by Jenya Keefe
“Do you refer to the movie? I watched it. I didn’t really understand it.”
“Oh, no, no, don’t watch the movie,” he said, wiping his eyes. “Don’t send Grease to the Otherworld. They’ll obliterate us with death-magic.”
“They wouldn’t. We don’t obliterate people,” said Oberon, possibly not realizing that Ángel was joking. “I’ve already obtained her permission to send the song, though. We spoke on the phone.”
“You talked to Olivia Newton-John on the phone?”
“She seemed quite nice.”
Ángel made the mistake of staring at him. Oberon stared back. His eyes shone like citrines, the way a leopard in a tree watches an antelope.
Ángel groped for a topic to help them move past the awkward moment. “You don’t seem to have any Cuban music.”
“I would like some,” said Oberon. “My collection of popular music is skewed toward American artists; it would be good to include more from other cultures. Will you make me a list? I’ll buy some.”
“You could just tell Evanston to give me my phone back,” suggested Ángel. “I have a lot.”
“You brought a phone?”
Was Oberon’s voice cooler? Ángel nodded. Oberon pulled the latest model iPhone out of the pocket of his shirt and leaned back in his chair, crossing his ankles, delicately tapping the touch screen as he made a call. “Good evening, Chandler,” he said. “Very well, thank you. Ángel wants the songs from his phone. Will you please upload them to the house computer? Yes, that will be fine.” He rang off, glancing down at Ángel. “Will that do?”
Feeling outmaneuvered, Ángel said, “Uh-huh, thanks.” He silently watched the music list between his hands expand as his own songs appeared, one by one: Celia Cruz. Pérez Prado. Buena Vista Social Club. The Afro-Cuban All Stars.
The incident was an awkward reminder that he didn’t understand his status here. Was he a guest? Employee? Prisoner? Sex slave?
“You seem comfortable with computers,” he said.
“We don’t have them at home,” said Oberon. “I’ve had to learn.”
“How do you send the music home?”
“With spells. I’ll show you, if you like.”
Ángel wasn’t sure he could handle spells, after everything else. He stood up. “Actually, I’m kind of tired. I guess I’ll turn in for tonight.”
“Keep that tablet,” said Oberon. “Your room has speakers, like this one, so you can listen to music there.”
Ángel nodded. The tablet had a wi-fi connection. “I’d like . . .” he said, hesitantly. “Could I use this to email my friend Marissa? I want to let her know I’m okay.”
“Is she on Chandler’s approved list?”
“Yes. She got clearance from the DOR.”
“Very well. All emails from that tablet go to Chandler; she’ll make sure it’s safe before forwarding it on. She gets all incoming emails too, of course.”
“Of course she does.” Ángel glanced at Oberon doubtfully from under his eyebrows. “Is that really necessary?”
“You don’t think it is?”
“No, it’s not,” Ángel said. “The DOR researched me and Marissa both. You know we’re not connected to any plot against you.”
“No, but you’re connected to me,” said Oberon. “By asking you to come here, I brought you into considerable peril. If the people who want to hurt me learn that you are here, they could try to get at me by hurting you. They could try to get at you by hurting those you love. Secrecy keeps both you and your friends safe.”
It had never actually occurred to Ángel that he might be in danger from anyone except Oberon. He wasn’t sure he believed he was, but then he remembered the brick-throwing sign-wavers that Chandler had showed him, and the back of his neck prickled.
“Chandler is very good at what she does. You should trust her,” added Oberon.
“Right. Okay. Um, thanks for the . . .” Ángel waved a hand vaguely around his head, to indicate the music.
Oberon copied the gesture with his own long hand. It looked absurd, and Ángel bristled, wondering again if he were being mocked. But Oberon said only, “You are welcome.”
“Okay. Good night.”
“You may come to my room tonight, if you’d like.”
Ángel’s throat closed with fear. He managed to say, “Thanks. No. I’ll just, um—”
Clutching the tablet, he escaped.
In his peacock room, he closed the door and slid bonelessly down it to collapse on the floor, where he spent several minutes shaking.
