by Nafiza Azad
“When do you leave?” Ligaya asks.
“You don’t have to leave to avoid this conflict, you know. You can just stay with Eulalie in New Orleans,” Talei says.
“No… Though I’m scared and I probably wouldn’t have made this move if we weren’t running from Baarish, it is time. I want a family. I want to fall in love again. I want to stay in one place. In Marrakech,” Sevda says. “Is that okay?”
“Yeah, don’t worry about it,” Valentina says, getting to her feet. Her face is blank, as is Paheli’s. Neither of them shows how they really feel about Sevda leaving. They must have done this many times before. “Come with me. I will make a call to Eulalie. She’ll send you all the things you need to live in the human world.”
They leave and for a second, we look at the place Sevda was standing in, her absence pulsing painfully for a moment. Then we recalibrate ourselves, change the positions we’re sitting in, take up slightly more space, and we are fine. All right, we’re not fine, but we will be. We’ve learned to let go easily.
“Where do I sleep tonight?” Taraana asks suddenly.
“With the rest of us. Where else would you go?” Areum retorts, raising an eyebrow.
“With all of you?” he repeats, eyes wide.
“Yes. Do you have a problem with that?” Ligaya says with a grin.
“Well…” Taraana peeks at Paheli, flushing. “Not quite?”
“Half of us don’t consider you romantic material, and the other half know where your affections lie.” Talei chucks him under his chin, and he buries his face in his hands.
“Am I that obvious?” he mumbles. The tips of his ears are very red.
“Yes.” Daraja giggles.
“Why doesn’t she seem to get it, then?” he asks, glancing at Paheli.
We pause and consider her. She is lying on the floor of the living room with her eyes closed, pretending to be asleep. We know she is fully aware of the conversation happening around us.
“You should ask her that,” Kamboja suggests with a naughty grin.
“You should not,” Paheli replies, immediately opening her eyes. “You should not ask her that at all.” She sits up.
“Ask Ahlam if the rooftop is free,” she says to us. “Let’s celebrate Sevda tonight before she leaves.”
Paheli: The Atlas Mountains, the Cozy Rooftop, and the Confession, Possibly of Love
Night falls abruptly in Marrakech. We head for the open rooftop of the riad. Someone is playing the oud somewhere, and from a distance we can hear the beat of a darabukka. The air is full of movement, and the night is full of pockets of adventure we would be having if Baarish weren’t after us.
Instead, we stay in and we celebrate Sevda under Marrakech’s night sky. We celebrate the life she has lived and the life she will live. We celebrate the past she has overcome. We feast on Moroccan oranges and an assortment of baklava. Widad sings a song about leaving, and we sing along because goodbyes are always bittersweet; we will miss Sevda as we miss all our sisters. As I miss all of them. Even the ones I can’t remember.
I want to miss Valentina, too, but she refuses to leave.
Ghufran puts on music and Valentina dances in the orange lamplight. The night kisses her curves and makes me jealous I don’t have any. When we have sung and danced our fill, we sit and talk about the times we have spent with Sevda, the places we have been, the memories we have created. She will forget them all. She will forget me. Eventually, all of them will forget me.
Then the girls slip away, one by one or in groups, leaving me alone with Taraana on the rooftop under a sky heavy with stars. We sit on a roofed swing, curled up under the same blanket, gazing at the immensity of the Atlas Mountains, dark in the distance.
Somewhere, a clock strikes midnight. In the street below, someone laughs.
Midnight has a scent in Marrakech. It smells like oranges with faint notes of panic. I take a deep breath but fail to find the peace I am looking for. I haven’t planned this out, but I can’t keep it in any longer.
“Taraana?”
“Hmm?” He sounds sleepy. This is probably not the right time. Maybe I should wait. No, if I wait, I will throw up all the dessert I ate, and that would be a shame. He opens his eyes and looks at me. “What is it? Do you have to throw up?”
How rude. He doesn’t understand a girl’s heart. “I have an answer for you,” I tell him.
