A man stood facing me as I entered the little antiques shop. His seemingly black eyes moved directly to mine when the little bell on the top of the door signaled my entrance into his lair. I say lair because he fit perfectly into the small but magnificent land of antiques he had collected for who knows how long. As I said before his eyes were extremely dark reminding me of the sea at night. His hair was long and dark matching his eyes wonderfully. He had it tied back with a beautiful red satin bow and it ended in fancy curls at his shoulders. He had flawless olive colored skin so like that of the majority of Italians I had beheld here in Rome. At the moment it was shining with perspiration. It was a truly hot day that day; the humidity was high and the shop air was hardly breathable. I’ve always been frustrated with extreme weather.
I should have known that coming to Rome in July was stupid but I had a need to travel that summer and Rome just happened to be the destination. I had been to Italy before, to Florence and to Venice. I had taken up residence in Venice for a short time not so very long ago before the forests of England called me back once again. I grew up in a little town in the North Country of Merry Old England. I hold my birthplace dear to my heart but living there full time gets old after awhile. Home sweet home is sometimes bitter in my opinion. At age 17 I journeyed to Pairs and I haven’t stopped traveling since. So far I’ve been to France, the U.S., Germany, the Netherlands, Spain, India, Russia, Greece, Italy, and all over the U.K.
Ah, I have deferred from my tale…the antiques dealer was a beautiful man of that there was no doubt but his black eyes conveyed no emotion at all. It scared me to tell you the truth. I spoke to him in my best Italian. I speak Italian pretty well for having a British accent. “Hello, how are you?” I asked him pulling off an almost perfect pronunciation of the words. I was rather proud of myself. Only then did his gaze waver. He muttered something I couldn’t hear under his breath. He moved forward rather quickly and stood before me. He sized me it seemed even caressing a stray piece of my light brown hair. What did he see when he looked at me I wondered? A tall Englishman of 25 years with large blue gray eyes and full lips is most likely what he saw. In England my looks had been run of the mill but in this far off land where darker skin reigned supreme I was…well, I stuck out like a sore thumb with my fair skin. Just when I was thinking about making my exit and beginning to wonder why I had come so far off the beaten path to this dusty old shop in the first place he spoke.
“And hello to you fair skinned one. What brought you all the way out to my little hole in the wall? Are you interested in antiques?”
His Italian flowed from his lips like honey from the hive. I could almost taste the sweetness of it. Sweet words. Cold eyes. His eyebrows were not heavy; they were elegantly arched not thick and not thin. These eyebrows were raised in a questioning manner. I replied slowly, choosing my words.
“I am visiting Rome for the rest of the summer and to tell you the truth of the matter I don’t really know how I got here or why. Any yes I have a certain fondness for antiques.”
He looked at me knowingly and said apologetically, “Ah, I am ahead of myself in my questioning. First things first: introductions. Allow me one question before your name please. Where do you come from? You speak Italian better than some natives of this island I still can tell from your appearance that you come from another land.”
His honey coated speech prompted me to answer right away.
“I am from England and my name is Charlie Watson.”
He smiled but the smile did not bring any emotion into to his eyes. Creepy.
“It’s very nice to meet you Mr.Watson. My friend, you are rather far from home. What may I ask brings you to Rome? Ah, and my name is Sandro Romeo. May I show you around the shop? I have forgotten my manners. I am sorry. Forgive me but it has been some time since I’ve had a customer.”
He offered his hand and I shook it. It was strangely cold this hand of his. I shivered despite the sweltering heat.
“I’m just visiting for awhile. You know seeing the sights and such. Traveling is sort of a hobby of mine for lack of a better word…”
I was being rather free with my tongue in speaking to this mysterious man which is strange because I am normally a reserved sort of fellow. Now when I look back on it I believe it was my fear of him that caused me to be so talkative. His eyes didn’t help any, surveying his surroundings with not even the spark of life within their dark depths. I had never seen such eyes and hopefully I will never see such eyes again. They were not the eyes of a man these were the eyes of something far more strange and exotic. I didn’t know what to think and I really didn’t have much time to do even that considering the barrage of words he kept firing off at me. He began to tell me about the various antiques lying in no particular order about the shop.
He turned to his left and pointed at a vase of inlaid coral and onyx, “Now this piece here is highly valuable. It’s Roman 14th century. I picked it up not too long ago from antique dealer friend of mind in Bulgaria. Lovely little thing isn’t it?”
The vase was quite lovely and I replied, “Yes, quite lovely.”
I suppose he took this as a sign to continue showing me around. I wanted to leave but I didn’t want him to think me rude. After all I was there to see the sights wasn’t I?
