“Have you heard?”
It was a pristine Sunday morning, the perfect time for a little tea sipping and occasional gossiping at Grandmother Fatima’s living room.
Perfect, if you were at least half-century-old, which the cousins were most certainly not.
It wasn’t as if the cousins couldn’t find any remotely interesting thing to do, why, their fathers often went to who-knows-where on every gathering, no doubt to catch on the latest news. Their mothers often inhabited the kitchen as their personal private room, no doubt to share the latest gossips of their own, so it was definitely absurd to insinuate such things.
There were things to do, things to say, but when you had met each other for practically all of your life, eventually the excitement effect would wear off, and you find yourself plainly don’t care, since what was the point? They all knew pretty much everything they should know about one and another, and even if they were to indulge in a friendly match of a perfectly innocent game, it wouldn’t be such a joyous activity, not when each of them had a freakish handicap under their wings.
Therefore, you could guess that when you were breathing in the same living room with a couple of elderly splashed with some roguish teenagers, immaculate manner was a necessity. All you can do at the moment was listening to the conversation while quietly sipping tea.
“Heard what, exactly?”
Nadirah wasn’t sure the name of the elder woman, since she rather called herself Grandmother Bee than her full name.
Too much of a hassle, she used to say.
“Maznah’s hairpin,” Grandmother Mona was truly a fine example of an accomplished gossiper, “Have you heard what happened to it?”
“I do,” her grandmother interjected, “Poor thing.”
“What?” Grandmother Bee hissed impatiently, annoyed by the lack of explanation and attention.
Yet the two grandmothers kept on feigning ignorance over the clueless Grandmother Bee and animatedly continued, “She was going to retrieve it back, the last time I heard.”
Grandmother Mona gasped. “Her plan failed then?”
“Seems so,” Grandmother Fatima nodded distressfully. “One would expect that such a thing would draw a lot of attention, since it is the daintiest thing I’ve ever seen.”
“I heard of it,” it was hard to ignore the triumphant tone in Grandmother Bee’s voice, “The butterfly hairpin, is it not?”
“Yes, butterfly,” sighed Grandmother Mona, “With those clear-cut gemstones.”
“Sparkling, is it not?”
“Very much so,” Grandmother Fatima filled in her cup with more tea, “That’s why it’s called the sparkling butterfly.”
The word caught Nadirah’s attention, and as she placed her cup on the saucer, she was further intrigued when Grandmother Mona sighed in envy, “Sparkling butterfly from the 19th Century.”
That caused Nadirah to nearly lose her composure. “S-sparkling butterfly?”
She resisted the urge to echo the remaining sentence. She was afraid that her excitement would cause her next words to shoot out horrifically from different direction and ended up having dual-meanings or none at all.
It wasn’t fair to the poor ears of the innocent spectators.
“Why yes,” Grandmother Fatima had always liked it when one of her grandchildren showed interest in their highly intellectual conversation, or so she thought, “Every speck of the butterfly sparkles underneath the dazzling sun, much expected from a piece of accessory that were adorned with multiple gems.” She cupped her chin thoughtfully. “I’d been enlightened with the exact types of gems on the butterfly, but I believe my dementia has gotten the best of me.”
Nadirah just smiled, even if her inside was bursting at the sound of the precious gems.
She truly loved gems, as much as butterflies and history, in fact.
“You are her childhood friend, are you not?” Grandmother Bee placed her full attention on Grandmother Fatima. “I would think that you’d know the true value of the treasure.”
“I assume it is priceless, it’s a historical piece of art after all,” answered Grandmother Fatima firmly. “I would’ve thought that the hairpin will already make its way to the market, but alas,” she reached for her cup of tea and brought it close to her lips, “The thief has better eyes than I thought.”
Nadirah composed a well-thought sentence in her head, and as she cleared her throat, she nonchalantly asked, “The nickname,” she deliberately scrunched her face for the curious effect, “Is sparkling butterfly?”
The exact direction for her theory was still hazy and blurry, but if the mentioned sparkling butterfly were indeed, the sparkling butterfly in xyru’s mail, then surely it would mean that…
Nadirah had never dreamed that guilt could haunt you in a matter of seconds.
