Nadirah waited impatiently in Widad’s room, constantly walking back and forth on the heavily carpeted floor. She glimpsed at her wristwatch every now and then, trying to ease her mind from the constant pounding, the result of anxiety from barging in without a Plan B.
Grunting, she sat on the bed, counting the seconds in her head, and when the lady in waiting still wasn’t in sight, she lied on the soft mattress, curiously examining the carving on the ceiling.
She immediately stood up when the door of the room open, booming in with familiar voices, “And I need my money back, you hear me?”
“Yes, Widad,” said Arina dismissively, “I’ll pay you as soon as my dad gives me my allowances—” her eyes abruptly landed on Nadirah. “Nadirah, what are you doing here?”
Nadirah blinked, staring at the bed, staring at the ceiling, and shrugged. “Admiring the ceiling?”
Arina laughed. “No, really. Why are you here?”
“Waiting for Widad,” she answered simply.
Widad stepped in front, curiously asked, “Something the matter?”
“Kind of.”
“Mind to elaborate?”
She studied the face of her two cousins, contemplating on the right reply. Something clicked in her mind, or was it inside her, she wasn’t sure, but she found herself answering, “Danial. It has something to do with,” she took a deep breath, “Danial.”
The horrific look on Widad’s face was unmistakably conspicuous, and it was further prominent when she spoke to Arina, albeit hastily, “Thanks Arina, pay me later.”
“What?”
“I need to have a,” she smiled flatly, “A heart-to-heart talk with her.”
“A heart-to-heart?” Arina asked bewilderedly, but before she could further inquire, Widad harshly escorted her out and said, “No young ears should listen to this, so off you go!”
She closed the door harshly, nervously glancing at Nadirah. “He’s fine, right?”
“I guess.”
“What do you mean by you guess?”
She shrugged. “Haven’t met him.”
If Widad asked for the brother of her apparent nemesis, then she could answer for sure.
“Then what’s with the commotion about Danial?”
“Don’t know,” she replied, but later realized that it was too short to comprehend, so she added, “The commotion was you.”
Realizing her mistake, Widad swallowed convulsively, trying to emit a nonchalant air. “I thought something terrible happened to him,” she laughed nervously, “You’ll never know.”
“Yeah,” nodded Nadirah, “And I’ll never know,” she spoke her rehearsed words carefully, “Why his presence terrified you so.”
“T-terrified?”
“My theory,” she said, “Number one is terrified. Number two is crush. Number three is loath.”
“Terrified, crush and loath are different things! How could you categorize it like that?”
“Terrified,” the clicking sound in her brain began to subside, but not for long, because a loud burst suddenly deafened her ears, pouring the words out like melted butter. “Because you are obviously intimidated. Crush, because you don’t like to admit defeat to your pact. Loath, because you avoided him as if his mere presence poisoned the air.”
“Maybe I did loathe him,” she said indignantly, “It’s apparent that I loathe him!”
“That might be true,” Nadirah made no point in arguing, “But still, terrified outranked the loathed.”
Widad was flustered, and it was even more pronounced as she lashed out heatedly, “What are you trying to say Nadirah? Why are you suddenly so interested in my affairs?”
“My intention is not to meddle in your affairs, but sadly, your affairs have become one of Ikhwan’s, and one of Ikhwan’s means that it is one of mine.”
“Why is it one of yours?” she sneered, “It’s not as if you’re a united couple.”
“Because of reasons I can’t explain,” she answered, “But don’t worry. I won’t dwell much further than necessary. I just need to ask something.”
“Something concerning Danial?”
“Quite so, I obtained a clue that hinted on something like that.”
She stood arrogantly, ready for the blazing fire of accusation.
Nadirah took that as her cue for interrogation.
“You hide something from Danial, didn’t you?”
She didn’t say anything.
“And you’re afraid that if you spent more than a second with Danial, he would uncover your lies.”
She tilted her head to the other side, still containing herself from speaking.
“You especially hated the thought of a butterfly, because it reminded you of your own cowardice.”
“I’m not a coward!” she snapped. “I am merely protecting my common sense!”
“Why didn’t you tell him that?”
She bit her tongue, unwilling to speak.
“Don’t worry,” Nadirah said calmly, “Danial’s already done your errand.”
She blinked, thoroughly flummoxed. “What?”
“He’s already done your part of the deal.”
“He returned the painting?” she spluttered.
Nadirah nodded.
“But I still have the painting—Oh.” She crossed her arms in realization. “He switched it, huh?”
“He did,” Nadirah concurred, “Because you didn’t feel compelled to share your worries with him.”
“He is terrifying,” she shivered, “I would never share my worries with him. Despite the fact that I very much loathe him, he is so terrifying that I rather not share the same room with him.”
“Terrifying, or beleaguering?”
“A mixture of both,” said she, “Still, I couldn’t handle a person like that.”
“Well, I don’t actually want to hear the story of your feud with my friend’s brother—” after all, she respected one’s privacy, but Widad quickly cut her off, “But you bring the subject first!”
