A Tale of Highly Unusual Magic

by Lisa Papademetriou

  “You have a goat?” Rabeea asked, coming over to join them.

  “Well—your goat. The goat I bought. I call her Flower because she has a henna flower on her leg. I got her for Eid,” she explained to Shireen. “She got sick, but she’s better now.”

  “What was wrong with her?” Shireen asked.

  “It ate something,” Rabeea explained. “A plant. Chirragh says it will be no problem for Eid.”

  “Chirragh makes the most delicious goat.” Zain smiled, waggling his eyebrows.

  “Oh, this goat isn’t for eating,” Leila said quickly. “She’s for Eid.”

  Zain laughed as Rabeea and Shireen exchanged a glance.

  “She’s a gift,” Leila explained. “A pet.”

  “Oh,” Shireen said, turning wide eyes to Rabeea.

  “Don’t be stupid,” Rabeea snapped at Leila.

  Zain pursed his lips, but Leila could tell that he was suppressing a smile. Her stomach clenched cold, like fingers over ice.

  Flower is a pet, she thought. Right?

  Right?

  Rabeea stared at her a moment, as if she was about to say something more. Then she seemed to think better of it, and took a deep breath. She turned to the sword at the center of the room. “This is incredible,” she said as she walked away.

  “It’s hand-forged,” Shireen told her, trailing after her friend.

  Zain’s mouth twisted into a smirk that made Leila shudder, so she looked away from him, back at the animal portraits. Then she turned to an image of a sky full of colorful kites. A placard explained about Basant, a kite festival that inspired the image.

  Zain watched Rabeea inspect each piece. The way he smiled at Rabeea told Leila everything she needed to know about why he was at the gallery in the first place.

  Leila was not the star of a Dear Sisters romance. Rabeea might be, but she wasn’t. So much for that adventure.

  Once they had looked at the art, Zain took everyone out for sweets and tea. Leila wasn’t hungry. Leila didn’t ask Rabeea anything else about the goat, not even on the drive home. She couldn’t bear it.

  And so they were silent, each lost in her own thoughts.

  That night, Leila found Samir in the library. He was lying on the couch, propped up with a mountain of pillows snatched from every chair in the room. “Hello,” he said cheerfully, putting aside his book.

  “Where is everyone?” Leila asked.

  “Downstairs,” he replied. “They’re announcing the top ten on Pakistan Idol.”

  “You’re not watching?”

  “I only watch the shows where they sing.” Samir settled back against the pillows. “I detest the elimination shows.”

  Leila looked around the room, and considered asking a few questions about the desk, the books, anything. But that wasn’t why she had come looking for Samir. There was no point in putting it off any longer, and even though she suspected that she knew the answer, she had to force herself to ask the words. “What is Eid al-Adha?”

  Samir’s smile faded under the devastation in her face. “It’s a holiday. When Abraham offered to sacrifice Ismail to God,” he said gently. When Leila didn’t reply, he went on, “It was a test of faith. Allah commanded Abraham to sacrifice his son. When Abraham told Ismail this, he agreed to be sacrified. But when Allah saw that they were faithful, the sacrifice became a ram.” Samir watched her face carefully. “You’ve never celebrated it? You’ve never even heard of it?”

  “I thought Eid was when you gave money, and wore new clothes and stuff.” Beyond the window, for once, the smoke had lifted. Usually, it collected the light from the city, making the night sky almost gray, but tonight it was black as tar.

  Samir sat up. “That’s the other Eid. That comes at the end of Ramadan, Eid-al-Fitr.”

  She felt those words like a cut from a sharp knife: it took a moment to feel the pain. “The other Eid,” she repeated.

  “Yes. In this one, you sacrifice an animal, and give one third to the poor. One third you keep yourself, and a third you give away to friends and family.” Samir closed the book he had been reading and laid it on the table beside the couch. He came and stood beside her. “You didn’t know? Why did you think we wanted a goat?”

  Leila couldn’t tell him. She couldn’t get herself to utter the word pet; it sounded too ridiculous to her now.

  “Where are you going?” Samir called as she raced through the door. “Hey!”

