Chapter 24 24. More Than Meet The Eye!
Jacob’s POV
Chameau was nothing like the urban sprawl of Moron. This was a quieter place, a town with a rural soul, and it held its own kind of advantage. My entire life had unfolded here, built by my own two hands. Orphaned young, the town saw me as a drifter, but I never accepted the label. My life wasn't about wandering; it was about enduring. My small business, a lemonade and cassava stand, was strategically positioned at the bustling gateway between the bus depot and the open-air market. Arriving early to claim my prime spot was non-negotiable. On big trading days like this, when a human tide from neighboring towns washed in to sell, buy, and barter, I knew my goods would be sold out by early afternoon. The demand was a predictable, welcome tide.
Today, however, I was on my own. Adrienne, my usual help, was unavailable. The market's trading days were sacred to her mother; it was the one time their family restaurant stayed open from dawn till dusk, and Adrienne's presence was required there. The morning air was already thick and heavy, promising a sweltering, sticky day. But I was ready. I could already picture the weary travelers stumbling off the buses, their faces etched with the need for a cool, fresh lemonade or a strong, steaming coffee. I imagined the sounds of satisfaction as they bit into the soft cassava, its earthiness balanced by the rich peanut butter and the sweet slice of banana. And for those who sought simple relief, I had water, cool and clear, ready to quench any thirst that came my way.
Every waking hour of the day before had been devoted to preparation. The hard thud of the crusher still echoed in my muscles, a relentless rhythm from a day spent transforming roasted peanuts into smooth, oily paste in the deep wooden mortar. My hands were raw from shredding and soaking the cassava. This wasn't just cooking; it was a physical trial, and I had endured it. Now, my humble wheelbarrow stood loaded, each container filled with the tangible proof of my labor. A sense of fierce anticipation coursed through me; my spirit, hardened by the effort, was ready to seize every opportunity this day would bring.
The city's transport options extended beyond the buses; the camions, those open-backed trucks, were particularly favored by those traveling with livestock. As I watched the new arrivals, one young man, not much older than myself, caught my eye. He moved with a strange fluidity, a grace that seemed out of place amongst the weary, shuffling crowd. He disembarked from one of the dusty camions and made a direct, unwavering path to my stall, as if he had been heading here all along.
"Good morning," I said, forcing a warm smile that felt suddenly brittle. "You have the honor of being my first customer."
He returned a calm, measured look, his eyes dark and still, like deep pools of water. They didn't seem to miss a thing. Intrigued, I asked about his journey, the standard small talk of a merchant. With an air of nonchalance that felt rehearsed, he said he was merely in transit. He claimed to be from Briller, here on a personal visit. He didn’t know many people here, but he was somewhat familiar with the town. He was not here to stay long but only to deliver a message to someone.
He ordered everything on the table. A full plate of cassava, sold together with lemonade and banana. He also ordered coffee. He ate the cassava with a quiet focus, finishing everything except the banana. He picked up the fruit he didn't want and offered it back to me with a kind smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Here," he said. "For your hard work."
The gesture piqued my curiosity, and a certain fondness for him began to grow. Though he skillfully dodged my questions, deflecting each one I asked about Briller or his travels. My instincts, honed by years of watching people in this market, screamed that he was lying. How could he know Chameau if he couldn't describe a single thing about it? He couldn't name the mayor when everyone else knew him. His knowledge was a hollow echo.
I gave him another piece of cassava, slathered with peanut butter, as a trade for his banana, a small test of his character. I could tell he was thirsty; the lemonade vanished in seconds. When I poured him a second glass and told him it was on me, he insisted on paying, his fingers brushing mine as he handed over the coins. I supposed he didn't know me well enough not to feel he owed me something, or perhaps he simply didn't want to be in my debt.
Believing he might be without a place to stay, I impulsively invited him to lodge at my home. It was a foolish offer, born of a momentary pity and a desire to solve the puzzle he presented. To my surprise, he declined with a subtlety that caught me off guard, steering the conversation elsewhere without a direct refusal. "I have arrangements," was all he said. I was left to reflect on my own hasty gesture, and to my further surprise, I felt a flicker of relief. It was better he wasn't under my roof.
The conversation lightened when he asked about the cassava, praising its flavor with a genuine appreciation that made my chest swell with pride. Then his follow-up question truly caught my ear: he wanted to know what other talents and skills I possessed.
"Nothing," I said, and it was the truth. "I only know how to sell stuff."
Now I was truly curious. Why had he asked? It struck me then that we'd been talking for nearly an hour without using names. I extended my hand. "I'm Jacob."
He shook it with the same easy demeanor. "Emilio."
Then, without missing a beat, he made me an offer: he had some items he needed to sell, and if I helped him, I'd get a twenty percent commission. My curiosity shot through the roof, but I didn't get a chance to ask questions. Or maybe I held back, worried he'd think I was prying.
"Yeah, let's see what you have."
He unzipped one of his three bags, revealing an assortment of women's goods. My surprise must have been plain on my face. There were delicate, embroidered blouses, silver bangles, and items far too fine for the dusty market of Chameau. They looked like they belonged in the city, not here.
What nestled beneath the clothing was truly what captured my attention. Tucked away in a small, velvet pouch was a single, silver locket. It was tarnished and dented, but it was the kind of item that held a story. As I held it, a strange thought struck me: this locket felt like a memory, a piece of a life left behind. I looked from the delicate object in my palm to Emilio’s face, which was now a mask of casual indifference. With a certainty that chilled me, I knew He wasn't just passing through; he was hiding.