Temper: A Novel

by Nicky Drayden

  Nkosazana looks at Ruda for confirmation. “You shared your homeopathy with him?”

  “What? You asked me to be nicer to him. What could be nicer than keeping him from snapping off? Besides, last thing I want to do is spend the entire narrow season listening to you whine about how you looooost your first true looooove . . .”

  Nkosazana manages to flush through the shellac of her cosmetics. “Ruda!”

  “Sorry. I made that up. Nkosazana never said anything of the sort.” Ruda raises a duplicitous brow at me. “But we’d better see the guys home. I don’t think Auben is in any kind of condition to walk after what he just went through.” Ruda puts her clammy hands up to my temples, lifts my eyebrows with her thumbs, and peers deeply into my eyes. “I think he’s lost a significant amount of brain cells, and he didn’t have a whole lot to spare in the first place. Isn’t that right, Auben?”

  She’s so deliciously vicious, and I can’t even imagine how much trouble I’ll be in if I let myself fall for her. “Yeah,” I say with a lecherous grin. “Yeah, that’s right.”

  Nkosazana hails us a rickshaw. Rickshaws, rather. The first three aren’t up to her particular standards. The first has a cabbie with an unsightly hunch. The cushions are too thin on the second. The third seems perfect to me—fluffy cushions, solid wooden wheels, a respectably good-looking cabbie with thighs that were made for pedaling up and down the cobbled streets of the city bowl. But apparently, the brightly colored shweshwe-print canopy clashes too much with Nkosazana’s uniform, so . . .

  Finally, I’m directing a cabbie deep inside Lesser Bezile, into comfy life within the U-shaped wall that divides our neighborhood, keeping the destitute and vice-ridden twins out of view from their wealthy counterparts without the risk of proximity breaks. We weave through a maze of jewel-colored storefronts with dusty windows crowded with displays of secondhand clothes and thirdhand furniture. Blocky cement tenements scrawled with tribal graffiti loom, almost leaning into us, it seems, like intimidating street thugs daring us to misstep. I breathe easier as we enter a bustling vice trough, and are greeted by the soothing smell of cheap tobacco, comfy-distilled spirits, and great vats of home-brewed tinibru. An oryx-drawn carriage speeds past us, hooves clopping steadily, then it swerves, cutting sharply into our lane. The carriage nicks the side of our rickshaw, sending our cabbie into a fit of cusses, all of them in the Rashtrakutan tongue. I don’t speak it myself, but any vice-ridden teen raised in this cultural melting pot knows how to swear in at least seven languages. I suck my teeth at the back of the carriage driver’s head, and add a few foreign cuss words our cabbie had left out, most notably pointing out their fondness for licking the sweat from a lizard’s bristly scrotum.

  The girls are rattled, but not shaken enough to call off our adventure. It takes us a good fifteen minutes to find an actual holler whore, with Kasim protesting the entire way. Even from the rear seat, I can see that Ruda is disappointed there hadn’t been one on every corner. Still, she’s the first out of the rickshaw when we do spot one. Ruda jingles coins in her fists as she scurries toward the makeshift stage. I hop down and sprint after her, grabbing her wrist and pulling her back.

  “That’s not how it’s done,” I whisper into her ear.

  “I’ve been studying to audition for Daughter Sarr in A Thousand Glass Nights next quarter. I think I know a thing or two about holler whores.” Ruda puts both hands on her hips, and as her eyes catch up with her mouth, it becomes obvious to her that real life in the comfy is a lot different than theatrics. “Whoa,” she says with a pant, watching the holler whore’s graceful moves and the stares of her small audience of three men, two women, and a fem kigen. They hold small glass bowls filled to the brim with various shades of edible pigments, and sit stone still as the holler whore passes within a breath of them, taut, muscled skin covered in all the colors of the rainbow and nothing else. She licks a deep blue from her wrist, then dips her finger in the glitter-gold a woman is holding and paints bangles upon her arm. Her movements are painfully slow as she contorts, licking bright purple from her inner thigh, tongue exposing an undulating track of dark brown skin beneath the oily pigment. She shudders as she replaces it with the kigen’s blood orange.

  Nkosazana and Kasim have joined us now, though Kasim’s more interested in the pill bugs he’s nudging with the toes of his loafers.