  The image of Zain’s smirk stabbed at her as she flew down the stairs. Dimly, she heard Samir’s voice, and even felt his footsteps following her, but she didn’t look back. She blasted through the fancy kitchen and even Chirragh stepped aside as she tore through the real kitchen and out the rear screen door.

  Flower was her goat. Her goat.

  Her goat darted away as Leila barreled into the yard. “Come here,” Leila said coaxingly. She took a step toward Flower, who leaped backward with a loud bleat. “Come back!” Leila cried. “I’m trying to save you!”

  “What are you doing?” Samir asked as the goat raced around the lawn with Leila chasing it, shouting, “Come back! Come back!”

  “Catch it!” she cried. “Stop it!”

  “Why?”

  Flower leaped and dodged until finally Leila got the idea to corner it. She grabbed a table as Flower neared a corner of the wall. She shoved the table against one wall, and placed her body in the gap.

  “Don’t do that!” Samir warned as Leila leaped forward, shouting, “Got you!”

  But the goat leaped onto the table, and, from there, to the top of the wall.

  Leila would have been amazed at the jump if she weren’t so horrified. “Get down!” she cried, just as the goat leaped down to the other side of the wall. Leila stood facing the wall, as if some part of her expected the goat to leap over again, back into the yard. After a few moments, she turned to face Samir.

  He was baffled. “What were you doing?”

  “I just—I just wanted to help Flower.” Leila looked up at the top of the wall. “It doesn’t matter. I’m glad she’s gone. She’s free.”

  “Until someone finds her and takes her home,” Samir said. “Then she will be their dinner.”

  Leila sat down, right there, on the dark grass. She had not thought of that. Again. The world around her blurred as tears blinded her. I’m such an idiot, she thought. Nadia never would have let this happen. Ever. No wonder Rabeea thinks I’m stupid. No wonder my parents expect so little of me. And Flower—poor Flower!

  Samir sat down beside her. They were silent for a moment as Leila’s tears fell, and fell, and finally cleared. She swiped at her cheeks.

  “I have to go after her,” Leila said at last.

  Samir looked at her closely. Leila waited for the cutting remark, the insult that never came.

  Instead, Samir said, “I’ll come, too.”

  It was dark, but the neighborhood was not quiet. In fact, it was just beginning to come alive as visitors made their way between houses. Still, Leila wasn’t used to being out in the city at night, especially not one that seemed to be unaware of the invention of the sidewalk. A sleek Toyota Camry rolled past, and the driver honked at them. Chirragh shook his fist.

  “Is this a good idea?” Leila whispered to Samir as the servant limped after them, slowing them down. Samir’s father had insisted that the servant come with them, and had made them promise not to journey farther than the nearby mosque.

  Samir turned his cocked eyebrow on her. “Is it a good idea to be out after dark looking for a goat?”

  Leila wiped a damp palm on the pink cotton of her shirt. “Well, I was actually talking about . . .” She glanced over her shoulder, where Chirragh limped and glared. She looked back at Samir and whispered, “him.”

  Samir stopped short. “Are you joking?” His face was a solid fence of surprise.

  “No, I—” Leila sneaked a furtive glance at Chirragh, who had halted at a respectful distance. “Don’t you think he’s scary?”

  Sami
r stared at her, clearly flabbergasted. “Chirragh has worked for our family his whole life! He’s the most trustworthy man in Lahore, and he is very loyal to our family.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “When he was young, Chirragh was a house servant. He was injured in a bus accident, so he couldn’t climb the stairs very well. Many people would have dismissed him, but my grandfather insisted there was a place for him, and then my grandmother taught him how to cook.” Samir’s eyes met hers. “That’s why he’s the best cook in the city.”

  “What would have happened . . . if your grandparents hadn’t let him be the cook?”

  Samir’s right shoulder rose, then dipped. “There are a lot of poor people in this city. And some of them are desperate. I can’t even imagine their lives. . . .” Unconsciously, he looked over at Chirragh. “Sometimes, when servants can’t work, they have to beg. If they get sick, there are no doctors, or they can’t afford them. Some families treat their servants horribly, because they know they won’t dare to leave. But Dada Jaan, our grandfather—he always said that everyone under his roof was his responsibility. Abu and Ami say the same.”

