The House of Djinn

by Suzanne Fisher Staples

  It was absurd to think someone had crept into her room in the middle of the night and turned it upside down. Muti would never have slept through it. She had spent the rest of the early morning hours before breakfast returning everything to its proper place. The entire time she thought about how this chaos might have fallen on her room. While she did not suffer from self-doubt, neither was she one to keep a closed mind.

  Muti thought of the day early in the summer when she and Jameel had asked Baba to tell them about the djinn. They were in the garage, where Baba was under the hood of the car, working on the ancient engine of his Mercedes Benz. Khoda Baksh held tools for him, and they talked softly as Baba worked.

  “Baba,” Muti had said, “please tell Jameel the story of Great-grandfather and the djinn. He doesn’t believe me.”

  “I just don’t believe that the house is haunted,” Jameel said, “that the djinn have always lived here.”

  Baba came out from under the hood of the car and straightened. He reached for a cloth and wiped his hands.

  “Let’s go up to the house and get some tea,” Baba said. When they were seated in the old wicker chairs beside the pool, Baba told his story.

  “When I was Jaffar’s age,” he began, “my father died. I didn’t believe he was gone because I still saw him once or twice every week. Sometimes he’d come into my room and wake me up to talk. Sometimes he’d come into the house when I was the only one there. Sometimes he appeared as a very bright light that moved freely around the room.”

  “Couldn’t anyone else see him?” asked Jameel. “How do you know it wasn’t just your imagination?”

  “The Quran says that God creates a djinni for each one of us. It’s the djinni’s job to lead us astray, to cause mischief in order that we should learn from the tricks he plays. A djinni can even cause harm—but his purpose is to improve us, sometimes even through temptation. Everyone has a djinni. Mine just happened to be in the form of the spirit of my father.”

  “Why was your djinni in the form of your father?” Jameel asked. “And why doesn’t every house have djinn if the Quran says they’re supposed to help us?”

  “The maulvis say Allah created djinn as fiery beings that can fly and take the shape of animals or humans—they can really take any shape, and they can pass through solid objects like walls. I’ve asked the Maulvi Inayatullah why this house has them. He says the Quran doesn’t explain why they appear to some people and not to others. He believes this house is hospitable to them for some reason.”

  “So why do you think they’re at Number 5 Anwar Road?” Jameel asked.

  “Since Allah created man with free will, I believe he put the djinn here to trick us into finding our own path. Perhaps it’s because we’re tribal leaders. Finding the right way ourselves, we believe more faithfully than we would otherwise.”

  Jameel was still dubious when the conversation was over. And Muti didn’t know what to think.

  “I’d believe anything Baba says,” Muti said to Jameel later. “I just don’t know what he means because I’ve never seen a djinni.”

  Now she thought perhaps she’d seen the first evidence of a djinni at Number 5 Anwar Road.

  But it also was possible that Leyla was behind the disruption of Muti’s room, just as she often was behind other disruptions in Muti’s peace—death by a thousand pinpricks.

  Muti came back downstairs and left her canvas duffel beside the front door. She hesitated in the front hall before returning to the dining room to ask Leyla to check on Baba in a little while. Leyla disapproved of tennis, and Muti didn’t want the scolding to start all over again. She didn’t want to be told today, of all days, that she couldn’t go to the Lahore Club.

  She did not even consider telling Leyla about the strange flash of light. Leyla might try to use it as proof that Muti was unbalanced, perhaps suggesting a new ploy to remove Muti from the house for good. Muti resolved to ask Baba more about the djinn and their proclivities for light.

  “ … and you let her get away with anything,” she heard Leyla say from the dining room. Her voice was harsh and bitter. Muti stopped outside the doors. A silence followed. “I put up with her because you have inflicted her on me. I do it for you, but you won’t discipline her.” Muti heard Omar sigh.