“Yeah,” she said placidly, “I just wanted to see the painting.”
She scoffed. “Surely, the brother would tell you where he hid the painting?”
“I am not sure which brother you meant,” she said dubiously. “But no, they didn’t.”
“Typical,” she muttered. “They love to leave us in the dark.”
“They do, didn’t they? I need to be extra sharp and perky these days.”
“Oh, you need to be extra perky and sharp all the time,” she muttered in disgust. “Or else, be prepared to be bested with that twisted mind of theirs.”
Widad wasn’t aware that Nadirah had the upper hand in handling Ikhwan, thanks to her being a tightly closed book, apparently.
But she decided to keep her mouth shut, and steered Widad back to the original topic. “I hope the painting is here, and not in your house.”
“Danial never went to my house,” she said, “I doubt he knows where it is. But why do you need it so much?”
“Why do you have it in the first place?”
It was easy to be daring once she had detected the major weak point.
“Why do I need to tell?”
“Likewise,” answered Nadirah simply.
Widad huffed, obviously uncomfortable in her own room. It was her turn to wander the room back and forth, fidgeting like an anxious chicken. “If I’m lucky he’d be nice for once and returned it to the same place.”
“If you’re lucky?”
“He’s never nice to me, can’t you tell?”
Obviously she couldn’t, because really, how many times have she seen her cousin together with the brother? She couldn’t remember any, which might be contributed by her often dazed head, but even when she was conscious enough to notice, the potential meeting always ended up with the other party fleeing the scene.
“Okay now,” Widad took a deep breath, “I hid it,” her eyes flickered toward the bed, “Under the mattress.”
She strode briskly toward the location, lif
ting the mattress hastily with her hand, and released it down. “Okay,” she said breathlessly, “Obviously, it’s not there.”
“Impossible,” Nadirah uttered. “I don’t think Ikhwan was lying.”
“So it was he who told you about this switching painting thing?”
“Yeah,” and feeling the need to defend him, since Widad was sporting such a beleaguering look, she added, “He rarely jokes around, you see.”
“Yes, I suppose so,” Widad gritted her teeth. “His brother is the devil, not him.”
“Yet devil as he may, would he coerce a maiden’s chamber?”
Widad looked at her blankly, probably just noticing the sudden magniloquence in Nadirah’s speech. “Did you just hit your head or,” she stifled a chortle, “Oh I see. You went on a date with Ikhwan to the matinee, right?”
She need not say that they went to a place far better than the matinee.
And it was not a date. Definitely not that.
But she said just that. “Date? How shameful of you to think of me like that, but no. We went to a far more interesting place than a mere classical matinee.”
Widad’s eyes were glinting with amusement. “I thought you stayed home all day.”
“Exactly,” she said matter-of-factly, unwilling to let her cover being blown, “The conversation at home is far better than a matinee.”
“As you wish,” she sighed, admitting defeat, “I just need to find out where he hide that painting—” she looked at Nadirah with a supremely ghastly expression, screeching on the top of her lungs, “Zahari!”
“Zahari?” echoed Nadirah.
“Zahari! Of course! He’d be the associate culprit!”
“Associate culprit?”
“Those two have always been close,” she gnawed her thumb.
“Close?” Nadirah creased her brows.
“Well, I assume not that close, since Zahari is more or less Danial’s lackey.”
She was tempted to snicker, but she sealed the lid of her mirth as tight as possible.
“Now where is that little wretch?”
She shrugged.
“How come you don’t know? You stayed home all day.”
Nadirah shrugged again, resembling the old Nadirah again.
She supposed the box had shut itself then, because she was truly at lost for words.
“Oh, right,” Widad blew her flyaway hair impatiently, “He’s obviously not home then, if you don’t know. My vulnerability is getting the best of me,” she sighed, “I blame it solely on Danial.”
“That is not nice,” Nadirah smirked, but Widad’s beleaguered expression was endearingly painful to watch, so she added, “—Sounding.”
“Believe me, it’s true,” her face was exceedingly serious, “He beats Zahari in my ranking of annoying people, and you know I have a lot.”
Nadirah scratched her head, wondering how she fared in the chart. She was certain that Zahari must’ve landed somewhere in the top three, and the rest of the cousins would probably rank in the top ten, or at very least, top twenty.
But before she could inquire, Widad screamed, “I should find the little wretch and let him admit to his faults!” and stormed out of the room, away from the perplexed face that belonged to Nadirah.
Now what, she wondered.
She proceeded to lie on the bed again, her mind desperately requesting for a time out.
It had indeed been a long, exhausting day, and if anything, she had never done so much activity in three consecutive days.
She might as well deserve a rest.
And just like that, she fluttered her eyelids close, off to the land of dreams.
She did intend to fall asleep, just not on one’s bed and not hers.
As she yawned and shoved Widad’s feet away from her face—Widad was famed for her notorious sleep posture and a late riser—Nadirah took the moment to recollect herself and wonder if Widad was successful in uncovering the little duplicate painting.
