Page 11 of The Devil’s Feather

“Perhaps not as shrewd a collector as I could be. I only purchase art that moves me and have never resold a piece.”

That must have been original Tiffany glass in the antechamber. Damn!

He kicked off his boots and set them on a low rack by the door, gesturing for me to do the same. “Please, the streets of San Francisco are paved in shit. Dog and otherwise. These slippers should fit you, but I have others if they do not.”

Thankfully, I’d worn matching socks for once, and the house slippers fit like a charm. My boots looked like miniatures next to his. Above the rack, just beside the door, hung a cobalt glass evil eye charm.

I drifted through the gallery, lingering on an Indian woman in oil pastels; sad beneath the bright aquas and oranges. Her eyes contained multitudes. “Why portraiture?”

“It sounds pretentious, but portraits condense an entire life into a moment in time. The choice of that moment fascinates me. I have other art, but I like keeping these here together.” Rafael studied the portrait as well.

I squinted. “Do you ever use contractions? You have kind of a formal manner of speaking.”

He smiled faintly. “I learned English primarily from antiquated books, but it is a deliberate choice. If I speak too quickly, people cannot understand me.”

My belly clenched. “I didn’t mean it as a dig! English is such a contradictory language.”

Rafael waved it off. “I did not take it that way. Do you like çay?”

“Yes, I love chai!” I wiggled at the thought of a latte.

He chuckled. “Turkish tea, not masala chai, to be clear.”

I stopped wiggling. “Oh, I’ve never tried it, but I’d like to.”

“Please make yourself comfortable. I will bring it to you.”

The next room was significantly cozier. Dark wood trim over mustard yellow walls with comfortably worn leather furniture. Antiquated music players lined the walls: a victrola, a polyphon, several more I didn’t recognize. A record played softly. Not one of his, though I’d half-expected it.

The art here was creepy, but not quite edging into horror. Lots of black, grey, and red, but those paintings didn’t completely cover the walls. Instead of overwhelming, it was contemplative.

Rafael joined me bearing a tray with two tulip-shaped, handleless glasses filled with a rich, reddish-brown tea. He gestured for me to sit. I sank into the buttery-soft leather sofa. Not far to sink; it was taller than I was accustomed to. He handed me a glass and saucer with a teaspoon and two sugar cubes, and sat in the equally soft-looking chair across from me.

My southern upbringing weighed heavily on me. “What’s the etiquette?”

“Hold it by the rim so you do not burn your hands.” He demonstrated. “If we were in Türkiye, I would refill your glass until you rested your spoon across the top, but you can just tell me.”

Awkwardly, I copied him. Amusement glittered in his eyes as he watched me try to drink without spilling tea on my cleavage.

The tea was strong but not bitter, so I stirred in one sugar cube. “This is really good. Thank you. Do you drink a lot of tea?”

He smiled over his cup. “Mostly reserved for hospitality these days, though that is rare enough. You Americans have gotten to me with your coffee-drinking habits. Better for my insomniac lifestyle, anyway.”

I nodded, glancing around the room. At least there’s no Saturn Devouring His Son. “You must be a fan of Goya’s black paintings.”

“You know your art, and I am indeed. Sadly, museums are loath to part with those originals.”

My back straightened. “Oh, you got money-money.”

Rafael expelled a huff of amusement. “Writing scores for successful franchises provides a comfortable wage, but I got lucky with some investments a while back. My little palace here is my only true extravagance.”

I wanted to kick myself. “God, I need to invest in a muzzle for myself. That was a rude thing to say. I’m sorry. My southern mom would be horrified at my lack of manners.”

“I like your bluntness. Too many people tiptoe around me.”

Thank god for that. “Was the building already like this when you moved in?”

“It was in dire need of repair when I bought it.” Rafael caressed the dark wainscoting by his chair. I’d never been so jealous of a wood panel. “Solid bones, and the café was still operational, but the rest was a disaster. The studio I worked with at the time told me I was crazy, both for moving away from LA and for buying this place. The previous owners were asking an absurd price for the amount of work it needed. Now, it would be considered a steal.” He huffed at the absurdity of his words.