“Sweetie, you have to come and help me,” she says. “I’ve found my rack, but I need you to carry it out of here.”
“Where are you, Mom?”
“Still at the furniture stall—do you remember how to get here?”
“Yeah, sure. I’ll be there in a sec.”
“Sorry, I have to run. Maybe next time,” I say to Granny, glad I have a real excuse to escape.
I wave goodbye, turn around, and step away before she can trap me again. She mumbles something after me, but with all the surrounding noise I am already too far away to hear what it is…and, honestly, I don’t care.
***
By the time I get back home it is already six in the evening. Mom insisted on having lunch together after the market, which took longer than I expected, and after lunch I had forgotten I had a hair appointment, to which I added a mani-pedi and some beauty product shopping. I decided to load my weapons for Monday and at least try to look my best, even if I feel the opposite inside.
Overall, the day went a lot better than I would have anticipated this morning. Well, with the exception of nagging thoughts of James and Vanessa occasionally creeping on me unexpectedly and knocking the air out of my lungs, leaving me breathless for a second or two every time.
When I finished with the pampering it was already five-ish, and since I had no intention of cooking tonight I went to my favorite Chinese takeout and grabbed some dinner to enjoy at home in sad loneliness. So, right now I am entering my apartment with my steaming to-go order in one hand, a huge bag of beauty products in the other, and I’m just about ready to sag back into darkness and self-commiseration. I deposit the food on the kitchen countertop and drop my maxi bag on the floor, where it lands with a heavy thud.
Damn, my shoulder feels really sore! I must stop carrying everything around in my purse. I promise myself I will do an inventory check after dinner to see if there’s something I can take out. I change into some comfy clothes and decide to eat at the bar of my L-shaped open kitchen. I set all the little white food containers on it and pull out two stools, one for me and one for Sugar. Once I break my chopsticks, I am ready to start.
I share the occasional shrimp or chicken treat with my furry friend, who is thrilled whenever he gets to eat my food…or human food in general. I don’t know why; does he feel more involved? Maybe I should study a bit of feline psychology. Once he has had his fill, he strolls away to drink some water from his pet fountain. I know, he’s spoiled rotten. He then disappears, probably to find a soft spot to sleep. Sometimes I wish I were a house cat; their life seems far more uncomplicated.
After just a few minutes of peace, I hear worrying meowing and clinging sounds coming from behind the counter. I lean forward to check what’s going on, only to find that the little pest has scattered the contents of my bag all over the place and is enthusiastically playing with it. Quite the opposite of sleeping. My feline empathy is off today. In particular, he is attacking a little bundle that I don’t recognize.
I hurry around the kitchen island to salvage whatever it is that Sugar is butchering. I snatch it away and, to my utter surprise, I find myself holding a small, nicely wrapped package whose origin is a complete mystery to me. I weigh the enigmatic parcel in my hands for a while before unwrapping it. It is quite heavy; no wonder my shoulder was so sore! What could it possibly be? I carefully undo the cover, recognizing immediately what lies beneath. It’s the jewelry case from the flea market; the one the creepy old lady insisted I should buy.
This is impossible! I didn’t buy it, and sure enough, I didn’t steal it. I perfectly remember putting it back on the stand and then running away to catch up with Mom. The old lady was never near enough to drop it in my bag, nor would she have had the time to wrap it so carefully. Then what?
Uggh! Now I’ll have to go back to the market tomorrow and try to explain it all to Granny. Just what I needed!
Well, nothing I can do about it now. I am just going to finish my Chinese food, not thinking about stupid boxes magically materializing in my bag. But honestly, how can you not think about an ancient looking little box that has magically materialized in your bag? It is simply impossible! I quit trying almost immediately. I set aside my unfinished food and begin my examination of the object.
It certainly is very nice and, judging from the quality of its embellishments, very old. The metal is cold to the touch and has a golden shine to it, but surely it can’t be solid gold! I peek at it more closely. The stones that appeared opaque this morning now seem changed; they are almost translucent. Someone must’ve cleaned this thing. Probably the same someone who put it in my bag.
I wrap my fingers around the little knob at the top, undecided. Finally, I gather my courage and open it. I gasp as I see…nothing. It’s empty! Well, what was I expecting? I am being silly right now; even my heart is beating faster for no reason at all.
I close it again, turn it around in my hands a couple of times, and play a little with the knob on top, which suddenly turns producing a loud click. I study it for a second; the little knob seems to be attached to some sort of gear mechanism on the lid. I lift the cover again.
Argh! A nasty puff of dust just blew in my face, almost choking me. This is what I get for fooling with obscure objects I shouldn’t have in the first place. Where did that dust come from? It wasn’t there a second ago.
I need some water to ease the itchiness in my throat. I am heading for the fridge when something odd catches my attention out of the corner of my eye. I turn around to check and gasp even louder when I see a man comfortably settled on the living room sofa. I don’t know if I am more stunned by the fact that there is a stranger sitting on my couch, by how he is dressed, or by the fact that he must be the most gorgeous man I have ever seen.
