Crown Jewels

In 1970, several years before the Iranian Revolution, I witnessed a scene that remains etched in my memory—an encounter with one of the world’s greatest hidden treasures.

At the time, Mr. Arpel of Van Cleef & Arpels, a jewelry house in Paris, was a regular client of mine. For many years, he purchased fine Persian turquoise from our boutique in Tehran. A consummate gentleman and an authority in his field, he visited me once or twice a year and always provided ample notice so that I could prepare a carefully curated selection of exceptional stones.

On one unexpected day, Mr. Arpel arrived without prior notice. When I apologized for not having a collection prepared, he smiled and reassured me that he was not in Tehran on a buying trip. Instead, he explained that he had been invited at the request of His Imperial Majesty the Shah to examine the Persian Gulf pearls held within the Crown Jewels vault and to report on their condition. He was scheduled to enter the vault the following day. I stared at him in disbelief, thinking how incredibly fortunate he was. He was about to enter the vaults and see the Crown Jewels of Persia – treasures we have heard countless stories about but that almost no one had ever seen. There is nothing like it in the world.

Mr. Arpel turned to me and asked “Shapur, would you like to come with me?”. I couldn’t believe what I had just heard. I immediately replied “Yes, I would love to come”.

The next day, we entered the bank together under strict security and descended into the underground vaults. The space was vast, silent, and imposing. We were led to the section containing the pearls.

There were numerous chests—perhaps ten to twenty in total—each immense in size, measuring approximately four and a half feet by three feet by three feet. They were the kind of treasure chests one imagines only in stories. When the first chest was opened, the sight was astonishing: it was filled entirely with strands of natural pearls, in every conceivable size. Chest after chest revealed the same—an extraordinary accumulation of natural Persian Gulf pearls, beyond anything I had thought possible.

As Mr. Arpel examined several strands, he shared his professional assessment. The pearls, he explained, were slowly deteriorating. Natural pearls are living gems; they require light, moisture, and salt to maintain their vitality. When worn against the skin, pearls receive all these three naturally. Sealed away in darkness for extended periods, however, they lose their luster and strength over time.

That moment offered a profound reminder that even the greatest treasures require care and understanding. To this day, I often think of those pearls and hope that they are now preserved under conditions worthy of their extraordinary history.

The General

I’ll always remember the day his jeep first pulled up to our boutique in Tehran. I was 20 years old. It was a military jeep and I remember it pulling up slowly and I could see a very large man in uniform in the front seat. There was a cinematic quality to the moment as the jeep’s door opened, and I watched the man’s heavy boots hit the ground, the sun reflecting off polished leather.

He was big and burly and he stood there a moment in front of his jeep. Everyone saw him. Passersby would pause and move slowly and cautiously as he stood there—tall and erect and very proud looking. I was impressed.

He greeted me briefly, and I watched him as he walked methodically around the boutique, his hands behind his back as he studied the merchandise on display. He was looking for a diamond pendant, he said, or maybe earrings. I showed him a few pieces and he’d quietly nod or ask a question. It occurred to me he’d never purchased jewelry before.

The man inquired after several other pieces and when I told him the price, he would again quietly nod his head and continue eyeing the jewelry. He eventually thanked me and said he’d think about it. Then he left.

About two weeks later, that same jeep pulled up to our boutique, and as before, the man emerged from the vehicle and walked slowly and proudly toward our shop.

"I've been thinking about your selection," the man said to me. "I would like to see what you have that’s more affordable."

We began talking and he told me about himself. He was a Persian general. His wife was a schoolteacher. They didn’t have much, he said. They were struggling to live a simple life. But he loved his wife very much and they had been married many years.

Then the general told me his wife had seen the doctor. He trailed off as he told me this and stood there, staring beyond me at nothing in particular. She would lose her vision, the doctor said. She had just a few months before everything would go dark.

"She is my wife and I love her very much," he said again. "I want to buy her something beautiful while she can still see."

I was very moved by what he told me, overcome with trust and affection for the man. I could tell he was a good and honest man. He loved his country. We continued to talk and I began to feel very close to him.