“Oh yes definitely,” Grandmother Mona gazed at her intently, “Something as dainty as that deserved a name that is equal to its beauty, don’t you think? Truly a spectacular piece, Maznah has chosen the right name for it.”
“Who—” Nadirah bit her tongue, constructing her sentence so that it would sound less-offensive, since amending was definitely not her strong-point, “Which one—”
“My dear Nadirah,” Grandmother Fatima chuckled softly, “Are you telling me that you’ve forgotten Grandmother Maznah?”
Quite so.
“Come now, she’s just a child,” Grandmother Mona beamed, cutting Nadirah off before she could even reply, which she was forever grateful, “Maznah’s image must have slipped from her mind.”
Nadirah grinned nervously.
“Widad will surely remember her,” added Grandmother Mona, “Don’t you think so, Fatima?”
She just nodded. “I expect she would.”
“I would?” spluttered Widad.
“Of course!” exclaimed Grandmother Bee. “It’d be despicable if you didn’t remember—”
“Well—”
“Danial’s grandmother,” provided Grandmother Fatima sternly. “Now, if you still do not remember, then you have ashamed me severely, young lady.”
“Oh.” Her mouth abruptly flied open, but then she smacked it tightly, “Of course.”
Nadirah swiveled her head, her eyebrows arched.
“Yes,” said Widad sweetly. “I think his brother is your friend.”
“Really?” Grandmother Mona gushed excitedly. “Ikhwan is your friend?”
Nadirah staggered, uncertain whether Widad had purposely locked her in an Amazon lair full of ferocious piranhas or actually being the good person she never was—
Oh, forget it. It was definitely the former. She was dealing with Widad after all.
Nevertheless, lying and not lying had the same outcome, so she replied, “Uh…yes.”
“What a splendid coincidence!”
“Ah, I remember now,” Grandmother Fatima clasped her hands together, “Both of you used to go to the same school, isn’t that so?”
Nadirah smiled forcefully.
“Indeed you do!” Grandmother Mona squealed. “Now tell me, how—”
Her voice was drowned by the loud shrilling cry from the phone, the perfect cue for Nadirah’s departure from the piranha’s lair, but auspiciously, as she stood up to receive the call, Widad decided that she too wanted to take part in the race.
This could not happen. Nadirah would never allow it.
“The phone,” Nadirah spluttered. “I-I’ll get it.”
“No, I’ll—”
Nadirah knew that she must resist Widad’s presence at all cost before the sickly sensation could engulf her and turn her into Widad’s idiotic puppet, so she made the drastic decision to…just run.
She succeeded of course.
Phone in her hand, she greeted breathlessly, “Assalamualaikum, how can I help you?”
She sounded cosmically exhilarated; it made her felt perplexingly bewildered.
She decided that she was just full of confidence from outranking Widad yet again.
The voice began
to pierce her ears from the other line, “Waalaikummussalam, I am from the—”
“Hello?”
She wasn’t sure why, but she felt the sudden urge to be friendly.
It might due to the adrenaline rush that was still on top of her head, or maybe because the voice on the other line was awfully scratchy.
“Yes?” said the scratchy voice, which further confirmed Nadirah’s account on the voice being fishy.
“Your voice is distorted,” she remarked blatantly. “Is there something wrong with the line?”
“Distorted? I don’t know what you mean—”
“Distorted, definitely,” she added sagely, “And quite static.”
“Maybe it has something to do with the line—”
“Not my line. Yours, probably.”
There was a short pause, before he finally replied, “Maybe—”
“Oh yes, how can I help you?”
“Much appreciated if you could connect me to Mrs. Fatima—”
“No need to be cranky,” she laughed. “It makes your voice sounds a lot more static.”
There was a small pause. “It does?”
“It does!” she exclaimed. “Who is this, anyway?”
She could hear the hesitation from the other line. “I’m afraid I can’t reveal the disclosure, it’s highly confidential.”
“Confidential?”
“Yes, I’m afraid it is.”
