A Tale of Highly Unusual Magic (7 page)

“Nooo,” Wali singsonged. “I wanted the other one to win.”

“Muhammad Shoaib,” Jamila Tai said. “Samir favored him, too.”

Rabeea smiled, clearly embarrassed. “It's my mom's favorite show.”

“And yours!” Wali chirped, as Rabeea glared.

“It's
my
mom's favorite, too,” Leila said. “I mean,
American Idol
is. I don't know if she knows about
Pakistan Idol
.” It seemed funny and strange to see
Pakistan Idol
written out in the same text used for the show in the United States, just as it was strange to see a Spider-Man balloon for sale beside a man selling mangoes from a donkey cart. For Leila, Pakistan was a jumble of the familiar and unfamiliar, which made every moment seem like a dream.

Leila bought a copy of the
Pakistan Idol
CD for her mom. Then Rabeea announced that she wanted to get
her eyebrows threaded. Jamila Tai wanted to get her hair blown out and set. “What would you like, Leila?” she asked. “Would you like to have your nails painted?”

“Oh, no, thank you.” Leila's friends were into nail polish, but Leila thought it made her fingers feel weird and heavy.

“I don't want to go to the beauty parlor!” Wali whined.

Jamila Tai was about to insist that Leila come, but Leila offered to take Wali to get ice cream, instead. This was met with a response from Wali that was so enthusiastic as to be irresistible.

“He'll just drive us crazy if he stays with us, anyway,” Rabeea said, already heading up the steps to the salon.

Jamila Tai frowned, but in the end, she had to agree. There was an ice-cream place only three doors down from the beauty parlor. She didn't need to point it out. Wali knew the way.

As Jamila Tai and Rabeea disappeared behind the frosted glass door, Leila felt happy, and almost triumphant. She was in a foreign country, and she was taking her little cousin for ice cream. This felt
very
Elizabeth Dear. “What's your favorite flavor?” she asked Wali.

“Vanilla!” he said, which made her laugh. “Is vanilla wrong?” he asked.

“Absolutely not,” Leila told him. “Vanilla's great. Classic.”

Ahead of them, a boy walked down the street leading two goats. One was white, except for a long red stripe down his back, and a red marking on his right flank in the shape of a flower. The other was black. Both goats wore garlands of flowers on their horns and around their necks. They were the fanciest goats Leila had ever seen.

“Wow!” Leila said, reaching for her camera.

“They are for Eid,” Wali explained as Leila snapped a photo.

The boy leading the goats looked questioningly at Leila. She gave the boy a thumbs-up.

He said something to her in Punjabi, so she smiled and said, “Nice goat!” Then she gave him another thumbs-up.

The boy said something else.

“He wants to know if you want to see them more closely,” Wali explained. “They are both female.”

“Oh, sure!” Leila replied, nodding. Another thumbs-up. She had never used this gesture before, but it seemed like
the only appropriate response to this particular situation.

The boy led over the goats, and she took some more photos. The white one tried to nibble the end of her scarf, which made Leila laugh. She scolded her, and petted her neck. “Who's a good goat?” she asked. “Who's a sweetie goat? Hm?” The goat butted at her, and she kissed her head. “Oh, I just want to take her home with me!”

The goatherd looked at Wali, who said something in Punjabi and gestured to Leila. She assumed he had translated what she said as the goatherd showed off the goats, opening their mouths and showing their teeth and everything. Leila could see that he was really proud of his goats. She nodded and smiled and petted them some more.

“He wants to know which one you like the best,” Wali said.

“I like them both,” Leila said. “Well, I guess the white one. She has personality.” She patted the white one again. “And I love the henna job.”

Wali and the goatherd exchanged a few words. Then the goat boy bowed low to Leila, and she gave him another smile. The goatherd said something else in Punjabi.

“He wants five hundred rupees now,” Wali said.

“What? What for?”

“The goat,” Wali explained, as if it was perfectly obvious.

Leila's happy feeling dried up. She had heard of beggars like this—who demanded money when someone took their photo. She was about to refuse, but when she looked down, she saw that the boy had no shoes, only thick calluses on dusty feet. She felt a deep sense of shame.

Maybe I can't help them all, Leila thought, remembering Rabeea's words. But I can help this boy with the goats. He's walking around, hoping people will photograph his fancy goat. That's insane. I'm probably the only customer he'll have all day. All
week
. It wasn't like Lahore was crawling with tourists.

Leila dug around in her pocket and pulled out five hundred rupees. She wasn't really sure how much real money that was. How many dollars. It took a ton of rupees to make one dollar, she knew that much. The goatherd smiled and said shukria.

“Shukria,” she said back to him, and he smiled again.

“That's a great goat!” Wali said in excitement, which made her laugh.

Well, he had a point. The goat was pretty cute.

Leila scrolled through the photos of the goat on her camera. They came out really well. There was one where it looked like the goat was smiling, giving her a knowing look. She couldn't wait to show Ta'Mara. She would think it was hilarious. Which it was.

Fancy goats.

Hah!

Even the goats get dressed up for Eid here,
Leila thought, smiling, and was immediately distracted by Wali, who had spotted the man selling Spider-Man balloons. Leila didn't have time to wonder how soon the Eid holiday was, or what the goats had to do with it.

Ice cream does not take long to eat, unless you are seven and lapping up tiny licks in order to make the treat last longer. Leila didn't mind, even though she had finished her ice cream long ago. She was enjoying sitting with Wali, scrolling through her photos, looking at the goat. She was enjoying not being home with that creepy book, and hardly even thinking about it, except for once in a while. But even then, it didn't seem as scary as it had that
morning. In fact, Leila was beginning to believe she had imagined the whole thing. Jet lag can explain a great deal.