He calmed down by looking around the room. Peacocks were painted on the murky green walls in shiny gold and purple paint. The hangings on the four-poster king-size bed were embroidered, in gold thread, with peacock feathers. In the corner slumped a soft purple leather armchair like a cluster of grapes. It was hideous, but soothingly dark and quiet.
After a while he managed to get up. He took off his shirt—he was going to need to do laundry soon, the way he kept fear-sweating through his clothes—and sat cross-legged in the center of the bed. He took up the tablet and found a Django Reinhardt collection in Oberon’s music library, and set it to play on low volume. He shot off quick status emails to his brothers, Ned and Michael, and then began to compose a longer one for Marissa.
Knowing that Chandler Evanston would be reading and censoring it—knowing that the envoy would have access to it, if he wanted—made it hard to write. He described his journey without telling her exactly where he was; described the house in terms too vague to convey how funny it was; barely mentioned Oberon at all. He let her know that all emails were going through security, since it seemed rude not to warn her, and ended with a plea to hear from her soon and a fervent Wish you were here. And then a postscript:
That reminds me: I introduced the cultural envoy from the Otherworld to Pink Floyd. Not sure how it went over. I think he might be more of a classical kind of guy.
Dissatisfied, he hit Send.
He tossed aside the tablet, turned off the music, and lay back on the bed, exhausted but too wired to sleep, his mind still whirling with questions. Eventually he got up, found his guitar in the closet, took it out of its case, and tuned it. It was an old Martin that he’d bought at a pawnshop in Ocala: not much to look at, a scuffed cutaway six-string with a cracked tortoiseshell guard and a loose pickup. But it played like a dream, warm-toned and vibrant, familiar as a lover under his fingers.
He noodled on the guitar for a while, trying to do Django Rheinhardt, stopping when fatigue made his fingers sloppy.
His eyes wandered over the details of the hideous peacock décor. Were the other bedrooms this bad? Or worse?
“Mine is at the end of the hall, on the left. You are welcome to come there whenever you wish.”
He shivered, and his gaze fell across the dark monitor panel on the wall.
Returning the Martin to its case, he went over to the panel and turned it on. After a few minutes’ exploration he figured out the interface and scrolled through the feeds.
Kitchen: empty. Gym, foyer, dining room, music room, staircase, all empty. Office: Oberon was there, sitting at his big desk. There was a volume knob on the control panel: so the rooms had mikes, as well as cameras. Ángel switched it on, and from hidden speakers he could hear the music that Oberon was listening to. Perez Prado, probably from Ángel’s phone.
Ángel, uncomfortable watching Oberon, rapidly flipped to the next feed, which was his own bedroom. And there he was, live, watching himself on the monitor.
He turned around, trying to see the camera. It must be in the crown molding over the purple armchair.
He looked back at the monitor. It displayed a nice clear picture of the top of his head, his bare back and arms, hair tucked behind an ear and curling over his shoulders. He snapped his fingers, heard the crisp snap on the speakers.
The camera gave a good view of the center of the bed.
Unacceptable. The thought of that camera on him in bed—of the security
team, of Oberon, watching him while he slept—made his blood run cold with fear and anger.
There was no way this level of surveillance was required for security. This was just wrong. Was there a camera in the bathroom too? He was afraid to find out.
He was shivering again. He thought about going down to the office and demanding that Oberon disable the surveillance in this room. But honestly, after the day he’d had, he felt too edgy for another conversation with Oberon.
I can’t deal with this right now.
He turned off the monitor. Gathering up a pillow and the gleaming peacock comforter, he crawled under the bed. He stripped to his underwear and wrapped himself up in the comforter. Like a rabbit in a dusty hole, he curled up tight against the wall at the head of the bed. But though he closed his eyes and tried to sleep, his mind was whirling with questions.
Why was there so much surveillance in this house?
Oberon said he couldn’t read minds. What kind of magic could he do?
Why had he touched Ángel? Why had he invited him to his room? Was he going to watch Ángel all the time?