  Nkosazana’s eyes go wide as the holler whore’s tongue mops away a swatch of white paint next. “So it is true,” she stammers. Her clammy hand catches itself in mine. “She really can lick every inch of her own body. That’s so disgusting.”

  “It’s beautiful,” Ruda whispers.

  “It’s tragic,” Kasim adds, louder than he should. He draws the holler whore’s attention, her stare like that of a lost, feral creature, then she’s back to preening herself.

  “Only you would think a naked woman was a tragedy,” I say, knocking him in the ribs. “Ruda’s chaste, and even she can appreciate the beauty of the female form.”

  “Not that,” Kasim says. “She’s being tormented. Dying a slow death. Her body sustained only by the scant nutrients in her paints. Maybe she was a beautiful person once, but you can’t call this art. It’s lechery in its most vile state, and I’m not—”

  The holler whore wails, her head arched so far back her neck looks like it’s about to snap. The note is chilling, drowns out everything but my most pressing thoughts. Kasim covers his ears. Nkosazana presses her head against my chest. The pitch isn’t substantial enough to break glass, but it does manage to break something within me. They say the average holler whore has thirty-seven orgasms per hour, and up until about eight seconds ago, there’s no way you could have convinced me this could possibly be a bad thing.

  “Thanks for ruining this for me,” I say to Kasim as quiet reclaims the streets. On our way back to the rickshaw, I notice how much closer we all walk together. I can’t help but wonder how that holler whore snapped off. Had her twin died? Or was there someone out there, beyond the bounds of proximity, suffering in some equally unpleasant way?

  We’re right in the center of Lesser Bezile, farthest away from the comfy wall, and closest to actual danger. It’s danger I normally wouldn’t think twice about, especially during the day, but seeing it through the girls’ eyes, you start to notice things . . . like the prevalence of stray dogs, mange cutting through the chimeral stripes along their backs. The constant wail of hungry babies from tenement blocks, like the music score to a theatrical play about my life. And the abundance of wu mystics, wrapped up in traditional divining cloaks, thick plumes of incense smoke rising from ivory-carved pipes obscuring their kohl-painted faces. Kasim, of course, doesn’t believe in wu, or anything spiritual for that matter. He finds the whole concept offensive, especially versa wu. Five djang will get you a small bag, enough to reverse your vices for a full hour. Vainglory becomes humility, duplicity becomes sincerity, envy becomes conscience, and so on, and so on, and so on, and so on. Virtues do the same. Maybe it’s real. Probably it’s not, but I must admit, I’m a little piqued to see chaste Ruda’s propensity for lechery.

  “Who’s in? I’m buying,” Nkosazana says, approaching the mystic. His cloak spreads open with the whip of a prey bird’s wings, revealing a portable apothecary of glimmering crystal wards, viscous potions in glass decanters, and fragrant herb sachets tucked neatly into a myriad of pockets.

  Ruda seems more taken with the mystic himself, rather than the spiritual paraphernalia curated from a dozen lands and cultures. She observes his subtle movements, the flick of his sharp eyes, the urgency in his hand gestures as he tells us to hurry up and buy. It’s like she’s his understudy in one of her upcoming productions.

  “This is ridiculous,” Kasim says from the rickshaw, arms folded across his chest. “At best, that stuff won’t work, and at worst, it’ll knock the senses out of you, but the whole idea that one’s vices and virtues are interchangeable is incredibly naive.”

  “I’m in,” I say. “It’s the star
t of the narrow season. What’s the harm in a little fun?”

  Nkosazana buys each of us a bag of versa wu, though Kasim refuses his. Sure he’s socially awkward, but he’s not usually a drag like this. He’s probably still mad about my ruining his test. I jump into the rear seat next to him, hang my arm around his shoulder. “Look, I’m sorry about pulling you out of the exam early, and I want to make it up to you. Let’s go back to the way we did it before and get our classes together next quarter. You can copy off me all you want. I was miserable this quarter. Too many proximity breaks.”

  Kasim gives me a pained smile. “Honestly, Auben, I kind of enjoyed the break.”

  My gut sinks. “What?”

  “My test scores are better. I’ve finally started making friends. Don’t get me wrong, I love being your twin, and your proximity makes me whole. But sometimes, it’s nice to be just me. You know?”