He has dark, chin-length hair, deep blue eyes, and a fair complexion. He is sitting, but I can tell he’s tall. Very tall. He must have some sort of costume on because he looks like an English gentleman from the eighteenth century.
The man is wearing a double-breasted dark blue tailcoat with large gilt buttons that are unbuttoned. The coat opens on a figured silk vest that is tightly fastened over a white and perfectly ironed and starched high-collared shirt, which is complemented by a creamy silk knotted cravat. His pants are a pair of tight fall-front breeches made of pale yellow buckskin that have an orderly line of three covered buttons at the knee. His footwear consists of black leather Hessian boots adorned with golden tassels. As if this wasn’t enough, he’s fully accessorized with black gloves, a gold-mounted cane, and a black top hat.
I am so dumbfounded that when I open my mouth to speak, nothing comes out, so I close it. I try to speak again, but nothing happens. I must look like a fish underwater. Now I understand when they say how fear can completely paralyze you. He stands up, and I instinctively withdraw until my back is pressed against the fridge. He really is tall, at least six feet two.
“My lady,” he announces, “I am deeply sorry if I have startled you. May I introduce myself?” Then he bows. Yes, a full gentleman-like bow.
“So you are British.” It’s all I can come up with when I find it in me to speak.
“That would be technically correct. However, I would rather be addressed as English, if you please,” he states with extreme politeness, coming toward me.
“Stay where you are.” I try to make it sound like an order, but it probably came out more like a plea.
“As you bid, milady,” he says, sitting back on the couch.
“Who the hell are you?” I ask, exasperated.
“Arthur, your most humble servant. Pleased to meet you, my lady.”
“Lady who? How did you get into my apartment?”
“I believe you summoned me.”
“I didn’t summon anyone!”
“Did you not turn the Wheel of Destiny and open the Coffer of Fortune?”
“I didn’t turn any destiny thingy, or open any fortune widget,” I say angrily. “Listen, I have no idea who you are or
what you’re talking about. I just think you’re some kind of weird lunatic dressed funny who somehow has broken into my apartment.” Admittedly, a very good-looking lunatic.
Ally, get a grip. Ogling psychotic burglars… Have I sunk so low?
“But the Coffer of Fortune is right next to you!” he protests, pointing at the jewelry case.
“What are you saying? That by opening this stupid thing, I somehow magically summoned you to my apartment?”
“That would be accurate.”
“And why exactly?”
“I am enslaved to the coffer and eternally cursed to grant the wishes of its owner.”
“Ah, well. You should have said so in the first place. Now it all makes perfect sense. You’re the genie of the lamp, arrived here to grant my wishes,” I say ironically.
“Djinn are merely a myth, ancient legends created by men in the hope of—”
“Enough hocus pocus for me!” I briskly interrupt him. “I don’t know who you are or what you want, but I am asking you to leave right now or I’ll call the police!” I grab my phone and dial 911.
“Oh, I am mostly apologetic. Were you planning on visiting someone tonight? This police friend of yours? Have I made you late?”
“You are completely crazy! This is the last time I ask you nicely. Please get out of my house now!”
“My lady, the only way you can rid of me is by letting me grant your wishes.”
“I’ve had enough of this—I am calling the police!” I press the green button on my phone.
“911, what is the nature of your emergency?” a metallic voice comes from the speaker.
“I see I have to resort to extreme measures,” the lunatic says.
“Hello, my name is—” I begin to say.
BANG!
My living room is transformed into an African desert. My hardwood floor has been replaced with high dunes of fine, warm sand, and I can feel my feet sinking into it. My furniture is gone, my kitchen is gone, even my walls are gone. I am standing in my PJs in the middle of the freaking Sahara. I look up astonished, my mouth dangling open. The English gentleman is quietly sitting cross-legged on my couch, nonchalantly rotating his cane in the air, except the couch is now positioned atop an orange sand dune. Poor Sugar is meowing pitifully while he struggles to climb up a sand pile, leaving a trial of small paw prints behind him.
I look back at the stranger, who is eying me from under his cylinder hat with an amused, challenging smirk.
“Miss, I am sorry I didn’t get your name.” The metallic voice comes from my phone, which I’m still solidly clenching in my right hand. I look at it, still mesmerized, and press end.
“Ok. You’ve made your point,” I say, still a bit dazed. “By the way, I’m Ally,” I add, as an incredulous smile spreads on my lips. “Ally Johnson.”
“Very pleased to meet you, Miss Johnson.”
3
Rules
I am super excited. This is the most incredible thing that has ever happened to me. Some extra supernatural powers are exactly what I needed right now, and the timing couldn’t have been more perfect. Then again, who wouldn’t like some magic solution to all their problems?
I detach myself from the fridge and move into the living room, still feeling some sand grains slipping among my toes. Sugar went into hiding the moment my apartment went back to normal. Poor baby, he must be stressed. I, on the other hand, am hardly able to contain myself. I have so many things to ask my new magical friend. What was his name? Ah yes, Arthur.