Considering how the room had no changes from the last time she’d seen it, it might very well mean that the painting had yet to be in her clutches.
Sighing, Nadirah slipped away from the bed and into her own bedroom, readying herself for the morning prayer, hoping that she would stumble across Zahari sometimes later.
But apparently, later meant never.
She didn’t see Zahari for the whole morning, and as she visited Arina’s room for a rough explanation, Arina had this to answer, “But you are being so secretive to me, why shouldn’t I be so to you now?”
Nadirah thought about it for a couple of minutes, and replied, “It is Widad’s secret, not mine, and you have more secrets than I could imagine.”
“Proof it.”
“Okay,” she creased her brows, racking her brain for a potentially good argument. “You always played a song that had yet to release in advance. Where did you acquire the sheet music? You must have great connections.”
That automatically shut Arina’s big hole of curiosity, and Arina’s big mouth too.
“How did you manage to say all that in a matter of seconds?”
Well, that was impressive, wasn’t it?
The box rattled.
Nadirah shrugged.
“Well,” Arina fidgeted, ashamed of her blown cover, “That is my secret.”
Nadirah nodded.
“And not yours.”
Nadirah shrugged.
“And Widad’s secret is not yours either.”
“Not if she didn’t feel obliged to share.”
“Oh wow,” she blinked rapidly, “She shared it with you?”
Nadirah shrugged. “I only rightly guessed a partial of it, so I didn’t know the whole story nevertheless.”
“How could anyone be so stingy?” she caught the hopeful glint in the eyes of her cousin, and subconsciously asked, “Why do you really need to see him?”
“Because Widad referred to him.”
“And why does anyone refer to that useless douche?”
“I don’t know,” apparently his brother was the lackey, or so she thought, “It’s not me who refers to him.”
“Well, I asked him yesterday, because Widad kept pestering me about his whereabouts,” she rolled her eyes, “He spent the night at Danial’s house.”
“Could they be scheming something?”
“Nah,” she shook her head, “They are just good friends.”
“Widad is extremely suspicious.”
“She was suspicious of everything,” she rolled her eyes, but then took a good look at Nadirah. “So I asked Zahari about it, because Widad kept muttering painting and all, and so he asked me to give you something behind Widad’s back.”
Nadirah raised her brows.
“Something about a painting, he said you could be interested.”
“Painting,” she echoed confoundedly.
“Yeah, painting,” Arina narrowed her eyes, “Since when are you interested in paintings anyway?”
“Life is mysterious,” she said sagely.
Arina made no effort to argue, and instead, started beckoning her to follow to the next room—her brother’s room.
She walked to his closet and took every clothes that he’d hanged off the rack, and started to slide the wooden insert off the closet.
There, it was apparent that a beautiful painting of a sparkling butterfly resided majestically on the milky wall, staring deeply at the spectators.
Arina unlatched the painting from the wall, opening the plastic cover and handed it to Nadirah. “I think that’s the painting.”
The painting, upon closer inspection, was actually painted on a soft substance that reminded Nadirah of silk. And while it did resemble Avery’s painting, there was no mistaken it—she had seen this before.
When, and how, she was not certain.
There was only one explanation for that.
She must have glimpsed at it during the flyaway of her mind.
Nadirah raised her head, staring at Arina cu
riously. “How do you know?”
“That this painting is back there?”
She nodded.
“He told me.”
She creased her brows.
“Okay,” Arina grinned, “I stumbled across it once. Nosy sibling is inevitable.”
“He knows that you know.”
“Yeah,” she scoffed, “Very annoying, because you couldn’t even sneak into his room without him detecting your unique footsteps on his doormat,” she shivered. “Creepy.”
“Yeah,” Nadirah returned, “Like a detective.”
“He won’t become a detective, he hates those scientific things,” she rolled her eyes, but the rolling stopped as it landed on Nadirah’s face. “What are you going to do with this?”
“This? Oh, well,” she gulped, caressing the silk painting in her hand, “This feels like silk.”
“You want to turn this into some sort of clothing?”
“No,” she spat bewilderedly, “Of course not.”
“Frame this then! Or you could always sell this, I’m sure the price tag would be unbelievably high.”
“Well,” Nadirah cleared her throat, “This is not mine.”
“Zahari said that he’s turned the ownership to you. So it is technically yours.”
It was not technically hers, but Nadirah didn’t want to expose more of the secrets to the gossiper.
“Do anything you want to do with it, he didn’t mind, he said. You might as well take advantage of his generosity.”
Nadirah smacked her lips, ascertaining her decision regarding the painting.
Well, she might as well try her luck.
“Let me think first,” she finally said, “I’ll be in my room.”
“Oh, and Nadirah?”
She stopped, curiously gazing at Arina.
“You’ve changed,” both of her thumbs were up, “And improved. You’ll be cured in no time.”
To that, Nadirah had no reply.
She exited Zahari’s room, leaving Arina behind who apparently wanted to place the wooden insert back into the closet. But now that Arina had proven herself to be a quite nosy sibling, Nadirah doubted that that was the only thing she would do.