Finally, I said to him: "General, I recommend this diamond pendant and earrings." I removed the pieces from the case to show him and I quoted a price. He admired the pieces a moment and turned them over slowly as he studied the detail. Then he told me very plainly he couldn't afford them. He said he couldn’t even pay me in a year.

I felt so bad. I said: "General, take it. Please. Take it and pay me any way you can."

He couldn't believe it. "How do you trust me?" he said. I eventually convinced him to take the jewelry.

Months went by before that jeep appeared again, and when it did, the general parked very quickly and he burst through the door to our boutique. There were tears in his eyes.

"A miracle has happened," he said. "My wife—she can see again. The doctor called it a miracle."

The general kissed my face. He had a look of pure happiness and you could hear it in his voice—everything about him. He was glowing. He put an envelope in my hand—the first payment—and he said to me: "You have a good hand." This is a Persian expression like a blessing, or a good omen maybe. He meant the jewelry I made was lucky.

"Since I gave my wife your jewelry," he said. "Everything has changed." He embraced me as he said it again: "Everything has changed."

* * *

Everything would change. I was living in America when revolution broke out in Iran, and as it progressed, I'd get news of the politics, the fighting, the executions.

I thought of the general often. I wondered what happened to him and his family. I hoped for another miracle. I hoped he was alive.

So when I thought of the general and where he might be, I'd try to remember him instead. I'd remember when he first came to my boutique, the pieces he bought for his wife, and how happy he was when his wife could see again. That was the last time I saw him, and I kept seeing that moment in my mind—the moment he hugged me with such joy and hope and said: "Everything has changed."

* * *

I was living in San Francisco when I received a phone call. I was working at the time, and I picked up the receiver and said hello and heard a voice immediately recognizable.

"General! Is that you? How are you—where are you? And the family?"

I was so happy to hear the general’s voice and he sounded just as I remembered: strong and warm. He said he was alive with his family in Washington DC, right here in America. I couldn’t believe it. They had managed to escape Iran on horseback through the mountains in Turkey—the general, his wife and their two sons who were just a few years old at the time.

"We are very lucky to be alive,” the general said. "But we have nothing. All we have in this world are the two pieces of jewelry you gave us. Should I send them to you?"

"Of course not,” I told him.

"We have no place to stay," he continued, his voice still strong, but now hurried. "I heard you’re living in San Francisco. Is that right? I heard you have a store there."

I told him it’s true.

"Will you hire me as your guard? You know I can do it. Please, it would mean everything."

I said: "General, please. You embarrass me."

I answered only by giving the general an address in New York. I told him to take the jewelry there. "You’ll get a good price," I said.

The New York address belonged to a close friend of mine. I called and told him the general’s story, and that he was coming with a diamond pendant that I'd made and sold to him many years ago in Tehran. I told this friend in New York to pay the general even more than the value of the diamond. I'll take care of the difference, I said.

A few days later, the general called and he was very happy. He couldn't believe how much he made from the jewelry he sold to my friend in New York. I'll never forget the sound of his voice that day—it was the voice I remembered hearing when his wife could see again.

He called again weeks later and told me he'd used the money to buy a stationary store. The store was attached to a school and he and his wife and their sons were running the store together, as a family.

I'd call the general from time to time to see how he's doing. But he'd never call; he'd only write. He wrote awhile later that his wife had been in school and was getting ready to teach again. His sons were just starting school. They had a completely new life here in America.

He continued to write me over the years, and every letter would make me cry. His letters were full of emotion, like a poem. He'd give me so much credit and so much love. It would fill me with such hope and happiness to read just the little details of his life: the weather, their neighbors, or his sons' first day in school.

The letters would arrive periodically for many years until they stopped. Some time had passed and then one day, another letter arrived with the same address and stationary. But this letter was not from him; it was from his wife.

It was ten years ago this year when the general passed away. I still wait for another letter in the mail and every day, I see that letter hasn't come.

I haven't heard from the family since. I often think about them and where they are now. Not long ago I searched on the Internet for the sons and I discovered they live back east. Both work in tech and both seem to be doing very well. I'm pleased to know that, and I know their father—the general I knew—would be proud.

I still have those letters the general sent me all those years ago, and from time to time, I take them out and read them again. My dear Shapur, he'd always say. Until next time, with love, your general.

