The Rental Heart and Other Fairytales

by Kirsty Logan

  It was not possible that Elimae could not love me the way that I loved her. What else could make her answer my ringing bell, tuck me into bed, arrange every lock of my hair? What else could keep her here in this castle? What else, but love?

  The next day Laurent announced that he had found his princess. Elimae was displayed for the kingdom, paraded before the dukes and courtiers and footmen and swineherds. I watched from my window as she trotted through the courtyard. Her dress was so long it covered her feet, and a jewelled tiara pressed her curls flat against her forehead.

  I stayed in bed all that day, and all the next. Servant girls brought silver platters of boiled eggs and tiny cuts of meat from songbirds. The textures sickened me; I pushed them onto the floor. The servant girls bustled around my bed, peering at me when they thought I wouldn’t notice. I turned away from their faces: they all looked the same, all blank, all wrong. On the insides of my eyelids, Elimae’s pearl shoes reflected a thousand times.

  I heard the story carried in servants’ whispers through my door: a midnight tryst, a lost slipper, a chase across the county for the treasure of Elimae’s hand. Spittle-flecked horses and her heel sliding perfectly in. I rang my little china bell through the night, keeping my eyes closed when I heard the door open so that I could imagine her tired eyes, her sleep-rumbled nightgown. But the smell from her wrists was all wrong. The voice, the sound of feet on the floor: all lies. I pulled the covers over my head.

  Two months later, they were married. As Laurent’s sister, I carried a bouquet and dabbed at my eye at the appropriate moment. Elimae wore an ivory dress and jewels in her hair. She glowed.

  After the ceremony I escaped to the hallway, the floor just as shiny as it had been during the ball. I am convinced that my tear fell in the exact same spot as it had that night.

  Elimae was a matryoshka doll, and I had not wanted her surface. I’d wanted the tiniest doll, the one at the centre, the one that could not be split in half. There she stood in her snow-white dress: unbreakable.

  Origami

  Another paper cut. Rebecca’s hands were a mess: swollen with tiny cuts, peppered with dry patches. She’d have to make sure they were all healed before Sean got home, or he would know what she’d been doing.

  She checked the clock. Almost six: she’d better get some dinner on. She pottered around the flat, checking the front door was locked and deciding which soup to heat.

  Sean was supposed to phone tonight. It had been nearly a week, but the phones on the oil rig were always in high demand. Rebecca understood, even though it was a shame that they had such little phone time. At least Sean only did trips of a month: some of the engineers were away for six months at a time. Men with wives, children, pets, and friends they didn’t see for half a year. No wonder there was a mad rush at phone time. The men must be so lonely, stuck in the middle of the sea with no one to love. Weeks of meals for one, falling asleep in front of the TV, watching happy couples in bars and shops and restaurants. Stuck in the middle of the city with no one to –

  She was halfway across the living room carpet. She must have been wandering towards the TV, or maybe the bathroom. The cupboard was that way too, but she wasn’t about to make that mistake again.

  She hurried over to the cooker and took the soup off the flame, the inside of the pan crusted with blackened chunks. The smell of burning filled her throat.

  At five to eight Rebecca was on the couch trying not to stare at the phone. The pan, bowl and spoon were washed and drying by the sink; the TV tuned to a reality show. She was fiddling with the pages of the TV guide, but only because she was nervous about Sean’s phone call. The pages were forming into fingers. With her thumbnail, she scored lines of knuckles on the paper fingers. She placed them carefully on the coffee table, then started folding some toes. The paper was thin and brightly-coloured, the knuckles creased across faces and times.

  She resisted the urge to pick up the phone on the first ring. She carefully arranged the paper digits, then answered on the fourth ring.

  Hello? She tried to sound husky, like she was halfway through a cigarette.

  Hey, Becks.

  Sean, baby. She bit her lip: that was too much. How are you? How’s work going?

  In the silence, she heard her muffled words back through the receiver.