What did he really want?
It was a long time before Ángel was able to sleep.
Ángel stumbled downstairs the next morning as rain tapped on the windows, in search of coffee. Lily found him hunting through the cabinets.
“Coffee?” he mumbled.
“We have tea.”
“No coffee?” He stared at her blearily.
She put the kettle on. “Tea has caffeine,” she said. He blinked at this specious and irrelevant comment, and she added, “I can get some coffee next time I go shopping in town.”
“Thank you. That would be nice. When will you go into town?”
“I shop on Friday afternoons. Today’s Wednesday.” She pulled a notepad out of a drawer and wrote on it. “Is instant coffee okay? Should I get cream to go with it?”
“No,” he said. “Espresso beans, and sugar and milk. Whole milk, por favor, señora. A grinder for the beans. Or you could buy pre-ground beans, if you have to. Does this place have an espresso maker?”
“Like a machine?”
“Like, a little metal pot?” He gestured. “You put water and coffee in it, and it goes on the stove. Or a French press?”
Lily was not a coffee drinker. She made him buttered toast, and they drank hot tea together while he ate and explained the correct preparation of café con leche.
“You like anything else to eat? Did you like dinner last night?”
“It was really good,” said Ángel. “Maybe some sriracha?”
She laughed. “If you want to put sriracha on it, it wasn’t really good.”
“It was almost perfect,” he said, smiling, hand to heart. “Just needed some sriracha.”
“What other foods do you like?” she asked. “He doesn’t eat a lot of meat. I usually make sandwiches for lunch, and stir-fry with rice or noodles for dinner, or soup. He likes it okay, but we could use some variety. He doesn’t eat as much as he used to.”
“Why not?”
She shrugged. “He’s not doing so well. Used to be a better color, his skin? Now he’s sort of pale.”
“He’s literally white.”
“Yes, but he used to be not so pale. You should go talk to him,” she said, with a nudge. “He didn’t hire you to sit in the kitchen and talk to me.”
Ángel sipped his tea. “Is he up?”
“Oh, yes, he gets up at five. Exercises in the gym for ninety minutes every morning. Then works in his office, sometimes ten, eleven hours. I give him his lunch in there, but some days he forgets to eat it. Go say good morning to him.”
“The envoy is lonely.”
“You can come to my room.”
Ángel couldn’t disguise his reluctance. “I—I think I’ll explore the house.”
Lily frowned. “He’s not going to hurt you.”
“I know. He’s just kind of . . .”
She raised her eyebrows at him.
Cameras. Oberon could be listening to this right now. “I’ll take him his lunch at noon. Okay?”
She nodded and smiled.
Temporarily released from an unpleasant duty, he explored.
The house was absurdly huge. Unused rooms included a couple of superfluous sitting rooms, an empty wine cellar, a game room with a pool table, a media room with a wet bar (no alcohol), a library lined with acres of empty shelves. To his surprise, the envoy had chosen reasonably well when he’d picked the peacock room for Ángel: the others were even worse. Ángel tried to decide which one he would give Marissa, if she were to visit: the hot-pink and zebra-stripe one? Or the red-and-orange Navajo-themed one, with lamps made out of antlers and a taxidermied mountain goat head over the bed? Whoever decorated this house had never heard the phrase “too much.”
He wondered how Oberon’s room was decorated. But he neither went there, nor looked at it on the monitors.
Exploring the house kept him busy until lunchtime, when he dutifully took a tray of sandwiches and fruit salad from Lily and made his way to the music room. He hesitated outside the door to the office for a long minute, before setting his jaw and rapping on the door.
“Come in.”
The room, which had been closed all morning, smelled like Oberon—not unpleasant, but not human. A toasty sort of smell. A white rosebud, tightly furled, had been cut from the plant by the window and stood in a vase on the desk. Oberon was at the desk, listening to piano music. Oberon’s hair fell over his forehead in silky wisps, pale ash streaked with mint. His gaze, when he looked up, was remote.