Anthony Quinn's Encounter

Up to the year 2000, the St. Francis Hotel in Union Square was at its peak—a prestigious five-star haven where luxury lingered in the air like perfume. I owned three retail businesses there, each with its own elegance: the St. Francis Boutique Charmstore nestled in the hotel lobby, Shapur Mozaffarian Fine Jewelry -- our pride -- known for its high-end designs, and the Carrera y Carrera Boutique offering exclusive Spanish designer jewelry. We drew in hotel guests, local regulars, and international clients, all moving through our little world of glass cases and velvet trays.

Every morning, I parked in the hotel's garage and walked through the lobby, checking on each store before heading to our flagship jewelry boutique on Post Street. It was a daily rhythm—one I rarely broke.

Then came the day I walked into the lobby and saw him.

Anthony Quinn, the movie star, stood in my charm store, turning a small piece of jewelry in his hand. My heart paused—but I didn't show it. I walked forward and said, "Mr. Quinn, do you remember me?"

He looked at me. Calm, curious. There was a flicker of thought behind his eyes, but he said, "No, I don't believe I do."

I smiled. "Mr. Quinn, you're buying a charm in my store today. But over twenty-five years ago, in Iran, you also bought a piece of jewelry... from me."

There was a beat—then his face shifted. His eyes lit up. A laugh came out of him, warm and full. He reached out, shook my hand, and said, "What a small world."

We spoke only briefly. He was on his way to the airport, flying back to Italy. But for a moment, time folded in on itself. Past and present met across a glass display case in a hotel lobby.

I never forgot that moment. Not because he was famous, but because something about it felt meaningful—like life reminding me how far I'd come, and how deeply connected our lives can be, even when we don't realize it.

I don't know if I'll see him again. But that moment changed me. And maybe, somewhere down the line, fate will surprise me once more.

The Return

Twenty or so years ago when my boutique was located down the street at 245 Post, I had another branch in the lobby of the St. Francis hotel. The manager of this branch called me one day and he said there is a homeless man in the store who refuses to leave.

“I asked him to please leave,” my manager said. “But the man refused. He said he wants to personally speak to Shapur. In fact, he insists.”

I was busy at the time.

"What should we do?” my manager continued. "He doesn’t look well. He won’t leave. Should I call security? 911?"

This was certainly irregular. I thought for a moment and then told my manager to send the man to my main store, where I was at the time.

It wasn’t long after the call when the man entered my boutique. He was wearing a suit that seemed at one time quite nice, but was now tattered and dirty and many sizes too big. He carried with him a giant garbage bag bulging with different shapes—his belongings, I assumed.

"Are you Shapur?" the man asked.

"I am," I said, not sure what to expect.

"Are you yourself Shapur?"

"Yes that’s my name. What can I do for you?"

The man studied me a moment longer. He eventually seemed satisfied and walked slowly to where I was standing, the bag now at his feet. He dug through the bag a moment and finally removed a small box and held it out in front of me. The stench was quite strong.

"I found it on the street," the man said. He opened the box as he said this and inside, staring up at me, was a pile of brilliant, glistening jewels.

"I found it on the street," he said again. "And here I see your name on it. I wanted to see you and give it back. To make sure it got to you."

I was speechless. We had recently shipped a parcel to a client that contained about $50 thousand worth of jewels and diamonds. The parcel was supposed to be in the mail, but here it was in the possession of a homeless man I’d never seen before. I couldn’t believe it.

I took the box and thanked him many times. I was grateful of course, though perhaps a little suspicious. I examined the pieces; there was nothing missing. But how had my jewels come into the possession of such an unlikely man? And what would he want?

"Here let me give you something," I said and pulled out my wallet.

"No. I don’t want money," he said. He didn’t even think about it.

"Nothing?" I couldn’t believe it. "I have some cash right here," I said again and started counting the bills.

He was now bent over his bag, rearranging its contents. "I said I don’t want anything."

"Let me give you $100 at least," I said. I held out the money, but he wouldn’t take it. Surely he was expecting some reward.

"Ok how about $50?"

This time, he seemed to consider my offer. But he also seemed annoyed and uncomfortable, as if I had brought up a sore subject.