Well, those siblings’ affairs were none of her concern.
As soon as she entered her room, she clasped the lock shut and began to settle on her bed. She smoothened the painting on the soft comforter, her legs crossed over as she tried to concentrate.
First thing first, she should inspect the painting before indulging in the unthinkable. Her eyes deeply magnified the painting, and while it wasn’t superior to Avery’s—or she might be biased—it did have a certain indescribable quality to it that made it much unique on its own rather than being a dubbed replica. The colors were true, every lines and structures were drawn with pristine precision, and the only thing that differed from the original painting was the initial on the far bottom corner, bearing the word, KK.
The name that began with the letter K couldn’t be considered scarce in her head, but she wouldn’t want to take chances, and ever so often, the pseudonym wasn’t a person’s real name.
The only thing left for her to do was to embrace her newfound ability, and while she never did it alone, she knew that she had sailed her life on her own two feet, so why couldn’t she do it now?
She closed her eyes, imagining the unimaginable, unable to picture the picturesque scene. Yet she never relented. She tried to find the keyword of fragrance, in an attempt to test her luck, all the while deeply immersed in the dainty painting.
The words started to ring in her ears, and smiling jubilantly, she let the musical voices uncovered itself to resemble a sentence, “…fragrance of lavender better than wisteria. There is no wisteria in this town anyway.”
A female voice sighed, as she pointed, “If you were to draw wisteria in this, then the historical themes would definitely match. Marie Antoinette, Alexander the Great, and Empress Dowager Cixi for the gems, Malacca for the origin of the sparkling butterfly, and finally wisteria to commemorate Lady Fujitsubo!”
Lady Fujitsubo, as Nadirah had once read, was a female character in an infamous Japanese historical story, The Tale of Hikaru Genji. The kanji in her name meant wisteria, and Nadirah deduced that perhaps that was the reason for their persistent on keeping up with the theme.
“If you can’t have Lady Fujitsubo, might as well take Lady Murasaki, no?”
Lady Murasaki—which meant lavender in English—was also a female character in the novel, and while Hikaru Genji was deeply smitten with his stepmother, he tried to mold the niece of the lady to be the perfect wife.
Judging by the disgruntling grunt by the girls, Nadirah wagered that they didn’t agree with the boy’s suggestion. Nor did they agree with Hikaru Genji’s decision.
“I wouldn’t even draw lavender on it,” said the voice of another boy. “I draw what I see, not what I know.”
“You saw those wisterias,” said the girl’s voice impatiently, “You saw the butterfly, so it means you see it!”
“Relax Maznah,” another boyish voice began to chuckle, “Khalil wasn’t trying to draw the butterfly, he was trying to procreate the painting.”
“But the painting was quite bland with only an accessory there and no more!”
“That’s the main attraction,” said the boy’s voice again, “For you to pay attention to the butterfly only. Tell you what,” the voice paused, thinking his thought through, “Khalil will draw you a butterfly on the lavender garden next, but let him draw this one by his own, would you?”
“Who says I want lavender?”
“Well, there’s not much choice. We only have lavender after all.”
“Nadim,” said the other boy’s voice distressfully, “What have you gotten me into?”
“You like painting,” the smile in Nadim’s voice was apparent, “And don’t worry. I could provide you with more silk if you ran out of drawing papers.”
“Yes,” said a voice, and upon closer inspection, Nadirah had the slightest hunch that it belonged to her grandmother, “The next painting would be yours. Think about it, the essence of the sparkling butterfly resting on the dais of my box, caressed by the fragrance of lavender in this garden, snugly wrapped in the duvet made of silk, all the while sitting on this lovely bench. Isn’t it lovely?”
Nadirah exhaled a sharp breath, not willing to lose her concentration.
“You are ruining my concentration! Fine, I will draw that next, but this painting,” he must have pointed at the painting, “Is my top priority.”
“Then you will draw us next?”
“Possibly, now stop badgering me!”
Nadirah eyes flew open, just in time to hear a loud knocking on her door. She stood up, folded the painting and hid it under her bed, and opened the door with a plastered smile on her face.
“Grandmother,” she greeted breathlessly.
“I have a couple of guests attending for the soiree,” she said proudly, “They are dying to meet you and see how you’ve grown.”
“Ah,” she smiled.
“Now my dear, freshen up and greet them downstairs, would you?”
“Sure.”
Even if she hated the need of smiling and shaking the hands of the guests for she was self-conscious beyond recognition, it wasn’t as if she could run away from the whole deal anyway. Besides, one would think that she would be accustomed to it already, having done the exact thing on her every visit to the house of the merry.
She powdered her face, tinted her lips and cheeks, and after wearing her scarf, she sneaked herself onto the exact spot to peek at the guest. She could see from the hole that the guests were mostly the people that she had not met gradually, and so it probably would save her from much awkward times, since she just needed to repeat the same lines over and over again.
However, it had proven to be equally stressful, and after several minutes of introductions and shaking hands with her face permanently plastered with the granddaughter
of the house smile, she excused herself and decided to run away by sneaking into the garden…only to discover that it was not thoroughly empty.