  “I’ll speak to her,” he said quietly. “But it would help if you didn’t always find fault—”

  “Really, Omar,” Leyla said, “if I could think of someone suitable at Okurabad I would seriously consider arranging her marriage. We can’t put it off forever.” Omar interrupted, but Muti didn’t wait to hear what he said. She picked up her tennis things and headed out the front door, forgetting everything but her need to escape. Because her hands were full the door slammed, and she heard Leyla shout something from the dining room.

  Muti hated being at the center of these overblown storms. She tried to pretend she was oblivious to them. It was not the first time Leyla had threatened to arrange a village marriage for Muti, but the thought chilled her. This was more than a pinprick—and the pinprick level was unusually high for so early in the day.

  When Khoda Baksh saw Muti, he smiled broadly, saluted, and opened the trunk. Muti dropped her duffel in and saluted him back, then slipped into the white-linen-covered backseat, where she leaned forward so the cooled air from the vent blew on her face.

  Leyla had tried to send her back to Cholistan half a dozen times that Muti could remember. Omar had always intervened, and the storm died down. Muti knew that Baba would never allow Leyla to send her away.

  Often a strange melancholy settled over Muti after one of Leyla’s storms. It wasn’t only that Muti missed her mother and father, which she did. But the sadness had more to do with everyone else having a place in the family except for her. Everyone else was safe and secure. Only Baba and Omar loved her—and Jameel. But Baba was old and wouldn’t be there to protect her forever. Omar had to keep the peace, and sometimes gave in to Leyla’s demands rather than fighting continually. With Jameel gone, Muti felt as if she dangled from a thin filament, nothing but danger above, below, and all around her.

  Omar appeared in a crisp shirt and trousers. It wasn’t even eight in the morning, and Muti’s dupatta hung limply over her shoulders. Undisciplined curls sprang from the bun at the back of her neck. Omar always looked as if he was in air-conditioned comfort, no matter what the temperature was.

  “Mumtaz,” he said, settling beside her in the backseat while Khoda Baksh put his briefcase in the trunk. Omar’s forehead was wrinkled and his eyes were pleading.

  “I know, I know!” Muti wailed. “It seems I’m tormenting her, when really she’s tormenting me!” Omar looked at her for a moment without speaking.

  “I heard her!” Muti said. “She wants to marry me off to some village boy!”

  “That won’t happen,” Omar said, taking her hand. “She’s just upset. I promised your grandparents and Auntie Sharma that we’ll honor your mother’s wish—that you’ll finish school. And that is precisely what will happen.”

  Muti didn’t answer. She sat back in the seat and breathed deeply. She knew how she needed Omar and Baba on her side. And she thought of the risk she took by meeting Jag. She knew she’d have to break it off with him. She didn’t want to give Leyla a real excuse to send her away.

  “It isn’t easy for her, Muti,” Omar went on. “She likes things to be … just so—you know, everything in order and smooth. It’s difficult, too, because this is an old house, and it has some very queer things about it. I’ve grown up here—I’m used to it. But I have to keep in mind that it isn’t easy for Leyla.”

  “What queer things?” Muti asked. She thought of telling him about the flame she’d seen hovering over Baba’s form in the bed, and about the chaos in her bedroom. But Omar rushed on.

  “And you always act as if you don’t know any better. You go in your bare feet and wear those desi chappals instead of proper ladies’ sandals, you chew on your fingernails instead of having manicures, you talk like
a street urchin, you twist your hair—”

  “Hah!” said Muti, her eyes flashing. “You know this has nothing to do with acting like a lady. You know I will never be one. And if I were, she would still never accept me, not even if every hair lay flat and precise on my head! Not even if my fingernails were bright red like hers, and I went to her fancy darzi and had my dupattas sewn with little rubies. Nothing I ever do will be right!” She surprised herself by choking on her last words. She turned her head to look out the window as Khoda Baksh pulled into the maddening crush of traffic at the end of the maidan. She brushed angrily at her tears with the back of her hand.

  “Muti,” Omar said. “You know I understand. You are wonderful just as you are, and you will always be perfect to me. You are so like your mother. That’s probably the main reason this is so difficult for your Auntie Leyla.”

