Paraíba tourmalines, never mind sapphires.”

“I know diamonds and alexandrites, but what’s a para . . . pear-ah—”

I should be used to him by now, but it still rubs me the wrong way. Time to enlighten the gem-dunce. Again.

“Paraíba is a state in Brazil where the rarest form of tourmaline, an electric, neon blue gem, was originally found around 1988 or ’89.” He leans closer, and I notice his attentive gaze and encouraging smile. Great! Progress is good. I figure I’d better strike while the striking’s good. “That mine played out just a couple of years after it was found, and now Brazilian Paraíba gems can bring in tens of thousands of dollars per carat.”

His baby blues goggle. “ Tens of thousands? Are you gem geeks crazy?”

“And proud of it. Actually, there was a find in Nigeria in 2001, and another new find of the copper-bearing cuprian elbaite in Africa sometime in 2005. It looks as though the GIA has determined these stones can be called Paraíba even though they don’t come from Brazil. Their prices are a little more reasonable.”

He holds out a hand, palm out. “Stop. Please. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’d just cussed me out. All those strange words make my head spin.”

My smile is just a teensy weensy bit smug. “I said you were in over your head, didn’t I? Gemology’s not for the faint of heart.”

He narrows his eyes. “Neither is the perfect swing or breaking through tackles and blocks on the way to the end zone.”

Miss Mona lays a hand on his forearm. “You’re a sports fan? I didn’t realize that. Or did you tell me and my sieve of a brain let it go down the drain?”

I snort. “He sure is, Miss Mona. He played for the Buckies . . . the Buck-ohs . . . er . . . the Buckaroos?”

He glares. “The Buckeyes, Andie.” He turns to Miss Mona. “My BS in meteorology is from Ohio State. I went on a football scholarship and played all four years.”

Miss Mona smiles. “I remember listening to my two brothers argue for hours over the merits of the Buckeyes versus the Wolverines.”

That’s enough to send Max the Magnificent into a mega-psyched defense of his . . . what’d he call them? Oh yeah.

Buckeyes.

Just what we need. Not.

Sports talk won’t get us where we want to go, so by the time they’ve enumerated a slew of pros and cons for each team, I say, “How about we wrap it up here, guys, and head for the Panchan-htar-pwe market? I’m not so sure they don’t have any stones of value there. Who knows what we might find if we check out enough vendors?”

“Oooh, Andie!” Miss Mona says, “I’ve always loved treasure hunts. And I did want to visit the market from the start, remember?”

We wave good-bye to our newly minted miner friends and pile into the van. I have no clue what to expect at the market, but excitement fizzes up inside me. I have to agree with Miss Mona. There’s something about treasure hunts that really grabs you. It’s the what-if factor.

We reach the market, and I fall head over heels with the whole thing. Pink and blue umbrellas mushroom over the blocks-long open-air bazaar. Burmese folks bustle in and out of the aisles, hustle their way between the tables, and finally vanish in the field of colorful umbrellas. An electric energy radiates from all that activity and draws me in. And , as if the exotic aura weren’t enough, there’s gemstones a-waitin’ on them thar tables!

“Let’s go,” I urge once the driver finds a parking spot on the packed-earth area just in front of the umbrellas. “I can’t wait to see what we’ll find today.”