This man could have kept the diamonds. He could have sold them at a fraction of their worth and still made thousands. Perhaps even $20,000. But here he was agitated at the mention of reward and even, it seemed, insulted by my insistence.

He would eventually accept the $50. I’ll never know what he was thinking exactly, but it seemed to me this was a principled man. It seemed I had breached this man’s code, or his dignity somehow.

And then perhaps he was completely crazy. How could a man, in desperation, refuse money?

I thanked him many more times, still not quite believing what had happened. I was in a daze almost. But the man had no time for explanations. He simply wished me a good day, swung his bag back over his shoulder and left. I would never see him again.

Yervant

Yervant was a very old man, or at least that’s how I remember him. He was Persian and Armenian, and he had once been wealthy. I remember Yervant’s wrinkled face, his wearied posture. He never spoke much, but seemed content. I remember that quite clearly. There was a calm about him.

Yervant had a son named Albert, who was blind. Albert was, I think, about 38 years old when I first met them. They would often walk together around town, sometimes pass through our boutique, and Albert would play the accordion as they walked. He always seemed to have his accordion with him.

They were immigrants living in Tehran; they were strangers in a new world. But Yervant was an ordinary man, a friend of my father’s—that’s how I knew him. I would later learn that an ordinary life was all Yervant ever wanted. I was working with my father in Tehran when I first met them. I was about 18 years old and the year was 1960.

I sometimes imagine Yervant as a young man, long before he came to Tehran—before my father or I ever met him. I try to picture his home in Baku, Azerbaijan at the time, and what his neighborhood might have looked like. I picture bustling streets and open shops. I can see Yervant among the crowds, walking the streets as he would in Tehran, but not yet accompanied by Albert and his accordion. I imagine he was happy then, full of purpose and ambition.

Yervant was still a young man when the Russians came. It was around 1920 when the Red Army crossed the border, and it wasn’t long before they occupied much of Armenia and Azerbaijan. It was spring when they came, but the change of seasons was hardly noticed. Everything would change that year.

It happened suddenly and then gradually, this change. Yervant would talk about it occasionally when I knew him. He would say the Russian occupation was like a stranglehold on Baku, slowly choking out opportunity, dignity and then freedom. Life was very hard, he’d say. He wouldn’t say much more than that, but he’d say it slowly and pause as he said it, his mind clearly burdened with memories and images of the past.

Years turned into decades and home became prison in Baku. When Albert was born, Yervant told me it was like hope had been returned to him. Now that I am older and I have children myself, I know that feeling. But for Yervant, it was just a feeling. It was a feeling that came with the birth of his son, forever restrained by the reality of his surroundings.

Albert was around three when Yervant decided to leave Baku. Yervant had dreamed of another life for years, and now, decades later, a gift from his father brought new promise. I imagine Yervant sitting at home as he planned his journey, Albert at his side, his father’s gift on the table. The gift was a five-carat diamond, and I imagine it sitting there on the table, staring up at Yervant. I can see that hope he felt in Albert reflecting brightly off the diamond in front of them, a tiny sparkle in the darkness.

Yervant wrapped the diamond in chicken intestines and swallowed it just before arriving at the border. He knew the guards would take anything of value. They even took his suitcase and its contents—their last change of clothes.

They could never return home, but home had slipped away from Yervant years ago. They had no home, only each other, and now, the vast empty unknown. So there was Yervant, old and weak but with hope in his eyes, standing at the checkpoint with Albert at his side, a five-carat diamond sitting in his belly.

When they arrived in Tehran, Yervant sold the diamond with the help of my father, and gradually, sale by sale, piece by piece, he found his way. Yervant was a very old man, but in Tehran, when I knew him, he was young again.

Albert had opportunity for the first time in his life. He had joy. He could walk, anywhere he wanted and play any song he knew. Albert was always with his father, playing that accordion everywhere he went.

Yervant was an ordinary man in extraordinary circumstances. He had risked everything to give Albert the simple, ordinary life he never had. For the first time in a very long time, the future was something to look forward to. I often think of the two of them and their journey. I see them walking, the border behind them, the sun rising on the horizon. I picture Yervant with nothing but that diamond in his belly, and Albert, who could see nothing, with a vision in his mind.