CHAPTER TWELVE
Leila
LEILA DID NOT LIKE this turn of events. The Exquisite Corpse had now followed her to the bathroom—or perhaps gotten there first—and was propped up on a towel bar, waiting for her, when she turned to wash her hands.
“Have you ever heard of privacy?” Leila asked. She took the book out to her room and walked the twenty-three steps to the bed. There was no point in trying to put the book away. It wanted her attention, clearly, like a puppy with a Frisbee in its mouth. With a resigned sigh, she flipped through the handwritten pages to the latest section and ran her eyes over the entry.
When she reached the part about Parker and Edwina leaving for India, she stood up. Then she sat back down again, until she read the word Punjab, and then she stood up again.
Lahore is in the Punjab, she realized. And Pakistan would have still been part of India when Edwina was alive. Fifteen steps to the bureau, and Leila grabbed a pen from the jar she kept there.
Are you trying to tell me something? She scribbled in the book. She closed the book. She counted to fifty. Then she opened it again and let out a little scream.
A new sentence had appeared.
I thought you were trying to tell me something, it read.
Kai
ALL THE WAY ON the other side of the world, Kai sat on her bed. The heavy evening air, ripe with rain and mosquito-thick, had driven her inside. She was reading the newest entry in the book when a scribbled message began to appear: Are you trying to tell me something?
Her heart’s regular rhythm sputtered and faltered. What? Her mind bucked and spun, like gears unable to catch. What?
Fingers trembling, she pulled a ballpoint from her jeans. Her breath was shallow and quick; she couldn’t get enough air.
I thought you were trying to tell me something, she wrote.
Letter by letter, the reply appeared. I don’t get your story. What does it mean?
Kai sat back, taking in this message.
She had found the story about Ralph and Edwina confusing. She had found the magic book mysterious and a little frightening. She had found the link between Ralph Flabbergast and her aunt Lavinia to be—unlikely to the point of bizarre.
But this was even weirder. She had always more or less assumed that the book knew what it was doing. That it had a point, as books do. That it was telling a story. And yet, it seemed as if the book were now trying to make her captain of the ship.
You’re writing it, she pointed out to the book.
But you started it.
Kai had to admit that this was true. Barely! It isn’t my story, Kai wrote. It’s yours.
I’m not making it up!
Kai stared at the words. She had the feeling that she wasn’t understanding them properly, as if they were coming through on a lousy radio.
Well, I can tell you that she wasn’t. She didn’t know that she was writing to Leila. She didn’t know Leila existed.
And Leila didn’t know about her.
The book knew, but wisely kept silent.
Are you saying it’s real, then? Kai wrote.
You tell me.
Ralph Flabbergast was real—she knew that much. He was Lavinia’s uncle. Edwina was real. She and Doodle had read her journal—and seen her signature there on the pages.
Yes, it’s real, she wrote.
She waited for the reply. Finally, it came.
I want a happy ending, then.
Don’t we all, Kai thought, her fingers hovering over the page. Well, make it happen.
How?
Kai didn’t know how to reply. She set the book down on the bed.
Hello?
Hello?
After a moment, the words began to disappear. Letter by letter, from last to first, the words sparkled silver, then seemed to sink into the page until everything that had been written that evening was gone.
Kai didn’t know what to think of a book that was confused about its own story; that wanted her to tell it its ending.
Of course, the book knew the ending. But it was a very intelligent book, and knew that the best stories only give enough information to keep the reader interested. It wasn’t about to start explaining too much. Instead, it let Kai wonder.
I don’t know the ending, Kai thought. How can I?
But if I don’t and the book doesn’t, either . . .
I guess nobody does.
THE EXQUISITE CORPSE
“This came for you today,” Mrs. Flabbergast said as she handed Ralph a parcel wrapped in brown paper. “Feels like books.”
“Yes, books,” Ralph said.
“Don’t you have a library card?” she demanded, but Ralph was already headed upstairs. His leg had healed, but for the rest of his life, he carried a slight limp that was especially pronounced on cold, damp days.
