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‘Seventy per cent of the world’s emeralds come from Colombia,’ he proclaims. ‘Over twenty thousand stones change hands in Bogota every day. The emerald is second only in popularity and value to the diamond, and its size is measured in the same way (carat). The very finest stones,’ he continues, ‘are known as ‘drops of oil’ because if you stare into the centre of the stone, you can see what appears to be just that. We must make sure that ours is at least four carats, and that the drop of oil is there for all to see.
‘For one stone, the price can range according to quality’ continues Sergio, ‘from a few hundred dollars to several millions.’ He anticipates the stone his brother selects could be on its way to London as early as next week. Because Sergio went to the same school as the niece of the owner of ‘the mountain’, he hopes his brother will be able to deal direct, cutting out any middlemen. As his brother doesn’t know that Sergio is ensconced in an English jail, I wonder why he isn’t puzzled by the fact that he can’t call back. I don’t ask.
8.00 pm
Pottery followed by an interview with the lady from Belmarsh, followed by education, followed by the gym, followed by Sergio and his lecture on emeralds, interspersed with three writing sessions. I’m exhausted.
I fall asleep fully dressed during the Ten O’Clock News. When I wake, it’s just after eleven. I undress, use the loo, climb into my tiny bed, and fall asleep a second time.
DAY 42 - WEDNESDAY 29 AUGUST 2001
5.19 am
I have now undergone the same three-week induction cycle at HMP Wayland as I did at Belmarsh. My routine, compared with my life outside, is far more regimented, conforming to a dail
y pattern, and then a weekly one. So I have decided, as from today, to comment only on highlights, rather than simply repeat the numbing routine with which you must now be familiar.
6.00 am
I write for two hours and then eat the other Shredded Wheat covered in milk supplied by Sergio.
9.00 am
Paul, one of the tutors, brings in a set of slides to the art class, and gives us a lecture on the Impressionists. I am stunned that Shaun, such a talented artist, has never heard of Pissarro or Sisley. He also admits that he has visited a gallery only two or three times in his life. The slide show is so popular with the other prisoners that Paul promises to bring in examples of other artists next week when he will introduce us to Magritte, Rothko and Warhol, amongst others.
12 noon
After lunch, I go to the gym. When I’ve finished my programme, I jump on the scales to discover that I’m still losing weight - nearly a stone since I’ve been in prison. Just as I’m leaving, the football coach calls me into his office and asks if I would attend the first fixture of the season on Sunday, and write a match report for the prison magazine. I readily agree, only relieved he didn’t invite me to play.
4.00 pm
Sergio joins me in my cell to tell me the latest on the emerald hunt before continuing with his tutorial. The majority of emeralds mined in Colombia come from one mountain that has been owned by the same family for generations. Most of the stones that come out of Colombia are exported to Japan, but Sergio is hoping, when he returns to Bogota, to start diverting some of these gems to Europe. He is becoming more ambitious every day.
He also informs me that trading in emeralds is every bit as dangerous as dealing in drugs. Every day eight helicopters fly back and forth from the mountain to Bogota airport with four armed guards on each and another twenty private police waiting for them on the runway. On the mountain there are 300 workers and 100 armed guards. A peasant (his description) can earn as much as $50,000 a year if, and he repeats if, he is lucky enough to dig up any high-quality gems.
‘But what about theft?’ I ask. How do they deal with that?’ ‘One or two of the workers are stupid enough to consider stealing the odd stone, but they quickly discover that there is no judge or jury on the mountain.’
‘So how do they dispense justice?’
‘Instantly,’ he replies. ‘One of the guards shoots the culprit in front of the other workers, who then bury him.’
‘But you could swallow a stone, and then sell it in Bogota, where you’ve already told me that twenty thousand emeralds change hands in the marketplace every day.’
‘True,’ Sergio replies. ‘But you will still be caught, because the family has over a hundred spotters in the market, night and day. If a dealer ever traded with a thief, they would immediately be cut off from their source of supply. And in time the thief will have to return to the mountain if he hopes to go on trading. In any case, the workers know they will have a far higher standard of living than their fellow countrymen as long as they remain employed on the mountain.’
‘But they could take the gems abroad and make a fortune?’ ‘Most peasants,’ says Sergio, ‘have never travelled further than the next village, and none of them speaks anything but mountain Spanish, which even I can’t understand. Even the owner of the mountain can still only converse in his native tongue and would never consider leaving Colombia. It is only because of my four years in an English jail,’ continues Sergio, ‘that it’s now possible for me to act as a go-between and consider the export business. And you now also have an advantage, Jeffrey, because your rivals cannot easily buy or sell paintings from Colombia.’ I raise an eyebrow. ‘I am being deported in four weeks’ time, and can never return to Britain unless I am willing to risk completing the remaining four years of my sentence.’ ‘An enterprising dealer could always fly to Bogota.’ ‘Not wise,’ says Sergio. ‘Fair-haired, blue-eyed people are not welcome in Bogota, and especially not on the mountain.’ He goes on to explain: ‘It would be assumed that you are an American, and your chances of making it back to the airport would be about as good as a peasant caught stealing.’ No wonder it’s a closed market.
My tutorial comes to an end when an officer bellows, ‘Lock up.’ I run out of Sergio’s cell to return to the real world, because I need the five minutes to join the queue and change my sheets, pillowcase, towels and gym kit. Don’t forget it’s Wednesday, and if you don’t get to the laundry room before they close, you have to wait another week.
8.00 pm
When I get back to my cell I find a biography of Oscar Wilde by Sheridan Morley awaiting me on my bed. I had asked Steve (conspiracy to murder, chief librarian) to reserve this book for me. Nothing like a personal delivery service.
I become so engrossed in Wilde’s life that I miss the Ten O’clock News. I have reached Oscar’s first trial by the time I put the book down. I must save the second trial for tomorrow night.
Not a bad day, but please don’t think, even for one moment, that it’s therefore been a good one.
DAY 43 - THURSDAY 30 AUGUST 2001
