The Oyster Thief

by Sonia Faruqi

  “Agreed,” said Saiph.

  “And your update, Izar?” Antares asked. Izar wondered whether he’d imagined it, but a note of hope seemed to have lifted Antares’s voice at the end.

  Izar leaned forward in his chair, his fingers tense around his cigar. He’d waited six long years to make his announcement, but now that the time had come, he found he did not have the words. “Castor’s ready,” was all he managed.

  Antares bolted out from behind his desk and squashed Izar in a hug.

  The smell of smoke was strong on Antares, every pore exuding it—it made Izar think viscerally of Castor. He clutched Antares back and breathed deeply, feeling that a massive weight had been lifted off him. So heavily had Castor weighed on his mind that it was as though the twenty-foot-tall robot had been standing on him all these years. But every failure and disappointment Izar had undergone during his underwater-fire mission, each of the thousands of hours he’d spent on Castor—were all worth it, just for this one embrace from his father. He would do anything, invent anything, even another moon, to win Antares’s approval.

  When Antares returned to his chair, Izar fell into his own seat, dazed with happiness.

  “Thirty-five years ago, when I was younger than both of you,” Antares said, “I started Ocean Dominion, with no more than the spare change in my pocket. For almost all of Ocean Dominion’s existence, the company was a fishing enterprise. Then, two years ago, you, Izar, tripled our revenues when you created our second division, Oil. Our stock price multiplied tenfold in response, such that it sits at an astounding one thousand dollars today.”

  A warmth flooded Izar’s chest.

  “From the company’s very first days, I dreamt of one day plundering the oceans for precious metals and minerals. Today, you’re making my dream a reality, Izar. You’re leading us single-handedly to our third bloodline of business. Your underwater-fire breakthrough will enable us to mine for jewels not in depleted mountains but in the depths of the seabed. Think of how much more valuable a pound of gold or diamonds is in comparison to a pound of oil, let alone a pound of fish. We’re going to make trillions of dollars, boys—trillions—all thanks to you, Izar.”

  The glow on Izar’s face rivaled that on the tip of his cigar, resulting more from Antares’s praise than from the prospect of wealth beyond measure. Izar did not particularly care for more money, for there was nothing in his life he would change with it. He viewed excess wealth as an umbrella—useful on rainy days but otherwise unworthy of much contemplation.

  Turning to Saiph, Antares asked, “Is Castor’s patent ready?”

  “Yes.” Saiph’s teeth flashed white below chiseled cheekbones. “The Patent Office originally gave Ocean Dominion a patent for one year, but I paid an acquaintance to pull some strings and extend it to two years.”

  The patent was the one area of Castor’s life in which Izar had played no role. Antares had assigned the matter to Saiph from the beginning, to Izar’s relief. Managing relationships with external stakeholders, associates, and allies was Saiph’s territory. Saiph inherently knew whom to talk to, how to get things done, how to keep the right people dancing about his thumbs.

  “A two-year patent!” Antares exclaimed. His smile revealed tobacco-stained teeth, and his fist pounded the table, sloshing whisky over the rim of his glass. “Two years, before any other company can start mining the oceans for gold and diamonds. By the end of the patent, there’ll be nothing left for anyone else!” Antares guffawed, white smoke surrounding his mirth in the shadows of dusk. “Our stock price will sky-rocket when I announce our third division, Precious Metals and Minerals. When shall I hold the press conference?”

  “We’re drilling oil again in a few days,” Izar said, thinking out loud, “on the fifteenth of July. The day happens to mark exactly two years since we began the Oil division. As such, I think the evening of the fifteenth—the two-year milestone of our second division—would be an opportune time to announce the launch of our third division.”

  “That sounds fine,” Antares said. “But stock prices rumble when press conferences are canceled. A cancelation won’t be needed, will it?”

  “No. I give you my word.”