In the month that he had been released from the hospital, he had visited Edwina in her home five times. Each time he saw her, she seemed paler and thinner. Blue veins were visible in her forehead and at her throat. She seemed tired. But she was not ill. Although the cold company of Melchisedec Jonas seemed to exhaust her, Ralph’s wish kept her reasonably well.
Tonight, Ralph would see her for the last time. Tomorrow morning, she was set to take a train to the port, where she and Parker would board a steamer for New York City. They would sail to England, and from there, around the Cape of Good Hope, up the Eastern Coast of Africa, and finally to Karachi, where they would begin their overland journey to Lahore.
“I expect it will take us two months to get there,” she had told Ralph the last time they were together. “But, oh—think of it! India!”
Ralph had wanted to ask her if she was sure it was quite safe. His mind reeled with thoughts of snakes and tigers and terrifying unknowns, but he remembered his promise to Parker. “And is the school open yet?”
“Oh, yes. Apparently, the Britishers have been opening schools and churches. There are plans for a very grand one called Aitchison out beyond the edge of the city—it’s supposed to be the grandest school in Asia!” When Edwina spoke of her journey, she recaptured a bit of her glow. And so Ralph told himself that it would be all right. That, although the journey was not exactly safe, it was safer than life with Melchisedec Jonas.
And so Ralph acted eager and excited whenever he was with Edwina, and saved his worries and tears for when he was alone.
Now, in his room, Ralph slowly unwrapped the package. Inside were two leather-bound volumes. The Exquisite Corpse. Ralph had seen the book advertised in the newspaper, and so had ordered one for himself and one for Edwina as keepsakes.
They had arrived from Kalamazoo, Michigan, just in time for Edwina’s departure.
The books were lovely, printed with gold and inscribed with instructions for playing the game. Let the magic begin! it read.
Magic is forcing us apart, he thought. If I had never wished for a cure . . .
He was wistful only a moment, until another voice spoke up. Well, what then? She might have died instead of merely going to India! As it is, she can return in five years, when she fully inherits the factory. And in those five years, you can work, and save, and wait.
What’s five years to someone in love? An eternity, of course. But an eternity that’s worth waiting for.
Ralph turned to the first blank page of each book. He would write their names in each one. He dipped his pen in the inkwell, and his eye landed once again on the word magic. He traced his fingers over the letters.
Magic, he thought, and sadness—fine and pale as mist—gathered in his heart.
Putting aside the pen, Ralph pulled the vial from his pocket. He knew that there was no magic left inside, but he still couldn’t help wishing. He filled the vial with ink, screwed on the cap, and shook it, hoping for some sort of alchemy. Then he poured the ink back into the well.
I wish that, one day, we might continue our parlor game, Ralph thought as he dipped the steel nib of his pen and began to write the names. I hope our stories wi
ll fill the pages of these books—forever.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Leila
A BLACK KITE WHEELED in the dust-gray sky. Leila watched the bird glide lazily, only bothering to flap its enormous wings when it was absolutely necessary to keep itself aloft. It didn’t seem to be hunting, or doing anything in particular besides enjoying the feel of the air and the sun and the view from far above.
It wasn’t lonely.
Not like Leila.
When Nadia brought up the idea of going to Kenya, she had told their parents that spending the summer in a foreign country would be “fun” and an “educational opportunity.” But, so far, Leila’s own adventure had only taught her that she was much smaller than she had ever realized, and the world was much larger—and stranger.
Leila missed the afternoons she used to spend with Aimee, just leafing through magazines, gossiping about celebrities, discussing Dear Sisters books, munching Doritos, trying new hairstyles, watching movies. But those days were over, anyway. Ta’Mara is your best friend now, Leila scolded herself. It was true, in a way—Ta’Mara was the best friend Leila had. But Ta’Mara wasn’t really Leila’s Best Friend, and Leila knew it. Ta’Mara was nice, and she was funny, but she and Leila didn’t always connect. Being with Ta’Mara was a bit like being in Lahore—unfamiliar enough to be slightly uncomfortable.
