Read Online Gabriel and the Swallows (The Volatile Duology #1) by Esther Dalseno - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Esther Dalseno
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examine her hands. He would wipe them down and try to extract the splinters, but do a bad job, because his glasses were broken.
Instead of taking the direct route to school, I deviated. It was early and I didn’t want to be present for extra teasing, so I needed a place to hide out. Without thinking, I flew past St Patrizio’s well and its spider web of ancient aqueducts, up the slight inclination of Via Roma until I saw it blazed on a wooden sign:
The Khan Emporium .
The shop was still closed, as it was very early, and I peered through the windows. I had never been inside the Emporium before, and I gasped as I beheld its contents. Curved jars of loose-leaf teas lined the shelves behind the cash register. Just above it, beeswax candles in impossible shades and shapes, so slick and shiny they looked like marble. Lanterns of glass and papyrus, and paper umbrellas of the Orient with hand-painted cherry blossoms. There were plates and bowls not made of fine white china, but of cracked and glazed clay, shimmering like fish scales. Rugs hung where curtains should be, with patterns so curved and deliberate they made me dizzy if I stared too long. A glass case boasted cigarettes and cigars from all over the world, and another spiced, musky perfumes that Signora Khan mixed herself. There were embroidered robes so deliciously ornamented that nobody in town could possibly wear them, except perhaps for Carnevale , and Indian saris in saffron and teal that probably served as costuming for S. Belivacqua’s theatre troupe. I noticed a strange wooden box containing Asian cosmetics: a pot of black henna for the eyes, a tub of red henna stain for lips. And suddenly, a face in the window.
I gasped and pulled back at the strange white monster: no hair, no neck, just a white face hovering; bodiless. As I hastily gathered myself and turned on my heel to escape, the door opened. The doorbell chimed so merrily that I couldn’t be afraid. There was Signora Khan, dressed head to toe in black, a scarf covering her hair and neck like a nun. “What do you want?” she demanded, but her voice was gentle and infused with glorious, curled vowels. “We do not open for another half an hour.”
“Nothing,” I said. “Sorry.” But I stood there, staring at my feet while she waited for me to turn away.
“Oh I see,” said S. Khan and smiled. I noticed then how beautiful she was, and her emerald eyes. “Are you looking for Orlando?”
“Yes,” I stammered, surprised.
“You’re Gabriel, aren’t you?” she said, smiling so wide I could see her perfectly white teeth, and the gap between the front two. “I should have known. Come in.”
I followed her into the Emporium, inhaling the scents that descended upon me like a crowd of insects. My head began to grow fuzzy but I enjoyed it. She turned on the lights as she passed, and I felt like I was inside a rainbow. “Sit down,” she said, leading me into what had to be the kitchen, and placed a pink and gold glass of thick coffee in front of me. I was about to mention that I wasn’t allowed coffee until I was fourteen, but to hell with it, I’d already upset Mamma and Papa so terribly that one little coffee couldn’t hurt. It tasted vile and bitter but it made my heart race and clarity exploded through my thoughts like a thunderbolt. “Orlando will be down soon. He’s saying his prayers.”
“I say my prayers too,” I said, the energy from the coffee pushing me past customary shyness, “only not to Jesus.”
“Oh,” said S. Khan, “the same as Orlando.”
“I pray to Zeus though,” I informed her seriously.
“That’s a very good idea,” said Signora Khan kindly, seeming amused, and poured me another cup. “You’re a very handsome boy,” she stated.
I set my cup down and looked at her straight in the eyes. “I’m not. You don’t have to say that.”
“I’m not just saying it, Gabriel.”
“Well, you’re an adult. And adults always have to say silly
Instead of taking the direct route to school, I deviated. It was early and I didn’t want to be present for extra teasing, so I needed a place to hide out. Without thinking, I flew past St Patrizio’s well and its spider web of ancient aqueducts, up the slight inclination of Via Roma until I saw it blazed on a wooden sign:
The Khan Emporium .
The shop was still closed, as it was very early, and I peered through the windows. I had never been inside the Emporium before, and I gasped as I beheld its contents. Curved jars of loose-leaf teas lined the shelves behind the cash register. Just above it, beeswax candles in impossible shades and shapes, so slick and shiny they looked like marble. Lanterns of glass and papyrus, and paper umbrellas of the Orient with hand-painted cherry blossoms. There were plates and bowls not made of fine white china, but of cracked and glazed clay, shimmering like fish scales. Rugs hung where curtains should be, with patterns so curved and deliberate they made me dizzy if I stared too long. A glass case boasted cigarettes and cigars from all over the world, and another spiced, musky perfumes that Signora Khan mixed herself. There were embroidered robes so deliciously ornamented that nobody in town could possibly wear them, except perhaps for Carnevale , and Indian saris in saffron and teal that probably served as costuming for S. Belivacqua’s theatre troupe. I noticed a strange wooden box containing Asian cosmetics: a pot of black henna for the eyes, a tub of red henna stain for lips. And suddenly, a face in the window.
I gasped and pulled back at the strange white monster: no hair, no neck, just a white face hovering; bodiless. As I hastily gathered myself and turned on my heel to escape, the door opened. The doorbell chimed so merrily that I couldn’t be afraid. There was Signora Khan, dressed head to toe in black, a scarf covering her hair and neck like a nun. “What do you want?” she demanded, but her voice was gentle and infused with glorious, curled vowels. “We do not open for another half an hour.”
“Nothing,” I said. “Sorry.” But I stood there, staring at my feet while she waited for me to turn away.
“Oh I see,” said S. Khan and smiled. I noticed then how beautiful she was, and her emerald eyes. “Are you looking for Orlando?”
“Yes,” I stammered, surprised.
“You’re Gabriel, aren’t you?” she said, smiling so wide I could see her perfectly white teeth, and the gap between the front two. “I should have known. Come in.”
I followed her into the Emporium, inhaling the scents that descended upon me like a crowd of insects. My head began to grow fuzzy but I enjoyed it. She turned on the lights as she passed, and I felt like I was inside a rainbow. “Sit down,” she said, leading me into what had to be the kitchen, and placed a pink and gold glass of thick coffee in front of me. I was about to mention that I wasn’t allowed coffee until I was fourteen, but to hell with it, I’d already upset Mamma and Papa so terribly that one little coffee couldn’t hurt. It tasted vile and bitter but it made my heart race and clarity exploded through my thoughts like a thunderbolt. “Orlando will be down soon. He’s saying his prayers.”
“I say my prayers too,” I said, the energy from the coffee pushing me past customary shyness, “only not to Jesus.”
“Oh,” said S. Khan, “the same as Orlando.”
“I pray to Zeus though,” I informed her seriously.
“That’s a very good idea,” said Signora Khan kindly, seeming amused, and poured me another cup. “You’re a very handsome boy,” she stated.
I set my cup down and looked at her straight in the eyes. “I’m not. You don’t have to say that.”
“I’m not just saying it, Gabriel.”
“Well, you’re an adult. And adults always have to say silly
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