Page 25 of The Harbinger
My stomach gurgled again, protesting the lack of sustenance. If I followed and did as he said, then what? He wouldn’t return me after paying off customs or whatever he did to get me into the country illegally. Why wouldn’t he tell me why I was here?
I shuffled out of the bedroom, my hand wrapping around the door frame as I peered down the hallway.
Sacha stood beneath a large cathedral-like window, his hand resting on the black wrought-iron railing at the top of the stairs as he waited.
The window allowed light to penetrate through, illuminating the second floor and the winding staircase below it. Black and gold curtains hung to the floor in a flashy display of wealth.
He took the first steps down the cream-marbled staircase, and I followed him, winding our way back down to the foyer where a five-foot-tall statue of a naked man sat on a contorted marble chair loomed.
How did I miss that before?
The statue’s muscular, veiny arms rested on the uneven armrests while his eyes remained closed as if in mourning or deep thought of things that troubled him. But it wasn’t the sight of his penis laying flaccid against his balls that caught my eye or how the statue gave off the illusion it floated off the floor.
No.
It was the long curved and twisted horns that led up to sharp points sitting atop his head.
Oomf.
A dull ache encompassed my shoulder as I slammed into the kitchen doorway.
Sacha twisted as he glanced at me, then continued into the tiled kitchen with dark oak cabinetry as I rubbed my shoulder, frowning.
“Dobry vecher,”said a man standing over the stove, waving the billowing clouds of steam towards his face and sniffing.
“Dobry vecher.”
My face must have foretold my confusion because Sacha clarified, “Good evening.”
“Oh.” I drew out the word with a slight wave, my mind still consumed by the naked statue in the foyer. “Hello.”
Sacha pulled out a wooden half-backed barstool with a caramel-colored cushion and motioned for me to sit.
Without hesitation, I sat and placed my elbows on the speckled countertop as the chef worked on the stove across from me.
“It smells delicious.” I smiled, my mouth salivating from the chicken and potato mixed with spices I didn’t recognize.
The chef nodded as if he understood what I said.
“I’ll be back. Don’t leave your seat.”
“Wait.” I placed my hand on his forearm to stop him. “What if I need to ask a question? He won’t understand what I’m saying.”
He pulled his arm away, my hand sliding off as he glanced at the chef, and with a knock of his knuckles against the countertop, he turned away and left.
“Well, that’s just great.”
I turned back to the chef and smiled again while rubbing the back of my neck.
The chef stirred the soup on the stove as I placed my chin in my hand. He dipped into a drawer at his waist and sprinkled in what looked to be salt.
“What are you making?” I asked, my attention darting to the bowl of bananas and oranges intermingling on the surface before me.
How could I remember how to dress and feed myself or blurt out the random names of objects, but I didn’t even know the name of the town I grew up in or the name of my parents?
I grabbed the two oranges on the banana’s side and moved them over to the other, satiating the quiver inside me. He walked across the kitchen and grabbed a bowl, then ladled soup into it. He slid it across the counter my way with the spoon, then sprinkled a green herb over the top.
It didn’t look like the soup I’d had on the plane. This one was creamy with potatoes, slivers of carrots, and onion.