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“This London Ghetto of ours is a region where, amid uncleanness and squalor, the rose of romance blows yet a little longer in the raw air of English reality; a world which hides beneath its stony and unlovely surface an inner world of dreams, fantastic and poetic as the mirage of the Orient where they were woven.”
- Israel Zangwill, 1892
Is this London? Amy wondered. Just a few miles from her home, and it looked like a whole other world. She carefully stepped over the slush of melting snow and mud in the narrow East End street crowded with streams of rambunctious children, men arguing loudly and women carrying large baskets of merchandise. She tightened her fine shawl. “Are you sure...?”
“Yes, of course,” Lieutenant Wells replied determinedly. “This is the best place for a bargain. Captain Campbell said he was a very superior craftsman, and a true artist. And good value for money. I know you want a big stone.”
“No, I...” She motioned at the surroundings. “I mean, is this-”
“Do not worry, my dear.” He turned to look at her and smiled magnanimously. “They are mostly harmless. And you are quite safe with me.” He patted his regimental sword for emphasis.
Amy sighed. “Yes, but are you sure we are going the right way?”
He absently twirled his imperial moustache. “Oh yes, we should be there shortly. Black Lion Yard, he said. I shot a lion in India, you know.”
“Yes, I know.” She glanced over her shoulder at her maidservant, who was trudging behind them at a respectable distance as they passed pawn-shops, butchers, and booksellers; all sorts of middling enterprise flourishing at the margins of the great capital.
“Ah, here we are.” He stopped in front of a small shop advertised as 'Mordecai Chodorov, Goldsmith & Jeweller'. He entered and gallantly held the door open for her.
Inside a curly-haired man was bent over a work bench, patiently brushing gold shavings onto a thin piece of paper. She thought he looked awfully young to be a master craftsman. He carefully folded the paper closed before looking up at them. “Ah, good afternoon.” He took off his spectacles and put them in his breast pocket. “How may I help you?”
Lieutenant Wells looked around the shop. “Are you...Mr Kodorov?” he finally asked.
He shook his head. “No, my name is Jacob Peralta. Mr Chodorov is my grandfather. He just left on an errand but I expect he will be back shortly. Is there anything I can do for you?”
“Well, I was hoping to order a wedding ring for my fiancée.”
He smiled. “Ah, very good.” He quickly bowed to them both. “Congratulations. Please take a seat, if you will.” He pointed to two chairs at a smoothly polished table by the window. He grabbed a stool from underneath the work bench and offered it to her maid, for which Amy thanked him with a small nod. Then he unlocked a drawer, removed a slim wooden case and placed it on the table in front of them. As he opened the lid to reveal its contents Amy let out a small gasp. On a bed of dark velvet lay an assortment of gold and silver rings, as well as a number of pendants and lockets. She'd never seen anything like it. They were truly exquisite.
The young man picked up one of the rings and held it up to the light, turning it round and round to let the precious stone sparkle. “These are just a few examples,” he explained as he put the ring back in its place. He grabbed a sketchbook from a shelf and held it open. “You can order any of these designs, or something entirely new.” He flipped over a few pages before laying it down in front of her. “Were you considering any kind of gems?”
“Yes, emerald,” Lieutenants Wells replied. “And some pearls, I think.”
“Emeralds?” he pondered. He suddenly looked her in the eye, as if gazing straight into her soul. “Or perhaps...sapphires?” he suggested.
“I prefer emeralds,” Lieutenant Wells declared. “And so does my mother.”
“I quite like sapphires though,” Amy protested.
“Surely not, dearest? She doesn't, really.”
He slowly nodded. “So, emeralds.” He returned to the drawer and took out another case, this one with an colourful array of cut gemstones. “I'm afraid we don't have that many at the moment, just a few smaller ones, but that is easily remedied. What style and size did you have in mind?”
Lieutenant Wells pointed to a square cut garnet. “Something like that.”
He picked up the gem with a pair of tweezers and held it up to the light. “Of course the value depends not just on the weight but also the colour and clarity. In the case of emeralds-”
He halted at the sudden creaking of wooden floorboards. An old man shuffled into the workshop from the back room. He took off his hat and bowed deeply. “Good afternoon,” he said with a heavy accent. Then he started speaking rapidly to the young man in a foreign tongue.
“I'm sorry, my grandfather does not speak much English,” he explained. “I will translate for you.” Mr Chodorov smiled and nodded at them while his grandson quickly filled him in on the purpose of their visit. “He says it is always a special honour to make wedding rings, to seal a beautiful match.”
“Yes, yes, very good,” Lieutenant Wells said impatiently while flipping through the sketchbook. “Something like this, don't you think?”
Amy took a closer look. “Well, I-”
“Just the thing, is it not?” Then he turned back to the goldsmith and his grandson. “In white gold. But with some small pearls here, and here.”
“Certainly.” Mr Peralta grabbed a fresh sheet of paper and a pencil and started drawing a quick sketch. Amy couldn't help but admire his skillful hands as they traced the paper to bring the new design to life. Then he put down his pencil and turned to her. “Now I just need to measure your ring finger for size, if you please.”
“Oh, of course.” She pulled off her glove and handed it to her maid.
He took a short piece of red ribbon and gently put it round her finger. His hands were warm, but she still shivered. He stretched the measured length of ribbon against a metal ruler and noted down the result on his sketch paper. “I'll work out this design in more detail, and procure some emeralds for you to choose from,” he promised. “I hope to have everything ready in two days.”
Lieutenant Wells frowned. “I'm very busy. I'll come back on Saturday then.”
Mr Peralta opened his mouth, and then closed it again, like a gaping fish. “I'm sorry,” he said at last, “We're not open on Saturdays.”
“Right, of course. I knew that. I meant Monday. I said Monday.”
Amy felt her cheeks redden and was suddenly quite hot in her cloak.
Mr Peralta nodded. “Monday is fine.”
As they left the shop she looked back over her shoulder and caught a tiny smile at the corner of his lips while he shook his head almost imperceptibly. She blushed and quickly looked down.
Lieutenant Wells let out a deep sigh. “Dreadfully rude, not to learn the language, don't you think?”