  Izar tried to avoid it, but his gaze traveled to the framed picture of Maia on Antares’s desk. There was a perfunctory aspect to her presence in Antares’s office—her picture was something necessary but not necessarily wanted, like the coatrack on which Antares’s black suit jacket hung. She’d had dark, shoulder-length hair, a haughty chin, and charred-kale eyes that Saiph had inherited. Though he’d been only three when he’d first met her, Izar still remembered how her face had cooled when she’d seen him—it had been like custard hardening. “He belongs to one of your mistresses,” she’d said to Antares, without anger, without vehemence, as though she were simply stating a fact.

  “He’s the son of one of my fishermen,” Antares had retorted. “I rescued him from the clutches of merpeople. You’ll see an article about it in Menkar Daily tomorrow morning.”

  Maia had been opposed to Antares’s desire to adopt Izar, but, for a reason Izar still didn’t understand, Antares had insisted. Maia had nonetheless continued to resent Izar’s “illegitimate” presence in her home. To keep him out of her sight, she’d given him a storage closet in the basement as a bedroom. She’d hired the best tutors money could buy for Saiph; Izar had had to make do with Saiph’s old school textbooks and uniforms. But Saiph’s grades had still rarely exceeded mediocre, whereas Izar’s had always been stellar, without his actively trying.

  At school, Saiph and his friends had chased Izar as cats chase a mouse, and Izar had escaped like a mouse, darting into any alley, into any trash can, into any corner he could fit in. Antares had been the only one who’d been kind to Izar in those childhood years, but he’d rarely been home, returning home late every night, sometimes smelling of stale perfume. Izar’s moments with him had felt coveted and stolen, like crumbs of bread rather than a slice; he’d always felt hungry after, but crumbs were all he’d had.

  By the time Izar had become an adolescent, his intellectual curiosity had shifted from his textbooks to the way things worked. He would sit on the floor of his storage closet, ringed by a fortress of rubble and parts. One night, when he was sixteen, Maia discovered him with his head and hands in the hood of her luxury car.

  Tugging his hands out, she’d slapped his face.

  “I just wanted to know how the engine works,” he’d protested in a hurt voice.

  Antares’s car had pulled onto the cobblestone driveway just then.

  “Your mistress’s son is trying to kill me,” Maia had snapped at him.

  “I’m losing patience with you,” Antares had said in a tightly controlled voice, stepping out of his car. “I think you should visit a psychiatrist. I’ll take you to one myself tomorrow.”

  “Don’t bother! I’m going to meet with a divorce attorney first thing tomorrow morning.”

  But she’d never made it to a divorce attorney’s office—her car had exploded on the highway. She’d died instantly.

  The Office of the Police Commissioner of Menkar had opened an investigation into the case. The prosecution had fought to send Izar to jail for life, but Antares had settled the case out of court: He’d paid moustachioed chief police commissioner Canopus Corvus half a million dollars to bury the case. Izar had felt as small as a worm in those days. Not only had he killed Antares’s wife, even if by accident—though, to this day, he could not fathom how his brief exploration had resulted in an explosion—but Antares had had to spend heftily to save him.

  Now, Izar met Antares’s gaze across the mahogany desk. Antares’s steel-gray eyes wore a strange look—Izar knew they were both thinking of Maia’s funeral.

  Antares had wept that day as Izar had never seen a grown man weep, as he hoped to never again see a grown man weep. It was at Maia’s funeral that Izar had learned that love could be contradictory and conflicting and flawed, and it was then that he’d determined t
hat his love, if he were ever to love a woman, would be neither contradictory nor conflicting nor flawed—it would be a pure, clear river flowing consistently over both rocks and shallows.

  3

  A Constellation of Stars

  Coralline tucked Naiadum’s blanket around his shoulders.

  “Read me a story!” he demanded, his pudgy cheeks pink with anticipation.

  “Yesterday, I read you The Wandering Cardinalfish,” she said, tousling his golden hair, so like their mother’s. “What would you like me to read you today?”

  She ran her index finger over the spines of story books stacked on his bedside table: The Sneaky Snipefish, The Sly Sergeant Major, and The Legend of the Elixir.

  Turning his head to examine the titles, he piped, “The Legend of the Elixir.”