“And this is Egyptian crafted during the reign of King Tut. It’s a little tarnished but it will have to stay that way for now because I need a special beeswax polish to shine it up and I’m afraid I don’t have any in my stores. It has to be imported from the U.S. and I haven’t taken the time to order any.”
He was talking about an engraved medallion depicting the legendary Orisis and Isis. It wasn’t all that tarnished considering how old it was. I was about to tell him that when it clicked. This wasn’t an antiques shop; it was a virtual treasure chest of the ancient world. These pieces had to be worth tens of thousands of dollars. These were pieces museums would kill for and I knew at that moment that the man was nuts. There was no way people around that area of the city could afford such rarities and there was no way wealthy collectors would even know about this shop or stoop so low as to come to that part of the city to buy anything. The selling and buying of such items as these was done in high rise buildings in big money cities such as New York and Paris; not in little old dusty shops in one of the poorest areas in Rome. I looked around and gasped, “Sir, you must have thousands upon thousands of dollars worth of antiques here…”
He laughed. The laughter was eerie and shrill. The hair on the back of my neck rose.
“No my boy, try millions…”
I stared at him openmouthed. Then I asked the burning question, “I beg your pardon Mr. Romeo but why here of all places? Surely you know how poor of an area this is; it’s no wonder that you don’t have any customers, Sir.”
He laughed again but this time the laugh was empty of all emotion. I looked at him questioningly; he stopped laughing and said quietly, “I didn’t want to open up here young gentleman. Do you think me that stupid?”
He looked sad and withdrawn. I replied hastily, “No of course not Sir. Not stupid at all. I just don’t understand…if you didn’t want to open it here then who did? Aren’t you the owner?” I was truly confused.
He sighed and said, “No I’m not the owner Mr. Watson. My Master owns this establishment.”
I had to ask.
“Who’s your Master Mr. Romeo?”
He hesitated, “The Devil, Sir. My Master is the Devil. He chose this location not me. I am merely a faithful servant and I would never question His wishes.”
He waited for my reaction. This guy was definitely off his rocker but I questioned him further all the same.
“The Devil, eh? And what exactly would the Devil want you to open an antiques shop in this exact spot?”
He answered me in Latin. Luckily I know Latin.
“This shop stands on hallowed ground; on an old pagan burial ground to be exact. The Devil likes his places of business to be close to his follower’s weather they be alive or dead.”
I almost laughed. This had to be a joke.
“The Devil has places of business? Why would the Devil want to open an antiques shop of all silly things?”
He replied quickly, “Many places of business belong to my Master. And my young friend these are not ordinary antiques. In fact, all of the antiques here once belonged at one time or another to His various followers throughout the world.”
I swallowed loudly and asked, “His followers?”
“Yes, you heard me correctly Mr. Watson…His followers. And only his followers shop here.”
“I am not a follower of the Devil. Actually I am not the follower of anything. I am without a religion. So you’re a Satanist then?”
He scowled and I was afraid he was going to do something rash.
“That’s an ugly word and I would appreciate it if you wouldn’t use it around me. I prefer to be called pagan if I am to be labeled with anything other than my name. And Sir you are a follower of the Devil for only those loved by him can see this place. As for everyone else their eyes behold only an old burial ground and nothing more.”
I was truly scared of that place and the man standing in front of me. He was too close. I felt as if the air were being choked out of my body. That was it. Gasping for air I bolted for the door and heard him call out from behind me, “Mr. Watson you don’t have to believe in him to be loved by him. It would bode well for you to remember that!”
I didn’t stop running until I reached the center of a crowd of people.
“Do you know the antiques shop down that way? The…owner told me his name was Sandro Romeo.” I asked this of the person nearest me. She was an old woman with straight silver hair and clear blue eyes devoid of any floaters. She looked at me as if I was insane. I was going off my rocker. It must have been something I ate. At least that’s what my Mum would have said.
“The only thing that’s down way is an old burial ground. And I don’t know any Sandro Romeo either and I know most everyone around these parts. Are you ill my boy?”
She looked at me with the kind of concern only an old woman can show. I certainly felt ill. I shook my head at her and walked off without a backwards glance.
I still don’t understand why I, Charles Henry Watson am the beloved of the Devil. I have no religion and believe in no God. But there is one thing I do believe: the Devil does indeed deal in antiques.
FIN
If you didn't like it I really don't care to know. 
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I guess this is shitty with a captial S. Thank you for your comments. They are very much appreciated. Now I question why my teachers say that I have "a talent with the written word." XD
As you can see I've not had very much experience. So do you think I should throw out the part about the narrator being able to speak italian and latin? Maybe I should just have the shopkeeper be able to speak english because after all he IS the devil. 