“But previously, you were saying that you are from the…” her voice trailed away, indicating him to finish her line.
“Did I?”
“You did,” she said accusingly. “I remembered.”
“Of course you do,” he muttered.
“You are exceptionally bright.”
“I wouldn’t know if that was meant as a compliment or an insult.”
“Take it as you may,” she grinned at the obvious belligerence in his voice, and continued, “But you have yet to introduce yourself.”
“My apologies,” he muttered. “I’ve been distracted.”
“By me?”
“Clear as day. Anyway, I’m from the Friday’s Journal, and I’d like to propose an interview.”
“Not to me, obviously.”
“Clear as day.”
“You are so hateful.”
“I take that as a compliment.”
“Twisted, as well.”
“As you say so, miss.”
“Why do you need to interview my grandmother?” she asked, genuinely curious. “She’s not a celebrity, just so you know.”
“It’s our custom to interview successful woman in their golden age, very inspirational for our readers.”
Nadirah understood that. She was a freelance writer as well, despite how her writer job was quite on the standard of a newbie, in the virtual world no less, but at least she had her own column.
Yet there was something about the voice that tickled her instinct, so in her attempt to avoid letting her grandmother being conned, she said into the receiver, “Wait, let me get my grandmother.”
She proceeded to run toward the living room, breathlessly announced, “There is,” she gasped, “Someone,” she gulped, “On the line.”
“Of course there is! It wouldn’t ring otherwise, wouldn’t it?” said Grandmother Bee flatly.
“Stop badgering her, Bee. Now,” Grandmother Fatima looked at her granddaughter curiously, “Who is it?”
Nadirah tilted her head side by side, carefully said, “Friday’s Journal’s journalist.”
“Friday’s Journal!” squealed Grandmother Mona; her eyes sparkled as she gushed up to Grandmother Fatima. “They are going to interview you!”
“Is that so?” Grandmother Fatima exchanged nervous glances with her friends and Nadirah. “They are going to interview me?”
Nadirah shrugged, pointing at the phone.
“Well, their request shouldn’t be unheard,” she quickly left her seat, striding across the room and passed Nadirah in the process.
Nadirah smiled politely at the rest of the grandmothers as her sign to be excused, before hurriedly running up the stairs to grab the other receiver of the connected phone.
She placed it on her ear, just in time to hear the suspicious male voice clattering his way up into her grandmother’s brain.
“I’m from the Friday’s Journal, this is Mrs. Fatima, am I correct?”
“Certainly, yes,” her grandmother sounded awfully flustered, “This is she. How can I help you?”
“It’s an honor to make your acquaintance, Mrs. Fatima. I’ve heard splendid tales about your success in life, truly inspirational to the team.”
“Is that so?” it was obvious that Grandmother Fatima was beaming, “I am flattered.”
“I’m sure that someone like you would prove to be as inspirational to the readers as much to us, and that is why we would like to ask for your cooperation in holding an interview with you.”
“Interview?” it was hard to hide the excitement in her voice, but she cleverly morphed it into an expression of amuse, “What was there to interview about? I don’t believe I have many secrets to spare.”
She had too many secrets that she couldn’t possibly spare any of them.
“Our readers are content with just a justification in their life, and if you could somehow ignite the fire in them, it would suffice, Mrs. Fatima. It just shows how your life doesn’t need to be secretive in order to be successful.”
If there were a family who was more secretive than the others were, it would be hers.
“Of course,” she sounded pleased. “If you could please share me the details—”
“Yes, well,” there was a slight sound of pages ruffling, “When will you be free, Mrs. Fatima?”
“Oh, anytime,” she replied. “Elder woman like me, too much time in my hands,” she chuckled softly. “The question here is where, since I believe I am not as youthful as I used to be,” she whispered, “You will experience it later in your life, although I do wish for your health to be in supreme condition even in your golden age.”
“Why, thank you Mrs. Fatima,” he hesitated. “That was a kind notion. Anyway, I might have a solution.”
“Yes?”