  Coralline had been hoping he’d select one of the other two, but she nodded and opened the requested book on her lap.

  “The story of the elixir is the oldest legend of the ocean,” she read aloud in a deep voice. “The elixir is a life-saving potion made of starlight, prepared by a magician named Mintaka. Over the millennia, countless individuals have embarked on quests for the elixir, in order to save the life of a loved one, but only a rare few have succeeded in finding Mintaka and her elusive elixir. Even those who have succeeded are said to have been doomed, in a sense, for the elixir is a blessing that comes accompanied by a curse—”

  “Is this legend a true story?” Naiadum asked, his amber-gold eyes wide.

  “No one knows for certain, but I can’t imagine how it would be a true story. I can’t imagine how an elixir can be made of starlight.”

  “Me neither.”

  Coralline smiled. Though he was only eight, Naiadum sometimes thought like a detective, reminding her of Ecklon.

  “Do you know anyone who’s found the elixir?” Naiadum pursued.

  “No one has found it in my lifetime, but I did hear someone found it about thirty years ago. . . . Now, let’s continue with the story: The curse varies based on the individual—”

  “I don’t like The Legend of the Elixir,” Naiadum pouted.

  “I don’t blame you. I don’t understand why it’s even considered a children’s story.” Coralline fell silent for a moment, then said, “Do you know who I’m going to miss more than anyone else when I get married and leave home?”

  “Who?”

  “You.” She wouldn’t watch him grow up a little every day, she wouldn’t help him with his homework, she wouldn’t read him bedtime stories every night.

  “I’ll miss you too.” Frowning, he pulled his blanket up to his chin.

  “What’s the matter, Naiadum?”

  “I can’t sleep these days.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because you’re leaving.”

  He looked suddenly deflated, smaller under his blanket. Tears welled in Coralline’s eyes, and her lower lip quivered, but, manufacturing a smile, she said conspirationally, “Want to know my secret to falling asleep every night?”

  “What?” he asked, his eyes bright again.

  “Looking at the stars.”

  “But there are no stars in the ocean.”

  “There are.”

  Coralline looked up at the luciferin orbs traversing the low, dome-shaped ceiling like slow-motion comets. Strings of light pulsed within the glassy spheres, casting a white-blue glow over the room. “You know a story I tell myself every night?” she whispered.

  It created the effect she’d desired. “What?” Naiadum whispered back.

  “I pretend each luciferin orb is a galaxy of stars, and the galaxies are traveling the universe.”

  Naiadum contemplated the orbs newly, his eyes reflecting their glow. “How do luciferin orbs create light?” he asked. “Is it magic?”

  “Not quite. The orbs are full of a bacteria that contains luciferin, a compound that generates light in the presence of oxygen, assisted by an enzyme called luciferase. Luciferin light is a form of bioluminescence, which means light created by living organisms. You know, I’ve always found it fascinating that among the smallest entities in the universe, bacteria, can produce what is otherwise produced by the largest entities: stars.”

  Naiadum looked hopelessly confused. She should have provided him with a simpler explanation, Coralline thought, one more suited to his age. He pondered the orbs, then his gaze returned to hers. “I’ve never seen the sky before,” he said. “I want to look at real stars, not pretend-stars. Can we go up to the surface now and look at the stars?”

  “No!” Gathering her breath, Coralline tried to hide her alarm at his suggestion. “The surface is not safe. Humans are often there in their ships, with fishnets ready to trap and kill.”

  “But I want to crest,” he whined. “When can I crest?”

  “In eight years, when you turn sixteen.”

  “Why can’t I crest sooner?”

  “Because the Children Anti-Cresting Act of the Under-Ministry of Youth Matters forbids it.”

  His face fell.

  “You’re not missing out, Naiadum. I crested when I was sixteen, and I certainly never want to return to the surface again.”

  Coralline hadn’t even wanted to crest, but her mother had insisted, for it was tradition to crest on the day one turned sixteen. Her parents had cheered her nervously from below as her head had broken out over the waves, her neck remaining submerged so that her gills could continue to breathe. The sky had been empty and the sun piercing, and the rays of light had pricked her pupils and wrung hot tears from her eyes. The waves had thrashed her about, and she’d found their temper appropriate—the surface was violent, like the men who trod upon it.