Here, nothing was easy. Leila didn’t feel like she could just turn on the television without asking for permission, or even instructions, and even if she could, none of her favorite shows were on. She couldn’t make her own snack without bothering the servants. She couldn’t go anywhere without a strange magic book trailing after her, trying to get her to figure out what it was supposed to be about.
The sun beat down, making the air feel thin. It was hard to breathe. Still, air-conditioning gave Leila a headache, and the generators ensured that the Awans never had to endure the blazing heat. Babar Taya had insisted that this was the coolest summer in the past ten years, but it was over 110 degrees, and so Leila scuttled between the too-cold indoors and the too-hot outside in an unending loop.
Still, Flower always seemed happy to see her. The silly goat would prance around at the end of her lead whenever Leila came into the yard. She had recovered quickly from her bout of Red Flower Disease, and was now back to her proud, prancey self. Leila patted her absently until she wandered off to stand on the edge of a rock. There were walls around the garden, and so Leila found herself looking at the sky.
A door creaked behind her, and Rabeea stepped out, pulling it closed behind her. “Where are you sneaking off to?” Leila asked.
Rabeea jumped at the sound of her voice. “What? Nowhere! I’m not sneaking! I didn’t know you were out here.” She tucked her handbag under an arm and adjusted her peacock blue duputa. The straps of a cloth bag dangled from her wrist. The sun wasn’t brilliant, but Rabeea’s black hair was styled straight and gleamed across her stiff shoulders. “My mother knows I’m going out.”
“I was just kidding,” Leila replied. She felt her neck burning beneath the sun. Somehow, she always managed to say the wrong thing to Rabeea. It was more than just a language barrier; it was that Rabeea always assumed the worst possible interpretation for Leila’s words.
“Oh,” Rabeea said. Then she turned and headed toward the car, motioning for the driver. She gave him the bag without glancing in his direction.
“Where are you going?” Leila asked, and Rabeea turned back to her.
Her eyes were guarded. “Shopping,” Rabeea replied.
“Hm.”
Rabeea sighed. “Do you want to come along?”
The goat butted at her leg. Leila shrugged. “Sure.”
Rabeea wished that she hadn’t asked, and it showed, which sent a secret flash of joy through Leila. Besides, Leila didn’t have anything to do except look at the sky and get all wrung out by the heat, and there was only so much of that she could take. Asif held the door for Rabeea, and Leila went around to the other side of the car and yanked open her own door. Asif smiled at her as he passed the window. She got the feeling that he found her amusing. She didn’t mind.
He rocketed through the gate and down the street. Several turns later, they maneuvered into traffic, where they had the usual death-defying experience of attempting to get through the congested streets of Lahore. Rabeea gave directions in machine gun Urdu, and Asif replied “Gee, hanh,” to everything as he steered around some obstacles and created others. Rabeea didn’t speak a word to Leila, which was fine with her.
Finally, they pulled into the parking lot of a giant concrete building. It was the usual combination of shops and offices, and didn’t look like it could have anything to offer a hardcore shopper like Rabeea. She took the cloth bag from Asif, and Leila followed her cousin toward a jewelry store. She was surprised when Rabeea passed it by, heading for a staircase beside the shop. Two men holding lit cigarettes watched as the girls climbed a flight of concrete stairs. Then they climbed another, and Leila followed Rabeea into an ugly and industrial gray hallway with windows that were simply empty squares cut from concrete. A pile of rough lumber was piled at one side, and many of the doors had numbers that were falling off.
“Where are we going?” Leila finally asked in a jagged gasp. She wasn’t exactly sure where they were, and the place seemed deserted. She had the sudden fear that they were about to do something terrible.
