Except for Brutessa, who tore out from behind the curtain in a simple rage. The pirate queen lunged at Chloe, let loose a war cry, and swung her arms like wagon wheels.
Chloe managed to sidestep the dwarf’s first pass. A bust of Dimple Pimple at the age of five was not so lucky. Chloe scrambled to the other side of the room, behind Giacomo’s bed, hoping Brutessa would slow down rather than hurt her jealously guarded prize. She was wrong. Brutessa ripped the footboard off the bed frame with one hand. The bed jerked. Giacomo groaned. Chloe darted from behind the bed, so that the enraged land pirate wouldn’t trample over Giacomo’s sternum.
Brutessa gave chase. She rounded the corners of Chloe’s path, in order to make up for her own shorter stride. The result was that they ran in circles, with Chloe just out of reach, Brutessa crashing down behind her, and a wake of shattered things trailing them both.
At some point, the Prince Kaiser made his entrance, but Chloe couldn’t hear anything other than banging and war cries. The prince had to shout to tell Chloe that it was over for her — no one could keep Brutessa from mauling her — but if she wanted to save Giacomo, she’d at least tell him what the dads were up to. In turn, the prince would keep Giacomo safe from marriage to Brutessa.
The prince never got an answer, because Brutessa managed a glancing blow across Chloe’s shoulder blade. Chloe yowled in pain as she slammed into the wall and fell to the ground. Brutessa rushed forward to stomp Chloe’s head through the wooden floor, when suddenly the door swung open and a blinding light filled the room.
BABBO AND PIERRE had created a vase of marbles and fake flowers so perfect that it seemed to cast its own light. This was the magnum opus of all mankind, beauty that was Truth, a piece of home furnishing that could, in fact, refurnish the empty halls of our sin-addled souls.
When the two men entered the room, the light from the window hit the vase and was reflected and refracted a thousand times in the prism of every marble, a glare bright enough to halt even Brutessa’s charge.
Prince Kaiser Dimple Pimple marveled at the vase. It was exactly what he wanted. The men had built him the morning sun. He ran up and grabbed the Objet. Then Brutessa ran up and grabbed it from him. The tentative partnership they had developed all that time ago in the ditch, next to the prince’s wrecked carriage, was dissolved. All Brutessa cared about was winning Giacomo — the Objet was just another weapon to her.
She ran to Chloe, who was leaning against the wall, and held up the vase in front of her. “Ooohh,” said Chloe, immediately mesmerized. Brutessa moved the Objet to the left. Chloe’s head followed. The Objet went to the right. Chloe turned to the right. With her target fully transfixed, Brutessa wound up and let fly a punch toward Chloe’s head that could have dropped a rhino. Chloe didn’t even flinch. She was staring at the vase. Pierre screamed, “Non!”
Bone crunched as Brutessa’s fist pounded into a jaw. But it wasn’t Chloe’s. It was Giacomo’s face that she battered. He had wrested himself from the bed and stumbled into the way of Brutessa’s kill shot just in time. Even healthy, it wouldn’t have mattered.
Giacomo slumped to the floor, lifeless at Chloe’s feet. Brutessa’s arm was still extended in disbelief.
It was Babbo’s turn to scream in pain. He ran to Giacomo and crouched over his son. The old man wept into his boy’s chest. The once-broad shoulders of Babbo Giovanni broke. I let him have a moment. Chloe kneeled down and put a hand on Babbo’s shoulder. It was so delicate and small, I can’t imagine he felt any of the consolation.
When it dawned on Brutessa what she had done, she put back her head and howled like a beast. Then she ran to the window of the cliffside northeast wing and plunged out. I knew I’d have to go get her next.
But first, I had to put my hand on Babbo, to let him know it was time. He didn’t let go of his son, and I became distracted, anyway, by the sound of someone laughing.
It was Dimple Pimple. He’d picked up the Objet, and he was looking at me. He said something like: Welcome.
I usually keep a low profile, so I didn’t say anything. The prince said all this stuff about his plan going perfectly, even down to the dwarf offing herself. That was when I got the feeling something was wrong. I couldn’t figure it out, but I knew there was something.
The prince said something along the lines of: Now that you’re here, you should know, I’ve been wanting to meet you for years. I said something like: That could have easily been arranged, and he laughed at me like I was so naive.
I cut the crap. “What do you want?” I said. And he said he wanted my job. Can you believe that? The kid wanted my job. Man, don’t tempt me. Like I’m loving this beat or something.