  “But how will anyone know if I swim up to the surface?” Naiadum asked.

  “I’ll know.”

  “Not if you’re not looking,” he said, a mischievous glint in his eye.

  “I’ll always be looking for you.” Coralline brushed his hair off his forehead. “Dreams are for after you sleep, not before. Now, admire the stars in your room and close your eyes, you dreaming crester.”

  “I adore Yacht,” gushed Ascella Auriga. “It’s such an artfully designed restaurant. I even love the name. Did you know, I practically grew up on yachts? Daddy owned such a large fleet of them.”

  Izar cast a glance about him. The restaurant’s dark, gold-specked floor tiles were polished enough to double as mirrors. Black pillars soared toward the ceiling, vaulted with birds perched on leafless branches, poised to fly but caged into sculptured stillness.

  His chair was wide and cushioned, but he sat as stiffly as though upon an iron bench. He had no choice but to be here; it was the most expensive restaurant in Menkar, and thus Ascella’s favorite restaurant. Their first date had been here. Since then, the place had become a monthly ritual for them; now, they sat across from each other at their twelfth dinner here, celebrating Ascella’s birthday.

  On their first date, Izar had glanced at the patrons at other tables and felt ashamed of his crinkled suit, with its faint smell of combustion fumes, his shoes, their soles filthy and scraped, and his belt, its leather wearing like rubber from an old tire. He’d almost choked to see the tab at the end of the dinner—two thousand dollars. Their next visits to Yacht had seen him gradually changed, with clean nails, creamed hair, and tailor-made suits.

  His transformation had been aided by a morbidly obese etiquette consultant who, over the course of several tedious hours-long sessions, had instructed him on the pairing of wines with food, the utensils to use for different courses, and the advantages of setting up advance tabs at restaurants. Izar had never told Ascella about the etiquette consultant. To her, etiquette and social graces happened naturally—there was no more need to teach them than to teach walking. But indulgent dining was not Izar’s first language the way it was hers—the consultant had helped him interpret some of its mysterious undertones.

  As Izar had invented Castor in his Invention Chamber, he had reinvented himself in order to be a
dmitted to Yacht. At his Chamber, he flashed an identification card to gain admittance; at Yacht, he flashed a credit card. As Castor had had many iterations, Izar had improved himself each time he’d been here. And each time, he’d hoped to feel comfortable, as though he belonged, but it had not yet happened. At the moment, he felt as constrained as though his silver-gray tie were a noose. He would much rather have eaten take-out dinner on the floor of his Invention Chamber than dine at Yacht.

  “This coming week will be incredibly busy and eventful for me at work,” Ascella said.

  In the champagne glow of the chandelier, Izar thought her ear-length hair resembled pale gold silk. He found himself admiring her silver-sequined, floor-length designer gown, held up by a single strap.

  “Tarazed arrives tomorrow—”

  “Tarazed?” Izar asked.

  “Yes, remember? I told you.” Ascella’s eyes glimmered the cold, pale blue of morning frost, and her poppy-red lips puckered. “We’re hosting a special exhibition for Tarazed next week at my art gallery, Abstract. Tarazed is the world’s most renowned modern expressionist.”

  “Right. Of course. I remember Tarazed now.”

  Izar had seen pictures of the flamboyant forty-year-old painter in newspapers. He had dark hair and dark eyes and cheeks that sprouted with stubble like a profusion of weeds. He wore shirts that resembled the jarring lines of his artwork, but little of their design was visible in the photos Izar had seen—numerous women were always hanging over his arms.

  Izar had forgotten about Tarazed only because he was distracted by thoughts of Castor. Throughout dinner, he’d been waiting for an opportunity to tell Ascella that he’d invented underwater fire, but they were now on their dessert course, a square of cocoa-dusted hazelnut tart, and she’d been speaking incessantly about art.