Fattah and Arina were chatting animatedly over the blossoming tulips, the speed and lack of punctual made it hard for Nadirah to comprehend the conversation. She did not attempt to eavesdrop, for as intriguing as it was to know that the both of them were friends, she found that she didn’t care as much.
She slowly crept away from their presences, but inauspiciously, her feet grazed the dry leaves, creating such an alarming rustling sound that automatically caught their attention.
“Nadirah,” Fattah looked genuinely surprised to see her there, “What are you doing here?”
She was tempted to say that she lived here, and the temptation must have boiling down her veins because she subconsciously said, “This is my grandmother’s house,” in such a matter-of-fact tone.
He laughed, didn’t the least find it off-putting, and instead, said, “Of course, I mean—”
“He means,” Arina interjected, probably learning the technique from Ikhwan, or was it due to long exposure from Fattah, she couldn’t tell, “Where are you going?”
“Check if we have some lav—” anxiety was not good for her brain, it made her mouth particularly daring, “Some lavish flowers.”
“What lavish flower?”
Nadirah didn’t know for sure, but she just answered, “Najhan,” she smiled nervously, “He wants some, I don’t know why,” she pointed at the both of them, steering the conversation away from lavish flowers, whatever it meant, “What are you two doing here?”
“Talking,” said Arina.
“Oh,” she wondered if she had switched personality with Arina this time, for she was being the gossiper and not the one-liner, “So both of you are friends.”
She could feel the box rattling furiously inside of her.
“We are, I guess,” Arina lifted her shoulder, wrinkling her nose in the process. “He always talks to me whenever he comes here.”
“Yeah,” Fattah grinned at Nadirah, “Because you always look like you don’t want to talk—”
“And all he wants to do is talk—”
“Which is exactly that,” he proceeded to grin at Arina, “Talking—”
“Yeah,” Arina grunted. “He’s very annoying.”
He deliberately arched his brows, speaking in a flummoxed manner, “Wow, I didn’t know that your opinion of me is so low—”
“You are extremely opinionated—”
“That’s my personality—”
It was a conversation that she couldn’t possibly budge in, no matter how hard she try, and it was not as if she wanted to join the mindless conversation anyway, so she quietly said, “I’ll just head back in.”
“What about the flowers?” they simultaneously asked.
Flowers.
Lying was definitely exhausting.
“I’ll get it later, after the guest has,” Nadirah motioned with her hand, trying to squeeze the words from the tip of her tongue, “Return to their home.”
Sometimes it was nice to have the upper hand of speaking difficulty. It’d make deceiving much more natural.
“Oh, okay,” Fattah lifted a shoulder, “I’ll probably return home with Ikhwan.”
“He’s here?” she spluttered.
“No, but will be,” he checked his cell phone, “He said he will come—”
“Why?”
“Obviously, it’s your grandmother’s soiree. Obviously, his grandmother never missed a soiree. Obviously, he always listens to his grandmother—”
“Okay.”
Fattah was unsurprisingly annoying, much like Ty, although Ty was much more bearable, because if you couldn’t take his annoyance any longer, you could always shut the browser, or even shut the internet, or the computer. Yet this one in front her, was a real-life machine who knew all the gossips in the world…
Which might prove useful for her.
She bit her lips, carefully inquired, “Can I ask something?”
The question caught him off-guard, but he beguilingly replied, “Anything at all to a person who craves my knowledge—”
“You do know all the celebrities, don’t you?”
Arina scoffed. “He only knows the celebrities that’s been on the gossip mill—”
“I might know, I might not,” Fattah feigned ignorance towards his partner, “How am I going to know if you have yet to tell me the name, if you did then I might help you—”
“What about,” she smacked her lips, “Painters?”
“Oh, painters!”
Nadirah shot a warning look at her cousin, prompting Arina to amend it with, “The people that I have not the slightest ideas, since my taste caters around singers and actors—”
“If it’s a celebrity painter then I might, if it’s a low-profile painter possibly not—”
“I saw a painting,” Nadirah began to construct her words, “On the television. I thought it was spectacular.”
“I saw it too!” Arina said excitedly, “It was so beautiful that it must have been painted by a professional! Too bad we didn’t catch the name.”
“Only the initial,” admitted Nadirah.
“Surprisingly I didn’t catch that!” Arina’s voice sounded as if she had just sucked in a bottle of helium.
“Initial,” he groaned, “That could be quite difficult to be honest.”
“KK, with butterfly wings.”
“Now that’s easy,” he grinned, “If the one you meant is the one in my head, that is.”
“Who is the one in your head?”
“Such unique autograph, with those butterfly wings on its side, not many has those, and we certainly don’t have a lot of celebrity painters—”
“Just tell us who is it,” snapped Arina impatiently.
“His pseudonym is Khalil Khilfi, but who knows what his real name is? He’s old, as old as your grandmother, I think.”
Khalil. The name opened quite a handful of possibilities in her head, and it wasn’t surprising to hear that the clue would lead her to him.