  It’s good. Busy. Look, Becks, I’ve only got a couple of minutes. He paused, but she didn’t say anything. The delay meant that they’d only end up talking over one another. I’m really sorry, but they want me to stay on for another week. I wouldn’t, you know, but we could use the money. Rebecca listened to the clicking quiet after his words. Becks? You there?

  Yes! Yes, I’m here. Sorry, the delay. I thought you weren’t finished.

  So it’s okay? About the extra week?

  Rebecca swallowed the lump in her throat as she stared at the cupboard door. Of course. You’re right, the money would be nice. But you know – she coughed. I’ll miss you. It’s lonely here without–

  Becks, you won’t – They both started talking at the same time, and had to spend a few seconds saying: no, you go.

  Becks, it’s just that – I know it’s stupid, but last time – I mean, that – you wouldn’t, right? It’s stupid to ask, but I worry about it . . .

  Rebecca’s cheeks were blazing. Even though Sean couldn’t see her, she did her best innocent smile.

  Of course not. Don’t worry, love.

  I know. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have asked. Anyway, that’s my time up so I’d better go. I’ll call the day after tomorrow, same time. And Becks? I miss you.

  Rebecca hung up the phone. She collected the paper fingers and toes and walked to the cupboard door. She closed her eyes, held her breath, and opened the door.

  Later, halfway to sleep, she was pleased that she’d managed to throw the fingers inside without looking. Looking would lead to touching, which would lead to bringing him out of the cupboard, which would mean he’d be in the bed now. But it was just her, so she’d won. She wasn’t lonely, she was victorious.

  Rebecca woke from origami dreams, familiar shapes folding into strange forms. Eyes still sleep-glued, she ran her hands through her hair, feeling something hard and rough against her forehead.

  Clenched in her palm was a crumpled paper hand.

  Her whole body jerked. She threw the paper hand across the room, watched it sail through the air. It seemed to wave at her as it went, then lay silently unfolding on the carpet. She lifted the duvet, scanning the warm darkness for foreign body-parts. There was nothing but her own pale legs.

  When her heart had slowed to a normal pace, Rebecca got up. She dressed without looking at the hand.

  By the end of the day, Rebecca was exhausted. Avoiding paper might be feasible for a builder, or a sculptor, or a bartender; for a legal secretary it was impossible.

  Much of her work was done on computer, so she’d thought she could manage; but she’d forgotten about the memos, post-its and phone messages that snowed onto her desk throughout the day. By mid-morning, her waste-paper bin was full of crumpled body parts.

  But working hours weren’t the only problem. During her lunch break, she paused mid-sandwich to fold intestines from her newspaper. Walking out of the office, her nervous fingers made an ear out of the tissue in her pocket – luckily the thin sheets wouldn’t hold the shape, and unfurled as she threw it on the pavement. On the journey home, her bus ticket became a tongue.

  When the bus reached her stop, she tore up the tongue and stuffed it down the seat. She kept her fists clenched as she walked home.

  Rebecca was watching the news with her hands held between the sofa cushions. She’d tried to clear all the paper out of the house, but there was just so much of it: newspapers, novels, receipts, wrappers, bills, magazines. Different colours, weights, textures, patterns. Magazine pages were eyeballs: colourful, and held a shape well. Broadsheets were l
imbs: large enough for a whole leg. The TV guide had already become a pair of kidneys, and it wasn’t safe to let her hands roam anymore.

  Rebecca jumped when the phone rang, but she sat still until the fourth ring.

  Hello?

  Becky, hi. How are you?

  Yeah, you know. Keeping busy.

  Good. I’m sorry I couldn’t call earlier. I queued for the phones every night, but I had to give up or I’d have missed my sleep.

  That’s okay. You’ll be home soon, and then we can talk any time we want.

  Rebecca listened to her muffled echo in the receiver, then the crackling quiet. She opened her mouth to speak.

  Becks, about that. They offered me another week. You know you were unhappy with me missing New Year, and with the new shift pattern I’ll be home right into the start of January. So it’s better really, right? Becks? Rebecca?

