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diamonds and other precious gems. Never anywhere near the estate jewelry. That was Sahhdie’s territory. The richest, oldest clients shopped there. Ron went where he pleased—he was the top salesman. And there was lovely Bridget, stuck among the paste and rhinestones. I worried that she might be offended, but Bridget said, “No, he’s right. I’d feel uncomfortable around all that posh, high-ticket stuff. I’d just be looking at people like they were crazy to buy it. I prefer the paste jewelry, to be honest. I’m an Irish charwoman at heart.”
    I envied her curls; she wanted my straight hair. We were so different in externals, and so alike on the inside. Bridget had a hard life—four brothers and two sisters, and her mother had died after the youngest was born. We had that in common, our motherless state. But her father was a hard man. A strict teetotaler, reformed, who had once been an ugly drunk. Bridget hid her brains from him as if they were a disgrace. She was hardworking and kind and capable and deep. It bothered me to see her stuck among the cheap costume jewelry and the clearance items at the back of the store. But she thought it was all a lark.
    Even when Ron spoke sharply to her—he snapped at all of us underlings, sooner or later—she just found him interesting and amusing. He had fought in the Great War, was wounded at the Battle of Ypres, and came home with a foot made of wood and metal. You would not have known it except when he was tired and it scraped across the floor. Sometimes the artificial foot would flop over entirely, and he would have to lean down, pick it up, and adjust it.
    Ron had a handlebar moustache, and he was going a bit bald. He’d stroke his moustache and nod at the people studying some piece of jewelry as if their lives depended on it. He had a crooked little smile on his face as he waited patiently for them to make up their minds. He never pushed or nagged or coaxed. He didn’t seem to care if he lost a sale—and so he seldom lost one. He had a knack for swooping down on the right piece of jewelry when a customer became paralyzed with indecision. They’d spend an hour looking at pearl earrings, and Ron would present them with a blue diamond necklace, which they would buy at once.
    “These are not life-and-death decisions,” he said. After the war, he’d ended up in a sanatorium for a few months. “I don’t recommend it,” he said. I learned to avoid him on the bad days, making busywork in Mr. Kahani’s quiet office. My employer was out of the store more than he was in. Where he went remained a mystery. Bridget claimed that Mr. Kahani was a spy. Like me, she believed he could secretly see. But she also said Ron was “hunky.” Chunky, was more like it. He ate like a man who was starving all the time. He was especially fond of marbleized halwa . And spicy crisps.
    My work was never dull. I suppose this would have been true in any place where people spent a great deal of money at once. Sometimes there were sad stories. One day, I watched a young man lead his fiancée from one diamond ring to the next, each one smaller and cheaper, until at last she left the store in tears. I knew they’d never be back, and I thought it had been a poor way for a man to break off an engagement.
    One quiet afternoon, a young Chinese couple poked their heads into the store. By now, my job was about one-quarter secretarial, three-quarters sales. I’d kept one eye on the door in those first few weeks, until I realized Uncle Chachi wasn’t ever going to check up on me. In any event, the timid Chinese couple came in together, the young man urging his wife to come inside. She was reluctant even to set foot past the door. She told the security man, “We’re just looking, that’s all. We can’t afford to buy.” She giggled nervously and looked around with wide eyes.
    I started to greet her, but Ron put a restraining hand on my arm and shook his head. He seemed amused for some reason. If you