However, something out of the contrary happened to her brain, as it started to rewind without her command.
I only know that he’s an evergreen person, so unless your cousin is into classical, she might not know him. I can’t say I know who it is though.
No one really knows about the significance of the treasure, but if it makes the celebrity to cease action in his field of choice, then it must’ve cost more than any price in this world!
Yet, there’s also this harsh rumor on how the treasure was not his in the first place. What’s the deal, really?
Her eyes staggered wildly, clutching the hint displayed by her brain.
The name definitely conjured up to a handful of possibilities.
Both Fattah and Arina were obviously waiting for her response, thus, even if her throat were strangely clotted with a lodge, she made an effort to say, “I…see.”
“I never knew you are such an art advocate, Nadirah!”
“No,” for once, she was truthful, “I just love ancient stuff.”
Fattah considered her reply, and said, “I hardly consider KK’s works as ancient, but I think the vibe was certainly 19th Century worthy, and no doubt it is beautiful, his paintings are very high in demand and superbly pricey.”
“Yes,” she smacked her lips. She was trying to say that she had only seen one of his masterpieces, which made it hard for her to judge an ancient item, yet the words stuck in her throat, so she had no choice but to motion her hand to the house, her tone staccato as she said, “I’m going inside.”
“So soon?” Fattah raised his brows.
“Cold,” she gave a small smile.
“Really?” both of them tested the air with their fingers, trying to detect the temperature of the so-called cold air.
Nadirah shook her head in defeat, continuing her words with, “I need to tell Najhan…about the absence…of his…flowers.
”
How she was thankful for her naturally staccato style of speech.
She gave them a polite nod, and quickly strode inside the house before they could utter another word.
Knowing them, they probably would.
She zigzagged her direction away from the crowd, all the while searching for the familiar face of Najhan, or to a lesser degree, Najwan. She let out a sigh of relief as she saw Najhan’s head bobbling toward the kitchen, and as she lowered her own head to let herself unnoticeable by the guests, she stood in front of him, cutting his pace.
He blinked, probably evaluating the reason for her sudden jack-in-the-box imitation.
Nadirah didn’t have time to care about that. “If Arina or Fattah—”
“Who?”
She beckoned him to the kitchen, and once they had settled themselves away from the boisterous crowds, she pointed at the garden through the window, and said, “The person with Arina.”
He nodded understandably.
“If they asked about lavish flowers—”
“You are using me,” it was an accusation.
“More or less,” it was true nonetheless.
“I’m not supposed,” he proceeded to stare at the window, “To ask?”
“No.”
“Except that…”
“Except that…”
“Lavish flowers…”
“You like them.”
“Ah,” he nodded, “Lavish flowers are interesting. Right?”
“Right.” She let out a sharp breath, and rested her forehead on the cold wall.
“Nervous breakdown?”
She widened her eyes, incredulously said, “No.”
“PMS?”
She smacked his head with a nearby cloth.
“That’s not filthy, isn’t it?”
“Be glad you’re not Zahari.”
“Forever glad,” he swallowed, and shifted his glance back at Nadirah, “You’re crabby,” he blinked, “And oddly talkative. Not PMS, right?”
“Not crabby,” she was tempted to smack his head with the cloth again, but she couldn’t deny the talkative part, “I’m tense.”
“You’re always tense.”
“I’m tenfold tenser, then.”
He tilted his head, scrutinizing her face, “What to do…Ice-cream?”
“No.”
“Chocolate?” he looked at Arina, and stifling a chortle, he said jokingly, “Internet?”
She turned his gaze at him, sharply nodded, “Exactly.”
“Internet?” this time, his voice was bewildered.
But then, she sighed. “You can’t drive.”
“No car,” he further added.
“Your sister does,” she grinned.
“She shopped already,” he pointed out, “Yesterday.”
“Everything?”
“Everything.”
They swiveled their bodies until their backs were facing the kitchen’s counter, tapping their temples together, before both of their eyes caught on a certain butterfly cookie cutter on the table, which amusingly bore the nearly identical design to the logo of Nadirah’s favorite clothing store, Métamorphose.
They blinked, quickly shifting their gazes toward each other, and grinned idiotically as they knew that they had somehow obtained the same idea.
It didn’t take a lot of work to startle Widad senseless. In barely a minute after their mishaps, a loud scream emerged from her room.
It was a good thing that the scream wasn’t too loud to attract the guests’ attentions.
Nadirah and Najhan entered the room, curiously gazing at her with their innocent, puppy eyes. “What?” asked Najhan.
“My shoes,” said Widad breathlessly.
“So?”
“My shoes!” she screamed.
“So?”
She sighed impatiently, pointing at the detached label from the inside of her shoes. “Look, I have yet to wear these but it has fallen through!”
They shrugged, unconcerned.
“Look,” she said impatiently again, pointing at the inside of the detached label, “There’s another label here!”
“Why?” asked Nadirah dubiously.
“Obviously, this is a pair of old shoes! They scammed me by selling an old-stock thing that nobody wants!”