“What? Wait. What?” He sits up straight and stares at me with a panicked face. Good. I’m not the only one panicking right now. Hah.
“Do you want to hear it?” I can’t believe I’m doing this. I haven’t been a teenager for a long time, on the inside, I mean, but it feels like I’m one right now. My heart is about to give up the ghost, all the ghosts that haunt me, any minute now. My hands are cold and my mouth is dry. This might be the stupidest idea I’ve ever had.
“Yes. No. I don’t know!” he says helplessly.
“Fine. I will keep it to myself,” I say, and sniff. I am secretly glad, though.
“No, no, I didn’t mean that. I want to know.” He catches my hand. There goes my secret gladness. “Please?”
“First, can I tell you about myself?” I pretend I can still stop. I can still walk away.
He nods; the stars in his eyes are glowing.
“I…” Wow. This is going to hurt. “I was in a very dark place the day you tossed me the box of stars. I don’t know if I’ll ever forgive you for seeing me at my lowest, though in all the ways that matter, I’m glad you did. Do you know what I mean?” He nods. I continue. “I escaped into the Between right after, but I knew nothing about it. I stayed there for a week, cowering in a corner. Shattered. Hurt both physically and emotionally. Eulalie was the only one who stopped and asked me if I was okay. She insisted on taking me out and to her home. She took care of me. Nursed me. Held me in her arms when I cried and stopped me when I tried to die. I owe her as big of a debt as I owe you, and yet, I can barely answer the love she shows me.” I meet his eyes and almost cry at the softness in them. “I’m broken that way.
“Eulalie is nothing like my mother. My mother, that woman…” I swallow and try again. “My mother sold me to a rich man who raped me. And Eulalie is nothing like that. She would never do anything like that. In my mind, I know that, but my heart, you see? My heart is convinced that if I lower my walls and let her in, she will hurt me. It has been so long, and I am still scared that she will hurt me. And you…” I clench my fists. “You are the best person I know. You are good. In a really horribly sincere way. And I am not. I am not good, nor do I intend to be. No, don’t say anything. Hear me out. I didn’t kill the man who raped me, but I made him wish he were dead. It was entirely too easy to do. Hurting him gave me pleasure. I am not sorry about that. I won’t be sorry about that.
“And, I’m just saying this, but if it turns out that there’s no way to defeat Baarish other than by killing him, I will make that decision. Because that’s how bad I am.” I turn away from Taraana. I am afraid to meet his eyes, so I address his chin. “So, the answer to your question, if you still want it after everything I’ve said, is that yes, I could love you. Maybe I already do a little. I think I could try? The thought terrifies me, and I can’t promise a happy ending. Do you still maybe… want me?”
His arms are around me long before I finish speaking. I press my face into his chest and listen to his heart thunder.
From the Book of MEMORIES
DARAJA
CITY OF ORIGIN: BENIN CITY
When I think of my father
a wounded lion in
my chest
roars and roars.
Souks, Spices, and Survival: A Guide into Chaos
Sevda’s gone when we wake up the next morning. The only thing that remains of her is the star that she used to wear on the palm of her hand. She has left a note that simply says, Thank you, and I’m sorry.
We stare at the note for a long moment. All of us have different feelings and for a brief second, our sangu
inity slips. Then we look at Taraana, who is all but dripping with guilt and concern, and we smile at him, reassuring him, and in the process reassuring ourselves. Valentina says that Sevda’s in one of the rooms meant for the women for whom the riad is a haven. We don’t go to see her.
Eulalie magicked her papers over, and when Sevda wakes up, she will have a new identity and enough money to start a new life wherever she pleases. She won’t remember us, nor will she remember the life she escaped from. A new narrative, one of her own choosing, will take the place of her old one.
We break our fast in the courtyard under a piercing blue sky. A long table is packed with freshly squeezed fruit juice, mint tea, bread, pancakes made from semolina, eggs, various kinds of jams, goat cheese, honey, olives, and pomegranates. The flavors are sharp, and each bite reminds us that we are alive.