  Muti searched his face for a moment for some sign of the connection between him and her mother, but the familiar scrim of good-humored concern had slipped back into place, and she saw nothing. She sniffed loudly one last time. Omar shook his head and smiled.

  She was about to remind Omar that he had promised not to take part in the charade that Leyla was her auntie. He knew that Leyla had shuffled the generations of the Amirzai family like a deck of cards because she thought it gave her more control over everyone. But Muti’d had enough for one day.

  “Right!” she said, emphatically changing the subject. “Will Khoda Baksh be able to pick me up in time to be there for tea? I know she’ll never forgive me if I’m not there to serve her tea.”

  Omar sighed. “Yes. I’m tied up all afternoon, anyway. He can drop you off and then come back to the office for me later.” He looked out the window and seemed to study the neatly clipped monsoon-green grass along the roadway. Two months of rain had washed the trees clean, and their leaves sparkled in the misty morning light. “Turn your mobile on so I can reach you, and call me when you want Khoda Baksh. And, Muti, please leave your tennis things in the car when you get back. I’ll hand them over to the dhobi when I get home. And please … please don’t antagonize her.” The shining old Mercedes sedan pulled into the parking place in front of the office on the Mall, where Muti suspected Omar went every day to escape his wife.

  “Thanks,” she said, rewarding him with a grin. “You are only the best!”

  “And could you possibly refrain from saying ‘yah’ around the house?” He leaned back inside the car for one last plea. She bit her lips and nodded slightly, then smiled again. “See you later, Mango,” he said. She wiggled her fingers at him and, remembering her baba suddenly, called him back.

  “Baba was restless when I looked in on him just before we left,” Muti said. “He’s stayed in bed late every morning lately. Maybe you should call Leyla and have her check up on him.” Omar nodded and waved at her again. She watched his broad shoulders disappear into the shadow of the doorway leading to his office.

  5

  Jameel slung his Dogtown skateboard under his arm and headed for the back door. Just as he laid his hand on the knob, Asma stepped out of the pantry and handed him a paper bag which he knew contained a well-balanced lunch: a cheese sandwich on whole grain bread, baby carrots, a carton of milk, and a plum. Jameel loved Asma, who had been his ayah since he was born. But he hated being treated like a child. He resisted the impulse to hand it back to her and tucked it inside his windbreaker.

  “Thanks,” he said, smiling in response to her loving gaze and letting himself out the back door. Jameel timed his departures for Pier 7 carefully. If his mother was awake she would insist on having Javed—Asma’s husband—drive him, and she would badger him into saying when he’d be ready to be picked up. Jameel returned to the house at a different time each evening to discourage anyone from picking him up. Because of this strategy Jameel didn’t hang out with any particular group at the pier, where most of the guys came and went in groups. It gave him time to practice carves and grinds on the concrete ramps.

  It was an essential San Francisco day. The fog hung so heavily in the air that in another city it might have been called rain. His orange high-tops were soaked with dew from the grass before he was halfway to the garage. In the garage he let his board clatter to the pavement and pedaled through the open overhead door, pushing the button to close it as he passed, then down the alley onto Gough Street. From there it was a long slow coast down to the trolley line. If he timed the traffic lights just right he could skate the whole distance without stopping.

  Jameel got to Pier 7 before eight o’clock, but he wasn’t the first one there. Carving down the concrete walls along the steps was Chloe, the blond girl who lived for skateboarding and could outskate most of the guys. Her hair was a shining pale gold that moved smoothly around her head like liquid as she soared down the ramp. Jameel wanted to reach out and touch it. She was going down the longest ramp backside, goofy-footed, and he held his breath.

  He approached quietly. As Chloe hit the end of the ramp her feet left the board and she did a heel flip, parting company with the deck of her board and tucking just in time to avoid slamming into the concrete. She rolled down the slope of the sidewalk so gracefully the slam almost seemed part of the ollie. She stood and brushed off her jeans, then flexed her neck from side to side gingerly before retrieving her board.