“Your mansion is such an articulate creation, and I know how lots of people are mesmerized by the exquisite architecture, so maybe, if you are willing, we could conduct the interview right there?”
“Including my house, you mean?”
“Exactly. How does the idea fare with you?”
“Oh,” there was a short pause, “Well—”
“I assure you, it would be such a thrilling experience for our readers. Possibly could ignite their inner strength in having the same persistence as you in order to secure a grandeur mansion just like yours.”
“Well,” she cleared her throat. “I am delighted to be able to spark some interest in young entrepreneurs in order to gain the same achievement, but this house did not include in my list of success, you see.”
“Ah,” said the voice, “So the rumors are true, this house was built by your father, am I right?”
“There is such a rumor?” she blurted out unthinkingly.
“I’m afraid so, Mrs. Fatima. One couldn’t resist gossiping about your stupendous mansion, which is to be expected. Your father must have been a man with superior talent and vision.”
“He was,” she said proudly. “He loved architecture. Every chamber in this house was articulately built with exquisite details that I’m sure it rivals even that of a five-star hotel.”
Nadirah glimpsed at her environment, and finally decided that it certainly was anciently spectacular.
However, she had been accustomed to the house since birth, so it was not a wonder that such thought would escape from her mind.
“How intriguing! That, I must see.”
“Oh you must,” she acceded. “You should come.”
“I love to inspect your father’s crafts, but are you certain?”
“Of course,?
?? said she. “See it with your own eyes, and you’d be surprised.”
“I have no doubt that I will,” he chuckled. “Does this mean that you will allow us photograph your resident?”
“Oh,” her voice wavered, “That’s—”
“I’m certain your father would be proud,” he was undeniably a smooth-talker, “I myself would be proud too if someone were to photograph my masterpiece.”
“I would too,” said she, “And I think you’re right.”
“Please, take your time to think.”
“I think I have used my thinking time,” she chuckled, her voice grew warm by the second, “Sure, we have an agreement.”
“Thank you very much, Mrs. Fatima. I’m sure the readers would be ecstatic to see how the interior fares over the enthralling exterior.”
“I hope they would,” her voice was jubilantly happy. “When will you come?”
“When do you propose is a good time?”
“My children are still here, so I believe it is best to conduct the interview after they have returned to their houses,” she whispered. “My family is quite large, and can be quite demanding, you see.”
“Is that so, Mrs. Fatima?”
“Yes,” she said seriously. “They would return by the end of this week at most, so any day on the week after would be fine.”
“I see, well what about,” there was a tapping sound at the other line, might be his pen tapping on his notebook, “Next Saturday?”
“Next Saturday would be splendid.”
“Great! Then I’ll see you later, Mrs. Fatima.”
“Same to you, and oh, I don’t think I have the pleasure in learning your name.”
“My name? Oh,” he laughed nervously. “My name is Wafi, and thanks for your patronage, Mrs. Fatima.”
“My sentiments exactly, Wafi.”
Nadirah stared at the receiver, pondering loudly.
Wasn’t the name supposed to be confidential?
Why would he lie to her, but not to the Mrs. Fatima?
Nadirah wasn’t aware that a journalist name was exclusively reserved for the ears of the interviewee only.
The possibility of the journalist adopting a false name was high, since what would you expect from a person who used a voice-changer over the phone? If there was a trait about Nadirah that no one really knew, it was the fact that she could remember every single voice there was, and if there were a voice that she felt overly uncustomary, there was only one simple explanation for that— the voice didn’t exist.
Nadirah knew that she was an intelligent person, and so, in uncovering the slimy fraud of a journalist, she tried to rewind the conversation, in case she could find a certain hole in his testimony.
She must had been using too much force, because suddenly the conversation flew out of hand, and instead of starting at the beginning, it went far back, recollecting on a conversation that she never knew she had with the mysterious man on the phone.
“I saw you too, with your cousin. Where is she?’
Her nerves must’ve been throbbing madly with bewilderment, and so prompted her ability to rewind further than necessary.
“But if it helps, I truly think that you’d look spectacular wearing that.”
She gasped, her eyes widened by the new discovery.