by Nafiza Azad
Taraana stands uneasily in the very feminine parlor, looking around in the same way a mouse does when it doesn’t know which direction the cat is going to attack from. He starts when he sees Eulalie, her rich brown skin glowing with health and magic. She, in turn, goes still before a strangely gentle expression settles on her face. She takes a step toward him and Taraana takes two back, his fingers clinging to Paheli’s. His fear is written on his face in the cuts and bruises that decorate it. We move closer to him, wanting him to be at ease, hurting for him.
“The Keeper of the Between,” Eulalie whispers, as if scarcely daring to believe his presence in our parlor.
We stare at her, surprised. No one other than Baarish (and, perhaps, the others the scaled middle worlders mentioned) has been able to recognize him for who he is until now. Taraana, on the other hand, looks panicked. We understand his feelings, of course; the majority of the middle worlders who have recognized him thus far have had less-than-pure intentions.
Eulalie sketches a deep bow to him. “I’m honored.” She is entirely serious. We look at Paheli, not sure how to react to this new development.
“Is the Keeper of the Between like a unicorn? A rare sighting?” Paheli asks Eulalie. She doesn’t seem worried about Eulalie recognizing Taraana. We don’t quite understand the specificities of the relationship she has with Eulalie, but she trusts her. As such, we do too.
“Unicorns are far more common,” Eulalie replies, her eyes still attached to Taraana.
“Lalie, if you keep staring at him, I’m going to think you mean him harm,” Paheli says without a smile. “As you can see from the state he is in, we’ve had… interactions with others whose intentions are downright evil.”
“I apologize,” Eulalie says, grimacing. “I’ve heard of the Keepers of the Between, but I never thought I’d be entertaining one.” She frowns at Paheli. “How did you meet the keeper? Who is after him? Why didn’t you tell me you were coming?”
“Sorry, I meant to call you, but things happened,” Paheli replies. We do use human technology; Talei has an Instagram with followers numbering in the thousands, and Valentina boasts a large Twitter following due to her poisonous wit centering around social commentary. “Are we interrupting something?”
Eulalie has her own set of rooms in the house. An entire floor of them, in fact. She doesn’t invite guests to her rooms, preferring her privacy and respecting ours. “I do have a gathering to go to shortly.” She looks at Taraana again and frowns slightly. “Please stay inside until I’m able to equip you with spells. The keeper will be in danger if anyone recognizes him.”
“His name is Taraana,” Valentina says. “Please use that instead of calling him Keeper.”
Eulalie nods. “Thank you for correcting me.” She glances out the window. “As much as I want to stay and listen to how you met him and what circumstances have led you here, I have to go fulfill my obligations. We will talk when I get back.” She gives Paheli another hug and exhorts us to be safe before leaving.
“I am tired and hot. I want a shower, a change of clothes, some food, and some rest,” Kamboja announces, sprawling on the sofa in the parlor. “Not necessarily in that order.”
It is midday in New Orleans, and despite our fatigue, the day outside beckons.
“Taraana doesn’t have any clothes, and I don’t think he’ll want to wear any of ours,” Etsuko points out.
We look at him and he shrugs. “I don’t care.”
“As much as I would like to see you trying on our clothes, I reckon it is not the time for such hilarity,” Daraja says. “We will go get you some clothes and other necessities. We need to get some human currency anyway. Should we cook or should we go get takeout?”
Takeout is a unanimous decision.
We look at Taraana. He has not moved from his position by Paheli. He clings to her like she’s the rock to his barnacle. Excuse the analogy. We’ve had a trying day. She is reading something on Valentina’s phone and doesn’t appear to mind his proximity.
That gives us an idea.
Valentina clears her throat softly. Etsuko looks at Daraja and smiles widely. It is not a kind smile. Daraja nods and pinches Sevda, who nods and looks at Ghufran. Ghufran smiles her acquiescence and grabs Talei’s hand. Talei looks confused before she sees us glancing at Paheli and Taraana. She nods and pulls Areum over. Areum signals to Ligaya, Kamboja, and Widad and they get to their feet, looking extremely casual.