  It’s impossible to get mad at Kasim with him so close, but it doesn’t stop me from feeling like I’ve been kicked in the teeth. Getting through this quarter was hard enough. I can’t imagine enduring this sort of strain for the rest of my life. I’ve seen the distance that’s crept between Mother and Aunt Cisse, and their love-hate relationship that’s a lot more of the latter. Bickering. Sideways compliments. The kind of guilt trips where you need to hire a porter to carry all the baggage. They’re tethered to each other, and even though they try to keep it from the kids, we see the contempt through their plastered smiles.

  “Sure. Yeah, I know what you mean,” I say, putting on a fake smile of my own, then I notice Ruda’s still chatting up the mystic. He hands her a pair of compact wooden dolls wearing dark blue-and-red cikis with gold twine and cowry shells as accents. I swallow. I’m not afraid of versa wu like Kasim is, but proximity hitches make me go cold all over.

  “Earth, water, wind, spirit,” the mystic intones, voice throaty and almost lyrical. “Bind each doll by the essence of its human mate, and a proximity break shall never be your fate.”

  “How much?” Ruda says, eyes wide and greedy. She turns the dolls over, and back again.

  “You don’t want to mess with that,” I say. “Proximity is not something to play with. We just saw what can happen if you snap off.” I groan. I sound so much like Kasim.

  “Relax, they’re just for show. It’s not like I’m going to use them.”

  “Seventy djang,” the mystic demands.

  “Forty,” Ruda counters.

  “Seventy djang,” the mystic repeats.

  “Forty is all I’ve got,” Ruda says. She pulls a short stack of blue-and-silver bills from her pack and offers them. “How much for one?”

  “The hitches must never be separated.” For some reason, the mystic locks his pale haunting eyes with mine as he says this. Like I’d be caught dead with those wicked things. I’ve been through enough temporary proximity breaks with Kasim that I can’t even fathom risking a permanent break. All that pain, all that longing.

  The mystic plucks the dolls from Ruda’s grip, and shoves them back into the blackness of his cloak. I breathe a sigh of relief, and it takes all my might not to lean into Kasim’s shoulder to calm my anxiety. His words still bite at me, but I try to ignore them. Twins grow up and apart all the time. Maybe I thought our bond was different. Our proximity binds us tighter than most twins our age. Despite the physical limitations, it was something I was always proud of.

  Now, I’m not so sure.

  My eyes flick to the depths of the mystic’s cloak. If Kasim wants space, I can give him space. All the space he wants. Plus, if I can impress Ruda in the process, all the better. I look at her, so sad and pitiful. I’d be rude to let her leave disappointed and unsatisfied. I’d promised her the full comfy experience, after all.

  I grit my teeth, jump out of the rickshaw, snatch her bills, and approach the mystic.

  They’re just dolls . . .

  . . . just pieces of carved wood . . .

  . . . nothing to be afraid of.

  The whisper crawls across my collarbone, then slips down to my navel and beyond.

  I wouldn’t be so sure about that . . .

  “What about obi powder?” I ask, my heart in my throat, and my mind trying to chase out the doubt. The voices.

  “I have my own loose incense,” Ruda grates at me. “Certified organic.”

  “Trust me—you want some of this. Just wait until you smell it.”

  The mystic is eager to make the deal, and opens his cloak. I see the wu dolls tucked in there, right near his body. He hands me the jar, takes my money. I smile as I twist off the lid. Breathing it is supposed to ward off demons and sickness. I inhale, too deeply. The scent is earthy—sharp and cloying. My nostrils sting, my lungs tickle, and I sneeze. Hard. Obi powder goes everywhere, and soon we’re all hacking and coughing, bumping and colliding with one another, trying to get out of the incense cloud. I’d be laughing at the comedy of it all right now if it didn’t feel like my lungs had caught fire.

  Finally, Ruda and I make our way to the rickshaw, and settle into our seats. I’ve got tears in my eyes, phlegm in my throat. My sinuses are raging.

  “Let’s go,” Ruda says to the cabbie, and he pedals out of the alley, fast enough to whip my head back.

  “Well that was a waste,” Kasim says to me. I know what he’s thinking. Forty djang could have bought us food for the whole month.

  “I’m sure her daddy’s pockets are plenty deep,” I snap back at him. If I didn’t know better, I could have sworn I’d caught something like envy in his eyes.