  “You could have killed yourself,” Jameel said quietly, and Chloe whirled to face him. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.” She stood with her arms raised at her sides, as if she would bolt and run. When she saw it was Jameel her face relaxed into a friendly smile.

  “Hey, Osama!” she said. He’d gotten over the nickname. All the guys at the pier called him Osama. Jameel knew they didn’t think he was a terrorist. They called him Jimmy most of the time, because Jameel was too different. He ducked his head because he knew he was blushing. He looked up and was astonished by the blue of her eyes, just as he’d been the first time he saw them and every time since. Everyone had a nickname at the pier. The guys called her Blue because of her eyes. But Jameel loved the name Chloe. “What’re you doing here so early?” Chloe was the only one besides Jameel who usually came early or stayed late. He tried not to hope he’d see her every time he turned the corner.

  Chloe was at the pier more than any of the regular skaters. Jameel had the impression when he first met her that she lived nearby, perhaps in the streets. She wore tattered, clean jeans that hung from her hips, but that’s what all the cool kids wore. Chloe said she lived in the Tenderloin, on Turk Street, in an apartment with her mother.

  “I wanted to do some runs before the cops get here,” he said, feeling tongue-tied. He imagined his father hearing those words and mentally winced. He hoped it didn’t show. Skating was illegal at the pier, but in recent weeks the police had been leaving kids alone unless there were too many of them. It was one of the most popular places to skate in the city. Usually a good crowd showed up on Saturday, and it was only a matter of time before patrol cars cruised along the waterfront and the skateboarders scattered.

  “Yeah, it’s getting pretty crowded here, especially on weekends,” Chloe said. “Come on!” They skated for an hour, crossing and recrossing each other’s paths, their wheels rasping in a snappy rhythm until they stopped to rest.

  “Did you ever notice,” Chloe said, “that time seems to stop at the top of every ollie? I swear that second is four times longer than every other second.” She sat down on her board next to Jameel. They both leaned against the chain-link fence that ran along the concrete. Jameel nodded his head enthusiastically.

  “And usually,” he said, squinting as the sunlight penetrated the foggy mist, “the very best seconds are the shortest ones of all. Like when you’re eating the last bite of an ice cream cone?”

  Chloe was studying the nose of her board, which had been reglassed several times. Jameel also noticed her wheels were worn down.

  “That’s what I mean, Jimmy,” she said. “What better second is there than the one where you hang at the top of a
n ollie? It’s like you really are defying gravity. And yet it’s not short like the other best seconds. It’s longer than even the worst seconds …”

  “Longer than when you do math homework,” said Jameel, pulling a face. Chloe laughed, and it sounded like the silver bell his mother rang to call Asma from the kitchen to clear the table after dinner.

  Tourists walked along the waterfront, but Jameel and Chloe pretty much had the ramps to themselves. Jameel forgot about the lunch he carried. When the sun burned the last traces of the fog off and the air grew warmer, he took off his windbreaker and the embarrassing brown bag fell to the concrete. He snatched it up and did an arching free throw in the direction of the garbage barrel over by the fence. Chloe’s hand shot out and caught it before it hit the rim.

  “What’ve you got?” she asked, peering into the bag. “I’m starving.”

  “Help yourself,” said Jameel. She grinned and tore away the brown paper to get at the food. Jameel liked Chloe’s free and easy way. She said what she thought and felt without having to stop and think about it. She was natural. To someone who felt smothered by his mother and his ayah and his aunties as Jameel did, Chloe’s freedom was amazing. The complex relationships among his family members made him crave simple openness, which was just Chloe’s style.

  “Want some?” she asked, holding out the little plastic bag of carrots.

  “I’ll trade you the whole lunch for teaching me how to do a McTwist,” Jameel said. A snap of wind tossed her golden hair sideways across her face, and he leaned forward to brush it out of her eyes. He stopped, startled yet again by their Pacific blue intensity. He leaned closer, and was about to kiss Chloe when he felt a strange shiver ripple across his shoulder blades.