Read Online The Bright Silver Star by David Handler - Free Book Online
Authors: David Handler
Ads: Link
was done filling up he went inside to pay his money and respects to Nema.
Just like the half dozen other guys who were gathered there at her counter, their tongues hanging out.
Lew the Plumber was there. Drew Archer, the town’s best cabinetmaker, was there. So was Dennis Allen, who serviced the village’s septic tanks. Mitch knew those three well enough to say hello to. The others he knew by sight. They were Nema’s regulars, just like Mitch. Could be found there at the Citgo almost every morning between the hours of ten-thirty and eleven. Although not a one of them referred to the place as the Citgo.
They called it the House of Turkish Delights.
Because the Acars offered way, way more than the usual minimart menu of candy, soda, and Lotto tickets. They offered Nema’s own homemade native pastries and deliciously strong, sweet Turkish coffee. Her baklava was the best Mitch had ever tasted. She also made boreks, which were triangles of layered, wafer-thin pastry filled with chopped nuts and cinnamon. And lalangas, which were fried pastry dipped in syrup and brushed with powdered sugar. The lalangas were especially popular with the workmen who’d grown up on fried dough, a regional delicacy.
The House of Turkish Delights was Dorset’s best-kept secret. The local workmen, who considered The Works a yuppified tourist trap, had staked it out as
their
place. And so they told no one about it. Mitch sure as hell didn’t. He didn’t dare tell Will that he was buyingpastry from his competitor, and he couldn’t breathe so much as a word to Des—every time he inhaled the air in there he was breaking his diet.
The Acars were the first native-born Turks ever to live in Dorset. They were in their early thirties. Nema was tiny and slender, with large, lustrous dark eyes that reminded Mitch of the ’50s film actress Ina Balin. Always, she wore a Muslim headscarf. Nuri was courtly and unfailingly polite. Almost but not quite unctuous. The two of them were from Istanbul, where Nuri had graduated from Bosporus University with a degree in mathematics. Nema told Mitch they had emigrated to America because their parents didn’t approve of the marriage. Mitch couldn’t imagine why they didn’t, since any two people who could work side by side fourteen hours a day and never stop smiling clearly belonged together.
“And how are you today, Mr. Berger, sir?” Nema said to him as Mitch pointed directly to the lalanga that had his name on it. “I’d feel a lot better if you’d call me Mitch.” “Very well, but you are a naughty, naughty boy, Mr. Mitch.” “God, don’t tell me a certain resident trooper stopped by.” “No, no. I was reading your review in this morning’s newspaper, of
The Dark Star,
and you almost made me spit up my orange juice.” Nema let out a devilish little cackle. “Most amusing and yet insightful.”
He thanked her and hopped back into his truck, waving to Nuri, who was filling the tank of a minivan that had New York plates. Then Mitch resumed his trip into town, devouring his gustatory no-no in hungry, fat-boy bites.
It was not easy to find a parking place near The Works. Not with all of the news crew vans and tourists taking up every available curbside space. Mitch had to leave his truck in the A &
P parking lot and hoof it two blocks. The traffic on Big Brook Road was unbelievably hectic. Some nut in an immense white Cadillac Escalade almost ran him down when he tried to cross the street. Honestly, he would not mind when Labor Day arrived and everyone left. Because Dorset didn’t feel like Dorset right now. It felt like a resort town crowdedwith hyperactive strangers. And this upset Mitch’s new sense of order in his life. New York was his place for rushing around on noisy streets that were teeming with people. Dorset was his place for quiet reflection. Briefly, he wondered if he was feeling bothered this way because he was becoming rigid and middle-aged.
He decided this could not be
Just like the half dozen other guys who were gathered there at her counter, their tongues hanging out.
Lew the Plumber was there. Drew Archer, the town’s best cabinetmaker, was there. So was Dennis Allen, who serviced the village’s septic tanks. Mitch knew those three well enough to say hello to. The others he knew by sight. They were Nema’s regulars, just like Mitch. Could be found there at the Citgo almost every morning between the hours of ten-thirty and eleven. Although not a one of them referred to the place as the Citgo.
They called it the House of Turkish Delights.
Because the Acars offered way, way more than the usual minimart menu of candy, soda, and Lotto tickets. They offered Nema’s own homemade native pastries and deliciously strong, sweet Turkish coffee. Her baklava was the best Mitch had ever tasted. She also made boreks, which were triangles of layered, wafer-thin pastry filled with chopped nuts and cinnamon. And lalangas, which were fried pastry dipped in syrup and brushed with powdered sugar. The lalangas were especially popular with the workmen who’d grown up on fried dough, a regional delicacy.
The House of Turkish Delights was Dorset’s best-kept secret. The local workmen, who considered The Works a yuppified tourist trap, had staked it out as
their
place. And so they told no one about it. Mitch sure as hell didn’t. He didn’t dare tell Will that he was buyingpastry from his competitor, and he couldn’t breathe so much as a word to Des—every time he inhaled the air in there he was breaking his diet.
The Acars were the first native-born Turks ever to live in Dorset. They were in their early thirties. Nema was tiny and slender, with large, lustrous dark eyes that reminded Mitch of the ’50s film actress Ina Balin. Always, she wore a Muslim headscarf. Nuri was courtly and unfailingly polite. Almost but not quite unctuous. The two of them were from Istanbul, where Nuri had graduated from Bosporus University with a degree in mathematics. Nema told Mitch they had emigrated to America because their parents didn’t approve of the marriage. Mitch couldn’t imagine why they didn’t, since any two people who could work side by side fourteen hours a day and never stop smiling clearly belonged together.
“And how are you today, Mr. Berger, sir?” Nema said to him as Mitch pointed directly to the lalanga that had his name on it. “I’d feel a lot better if you’d call me Mitch.” “Very well, but you are a naughty, naughty boy, Mr. Mitch.” “God, don’t tell me a certain resident trooper stopped by.” “No, no. I was reading your review in this morning’s newspaper, of
The Dark Star,
and you almost made me spit up my orange juice.” Nema let out a devilish little cackle. “Most amusing and yet insightful.”
He thanked her and hopped back into his truck, waving to Nuri, who was filling the tank of a minivan that had New York plates. Then Mitch resumed his trip into town, devouring his gustatory no-no in hungry, fat-boy bites.
It was not easy to find a parking place near The Works. Not with all of the news crew vans and tourists taking up every available curbside space. Mitch had to leave his truck in the A &
P parking lot and hoof it two blocks. The traffic on Big Brook Road was unbelievably hectic. Some nut in an immense white Cadillac Escalade almost ran him down when he tried to cross the street. Honestly, he would not mind when Labor Day arrived and everyone left. Because Dorset didn’t feel like Dorset right now. It felt like a resort town crowdedwith hyperactive strangers. And this upset Mitch’s new sense of order in his life. New York was his place for rushing around on noisy streets that were teeming with people. Dorset was his place for quiet reflection. Briefly, he wondered if he was feeling bothered this way because he was becoming rigid and middle-aged.
He decided this could not be
Similar Books