  I slip my hand into my own deep pocket, and shiver as I touch the wu dolls I’d pinched in the commotion. My eyes slit at Kasim. I wonder what he would think of me if I told him about the voices, and how the queasiness in my stomach has been getting harder to ignore. It hurts that I can’t share everything with him like I used to, but his holier-than-thou attitude lately rubs me in all the wrong ways. It’s like he thinks the balance of vice and virtue is no more real than wu. Like I should be responsible for my own actions and not blame my lechery/vainglory/envy/duplicity/doubt and least of all my temper that’s dragged him into trouble as much as his grace has bailed me out of it.

  Like any of this is fair.

  No one I know has six vices like I do. Even those with five vices are few and far between. Nkosazana is one of half a dozen at our school. All of the other lesser twins have four vices. All of the other lesser twins have at least a sliver of hope that one day they’ll stack their shoes at the edge of the comfy wall, and say goodbye to comfy life forever. But me and my scars, we’ll be lucky if we can land a job pedaling a rickshaw after I finish school, while Kasim will diligently work his way around the wall until he’s on the other side of it. He’ll establish his new life—a modestly affluent home, a virtuous wife, polite children who never bicker or pick their noses or forget which silver spoon to use when supping on water flower stew. I’ll be out of sight, out of mind, separated by a thick wall of brick, but just close enough not to bother him with the hassle of proximity headaches . . .

  Anger brews as I think about the future and quickly turns into resentment. If he wants to live his life his way, fine. I’ll show him the vice I’m capable of, even under the burden of his proximity. I go to pull the wu dolls out, and I don’t know which I’m more excited about—impressing Ruda or disappointing Kasim—but before I can do so, the cabbie slams the brakes.

  I look up to see that reckless carriage again, pulled by a pair of dehorned oryx approaching us head on, cutting off our exit in the narrow alley. Our cabbie rings a bell and shouts, but the coach doesn’t stop. I seize up, readying myself for a fight, but as they draw nearer, I recognize the passengers all too well.

  Kasim and I roll our eyes, then get out to greet our cousins, younger by a year—physically at least. Emotionally, they’re a couple of spoiled toddlers. Chimwe and Chiso are tall pillars of muscle, the both of them, filling out their designer ciki jackets—a mesmerizing pattern of silver and lightning blue, each dr
awn together with a peach-colored silk sash. Shorn hair dyed rust red, skin the same copper brown. Looking at them, you’d have a hard time guessing which is the fem kigen and which is the andy. Chimwe is the feminized male, I think, and Chiso the masculinized female, but they’ve both got the same sparse chin stubble, and the same slight bulges that hint at breasts. Mother claims they swapped so much genetic soup in utero that they’re practically identical. In any case, they annoy me equally, so maybe that’s true.

  “Brothers Mtuze. I thought I smelled something a bit off,” Chimwe says, smiling wide with those big straight white teeth that had taken half their dad’s salary to get that way.

  “Likely it’s your top lip,” I say. “Or perhaps it’s dinner’s leftovers, caught between those oryx teeth of yours.”

  Chimwe’s teeth disappear behind pouty lips, and ey looks at Chiso for reassurance. Chiso eyes my bare chest. “Is Aunt Daia so burnt-out now that she’s resorted to letting you run around the comfy half-naked? I’m sure we can have one of the house servants put together some hand-me-downs for you. Think Mama still has those matching jumpers from when we were in primary? They might fit.”

  “I’m sure,” Chimwe says. “The ones with the little blue elephant stitched on the bib?” They laugh their deep, throaty laughs, and punch one another in the chest, double-fisted. “Hey, Kasim, you always were particularly fond of elephants, weren’t you?”

  Kasim, ever the easy target, smiles with the grace we all expect. “You’re referring to the time you pressed my face into elephant dung when we spent the narrow season at the animal preserve.”

  “The way I recall it, you tripped and fell,” Chimwe says.

  “The way you recall it is a lie,” Kasim says.

  “You’re calling my sib a liar?” Chiso grates.

  “Yeah, you calling me a liar?” Chimwe echoes.

  “I don’t have to call you anything. It’s written right there on your arm.” Kasim nods at Chimwe’s arm. Ey has five vices, too, but we’d never connected over it. Not like Nkosazana and I had.