“Well, we’re off to shop for stuff. You stay here with Taraana,” Valentina tells Paheli with a look that announces her schadenfreude.
“What? Why are you leaving me behind? I will go too.” Paheli frowns. Belatedly, she appears to notice how close he is to her and inches away. “Why can’t someone else stay with Taraana?”
“He prefers you. Don’t you, Taraana?” Etsuko asks.
Taraana nods in answer.
“Taraana is too tired to know what he wants,” Paheli says, and crosses her arms.
“Don’t be mean, Paheli. We can’t leave Taraana alone here. Didn’t you hear Eulalie? You need to stay here and protect our keeper.” Valentina beams and Paheli’s cheeks suddenly flush a becoming red. Hah, we knew she isn’t as indifferent to Taraana as she pretends to be.
“I can protect myself!” Taraana protests, though not very confidently.
“No, you can’t,” Ligaya tells him nicely.
Before Paheli can say anything else, we leave the house, locking the door behind us.
Paheli: The Eggplant Overture
They leave me with the boy and a silence so thick, you could cut it six ways for tea and still have some left over for dinner. He is sitting right next to me. So close that his arm touches mine and I don’t hate it. I don’t, but I move away because to not move away means admitting I don’t hate it and goodness, I need to breathe.
I am breathing.
He looks at me, the stars in his eyes gold, and he sees through me, inside me, as if my secrets have no shame and lay themselves bare for his perusal. Shameless secrets. What am I without my secrets? Who am I without my secrets?
“What is it?” I demand, at odds with the world.
“Do you like eggplants?” he asks, and I stare at him.
“The purple vegetable?” I wonder if I heard wrong. I am pretty old. It would not surprise me if my ears were the first things to go, considering how much I enjoy loud music.
“Eggplants are actually fruits, and sometimes they are white,” he replies.
“Oh. Fruits. Well. I don’t hate them. Why?” Why is he talking about eggplants? Why does he keep looking at me?
“No reason. I just wanted to know.” He tries to smile but ends up wincing when his split lip reminds him of the pain he is currently in.
“Come on.” I get up and grab his hand, pulling him along behind me. He holds on tight. Wait. Why did I hold his hand? Clearly there is something wrong with me. Didn’t I decide, not twenty minutes ago, to keep a distance from him? Did I forget? Is my memory going too?
“Are you okay?” I ask him as we walk up the stairs.
“Because of earlier?” he says, and I nod. He shrugs. “I’m used to it. When you live in a glass house, you learn not to ever get too comfortable.” That is the saddest thing I have heard in a while.
I take him to a washroom on the second floor and open up the cabinet to reveal a first aid kit. I get him to lean down, and I swab as gently as I can at his cut lips. He bears through my ministrations with only a grimace, and as a reward I give him a candy. He stares at it.
“You put it in your mouth,” I tell him helpfully.
He looks at me. The stars in his eyes brighten as if I have just amused him. I don’t think I care for being secretly laughed at. I bid him to follow me and take him to an empty bedroom on the third floor that he can use while we are in New Orleans. He doesn’t talk much.
“Do you want to rest until the girls get back?” I ask him, awkwardness creeping back between us. I might start wringing my hands if I
don’t get away from him soon. He makes me feel very uncomfortable. As if my skin is too tight for my flesh. As if my heart has grown legs and wants to go on a vacation. Anyway, I don’t like this feeling.
“No, I don’t want to be alone,” he replies. He is looking at me. I can feel his eyes on my face, but I can’t, for the life of me, meet his gaze. So, I hold my breath because it seems like a good idea. It’s not like I’ll die.
He slips his arms around me and holds me while I try not to die because I’m holding my breath. I gasp noisily and he pulls me closer to him.
“Hold it,” I squeak, my face smooshed against his chest. He smells nice. Like the sunshine. The boy made of stars smells like sunlight. Hah. His heart is racing.
When do I realize that he is terrified? I don’t know. It just dawns on me. Hard. Like a sledgehammer dropping on an unsuspecting head. He is shaking.
