Voyage to Bathala and Other Stories by Eliza Victoria

Author:Eliza Victoria [Eliza Victoria]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9786210100631
Publisher: et al Books, Inc. and Flipside Publishing

THE HANDMADE HOUSE

KATRINA, NEW IN town, often didn’t look up when walking, focusing instead on the ground before her, so she always found something new on the street leading to her rented apartment. Here was a laundry shop with cheap rates, here was a 24-hour computer shop, here was a bakery selling yogurt cupcakes, here was a gray building with a senatorial candidate’s face plastered all over it.

So she wasn’t surprised when she saw a store she had not seen before, squished between a store selling tailored suits and a sad, silent barbershop. EVERYTHING HANDMADE, the shiny sign proclaimed, black paint on pink. It had a dark-blue door with a brass doorknob. A cardboard sign hang on the knob, with a single word: Open.

Katrina waited for a chance to cross the street and did, but not at the best moment. A jeepney blared past, the driver leaning into his horn and swearing. The drizzle had turned into full-on rain, and Katrina wanted to turn to the driver and say, Come on then, let me have it. Instead she turned to the dark blue door and entered.

There were two people inside, a man and woman, and they shot up from their chairs so fast when the door opened that Katrina nearly jumped in surprise.

The shop owners both appeared to be in their early thirties. The man was eating a biscuit, and had crumbs all over his lips and the front of his shirt. “Hello,” the woman said, shooting the man a quick glance. She looked on in disapproval as the man brushed the crumbs off his clothes and onto the hardwood floor.

“Sorry,” the man said. He wiped his hands on the back of his jeans and smiled. “Sorry. Sorry. Hi. Welcome.”

Katrina lowered her hand from her chest. She felt the urge to just step out again, but the woman said, “Want to take a look at our leather-bound journals? These are new,” and directed her to the tables flush against the wall, heavy with handmade objects. Katrina gravitated first toward the pendants, made of ceramic and shaped like large teardrops. They were glazed and had deep purple paint in the dents, and glittered when held toward the light. She tried one on, admired how the pendant looked against her bare skin at the end of the cord.

“That looks good on you,” the woman said.

The shop owners seemed nervous, eager. Katrina took the necklace off and leafed through the handstamped squares of gift wrappers (metallic blue and silver, burgundy and black) and ivory notecards decorated with watercolor paintings of a roiling sea.

There were jars of various sizes filled with cream-colored wax that Katrina at first thought was candle wax. “They’re solid perfume,” the man said. Katrina opened each one and sniffed as the woman enumerated the scents: vanilla and lavender, rose and violets and mandarin, cinnamon and strawberry, oakmoss and rhum. The woman dipped two fingers in one tiny jar (peach and jasmine) and rubbed some on Katrina’s wrist.

The woman looked hungry for a response, and Katrina smiled at her and said, “It’s a great scent.

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