The mansion’s very tackiness made it easy to forget that he was in the home of a magical being. But here in this room, with the baked-bread smell in the air and the Otherworldly rose on the desk, the strange green eyes of the elf-lord regarding him dispassionately, Ángel felt frightened again. Far from home, at the mercy of something he didn’t understand.
“Hi,” said Ángel, falling back on casual politeness as he put the tray on the desk. “Lily says you forget to eat lunch.”
“I do, sometimes.” Though Oberon’s face was as aloof and expressionless as Mount Rushmore, his voice was warm. He pressed a button on his desk, and the music’s volume lowered. “Thank you for bringing me food. Will you stay to eat with me?”
“I think that’s Lily’s plan. All these sandwiches can’t be just for you.” Ángel managed to keep his voice light, though his stomach was in knots from being in the elf’s presence. He took a plate and sat on one of the wingback chairs—its tufted leather upholstery was smooth and hard as polished wood, surely deliberately uncomfortable. “Did I get any emails today?” He forced himself to take a bite of his sandwich.
“No. I will send them immediately to your tablet, if you do.”
After reading them, presumably.
They ate in silence for a moment, before Ángel nerved himself to ask, “What are we listening to?”
“Dmitri Shostakovich,” said Oberon. “Piano concerto number two, in F major.”
“I told my friend Marissa that you liked classical music more than pop or rock and roll.” Talking about music seemed safe.
“I’m not sure that’s true,” Oberon replied. “I would say that I am more comfortable with instrumental music, generally, because I often don’t understand lyrics.”
“Your English is great,” protested Ángel. “Better than mine. You could be on NPR.”
“You illustrate the problem perfectly, Ángel. My English is fluent, but I have no idea what NPR is.”
“Oh, it’s public radio. News and information. People with nice voices who tell you what’s happening in the world. My dad loves it.” Ángel belatedly remembered that his dad had tried to steal Oberon’s money, and wondered if he shouldn’t have mentioned him.
“Well,” said Oberon, either unaware or too polite to mention this gaffe. “Thank you. But I am often puzzled. I know I should listen to more music with lyrics, because it’s so popular, and I came here to l
earn and to understand. But it’s uncomfortable when I know that I don’t understand something.”
It was the most sympathetic—the most human—thing Oberon had said to Ángel. “Well, I guess we have that in common,” he said. “I mean, all of us.”
“Do you think so? That is reassuring, if true, Ángel.”
Oberon tapped on the tablet. The Shostakovich fell silent, and was replaced by Mike Doughty's “White Lexus.” Lonely guitar; sorrowful lyrics. “I cover this,” said Ángel, when it was over. “Covered, I mean.”
“You perform this song?”
“Yep. Sometimes I play in bars or restaurants. I like this song.”
“What does it mean?” Oberon asked. “A Lexus is a car?”
“It’s a metaphor.”
“I know what metaphors are, but I often cannot understand them. What does the Lexus represent?”
“I dunno, maybe a terrible relationship? Although it’s supposed to be a pretty good car,” said Ángel. Oberon gazed at him with blank green eyes, so Ángel tried again. “That’s the way I sing it. Like you’re trying to stop loving someone. Someone who only hurts you, but you love them, and you know it’s wrong to love this person. So you try to stop, and that hurts even worse? Does that make sense? I don’t think I’m explaining this very well.”
“No. That makes a kind of sense.”
“But here’s the thing,” said Ángel, putting his plate down so he could lean forward, gesturing as he spoke. “I don’t know this guy, the songwriter, or what it meant to him. Maybe he’s singing about something else. That’s just how I react to it. And songwriters do that on purpose, sí? He could just openly say, ‘This is a song about my relationship with my ex, and the car represents my, whatever, my loneliness.’ But instead, he made it a little obscure. So you can tell he’s sad and bitter, and you listen to it and put your own sad bitter experiences into it and think, ‘This song is about my relationship with my mother,’ or ‘This song is about, I don’t know, my cousin Enrique.’ Or my car, or whatever. It’s totally okay to not understand every reference—you’re not really supposed to. So long as you get the feeling.”