Anyway, Prince Kaiser said that’s what the Objet was for. His real plan was to kill me and take my place. Immortality, ultimate power, and all that. Didn’t even realize I’m just a gopher. He wanted it.
He raised the vase over his head, and that was when I realized what was wrong with the scene. I said, “Hey, Pimple, hold on.”
He didn’t hold on — he smashed the vase over my head. I blacked out for a second on the way to one knee. Marbles rolled down my shirt and into my pants. I tried to shake the dizziness out of my head, but the only thing that shook off was a nosegay of lilies. The prince didn’t waste time. He came over and kicked me right in the gut.
I took it and stumbled back. As he came up to hit me again, I said, “How do you think you’re talking to me?”
He put a left hook right into my eye socket, harder than you’d expect, and said he’d been waiting to kill Giacomo for that exact reason. And now he’d jumped me when I came for him.
I stumbled back, and he kept coming. He uppercut, then grabbed my shoulders and put his knee right into my chest. I felt three ribs crack inside me as I doubled over and tried to catch my breath. I saw he’d gotten a jagged chunk of the vase in his fist, and he was about to cut me open when I said, “Yeah, I get the plan, but why do you think you can see me?”
He stopped. He hadn’t thought of that. I stood up straight and said, “Huh?” He didn’t have anything, just mumbled something about the Objet d’Awesome! And I said, “You thought a vase full of fake flowers and some marbles would make you a god? The glass is made of sand. Who do you think invented sand?”
I couldn’t tell you if the Big Guy was laughing up there. I figure not. But I was definitely enjoying myself. Prince Kaiser did the “But . . . but . . . but” routine.
I told him, “You can see me ’cause you had an aneurysm back there. You know that tingly feeling? It wasn’t deity. It was a vein in your head bursting from all the stress you’ve been putting on yourself. You really should have tried some hot tea. It’s good for you.”
The prince glazed over. The piece of glass clattered to the ground. He followed it down.
I fast-tracked him and then Brutessa. Then I came back for Giacomo.
THERE’S THIS JOKE Dora tells that I really like. It goes: A group of scientists come together for a convention, or symposium, or whatever. And they say, “You know, we’ve got all kinds of stuff figured out, what with nano-machines, and genomes, and cloning and everything. I bet if we put our heads together, we could build a human being better than God.”
So they go up to God, and they say, “God, you did pretty well with making us, but we think we’ve got you beat.”
And God thinks about it for a bit, and then He says, “All right, why don’t we have a contest. We’ll each make a man and see whose is better. But let’s do it the old way, Adam style, with nothing but dirt.”
The scientists say they’ll take the challenge, so they huddle together and start fiddling in the dirt, taking samples to see how they can genetically recombine it into a human, when God says, “Whoa, whoa there. What do you think you’re doing? Make your own dirt.”
That makes me laugh every time. And I suppose you could take out scientists and insert spoiled princes with mass-market home accessories, albeit the best art man has ever seen.
W
hen I came back for Babbo’s son, I knew I’d have to take Babbo’s heart, too. I tried to get his attention, but the mountainous man was still sobbing. What was I supposed to do? I started to leave with what I had come for, when I heard him say in between sobs, “You can’t. You owe him.” I knew he was talking to me, and he could see me just fine.
It was a weird thing to say, though, until I remembered. I did owe him. All those years back, when I took his mother, I had promised Giacomo a favor. Serves me right.
I remember thinking: Dora is going to be so ticked at this paperwork.
A part of me didn’t want to return Giacomo. As I stood there, looking at Chloe, the only thing I wanted was for the prince to have been right. Maybe if he could have killed me, I’d end up here, next to her. And maybe I could have a life. I’ll admit I wanted that.
But I never wanted to see her crying the way she was. And who knows? Maybe I wouldn’t be her type, anyway.
I turned and walked out.
I got this shivering feeling as I left. Like seeing the Objet for the first time. But not a regular shiver. Anyone can get a shiver up their spine: just get out of a swimming pool. This is on the inside of your spine. Try to imagine it. Inside, behind your stomach. Right there in the middle of you. Felt good.
Giacomo gasped and said, “Get off me,” in a weak voice. Babbo jumped up. Pierre hugged Babbo — Babbo hugged Pierre. They hugged and jumped while Chloe leaned over Giacomo and purred, “Co-Co,” as she kissed him. I didn’t have any reason to watch the rest. In fact, I didn’t have a reason to visit Co-Co and Clo-Clo for decades.
