Read Online Ron McCoy’s Sea of Diamonds by Gregory Day - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Gregory Day
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good weather.
Dominic Khouri emerged from his immaculate Peugeot in an old gardening slicker and headed down the driveway towards the house in the rain. By the time heâd reached the back step he was drenched and he stood for a time under the narrow fibreglass awning there, removing the slicker and shaking himself down. Ron was on the toilet but Min had seen him coming and made her way out of the kitchen to greet him before he had to bother to knock.
She found a man in his early sixties, with a large head and deep-set, almost hooded eyes. Min thought his hair looked home-cut, it was dark but strawlike, lifting up a little bit at its ends, and greying immediately above the ears. Dom Khouri stood with his facetowards the glass in the upper half of the door and was about to knock when he saw a small woman with tight white curls and a dark green dress, untying a bright apron and coming towards him. By her enthusiastic movements, Dom Khouri could feel he was welcome. She did not peer around the doorway or amble suspiciously towards him, rather she hurried along on the balls of her feet, smiling her head off and saying, âCome in, come in, Mr Khouri, weâve heard so much about you.â
Well, thatâs nice, Dom Khouri thought. He held out his hand at the back door and Min shook it. Then she grabbed his slicker from his other hand and ushered him through into the kitchen via the porch, hanging the slicker on the hook above the nugget box as she went.
Entering the kitchen, Min bade him sit down. She had long known of Dom Khouri and Taweel Glass through the newspapers and when her doctor, Bernard Feast, had suggested him as a potential buyer of the land, she had got quite a thrill. Dr Feast knew Dom Khouri through an acquaintance and it was suggested he might be interested. One thing led to another. Now here he was in her kitchen, and very pleasantly unaffected as well.
Dom Khouri sat at the laminex and steel kitchen table and felt the warmth of the old Rayburn wood stove. He insisted that she not call him Mister but rather by his Christian name. He took in the aromas. He looked out the kitchen sink window at the wild sky behind the Meteorological Stationâs navigational light. The view charmed him, despite the ominous weather.
Min poured him a cup of black tea, as he said he took no milk but lots of sugar, and Ron entered through the swinging galley door from the hallway. Dom Khouri stood once more and the two men shook hands.
Ron was disarmed by how ordinary Dom Khouri looked. For a start, heâd expected a man in a suit. Instead, Dom Khouri wore a cabled v-neck jumper with maroon trousers. He looked like heâdjust got out of his favourite chair to come and visit. He seemed friendly, and not too friendly either.
For his part, Dom Khouri found a small, round-faced man in his seventies, balding a little on top, obviously ill at ease with the social graces. Ron reminded Dom Khouri immediately of a man theyâd called
Il Shmandar
in the Dabbaghar district in Tripoli.
Il Shmandar
was a shy hermit who lived by his wits but blushed when spoken to. âIl shmandarâ literally meant âthe beetrootâ, and as a child, Dom Khouri and his friends, whenever they saw
Il Shmandar
coming, would call out to him just to experience the predictability of his reaction, the same every time, red as a beetroot. Now this small man in front of him in the kitchen, with a round head and fleshy lips just like
Il Shmandar
, was blushing as he stood there, welcoming his guest and looking sideways to see if his mother had poured him a cup of tea.
The two men sat down at the kitchen table and Min talked from where she stood at the Rayburn. From instinct she was shielding her son from the difficulties of having to make conversation with the important man, as it was too early yet to begin to talk about the land. Min asked Dom Khouri if he followed the football and when he said he barracked for Essendon she replied
Dominic Khouri emerged from his immaculate Peugeot in an old gardening slicker and headed down the driveway towards the house in the rain. By the time heâd reached the back step he was drenched and he stood for a time under the narrow fibreglass awning there, removing the slicker and shaking himself down. Ron was on the toilet but Min had seen him coming and made her way out of the kitchen to greet him before he had to bother to knock.
She found a man in his early sixties, with a large head and deep-set, almost hooded eyes. Min thought his hair looked home-cut, it was dark but strawlike, lifting up a little bit at its ends, and greying immediately above the ears. Dom Khouri stood with his facetowards the glass in the upper half of the door and was about to knock when he saw a small woman with tight white curls and a dark green dress, untying a bright apron and coming towards him. By her enthusiastic movements, Dom Khouri could feel he was welcome. She did not peer around the doorway or amble suspiciously towards him, rather she hurried along on the balls of her feet, smiling her head off and saying, âCome in, come in, Mr Khouri, weâve heard so much about you.â
Well, thatâs nice, Dom Khouri thought. He held out his hand at the back door and Min shook it. Then she grabbed his slicker from his other hand and ushered him through into the kitchen via the porch, hanging the slicker on the hook above the nugget box as she went.
Entering the kitchen, Min bade him sit down. She had long known of Dom Khouri and Taweel Glass through the newspapers and when her doctor, Bernard Feast, had suggested him as a potential buyer of the land, she had got quite a thrill. Dr Feast knew Dom Khouri through an acquaintance and it was suggested he might be interested. One thing led to another. Now here he was in her kitchen, and very pleasantly unaffected as well.
Dom Khouri sat at the laminex and steel kitchen table and felt the warmth of the old Rayburn wood stove. He insisted that she not call him Mister but rather by his Christian name. He took in the aromas. He looked out the kitchen sink window at the wild sky behind the Meteorological Stationâs navigational light. The view charmed him, despite the ominous weather.
Min poured him a cup of black tea, as he said he took no milk but lots of sugar, and Ron entered through the swinging galley door from the hallway. Dom Khouri stood once more and the two men shook hands.
Ron was disarmed by how ordinary Dom Khouri looked. For a start, heâd expected a man in a suit. Instead, Dom Khouri wore a cabled v-neck jumper with maroon trousers. He looked like heâdjust got out of his favourite chair to come and visit. He seemed friendly, and not too friendly either.
For his part, Dom Khouri found a small, round-faced man in his seventies, balding a little on top, obviously ill at ease with the social graces. Ron reminded Dom Khouri immediately of a man theyâd called
Il Shmandar
in the Dabbaghar district in Tripoli.
Il Shmandar
was a shy hermit who lived by his wits but blushed when spoken to. âIl shmandarâ literally meant âthe beetrootâ, and as a child, Dom Khouri and his friends, whenever they saw
Il Shmandar
coming, would call out to him just to experience the predictability of his reaction, the same every time, red as a beetroot. Now this small man in front of him in the kitchen, with a round head and fleshy lips just like
Il Shmandar
, was blushing as he stood there, welcoming his guest and looking sideways to see if his mother had poured him a cup of tea.
The two men sat down at the kitchen table and Min talked from where she stood at the Rayburn. From instinct she was shielding her son from the difficulties of having to make conversation with the important man, as it was too early yet to begin to talk about the land. Min asked Dom Khouri if he followed the football and when he said he barracked for Essendon she replied
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