Ahlam comes to us after we finish breakfast. Her sources have found Farroukh, and she offers to send a guide to take us to his shop, but we refuse the help. So she simply tells us the vicinity in which his shop is located. We ask Taraana to stay behind, but he is adamant on accompanying us. Since Baarish’s creatures still think we’re in Chefchaouen, we concede to his demand.
* * *
Half an hour later, dressed in airy caftans and a djellaba in Taraana’s case, we venture out of the riad, toward the fabled souks of Marrakech.
Wandering the souks of Marrakech is like taking a walk through a zoo where the animals have escaped. Sheer, unadulterated chaos. The souks are Aladdin’s caves, filled with immense treasure and some junk. We have spent many hours in here previously, willingly losing ourselves in its labyrinthine landscapes.
We walk on the right side of the road to avoid the constant traffic. The motorcyclists are not particular whether the road they use has pedestrians or not; there are many near-collisions as we walk from our riad to the entrance of the souks. The din in the city is gaining momentum, and though the Jemaa el-Fna is mostly empty at this hour, the afternoon will bring the street performers out in force. When the sun sets, the food carts will open for business, and we will be present to provide them with some.
The souks are not entirely untamed wilderness. They are frequently organized by the products they have for sale. Some sell all the types of olives you will ever want to eat; some sell mounds of spices in fantastic colors and with sharp smells; and others sell shiny things that make our hearts beat faster. Taraana, as usual, is looking around in wide-eyed wonder, his starry eyes visible to the world. Valentina pinches him and he puts the spectacles back on. There are numerous middle worlders around, but there are just as many humans in the area. No one seems to have paid him too much attention, so we relax our vigilance slightly.
The plan was to go straight to Farroukh’s store, but we get distracted along the way and spend a couple of hours browsing. We sample desserts and street food to sate our hunger during lunchtime and go farther into the souks. We come across a stall that sells nothing but empty birdcages carved in the most exquisite of patterns. Taraana won’t step close to one, so we move on to a stall that only sells wooden spoons. We are visible to the human proprietors of these stalls, and they give us grievously wounded looks when we don’t purchase anything. So, of course, Daraja goes on a shopping spree; her soft heart is easily moved.
“Wasn’t there a conjury store here the last time we visited?” Areum asks Paheli. “Let’s go see if it’s still there.”
She nods. “Yeah, it was in the area that exclusively sells beads. But I don’t remember what the conjurer’s name is.”
“I do,” Valentina replies with a twist of her lips. “Bahir. I remember him and his anguish really well.”
“It wasn’t that bad!” Paheli protests. “Only the conjuries made of paper caught fire.”
“The majority of them were made from paper, Paheli,” Etsuko says patiently.
Taraana turns his head so Paheli won’t see him laughing, but Ligaya snitches on him.
“I’m not laughing at you!” he says, laughing at her.
“You are lying, aren’t you?” Paheli glares at him.
“Yeah,” he replies sunnily.
She turns away after sniffing haughtily and starts walking faster, going ahead of us. “Let’s go see if that store still exists.” We follow quietly; it doesn’t take us long to reach the area where the store was located. Old craftsmen and women sit in tiny stalls squinting at the pieces they are working on. All of us are moved to buy something sparkling from each of the stalls we pass.
Suddenly, Paheli freezes and gestures for us to move back. We obey without hesitation, turning back and retracing our steps without changing our expressions or revealing any distress. Paheli doesn’t stop walking until we are at least a kilometer away from the area.
“What was it?” Valentina asks.
“The store was closed, and there were middle-world creatures wearing armor bearing an insignia of some sort, standing guard outside the emptied store,” she says with a frown on her face.
“Let’s just go and find the son of that conjurer from Chefchaouen. Wouldn’t he be our best bet?” Widad asks.
Paheli nods. “At this point, yeah.”
“Is that really a good idea?” Talei asks. “Perhaps one of us should accompany Taraana back—”
“I’m not leaving,” Taraana says with a particular set to his lips.