“I thought you like that shoes.” Nadirah arched her brows.
“I do,” she nodded seriously, “But I hate it when stores make fun of their customers.”
“Maybe they accidentally put the wrong label.”
“I will not permit such lack of professionalism,” she stuffed the shoes back into the box, “I’ll give them a piece of my mind. I will claim my refund.”
“Just change the shoes,” suggested Najhan.
“No. I have lost interest in wearing these. I will demand my refund. Najhan,” her eyes flew toward her brother, “You will accompany me.”
Every action had a consequences—they knew that much—the outcome being that they will either be a real-life trolley, or worse, an escorted maid for a lady from hell.
“You’re going out?” asked Nadirah nonchalantly.
“Why, you need to shop?” Najhan snorted, trying to eliminate the traces of their united front.
“No,” she replied scathingly, “Internet. I need to use.”
“Fine,” said Widad, “You can come along, but my mood is vile, so I might need your help in choosing my shoes.”
“Shoes?”
“I couldn’t possibly come home with shoes shortage, could I? Besides,” she finished throwing the box into its original carrier bag, “I need some fresh air.”
Suddenly, it occurred to Nadirah that Ikhwan and his grandmother would be coming, which meant that Danial would possibly tag along as well.
Well, if she realized that sooner, she shouldn’t have tempered with the labels of the shoes and further let the assistants of the shoe store to feel Widad’s blazing fury.
But it was still an exhilarating experience.
Induced with triumph, she said confidently, “And your definition of fresh air is…”
“…air-conditioned malls,” finished Najhan.
They laughed maniacally.
“Fine,” Widad swallowed convulsively, “I need a getaway.”
“Okay,” they answered simultaneously.
“Good,” she muttered. “Or else I’ll drop both of you back at the house.”
“Gladly,” Najhan murmured.
“Okay, maybe one.”
“I won’t ask,” assured Nadirah, more of a sneer than a heartfelt promise, “Providing you didn’t ask.”
“I won’t,” she muttered. “As tempted it might be.”
“I’m wondering—”
“I thought no questions!”
“Oh,” mouthed Nadirah, “You mean all.”
“I think,” Najhan exchanged glances between her sister and cousin curiously, “Her question is,” he grinned, “Something entirely different.”
“Oh.” For a second, Widad wavered, yet she braced herself quickly and nonchalantly asked, “What is it?”
Nadirah made no effort to hide her maddening curiosity. “Do you know Khalil Khilfi?”
Widad stared at her, horrorstricken, but then her gazes fell on her laps.
“The celebrity painter,” Najhan nodded, “I saw his painting once.”
“Once?”
“At the gallery.”
“Gallery?”
“With Zahari.”
“Zahari?”
He shrugged, matter-of-factly said, “Well, you know Zahari.”
“Why do you ask?” asked Widad nervously.
“I saw his painting,” Nadirah decided to bluff, “On TV, with Arina.”
“Oh.” Widad scrambled around her room, taking out her essentials for the bathroom, “Supposedly he was one of grandmother’s friends.”
It wasn’t the least surprising, but it was vital to act surprise.
Widad continued, “I tried to a
sk grandmother about that, but she always changed the subject.”
“Why?” Nadirah asked dubiously.
“Well,” she pursed her lips, “Probably because she was resisting badmouthing the painter.”
“Why?” once again, dubiously.
“Bad reputation?” asked Najhan.
“People used to talk,” it felt as if Widad’s ears were muted from their nosy questions, “About his infidelity with Grandmother Maznah.”
Murder, infidelity, thief…
Nadirah ceased to believe the worst that could happen next.
“Infidelity?”
“He cheated on her, but that was ages ago,” she was more than ready to escape to the bathroom, but Widad decided to linger further, which confounded Nadirah.
Maybe her phony secret with Danial left a dent somewhere in her soul a lot more than Nadirah originally thought.
“People talked about it all the time, but they stopped it once the master of silk passed away.”
“What’s with him?” asked Najhan.
“Not sure why he died, but it’s pretty recent. Two years ago, I think, or was it last year? But rumor has it that he too was smitten with Grandmother Maznah, and well, obviously mad at the painter because he cheated on her.”
“Wow,” Najhan clapped his hands in awe, “You know a lot.”
“Rumors circulate around this house a lot,” she crossed her arms smugly, “You should expect that from a house that’s constantly throwing parties. People attended, people talked.”
“But why was he mad?” there was a hint of discontent in Nadirah’s voice, “She’s not a spinster.”
“True,” Widad acceded, “But there was an incident. The master of silk nearly killed himself.”
“Killed himself?” echoed Najhan.
She knew that Grandmother Maznah was the one who nearly committed the involuntary manslaughter, but for the sake of the confidential information, she bit her tongue.
“People thought that he was too heartbroken, and that’s why the gossip never wore out,” she pursed her lips, but then she shuddered. “No use talking about it now, not exactly nice for the dead.”
“Master of silk, master of silk,” Najhan tilted his head thoughtfully, “I love to meet him.”