Rabeea ignored her, and came to a stop in front of a wooden door bearing the number 333 below a pale blue circular window. Rabeea pushed open the door, and Leila stepped into a room with brilliant white walls hung with works of art—three large calligraphic paintings hung beside a portrait of two women in vibrant saris. At the center of the room was a golden sword on a pedestal, a brilliant blue butterfly perched at the tip of its blade. A pretty dark-eyed girl about Rabeea’s age kneeled on the floor, wrapping a brown paper parcel. She was chatting with someone—a certain handsome, mischievous-haired boy—as he casually leaned against the wall, texting on his phone. He looked up when they walked in and gave them a smile.
“Took you long enough to get here,” Zain said. “Hey, Leila.” His eyes skimmed from her face to her shoes, then back up again, and Leila felt her heart fall to the floor, like she’d just shot upward on a fast elevator.
“Helaam,” Leila muddled in a blend of Urdu and English, giggling nervously.
“It’s not my fault we’re late,” Rabeea snapped, clearly implying that it was Leila’s fault, which was not true.
The girl wrapping the present smiled up at Rabeea, who bent down to give her a kiss on the cheek. They chatted excitedly in Urdu, and the girl gestured at a wall hung with sculptures made of nails welded together to look like faces.
“Shireen, do you know Leila?” Zain asked, yawning like a lazy cat.
“No.” There was an elegance in Shireen’s voice that Leila admired, and her dark eyes sparkled. “As-salaam alaikum.” Shireen smiled shyly.
“Wa-alaikum asalaam,” Leila replied.
“Shireen, this is my cousin,” Rabeea said. “Shireen’s mother owns the gallery.”
“I didn’t know there were art galleries in Lahore.”
Rabeea looked at Leila as if she were a complete dolt. “Of course there are. Don’t you know anything about Pakistani artists? Sadequain? Shahzia Sikander?”
“South Asia has a rich history,” Shireen said generously, clearly trying to ease Leila’s embarrassment. “And the art community is wonderful. Full of talent.”
“If you think a bunch of nails welded together and stuck on the wall is art,” Zain put in.
“Zain never likes the contemporary exhibitions,” Rabeea said. “He likes the old stuff.”
“What do you think of all this?” Zain waved his hand to include the entire gallery.
“I don’t know anything about art.” Leila crossed to a wall to inspect a quartet of portraits. They were images of animals. “I like these.”
“One day, we’ll have some of Rabeea’s
art on these walls,” Shireen said, smiling at her friend.
Rabeea held up the cloth bag. “I brought you the brushes.”
“You’re into art?” Leila asked. “Seriously?”
“Rabeea is very talented!” Shireen laughed. “Didn’t she tell you? She has been helping my mother with the classes she teaches at the orphanage. You’re always so generous,” Shireen said to Rabeea as she accepted the bag of art supplies.
Leila remembered the moment in the car, when Rabeea had told her not to give money to the poor. Leila had thought that she had a heart of granite. It had not occurred to her that the fact that Rabeea did not help everyone did not mean that Rabeea never helped anyone.
“I’m so glad those girls can paint with your mother. It means so much to them.” The sadness in Rabeea’s voice touched Leila, and surprised her. She wondered what else Rabeea thought about, what else she might be hiding. Those questions embarrassed Leila, for the very fact that she never thought to ask them before.
Rabeea’s eyes drifted to the portrait of two old women, their arms full of bangles. They were laughing. She gazed at the image as if it had taken her somewhere, as if she saw things in it beyond simply what was there, something so beautiful that it actually changed her face, softening it. Rabeea’s glance made Leila want to experience the same thing. She looked more closely at the pictures on the wall before her. They were portraits of animals, each decorated with flowers and henna, and the artist had painted them so that you could really tell the personality of each. A camel gave a smug sideways smile, a bull stared aggressively at the viewer, a lamb looked sweet and innocent, and the last one—a goat with red flowers in its forelock—had eyes that spoke of mischief. Shireen came and stood beside her. She was tall and graceful, and reminded Leila of a willow tree.
“Do you like it?” Shireen asked.
“That one looks like Flower,” Leila said. “My goat.”
A Tale of Highly Unusual Magic Page 13