A Twist in the Tale

“You see, sir, this carpet was woven in Demirdji, in the province of Izmir, by over a hundred seamstresses and it took them more than a year to complete.”

“Don’t give me that baloney,” said Kendall-Hume, winking at Christopher. “Just tell me how much I’m expected to pay.”

“I feel it my duty to point out, sir, that this carpet shouldn’t be here at all,” said the Turk plaintively. “It was originally made for an Arab prince who failed to complete the transaction when the price of oil collapsed.”

“But he must have agreed on a price at the time?”

“I cannot reveal the exact figure, sir. It embarrasses me to mention it.”

“It wouldn’t embarrass me,” said Kendall-Hume. “Come on, what’s the price?” he insisted.

“Which currency would you prefer to trade in?” the Turk asked.

“Pounds.”

The dealer removed a slim calculator from his jacket pocket, programmed some numbers into it, then looked unhappily toward the Kendall-Humes.

Christopher and Margaret remained silent, like school-children fearing the headmaster might ask them a question to which they could not possibly know the answer.

“Come on, come on, how much were you hoping to sting me for?”

“I think you must prepare yourself for a shock, sir,” said the dealer.

“How much?” repeated Kendall-Hume, impatiently.

“Twenty-five thousand.”

“Pounds?”

“Pounds.”

“You must be joking,” said Kendall-Hume, walking round the carpet and ending up standing next to Margaret. “You’re about to find out why I’m considered the scourge of the East Midlands car trade,” he whispered to

her. “I wouldn’t pay more than fifteen thousand for that carpet,” said Kendall-Hume turning back to face the dealer. “Even if my life depended on it.”

“Then I fear your time has been wasted, sir,” the Turk replied. “For this is a carpet intended only for the cognoscenti. Perhaps madam might reconsider the red and blue?”

“Certainly not,” said Kendall-Hume. “The color’s all faded. Can’t you see? You obviously left it in the window too long, and the sun has got at it. No, you’ll have to reconsider your price if you want the orange and yellow one to end up in the home of a connoisseur.”

The dealer sighed as his fingers tapped the calculator again.

While the transaction continued, Melody looked on vacantly, occasionally gazing out of the window toward the bay.

“I could not drop a penny below twenty-three thousand pounds.”

“I’d be willing to go as high as eighteen thousand,” said Kendall-Hume, “but not a penny more.”

The Robertses watched the dealer tap the numbers into the calculator.

“That would not even cover the cost of what I paid for it myself,” he said sadly, staring down at the little glowing figures.

“You’re pushing me, but don’t push me too far. Nineteen thousand,” said Mr. Kendall-Hume. “That’s my final offer.”

“Twenty thousand pounds is the lowest figure I could consider,” replied the dealer. “A giveaway price on my mother’s grave.”

Kendall-Hume took out his wallet and placed it on the table by the side of the dealer.

“Nineteen thousand pounds and you’ve got yourself a deal,” he said.