  Leila looked over at Chirragh, who was still waiting and glaring. He lifted his chin sharply, as if to signal that he knew that they were talking about him. As if he were daring them to judge him.

  Leila felt guilty for having been so suspicious, and for assuming he was a villain. That guilt blended to homesickness, and she wished she could drop right through the earth to the other side, to her small, messy, pale purple room. Where things were simple and adventures never happened.

  In the silent moment that followed, an insect with dimly glowing wings jolted awkwardly between them, and flew on.

  Leila watched it begin to disappear up the street.

  They didn’t have to speak. Both she and Samir followed the moth.

  The moth seemed to want to lead them somewhere, as every now and again it would circle back to them and then flutter lurchingly away. They didn’t really know where they were going, so when it turned a corner, they followed. Once they were halfway up the side street, they saw it disappear over a wall.

  “How odd,” Samir said, seemingly to himself.

  A moment later, they heard a strange sound, half moo, half bleat.

  “Flower!” Leila stared at the wall. There were places here and there where bricks stuck out in an artful pattern—it was perfect for a climbing goat. “How can we get in? Should we try to climb over?”

  Samir pressed a bell at the gate. “This is Mamoo’s house,” he explained.

  A small metal peephole was pulled back, and a pair of dark eyes appeared. The height of the window suggested that the speaker was not very tall. Samir and the man on the other side of the gate exchanged words in Urdu, and finally the window was closed again. “This way,” Samir said, motioning to a metal door at the side of the gate.

  Leila followed Samir through the door and was courteously greeted by a small, stoop-shouldered man in a cap and a long gray beard. Chirragh was the last through, and he greeted the man as if they were acquainted. The servant spoke cheerfully and unceasingly to both Samir and Leila, who nodded as if she understood. The small courtyard in front of the house was elegantly bricked and fragrant with flowers.

  Samir spoke a few more words, and the man clapped, then trotted away. Samir trotted after him, and Leila—unsure what was happening or what to do—hurried after them both. Soon, she found herself in a small rear yard, where a goat was bleating, protesting the rope that had been looped around its neck. There were three large urns set on the ground, spilling over with red flowers, which glowed softly with the light of moths. At first, Leila thought that the insects were humming, but after a moment, she realized that the music poured from a nearby window. A fourth urn lay on its side; dirt and red flowers littered the ground. A lone moth sat on one of the scattered flowers. The man pointed to the urn and spoke rapidly, then shook his finger at Flower, who pranced in the corner.

  “He says that the goat knocked it over,” Samir explained.

  Leila looked at the red flowers. It was the same kind that had made Flower sick before. “She’s not a very smart goat, is she?”

  “Smart enough to get away from us,” Samir pointed out.

  After moving the flowerpots a safe distance away, the servant led them into a simple front hallway and through a wooden door. Chirragh remained in the hallway as Leila and Samir tiptoed into the living room. Mamoo was seated in a large gold velvet chair, his eyes half closed as he listened to music that floated on the hiss of a proud-looking, dusty old contraption in the corner. The moth sat at the edge of the wood, perfectly content. Leila and Samir waited until the recording ended and his eyes snapped open.

  He looked at them for a long moment, as if he couldn’t quite place who they were. Then, suddenly, he said, “What brings you here at this time of night?”

  “You’ve got our goat,” Samir told him.

  Mamoo pursed his lips. “That goat is guilty of destruction of property.”

  “He’s already under a death sentence,” Samir pointed out.

  “It’s a her!” Leila wailed. “And we’ve got to save her!”

  “What’s this?” Mamoo cocked an eyebrow, and for a moment, he looked a lot like Samir.

  “I bought the goat,” Leila confessed. “I didn’t know it was supposed to be dinner! It was all just a big, stupid—” Her voice caught, and she couldn’t finish.

  “She feels responsible,” Samir said. He did not actually roll his eyes, but Leila felt she could hear something like it in his voice.

  “It’s my goat.”

  “Are you a vegetarian?” Mamoo asked politely.