“Taraana,” Paheli says.
“No,” he replies.
Paheli sighs and gives us a look. We, understanding her unspoken request, immediately surround Taraana, hiding him in the center.
Old Mahmoud’s son, Farroukh, sells in Marrakech what his father used to sell in Chefchaouen: shiny silver pots and pans. The store is sizable; one side is dedicated to the pots and pans, and the other side sells drinks. We’re inured to surprise and accept the strange pairing.
Valentina orders us drinks, and while we wait to be served, we peruse a selection of trays on the side. Most are made from exquisitely carved wood with Moroccan landscapes painted on them. A large number feature the streets of Chefchaouen.
“Look,” Kamboja says, pointing to one. The scene painted on the tray is of the Chefchaouen street on which the store selling the conjuries was located. The tree with its branches spread is impossible to mistake. We look at the proprietor, a dark man of about forty years with a pleasant face and a gentle demeanor.
He notices our gaze and, smiling, walks over to us. “Is there something we can help you with?”
“This is going to sound strange,” Paheli says, “but did your father’s shop in Chefchaouen burn down the day before yesterday?”
The man’s face changes dramatically when he hears her question. His eyes narrow and his hands close into fists. “Did you have something to do with it?”
Paheli rolls her eyes. “Give my intelligence some credit. We are the ones who asked the grandmother to phone you to keep your father from returning home. Did you?”
The man’s suspicion doesn’t fall away, but the hostility in him eases slightly. “Why do you want to know?”
“We have business with him,” Valentina says.
The man looks at all of us, perhaps trying to gauge the threat we present. “Is he really in danger?” he whispers.
“Yeah. If the people who are looking for him find him, they’ll kill him,” Paheli says, not bothering to soften the blow.
The man’s face blanches. “Wh-who is after him?”
“We can’t tell you. We’ll speak to him, though,” Paheli says. “The less you know, the safer you will be.”
The man rubs his cheeks; the gesture reveals his anxiety. He doesn’t fully trust us, and we can’t really blame him. We wait for him to decide. Finally, he does.
“He’s in the back room,” he says in a ragged whisper. “I don’t know if he’ll talk to you. My father is… somewhat eccentric.”
“Please lead us to him,” Paheli says. The man hesitates again but then bids us to wait while he checks with his father.
A minu
te later, he returns. “You may go in,” he says to us. Kamboja, Areum, and Ligaya stay behind as lookouts, while the rest of us go through the door. In a dim room with no windows and only a naked light bulb hanging from the ceiling is a very old man hunched over a table, working on something.
The makers of human conjury are usually people with elastic wills. At least that’s what our limited and faulty experience has shown us. They’re not particularly strong or brave; they are just able to shift intention from their mind to an object and anchor it there. It’s not exactly magic. Not the magic we know. These makers also sense the middle world, but not all of them are able to see it. They just seem to know that there’s more to the world than their eyes show them.
The din in the market outside fades, and the air gains a still quality. Paheli sits in the chair opposite the old man, and we stand behind and beside her. The old man peers at us with his bloodshot eyes.
“Who are you?” he whispers. From the pulse ticking under his eye, we can tell he senses something awry about us.
“Let us ask the questions, baba,” Paheli says with a smile. She leans forward, elbows on the table, a palm of her hand cupping the side of her face.
“What do you want?” Old Mahmoud says, his fingers drifting to a folded-up notepaper on the table.
“Is that conjury?” Valentina asks, and the old man starts, his fingers retreating from the paper. The question is unnecessary. The paper has a telltale purple aura.
“What are you talking about?” he blusters. “I don’t know what a conjury is!” His eyes are wide with panic. Ah, so the old man isn’t quite as oblivious to the middle world as we thought. He must have been previously warned by someone.
“We don’t mean you any harm,” Paheli replies, her voice calm. Soothing, even.
He gives us a suspicious look. “You think I will believe you when you say that? I don’t make talismans anymore. Stop bothering me!”