“A single man?” Nadirah blinked. “True love, then?”
“No, he’s married.”
“To whom?”
“To—oh,” she stomped her feet angrily, shuddering slightly, “I’ve turned into the gossipmonger Arina.” She took her bathroom essentials with her, yelling before stepping into the little cubicle, “Don’t linger in my room anymore!”
“Such a cranky witch,” Najhan narrowed his eyes.
She chuckled, dryly said, “Such a doting father.”
He shrugged, exiting the room along with her. “I don’t fork out the cash.”
“That’s why,” she descended the stairs, and finished her sentence, “You’re the little brother.”
“Artificial Intelligence Trolley,” he pointed out.
“A. I.?” she creased her brows. “Yet you feel tired.”
“Because it’s A. I.,” he said dryly, “Human imitation from every aspect.”
She smiled, lifting her shoulder.
“Like painting,” Najhan was strangely talkative, “Imitation of the world, or,” his voice grew animated, “Imitation of the mind.”
She blinked.
“Zahari said so.”
She nodded understandably.
“You can capture the world,” his voice was lucid, as if reciting a poem, “Capture the illusion in your mind, but it never came out as similar as a photograph, although photographs didn’t give the original scenery any justice either.”
She blinked, again.
“Zahari again.”
She nodded. “Zahari. He likes art?”
“He’s weird.”
She shrugged.
“KK’s paintings have the most precision I have ever seen,” his voice sounded majestic again, and he flatly added, “He said, again.”
This time, her facial expression was undeniably curious.
“He can nearly embed the perfect illusion on the paper with perfect precision,” he smiled ruefully, “Nearly. Zahari hates the word perfect.”
She knew that much.
Yet it was intriguing to learn what the painter could do based on the observation from her most perceptive cousin. “What else did he say?”
“Essence,” Najhan recited, “The essence of the living things is living in the paintings. If not for the essence, he wouldn’t be as famed,” he crossed his arms proudly, “Or so he said.”
She smacked her lips, deeply lost in thought. “That’s his ability.”
He nodded, silently agreeing with her words.
Nadirah sat on the outskirt of the café, opened her laptop and keying in the password of the café’s Wi-Fi.
The café never changed its password, so she didn’t need to buy herself a cup of their expensive coffee in order to gain access to the internet. However, she wasn’t the cheapest girl around. She did buy their cheapest drink to accompany her virtual investigation.
She clicked on her browser, staring at the blank page with an identical blank face. Instinctively, her fingers started to move, dancing on the keyboard to construct a sentence on the search engine that read, ‘Khalil Khilfi Butterfly’, and finally pressed the enter button with her pinky finger.
Tremendous amount of links emerged before her eyes, and as she skimmed the general content, she clicked several links that deemed authentic to her, keeping it in her tabs.
As she waited for the pages to load, she rephrased her search and typed, ‘Khalil Khilfi Fraud Fan’.
Much like the results from her earlier search, the number of links was too many to be studied thoroughly, so she decided to click a link that led to a blog. Naturally, the fraud fan’s scandal erupted in a forum, and knowing the forumers, they often poured their hearts’ content on a blog.
She clicked the other page on her tabs that’d finished loading, and started to read.
I’m not a huge fan of artisans to be honest, but I am one of those lucky people who have encountered Khalil Khilfi in my life before. Truth to be told, he’s an extremely nice person. Nice person as he is, he’s quite mysterious, and I don’t think anyone knows where his hometown is, or even his age! I believe everyone respect his decision, since no one questioned it any further. He’s a reserved and secretive person, but apparently not so much when asked about his inspiration. He solemnly admitted that his precious treasure was the start of his painting career, and still is his inspiration right until this day. Of course, no one knows what the precious treasure is, so I, and others for that matter, have no idea whatsoever.
However, as I searched high and low for more of his information, I stumbled across this photograph, and have the wildest hunch.
Could it be that the precious treasure is the butterfly hairpin on this bride's hair?
Click attachment to view the picture.
His wedding was crowned wedding of the year, and I was told that everyone was gawking at the exquisite butterfly on the bride’s head.
Nadirah clicked the picture to have a closer inspection, and nearly choked by her sudden dehydrated throat.
It was the real thing.
It was the butterfly, exactly the same colors of the mentioned gems, neatly constructed on the silver comb.
She trembled in excitement over the fact that she and Ikhwan provided the main idea for the hairpin. But still, the trembling mixed with disbelief, anxious for the whole situation, and exhilarated for finally solving the mystery of the first thief.
There were a limited number of suspects to suspect, and she never wanted to accuse an innocent person falsely, so she never dwelled much thought into it.
She was relieved to find out that such a thing was not necessary.
Also, she didn’t particularly give the perfecting history much of a thought, but n
ow that she saw with her own eyes that they indeed were perfecting history, it felt so incredibly unbelievable.
Calming herself, she clicked the other page that led to a blog and skimmed it thoroughly.
I am furious. EXTREMELY FURIOUS.
I just want to say, if anyone reads my last entry of mourning towards dear TRF
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