He hasn’t moved from his comfortable position on my sofa, and he seems impatient. In fact, as soon as I sit in the armchair in front of him, he starts talking in a very matter-of-fact tone, as if nothing particularly out of the ordinary has happened.
“Now that your initial resistance is overcome, Miss Johnson, I think we need to discuss rules,” he says. He takes off his hat and gloves and places them carefully on the empty seat next to him.
“Wait a minute, slow down. What rules? I have like a million other questions.”
“All your questions will find an answer in due time.”
“But I want to know now!” I protest. “Like, are genies the only magical creatures? Or are there also vampires, werewolves, elves, gargoyles, fairies, witches?”
“There are no such things.”
“So the lady at the flea market wasn’t a witch?”
“I do not believe so.”
“But she knew about the box and she put it in my bag.”
“The coffer has its own ways—the lady you are talking about was probably under its magical influence.”
“So you are the only magical creature in the whole world?”
“I believe I am the last one, yes.”
“Last one? How many were there? What kind?”
“It is a matter of little importance at present,” he states curtly, flaring his nostrils in annoyance. “Miss Johnson, I feel obliged to explain the instructions you have to follow first,” he continues. “I judge it might be wiser to do it at once, before dwelling on other things. Will you please allow me?”
“Oh, that. Don’t worry, I already know everything. I aroused the genie so I get three wishes—no killing, no resuscitating the dead, and no love spells. I saw the cartoon.”
“I am not aware of what a cartoon is, and as I explained before, I am not a Djinni.”
“What are you, then?”
“I don’t presume to fit in any particular category, milady.”
“Can I at least know if you are human?”
“I was human once, and I am in human form presently. However, it is not worthwhile to bore you with my history,” he adds politely.
I have the feeling it’s not for my sake that he doesn’t want to talk about his story. So I drop the subject for now, but I will get to the bottom of it eventually.
“Okay, but since you will not tell me anything, I’ll keep calling you Genie.”
“I do not suppose you could call me by my given name.”
“Tsk, no. Too boring.”
“I foresee you are going to be one of the difficult ones.”
“Why, how many have there been before me?”
“Many.”
“How many?”
“Could we delay the interrogation for a more convenient time and keep our interests focused?”
“Okay,” I give in reluctantly. “But only for now.”
“Marvelous. Shall we get started?” he asks hopefully.
“Okay. So do I get three wishes?”
“No. You do not.”
“That’s not fair. The one time I get a genie I don’t get three wishes. Why do I always have to get crappy deals!” I whine, disappointed.
“I do not believe this is suitable language for a lady,” he says with contempt.
“What century are you from?” I retort. “There is no more aristocracy rubbish in this one.”
“To this purpose I meant to ask. Pray, tell me what century is it now?”
“Twenty-first,” I answer curtly.
“Blimey!” he exclaims, utterly bewildered. “I have never been absent for so long—more than two centuries! I need to query—Did Napoleon lose the war?”
“Napoleon? How old are you?”
“Considerably old compared to the typical human life. Many hundreds of years.”
“I guess there’d be no point in asking how many exactly.”
“I would prefer to amuse myself with your curiosity for a little longer.”
“And I am supposed to be the difficult one.”
“I admit I can be pretty stubborn myself,” he concedes.
“You don’t say.”
“Hmm, so has he won or lost?” he asks again.
“Communication is a two-way channel—you tell me something, I tell you something. Tell me how old you are, and I’ll tell you everything about Napoleon.”
He seems torn between the two options, pondering a little longer before announcing his decision. “I t
hink it best we leave idle topics for later. There are a few things you had better be aware of.”
“All right,” I surrender. “Go ahead, tell me all I need to know.”
“Very well—very well, indeed. First of all, I am going to grant you five desires.”
“Five! Whoa! That’s awesome. It’s—”
“However, some restrictions apply.”
He seems quite exasperated by my constant questions and interruptions. Maybe I’ll just be good and sit here nice and quiet.
“There are rules that cannot be contravened,” He keeps going. “I usually prefer my charges to write them down.”
“No, don’t worry. I have a very good memory.”
“If you cannot write, there is nothing to be ashamed of. I can write them down for you. Are you at least able to read?”
“What?” I shout back, affronted. “Of course I can write! What do you think I am, some kind of illiterate ignorant person?”
“Please accept my deepest apologies, Miss Johnson—it pains me to have offended you. In my last era, it was not unusual for common people to be analphabets, and since your house does not appear to be of much stature, I simply assumed—”
“Let me be perfectly clear,” I cut him short. “I don’t know what kind of grandeur you’re used to, but insulting a person’s house is not a great way to apologize, not even to common people.” I totally air-quoted common people.
I then get up with the most indignant face I can master and go to fetch a notepad and a pen. Once I have them, I return to the living room and sit down again, maintaining an air of high countenance.
“Are you ready, milady?” he asks with extreme politeness and a perfect poker face.
I suspect he’s having fun at my expense.
“Yes!” I say acidly.
“Let us commence, then. As you already said, I do not kill, I do not resuscitate the dead, and I cannot make someone fall in love. But also be advised that I cannot make people fall out of love.”