So he sat down at a table and automatically flipped the coin to see whether he should order shishkebab or not. The swarthy, slick-haired proprietor grinned at him. There was a bald-headed man at a table in the back—a man in impeccably tailored clothing, with gold-rimmed eyeglasses and the definite dark dignity of a Levantine of some sort.
“Say,” said the proprietor, in wholly colloquial English. “You showed me a funny goldpiece last time you were here. Is it that? Mr. Emurian, back there, he knows a lot about that stuff. A very educated man! You want I should ask him about it?”
This seemed to Tony a mysterious coincidence. He agreed eagerly. The restaurant-keeper took the coin. He showed it to the bald-headed man. They talked at length, not in English. The restaurant-keeper came back.
“He never seen one like it,” he reported. “And he never heard of Barkut, where it says it come from. But he says there’s a kinda story about coins and things like that—things that come from places that nobody ever heard of. He’ll tell you if you want.”
“Please!” said Tony. He found his heart beating faster. “If he’ll join me—”
“Oh, he’ll have a cuppa coffee, maybe,” said the restaurant-keeper. “On the house. He’s a very educated man, Mr. Emurian is.”
He went back. The bald-headed man rose and came with easy dignity toward Tony’s table. His eyes twinkled. Tony was flustered because this Mr. Emurian looked so foreign and spoke such perfect English and was so perfectly at ease.
“There is a legend,” he told Tony humorously, “which might amuse you—if I may put down my coffee cup? Thank you.” He sat. “It is an old wives’ tale, and yet it fits oddly into the theories of Mr. Einstein and other learned men. But I know a man in Ispahan who would give you a great sum for that coin because of the legend. Would you wish to sell?”
Tony shook his head.
“Say—five hundred dollars?” asked Mr. Emurian, smiling behind his eyeglasses. “No? Not even a thousand? I will give you the address of the man who would buy it, if you ever wish to sell.”