  Rebecca stepped back from the cupboard door. She was already at the full reach of the phone cord; to open the cupboard, she’d have to put down the phone.

  I’m here, Sean. And it’s fine. I’m glad you’ll be here for New Year.

  God, Becks, I’m so glad. You’re not feeling...

  Lonely, thought Rebecca. Lonely lonely lonely.

  No, not at all. I’m actually going out with Jen tonight, so don’t worry.

  That’s good. I put your photo beside my bed so I see you last thing at night and first thing in the morning. Your photo isn’t very chatty though. I miss saying good morning and hearing you say it back. But look, I have to go, the phone queues are huge tonight and everyone’s giving me the evil eye.

  Okay. I love you.

  Love you too.

  Rebecca waited for the dial tone, then placed the phone at her feet. She smoothed down her skirt, neatened her hair, and opened the cupboard door.

  The man inside had paper hands, paper legs, paper lungs. He had eyeballs, toe nails, a paper heart. He was missing some bits – spleen, eyebrows, a left heel – but that didn’t matter.

  Rebecca helped him out of the cupboard, arranging him carefully on the couch. She flipped to the channel she knew he liked, and settled down beneath his arm. She nuzzled his cheek and stroked his broad, creased chest.

  He was incomplete, imperfect. But he was here.

  Tiger Palace

  THE TRAVELLER

  Once upon a time there was a beautiful but cruel empress who lived in a palace at the centre of an impenetrable forest. The palace was carved from ivory with a tall central turret – so tall that the sun heated its metal tip hot enough to scald skin. Each window was made of jewels so the light shone a different colour into every room. And that’s not even mentioning the empress, for she had skin that gleamed like polished wood and a mouth as wet and pink as the inside of a watermelon.

  But the forest! We must not forget about the problem of the forest. Oh it was dark, and it was thick, and it was all set about with tigers. And not ordinary tigers, either: these ones had eyes that could see through the deepest gloom and claws that could scrape the marrow from your bones. Even if you got through the forest, the palace was surrounded by a wide moat full of alligators that trick you into thinking their lurking heads are stepping-stones. Stand on one, and – snap snap! – there will be nothing left of you.

  At least, that’s the version you’ve probably heard. That’s what the traveller had heard too – but as she discovers as she begins her quest, the forest isn’t impenetrable, just awkward. The vegetation is dense and stinking, and the scenery boring enough to deter most. Although rain never makes it down past the leafy canopy, everything is constantly damp and feathered with mould. But the traveller has sturdy boots and a ten-inch machete, so she makes it through the forest within a month. It helps that she can scent water even inside the spines of plants, and has no qualms about eating every part of the birds she catches.

  Finally she reaches the clearing. Her eyes are open wide in the expectation of tigers, but she sees none. Perhaps they are hiding, she thinks – but tigers, as a rule, do not need to hide. As the trees overhead thin and disappear, the sun burns into focus. Between her and the palace is the moat, all full of alligators. But the traveller’s skin is caked with sweat, and the shade of the palace looks as deep and cool as the bottom of the sea.

  She pauses at the edge of the trees to sheathe her machete and suck water from her flask, which tastes stale. It might seem risky for the traveller to put away her machete, but there is a dagger in her ankle brace that she can whip out in under a second. She’ll scent a tiger’s fur or the sweat of an assassin long before then.

  Now to face the moat. The traveller peers at the first stepping-stone for a long time, but she is sure that it really is a stone. She steps out, ready for snapping jaws.

  Nothing.

  She steps onto the next stone, and the next. She laughs aloud: not alligators after all, but stones to help her across. She traverses the moat in seconds, then kneels on the bank to splash water on her face, sucking the liquid where it soaks into her sleeves. Finally she stands to survey her prize. It seems so easily won, but now is not the time to worry about that.

