Page 26 of The Harbinger
“Thank you.” I enunciated my words as if slowing them down would allow him to understand an unfamiliar language.
“You’re welcome.”
My brows hiked as my mouth fell open. “You speak English?” I glanced around, searching for Sacha, then hunched my shoulders and whispered, “You know what I’m saying?”
The chef shook his head as he turned his back on me, busying himself with a cloth on the counter.
My butt slid off the chair before I processed what I was doing, my feet moving me over to him. “But you just spoke English.”
He moved towards the sink and stuck the rag under the hot water.
I placed my hand on his arm. “Please speak to me.” My voice cracked with desperation.
The chef, a man in his early fifties with long graying hair, frowned, his bushy brows pulling together as he rubbed his wet hand over his shadowy scruff along his jaw.
“Can you at least tell me your name?”
He paused, and with a heavy sigh, he twisted the washcloth until it wrung dry. “Francesco.”
His accent shifted, and once again, I stood with my mouth gaping like a fish.He was French?
“Francesco…” My heart fluttered with a lightness that quickly died out. “Thank you.”
I patted his arm, not pressing the issue further, before taking my seat at the kitchen island and devouring a spoonful of creamy soup. A rush of cream, salt, and spices swirled around my tongue, causing my mouth to water for more.
“This is fantastic, Francesco.”
He turned, a smile wrinkling the corners of his lips.
So he did understand English…
After shoveling the last bite of soup into my mouth, I stared at the bottom of the bowl and contemplated asking for another. Would that make me look greedy, gluttonous even?
Swallowing the shame pinching my chest, I pushed the bowl forward. “Can I have some more, please?”
Francesco nodded and filled it to the brim, and I pulled it back in front of me.
“Thank you.”
I stared into the soup, my spoon disappearing beneath the creamy surface and reemerging time and time again with tasty tidbits until my spoon scraped against the bottom of the bowl for the second time.
Sacha shuffled up beside me, his shoes scuffing against the marbled floor. “Are you finished?”
I nodded. “How do you say thank you?”
My weak body bounced with rejuvenation and glee, giving me false hope I could conquer anything he’d throw at me next.
But it was all in my head. The moment the food stopped coming, or the withdrawals seized hold of my nervous system, reality would settle back where it belonged.
“Spasibo.”
“Spa-see-bah.”
Francesco responded. “Pozhaluysta.”
“Does that mean you’re welcome?”
Sacha nodded as Francesco wiped up the stove and stored the soup in a container. “Follow me. I want to show you some things.”