  Leila blushed. “No.”

  “Hm,” Mamoo said.

  “That’s different. I’m not responsible for those animals—the ones I eat. I’m not a vegetarian, but I don’t go around killing people’s pets and eating them.” She looked at Samir and his mocking eyebrow. “You don’t get it, do you?”

  “I understand it,” he said. It was gentle, an apology.

  She turned to Mamoo. “Do you get it?”

  “Is it important for me to?” His voice was not cruel.

  “Yes! Well . . .” She thought it over. “No,” Leila decided. “Not as long as you help me, anyway.”

  Mamoo nodded, as if he approved of this answer, and crossed over to the contraption. The moth fluttered for a moment as he wound the crank and placed the needle on the record. The violin began again with its strange, uneven melody and peculiar chirps, and the moth settled back down.

  “What is that?” Leila asked.

  Mamoo smiled dreamily. “Do you like it?”

  “I’m not sure,” Leila admitted, and Samir kicked her. “Yes,” she corrected herself quickly.

  “It’s not to everyone’s taste,” Mamoo said. “This is a recording of my dear auntie.”

  “Who?” Samir looked puzzled.

  “Edwina Auntie,” Mamoo said. Samir still looked puzzled, so he went on, “She was the sister of my father’s employer and dear friend. One very interesting thing about Edwina Auntie is that she came to Lahore with her own coffin.”

  “She was dead?”

  “No,” Mamoo said. “She simply brought a coffin with her. My father told me that Edwina’s guardian was such a miser that he gave it to her instead of a steamer trunk. He was in the coffin trade. Her brother brought a Dictaphone with him. The guardian, apparently, thought it would be useful for Parker’s work, and, therefore, he was willing to spend money on that. This cabinet for it was manufactured at the casket factory, my father claimed. You see, it has the name stamped on the back. American Casket. It’s still in existence, I believe.”

  “Wait—what?” Leila’s mind churned and bubbled, like a wave revealing detritus from the bottom of the sea: American Casket, Edwina, Lahore, brother. . . . “What was Edwina’s last name? What was her brother’s name?”

  Mamoo looked surprised. “Parker Pic
kle was his name. Hers would have been the same.”

  Leila’s knees turned to jelly, and she tried to sink onto the sofa behind her, but she missed the cushion by a fraction of an inch and half sat on the armrest. “Ow.”

  “You seem to have trouble with chairs,” Mamoo observed.

  “Are you okay?” Samir asked.

  Leila slid off the armrest and onto the sofa cushion. “I’m fine, I just—” She looked over at the Dictaphone, and a new thought floated to the surface. “What kind of moth is that?”

  “It’s a Celestial Moth. He likes the music,” Mamoo said. “And the varnish. There’s something in it that the moths seem to like; I’ve often wondered what it might be.”

  Leila couldn’t speak; her mind hummed with the moth and the music.

  “You should test it,” Samir suggested. “Make your students analyze it as a project.”

  Mamoo stroked his mustache. “Yes, I might,” he said thoughtfully. “It is odd—very often, at sundown, one or two will flutter through the window and sit on the cabinet. When I play the music, I often get more. You know, those moths never lived in the Punjab until the turn of the century. My father used to claim that Edwina brought them with her.”

  “That’s weird,” Leila whispered. It’s weird. It’s too weird. She remembered Edwina playing the music and the moth coming to rest on her violin. It’s real magic, Ralph had said. Real. Magic.

  “You look like you might vomit,” Samir observed.

  Leila nodded. “I might,” she admitted.

  Mamoo reached for a delicate little wastepaper basket decorated with a rose and placed it in front of Leila.

  There was no way that she could barf into something so pretty. It sobered her up. “I’m okay,” she said, but she was still trying to make sense of it all. “How did you end up with this Dictaphone?”

  “My father worked with Parker Pickle, as I mentioned. Mr. Pickle had no children, and when he passed away, he left everything to my father.”

  “He died?” Leila wailed.

  “Well, after living in Lahore for forty years,” Mamoo replied. He looked over at Samir, who shrugged, as if to say, “I have no idea why she’s so emotional.”