“Are you all right?” I ask, when clearly, he is anything but.
“No,” he whispers into my hair. I don’t remember when I last washed it. I hope it doesn’t smell too terrible. “I will be, though. For some reason, being near you reassures me.”
I can’t be close to anyone. This is the first time a man has held me like this since… since that time. Maybe it is because Taraana is as broken as I am. Maybe it is because he saw me at my worst moment and didn’t turn away. Maybe it is because I can sense he is not a threat. Or maybe it is because he wants nothing from me at this moment other than comfort. I allow him the liberty of holding me.
He pulls away after a minute. “Thank you,” he says. “I promise to be stronger.”
I shrug. “You’re still alive, aren’t you? I reckon that means you are strong enough.”
“It doesn’t feel like it.” He sits down on the bed and looks around the sizable room. It is elegantly furnished with wide doors that open up to a balcony. All our rooms have balconies; magic does have its uses. He glances at me, a little shyly. Oh dear.
“Can I ask you something?” he says.
“You already are.” He gives me a look and I relent. “Go ahead.”
“What have you been doing in the years since I threw the box of stars to you?” he asks. I sit down beside him. I wish he hadn’t asked me this question.
“Why do you ask?” I croak.
“Do you not want to answer?” His voice is so gentle, I might hit him. I don’t want to be treated like I’m glass.
“I don’t want to answer,” I tell him. He nods.
“What do we do now?” He moves on quite easily, this boy.
“What do you want to do?” I ask.
“I want to explore this city, but I suppose that wouldn’t be a good idea.” His defeat is almost palpable. It hurts me. He picks up my hand, like it belongs to him, and turns it up to look at the star embedded in my palm. He kisses the star and dammit, I stop breathing again.
“You!” I snatch my hand away and he grins.
“Sorry.”
“Are you really?” I look at him suspiciously.
“Not really.”
“Why did you do that?” I ask him, sweating. He is moving too quickly. I can’t keep track. After so many years of not allowing anyone near me, his attentions are confusing. I am confused. Slightly intoxicated. And possibly dying. Or dead. Whichever. “This is the third time I am seeing you. You don’t kiss girls after seeing them three times.”
“I didn’t kiss you. I kissed the star.” The grin is still in his eyes. Then his smile dims. “I don’t know why I’m acting like this. No. Actually I do. I’m scared that I will die when I’ve only just started living. I want to do everything because I feel like I never will if I don’t seize the chance right now. I haven’t kissed anyone before.” He ducks his head, blushing. “I’m sorry. I won’t do it again.”
“No. Wait. Stop. I’m not sure I don’t want you to do it again. I just don’t understand what this is. What is this?”
“I don’t know either.”
“Great.” This is a case of the blinder leading the blind.
We are silent for five minutes before Taraana stirs.
“Can you show me around the house?”
“I can do that. There is a conservatory. Did I tell you that?”
“No. Does the conservatory have eggplants?”
“Let’s go find out.”
Sunny Jelly Beans, Po’Boys, and “Alouette”
When we get back to the house, Paheli and Taraana are arguing over a jar of peanut butter. He thinks it’s disgusting, and she thinks he’s disgusting for thinking that. This is not how we thought their relationship would progress, but it will have to do for the moment.
Daraja has stocked up on jelly beans from the store at which we exchanged Between diamonds for money. These jelly beans are all yellow and all contain bursts of sunlight that brighten up your day no matter how desolate you are feeling. We are addicted to them.
We hit the mall right after getting moneyed, glimmering into visibility for an hour and a half as we swanned into human stores and picked up clothes for Taraana. Can there be anything crueler than trying out clothes in a changing room with mirrors on all four sides castigating your imperfections while outside well-dressed mannequins judge you smugly for being more flesh than plastic?
Taraana looks dubiously at the bags of clothes we hand him and turns to Paheli for help. She pops a spoonful of peanut butter into her mouth and turns her nose up at him. He sighs softly and gets up, resigned to the fashion show we beseech him to do. We settle in a parlor by a dining room on the second floor and wait for him to grace us with his presence.