  The palace is wider than a hundred people could wrap their arms around, and it stretches so high that the tip of its turret is lost in a white-hot gleam. Each window shines a different colour, like a necklace of gems, and the traveller is sure – yes, there! – the empress is inside. She raises her fist and knocks at the open door.

  THE EMPRESS

  The empress’s feet slide soft across the broken tiles, her slippers kaleidoscoping in shards of colour from the smashed windows. Years ago she’d played games with the light, making patterns and sending messages, but she soon realised that no one would ever understand them. She knows that many adventurers make it into the forest – she understands the birds, and oh how they gossip! – but few make it to the palace. Occasionally, every decade or so, she’ll hear chirps about a pith helmet or the gleam of a machete, and she’ll stand in the entrance hall in a pose of elegance. But when adventurers emerge panting and smug into the clearing, they’re always a disappointment. So out steps the empress, and in rush the tigers, and then it is over. Until the next.

  It has been so long since another living thing saw the empress’s face that she cannot be sure whether she still has a face at all. Perhaps she is made of ghosts and glass now, the same as the palace. She fears that if she falls, she will scatter into smoke.

  She drags her hand along the dirty wall as she walks. She feels the pressure of the stones on her fingertips, so she must be solid. She feels the itch of heat in her lungs, so she must be breathing.

  A sound snaps the empress from her reverie. She listens until the sound comes again, and again. Three knocks to herald her new visitor.

  She hurries towards the entrance hall. By the time she gets there her breath is coming in gasps. The hall is big as a temple, its ceiling stretching up to dizziness. The floors are tiled grubby white like the rest of the palace, but the walls tell stories. Once the empress knew each one of those stories, but now they are just strangers doing strange things.

  Through the wide entrance she sees a clear view of outside. She knows that the traveller sees china-blue sky and the burning eye of the sun, because once she saw that too. But that was long ago, before she lived in the palace.

  She is not sure how the traveller will see her, but she knows that it won’t be as she is: torn robes, tired eyes, a face saddened by the years. She positions herself by the entrance, peering out into the dim clearing, the light pale and dim as if her eyes are made of pearls.

  There, the traveller! He is tired but not staggering, triumphant but not proud. The empress prepares to call the tigers – but she stops. Something is different about this one. Something is wrong. As the traveller tugs down his dust-veil, the empress sees the difference. Not a he at all, but a she.

  The empress feels joy leap up her
throat. A man cannot take her place, but a woman . . . Perhaps this will be the empress’s last day in the palace.

  THE TRAVELLER

  The hall is a heaven of calm and cold after the choking heat of the forest. The floors are bright white, reflecting up onto walls that are a riot of colour and shape. The traveller blinks the dust from her eyes, and for a moment thinks that the beautiful woman before her is a mirage.

  Madame, says the traveller with a bow, because it’s better to bow for a mirage than ignore an empress. She blinks again and sees that the empress has an odd expression on her face, as if she is unsure of what to do next. The traveller hopes that she has not transgressed the usual social niceties – her time in the forest may have loosened her manners. Just in case, she bows again, deeper and lower so that her forehead almost touches her knee. The scent from the empress’s throat is making her dizzy, so it helps to be closer to the ground. When she straightens, the empress has regained her coolly welcoming expression.

  You may as well eat, says the empress.

  This was something the traveller recognised. If you’ve heard the stories then this will all be familiar; if not, then let me elaborate. We have time while the traveller and the empress move towards the dining hall, for the palace is large.

  The story goes that once the lucky and determined traveller makes it to the palace, a huge banquet is laid out. Each bite is the most wonderful thing anyone has ever tasted. The traveller feasts, the traveller sleeps. But the traveller must never, ever let go of his blade, as tigers enter the palace at the empress’s command. In the blackest part of night, when the sun is at its furthest-away point, the traveller must leap up and fight the tigers. The battle is long and bloody, but the traveller wins. (The traveller must win, you see, or the story is over.) The traveller takes the empress for his wife, winning ownership of the palace and control of the tigers. And everyone lives happily ever after.