The Dollhouse(48)

At first she wanted to run back out into the damp evening air and sneeze a dozen times, but eventually her nostrils adjusted to the olfactory mayhem.

“Where are we?”

“The Kalai Spice Emporium.”

“Wow. It’s a little overwhelming.”

“At first, sure. But with the right teacher, it all begins to make sense. This store is my own personal Katie Gibbs.”

A loud argument broke out in the back room, and Darby looked at Sam for reassurance. He smiled down at her. “It’s nothing. It’s the way Mr. Kalai communicates. You’ll see.”

A young man shot out the door of the back room and walked quickly out to the street.

“Good riddance.”

The voice came from nowhere, startling her. She turned to see a bespectacled man in a black dress shirt and pants standing in the inner doorway, staring intently at her. The angularity of his square forehead offset his round cheeks and bulbous nose, and his brown skin was shiny with sweat. He took out a handkerchief and wiped his brow. “Who’s this?”

“Mr. Kalai, this is my friend Darby McLaughlin. From the club.”

Sam had remembered her surname. “Mr. Kalai, it’s a pleasure to meet you.” She offered up her bare hand, embarrassed at her lack of gloves, but he didn’t seem to mind.

“You want more spice?” he asked Sam.

“No. I tried the Banda mix tonight. Worked well.”

“Good, good.”

“Mr. Kalai learned the art of spices through generations of his family. He’s descended from the sultan of Ternate.”

“The island with the tree?”

Mr. Kalai’s smile wasn’t warm. “The one with the tree.”

“I want to show her what a nutmeg looks like,” said Sam. “Do you mind?”

Mr. Kalai shook his head. Sam opened one of the jars and scooped out an egg-shaped piece of fruit. Mr. Kalai handed him a knife and he cut the fruit cleanly in half before giving it a twist. Inside was a brown seed covered with thin red veins. “The nut, when dried, makes nutmeg, and the red stuff becomes mace. It’s the only tropical fruit that makes two different spices.”

She touched the delicate webbing around the seed. “I had no idea.”

Mr. Kalai took the fruit out of Sam’s hand. “When the spices were first discovered by the other countries, ships bearing all kinds of gifts arrived at my island. The sultan had a crown made from hundreds of jewels, big as your fist, and four hundred women in his harem.”

Darby blushed, relieved when Sam spoke up.

“Then the Dutch took over and killed every man over the age of fifteen.”

“When did this happen?”

“Almost three hundred years ago.”

“But here you are carrying on the tradition.”

Mr. Kalai nodded. “Sam’s a good boy. Take a look around, but then I’m closing up. I have business outside.”

Sam reached up to one of the top shelves and brought down a thick book. “I’m working on a compilation of everything I’m learning here. Take a look.”

He rearranged some of the jars on the countertop to make room. The pages were crisp and she leaned down close. “It smells like the shop.”

“Everything in here smells like the shop, including us by now.”

She leafed through the pages while Sam explained. “I’m keeping track of each spice, where it came from and its history.” He pointed to a drawing. “Like here, the Egyptians used cassia for embalming the dead.”

She wrinkled her nose. “Yet it has such a pretty name.”

“It’s delicious, a type of cinnamon, and good if you have stomach problems as well.”

“I’m impressed. What are you going to do with your book?”

“I’d like to open a restaurant eventually. I’m meeting the right people through Mr. Kalai, working on a way to get myself out of the Flatted Fifth.”

He closed the book and placed it up on the shelf with care. When he turned around quickly, she stepped back, aware that she’d been standing too close.

“Thank you for coming down here with me,” he said.

“I’m impressed. And hungry.”

“I’ll make you something back at the club. In the meantime, taste this.” He scooped a dark powder out of one of the jars and poured a tiny amount into the palm of his hand. He dipped one finger in and held it up. “Open your mouth and stick out your tongue.”

“Should I close my eyes as well?”

He laughed. “Sure, if you want.”

The gentle touch of his finger on her tongue was enough to make her knees wobble, but then a robust bittersweet sensation overwhelmed her taste buds.

“Great, right? It’s Mayan cocoa.”

“Sure is.” She opened her eyes. On the wall behind him hung a small cracked mirror. Normally, she avoided mirrors, and she wasn’t expecting to see herself. In her reflection, her cheeks burned bright red against her cauliflower-colored skin, and her hair stuck up at all angles, except for one section that was plastered across her forehead like a toupee.

Mother was right; she was an ugly girl.

What was she doing? She stepped away from him. “We should go back to the club.”

“Of course. Hopefully, the kitchen isn’t on fire by now.”