On warm afternoons, the storekeeper sits on a bench across the street from his shop with a newspaper and cigarettes, letting the sun soak into his thin frame.
If someone goes into his shop (they rarely do, he sells art), he can easily walk across the narrow street. His shop is in the quieter end of town, and few tourists make it this far, headed mainly to the decorated grotto around the bend.
He knows his stuff, but most people aren’t interested. They wander in, attracted by the cloudy, cluttered windows and the antique sign over the door, hoping for a bargain. He doesn’t deal in bargains. He sells only treasures, and prices them as such. Perhaps unsurprisingly, sales are rare.
Dust has sifted down from the high tin ceiling and collected in thick, furry pockets between frames and in the corners. He does not vacuum, or dust, or sweep. Why bother. If someone is interested in a closer look, he keeps a rag at the cash register.
Creaky stairs lead up to another level where the light is brighter due to small windows along one wall. Here, among a thousand other things, he has a collection of wooden masks, purchased at an estate auction. The masks were used in religious ceremonies, and confer special powers on those who wear them, among these: the ability to strike fear, the ability to enter dreams, the ability to inhabit mute objects, the power to sit and wait without restlessness or anxiety until prey is within striking distance. This last mask, in fact, has become part of his face, which is why he has no need to smile, no need to ingratiate. He simply sits, with his newspaper and cigarettes, in the sun, waiting for the next person to open the door.
Rosaleen Bertolino is in love with her eight chickens.