There. Happily ever after. Finally.
BUT MAYBE YOU’D like to know how they went out. In the end, I mean, since all my stories end with everybody interred. It might seem like a gyp if I didn’t at least mention it.
Well, Pierre and Babbo became inseparable once they realized how much Pierre loved Italian food and Babbo loved French food. It doesn’t take much sometimes. They continued to work together in a shared work space, with Babbo talking nonstop and Pierre grunting a reply now and then.
As grandpas, they were doters. They spent so much time talking and thinking about the babies that they even changed their business. Instead of quilted flowers and painted marbles in vases, Babbo and Pierre teamed up to make the first mobiles Old Timey Europe had ever seen. Plush dolls, shiny painted beads — it made sense.
In addition, Babbo was expert in horsey and piggyback rides, while Pierre handled all the questions about why some rocks look like clouds and some clouds look like castles in the sky.
When I found Pierre in his study, still holding the quilted carnation his granddaughter had given him that night — her first ever — he saw me and sighed. “That was something. Did you see that? That was really something.”
Babbo picked me up in a bear hug when I came back for him a few months later. It was in the middle of a song, in the middle of dinner. He plopped me down and said, “Now, let’s go catch up with that French prune or he’ll think he’s beaten me.”
As for Chloe and Giacomo, they fell, too. You all do, eventually. And I guess what I’ve been saying is it doesn’t have to be so bad. You shake my hand. We talk. Dora gives you candy, and then you get what you came for.
I think the hope is that somewhere along the way, you craft yourself some love. Some of that thing you can only say what it is with laughing. And then you’re really sharing your life. So then you croak. So what?
Like Co-Co and Clo-Clo. They were old and holding hands — went together, if you’ll believe it. I still didn’t have any words for her, so she came up and kissed me on the cheek. She always had a way about that. And then she turned and said, “Hey, Co-Co, what did you have for lunch?”
And he said, “A Doom sandwich!”
Then the two idiots squish me in between them.
If you enjoyed this novella by Daniel Nayeri, you may also enjoy his other novellas published in e-book format:
Read all four novellas — including Wood House,
available only in the printed book —
in Straw House, Wood House, Brick House, Blow
www.candlewick.com
DANIEL NAYERI was born in Iran and spent a couple of years as a refugee before immigrating to the United States at age eight with his family. He is the co-author of a popular young adult series set in Manhattan that began with Another Faust. He has worked as a stuntman and a pastry chef and is now a writer and editor in New York City.
Of this collection, he says: “For me, stories can be about anything. In any medium. But they have to be in a world at least half as interesting as this one. The characters have to be a little tweaked, a little obsessed. I like people who are wildly broken or wildly uncomfortable or wildly hard to deal with. Everyone a little wild. That’s one reason why writing this whole thing on an iPhone makes a weird kind of sense. Each form of media out there is completely different, sure, but all my favorite books, games, movies, comics share the trait of great storytelling. And, hey, I’m into that. I’m pretty sure we’re all into that.”
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or, if real, are used fictitiously.
Copyright © 2011 by Daniel Nayeri
Cover illustration copyright © 2011 by Lauren Vajda
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in an information retrieval system in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, taping, and recording, without prior written permission from the publisher.
First electronic edition in this format 2011
This novella is also available as part of Straw House, Wood House, Brick House, Blow: Four Novellas by Daniel Nayeri
The Library of Congress has cataloged the complete hardcover edition as follows:
Nayeri, Daniel.
Straw house, Wood house, Brick house, Blow / Daniel Nayeri. — 1st ed.
p. cm.
Summary: A collection of four novellas in different genres, including a western about a farmer who grows living toys and a rancher who grows half-living people; a science fiction story of the near-future in which the world is as easy to manipulate as the Internet; a crime story in which every wish comes true and only the Imaginary Crimes Unit can stop them; and a comedic love story in which Death describes himself as a charismatic hero.
ISBN 978-0-7636-5526-6 (hardcover)
[1. West (U.S.) — Fiction. 2. Science fiction. 3. Mystery and detective stories — Fiction.
4. Love — Fiction. 5. Short stories.] I. Title.
PZ7.N225Str 2011
[Fic] — dc22 2011013675
ISBN 978-0-7636-5748-2 (electronic)
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