Donovans 03 - Pearl Cove

their shadow was harmless, Archer turned back and faced the woman who could pierce his self-control with a word, a touch, a look. “Some folks are calling imitation pearls ‘semicultured.’ ”
    “That’s deceptive.”
    “That’s business. Let the buyer beware. Besides, pearl growers aren’t eager to get into a public pissing contest over cultured versus manufactured. Then people might start asking at what point a cultured pearl becomes a manufactured one.”
    “When you add or subtract color,” Hannah retorted.
    “Not to the Japanese. Or the Chinese, for that matter. Then there are the Arabs. To them, cultured is manufactured. Imitation. And we’re not even touching on Majorica ‘pearls.”’ He tipped his head toward the next booth.
    “Glass beads dipped in fish scales and glue,” she said, dismissing the legitimacy of the Majorica process.
    “The people who produce Majoricas call the dip ‘pearl essence,’” he said blandly.
    “More like essence of bull dust.”
    “At least Majoricas have a brief history to recommend them. They’ve been made for a hundred years, they’re heavier than plastic, cooler to the touch, and more expensive to buy.”
    “But still imitation. Not pearl.”
    He didn’t argue the point. No part of a Majorica “pearl” had ever seen an oyster.
    Hannah went to another booth. This one also featured Akoya pearls, but of a higher quality. Sighing, she fingered the cool, silky weight of several necklaces. They had the pale blue overtone that was common to Akoya pearls in their natural state. The weight of the necklaces suggested that the pearls had spent a year gathering nacre in the oyster shell rather than the six months she suspected was the maximum for the previous booth. This booth also had the pink Akoya as well, but they had been handled with care and dyed with discretion. The drill holes were smooth and uniform. Not surprisingly, the price reflected the higher standard of production.
    Quietly Archer urged her on around the room, milling at random through the booths, trying to make sure that only the government was following him.
    “Wait,” she said suddenly. “Aren’t these beautiful? Odd, but beautiful.”
    He looked at her hand on his arm. She didn’t seem to be aware of having touched him. He wished he could say the same.
    “Biwa,” he said curtly.
    “What?”
    “Freshwater pearls from Lake Biwa in Japan.”
    “What a lovely, icy, iridescent white,” she murmured, fingering a strand of the oddly shaped yet nearly identical pearls. “A necklace of little crosses. Natural or cultured?” she asked, turning to him.
    “Natural, probably. But the ones in the next booth certainly aren’t.”
    She looked at the next booth and laughed softly. “Little Buddhas. How on earth . . . ?”
    “Same way mabe pearls are produced, on the shell itself rather than in the mantle of the oyster. Take a bead shaped like a flattened Buddha. Cement it on the inside of the shell. Cement lots of them, actually, like measles erupting all across the interior of the shell. The oyster just covers the intruders over. Six months later, the shell is harvested and the Buddhas are cut away. The Chinese have been doing it since the eleventh century.”
    “Like blister pearls.”
    Archer smiled slightly. “Nothing is like blister pearls. They’re naturals all the way. I have one in my collection that’s as big as Summer’s fist.”
    “The pearl?” Hannah asked, startled.
    “No, the blister. I haven’t opened it up yet to see if there’s a pearl inside the blister.”
    The rise and fall of conversations around Hannah faded as she concentrated only on Archer. “If there is a pearl, it would be natural. Priceless.”
    “And if there isn’t, if the blister is full of organic goo, the shell is worthless.”
    “You won’t know until you open it.”
    “I’ve opened other blisters and found nothing but tar.”
    “But you won’t know about this one,” she insisted.
    “Would you open it?”
    “Of course. Not knowing would drive me crazy.”
    “Even if you had opened other blisters?”
    “Yes. That’s what hope is all about. Knowing the odds are against you but going for it anyway.”
    His black eyebrows rose. “I should have been an oyster.”
    “What?”
    “Then you wouldn’t be afraid to open me and see what’s inside. But you’re sure it’s tar and there’s no point to this conversation. Let’s go. The bureaucrats following us are getting