A few minutes later, he comes into the room wearing the light green shirt Daraja lobbied for. He pairs it with sleek white dress pants, and the effect is dazzling. We roar to show our approval, but it is Paheli he looks to. Our Paheli is heartless, however, and refuses to give him the satisfaction of a reaction. But even she cannot hide her pleasure when some outfits later, he comes back wearing an overlarge sweater in soft gold paired with tailored black pants that mold to his shape. Widad guessed his size perfectly.
Taraana carefully smooths his hands down the soft wool of the sweater and smiles. We swoon. Paheli clears her throat noisily.
“I am hungry. Did you bring food?”
“You were just eating,” Valentina points out reasonably.
“That’s not food,” Taraana says disdainfully.
“Don’t you start again,” Paheli warns, shaking her spoon at him. He looks away with a sniff.
“We bought food,” Ligaya says in a peaceful tone, signaling our move to the dining room beside the parlor. We left the packets and containers of hot food on the table, awaiting our attention. We transfer the food from the containers to the pretty china and elegant utensils we bought for everyday use before we claim chairs and plates around the table.
The table strains under the weight of dishes containing jambalaya, shrimp étouffée, gumbo for those who don’t mind okra, muffuletta from Central Grocery, and, as an alternative, po’boys. For dessert, there are sugar-sprinkled beignets and coffee that will ensure we do not sleep until the wee hours of the morning. The conversation at the table is light; we prefer to concentrate on the intense flavors of the food.
Afterward, we clean up the dining room, take showers, and rest for a few hours. When the clock strikes eight, we gather in a different parlor, this one on the third floor. Outside it is dark and a soft rain is falling. The warm light in the parlor, the colorful cushions on the soft chairs, and the braided rug provide a backdrop for the conversation we will eventually have.
Outside these walls, our fate has become nebulous, and our survival subject to the strength of an enemy we are barely acquainted with. Within these walls, however, we are safe. At this moment, we are safe. Though this safety might be an illusion, it is one we will cling to. What is life if we cannot lie to ourselves?
Taraana is sitting on the floor, leaning against the chair Paheli is curled up on. She is trying to braid his longish hair idly. Nei
ther of them is aware of our scrutiny. Paheli has never shown any romantic interest in anyone before. We don’t yet know what she feels for this boy made of stars, but we are certain her feelings are more than the usual kindness she shows us.
While we wait for Eulalie to return, we listen to Widad sing. She refuses to sing love songs, so we are left listening to nursery rhymes in a variety of languages. She is halfway through “Alouette” when the door to the parlor opens and Eulalie enters. We all turn and look at her, and she stops, suddenly hesitant. “Am I intruding?”
“No, we were waiting for you.” Paheli straightens up, her hands falling away from Taraana’s hair.
Our frivolity melts away with Eulalie’s arrival. What words do we use to tell you how we feel? Scared? Angry that we haven’t yet outrun fear? Predatory because anger makes beasts out of us all? Alive because danger reminds us that we are still alive and we want to remain alive? A mixture of all four and perhaps more? The mixture of our emotions makes a potent drink, and we are all drunk from it.
First, Valentina fills Eulalie in on everything that has occurred, starting from Assi’s invitation all the way to the abduction attempt we interrupted in the Between.
“Can you do something for us?” Paheli asks after Valentina is done.
“Of course, ma chérie,” Eulalie replies immediately. Warmly.
“Will you find out what happened to”—Paheli glances at Taraana—“Assi?” She gestures for Taraana to fill in the details.
“I…” He hesitates, then takes a breath. “Assi and I met on a crisp blue September morning when we were both running for our lives from middle worlders who think our bodies objects to exploit. In the beginning, what we had wasn’t friendship but a forced companionship. Or perhaps charity. She is stronger than me in all ways, plus, she has a good heart that refuses to see me fall to the same demons that chase her. I owe her a lot, but this isn’t the first time I have failed her.” He squeezes his eyes shut in some private anguish. “As time passed, our group of two gradually grew as we took in others targeted by those stronger than them. I fancied that I was growing a group just like…” He looks at us. “You.”