The ice-cream place was clean and bright, and could have been located in any mall in the United States. Leila felt comfortable there. Well, she felt comfortable until a handsome boy with mischievous hair walked in.

“Leila!” Zain cried, as if Leila were the very person he had been hoping to see. He wore a cream salwar kameez, and looked thoroughly handsome as he walked over to their table and mussed Wali's hair.

“Hey!” Wali griped. He didn't look up from his ice cream.

“I should have known I'd find you here,” Zain said as he leaned against the marble table. “It's the best ice cream in Lahore.”

Leila smiled, hoping that her skin was aglow from the embarrassment she was feeling. Elizabeth Dear always managed to make blushing seem charming. She wondered if she should ask after Zain's mother, the way Elizabeth would have, or if that would seem weird.

“What flavor did you have?” Zain asked her. “My mother always wants coffee. Two pints of coffee, one of
chocolate chip. The chocolate chip is for me.”

With a smile, he stepped up to the counter and placed his order. She watched him as he waited, leaning against the marble counter. By the time Zain's order arrived, Wali was finished, so he and Leila joined Zain on his way out the door.

He started toward a white Lexus, then turned to grin at Leila. “Maybe this won't arrive at its destination,” Zain said, holding up the bag. Leila was about to reply, when a man tugged at Zain's elbow. The man was very small, only a head taller than Wali, and his face was a web of deep wrinkles spun across dark skin. He wore a pointed cap wrapped with tinsel, and what looked like a filthy orange sheet. He said something to Zain and looked at Leila.

“What?” Leila said.

Zain shook him off and replied angrily. But the man continued to stare at Leila from the shade of his thick gray eyebrows. His gaze held her paralyzed, and he said something to her slowly, as if he could make her understand. But she didn't understand.

The man reached toward her, but Leila felt unable to duck away. His fingers touched the top of her head.

Leila finally found her voice. “What's he doing?”

“He is a fakir,” Wali explained as Zain pulled out his wallet. “He gives you a blessing.”

Leila didn't find this terribly comforting, but at last the fakir stopped speaking. Zain offered the man a bill, but the fakir's nostrils flared in disgust. Still, he took the money before walking away.

“I apologize.” Zain folded his wallet and placed it back in his breast pocket. “There are beggars everywhere. It's getting so bad.”

“He's a holy man.” Wali spoke to Leila, ignored Zain.

“What did he say?” Leila asked.

“He said that the world is a miracle,” Wali explained. “He said that you should not fear the world, but should look to the book for answers.”

“The book?” Leila repeated. Her head felt a little bit spinny. How could the fakir know about—

“The Quran, I presume,” Zain put in.

Leila asked herself what Elizabeth Dear would do, but she did not manage to come up with an answer. This was all getting too peculiar. Was the fakir talking about the Quran, or about
her
book? Her magic book? The one that
seemed to be writing its own story every time she shut the pages?
But he couldn't be, because that book is not magic.

She looked over at Zain, who was smiling at her, as if he hoped to comfort her.
That's what's real,
she told herself.
This is my story. I get to decide on my story, and my story is a romantic adventure! Because I lead a life of international travel and excitement!

This, my friends, is known as wishful thinking.

You could not see the damage the fire had caused, but it was there.

There were many stories about why fire had not destroyed the house. Some said that it was made of stone, and fire could not burn it. Some said that a sudden rainstorm had put out the fire while it was still burning. And some said that it was impossible to burn a house made cold by the heart of Melchisedec Jonas.

Let me tell you about him.

Melchisedec Jonas spent eight years as the foreman at American Casket Company.

“He's the best foreman I've ever had,” his boss, Mr.
Pickle, would say as he slapped Melchisedec on the back. Of course, Melchisedec was the only foreman he'd ever had. It didn't matter.

Melchisedec was tough, and when he was on the line, the caskets were always perfect. Anything less would be torn apart and tossed into the rubbish bin. But folks said that he cared more for the dead than the living—that was how badly he treated the workers. There were no breaks. There was no sympathy. There was only work.

But the factory flourished. And when the factory's owner and his wife died in a mysterious fire, few people were surprised to hear that Melchisedec was to serve as the president of American Casket Company until the owners' oldest child, Edwina, should come of age. Folks were also not surprised to hear that Edwina Pickle and her little brother, Parker, were to be cared for by their new guardian, Melchisedec Jonas. Mr. Pickle always had trusted him.

But Ralph did not know this as he waited patiently in Melchisedec's yard. His parents had been called to Mr. Jonas's house for a meeting. Ralph was now thirteen years old, for five years had passed since Mrs. Flabbergast sprinkled the powder from the vial into her pot of cabbage.
Since that night, all sauerkraut made in the pot had tasted stunningly delicious. Ralph's father began selling Flabbergast's Famous Kraut, and they simply could not keep it on the shelf. For once, Ralph's family was able to save a bit of money.

Now, Melchisedec Jonas wanted to buy the factory, even though there was no factory. He wanted the name, and he wanted the recipe, and he wasn't taking no for an answer.

“Pick a card, any card,” Ralph said to the wide-eyed girl who sat across from him. She was shy, with long dark hair and eyes that looked like a deep ocean on a stormy day—blue and green and gray.

“I don't like tricks,” the girl said.

“I'll take one!” Her brother grabbed a card. He was taller and livelier than his sister, though he was younger, but not by much.

“Don't show it to me,” Ralph told him. He had the little boy put it back in the deck, and amazed him by pulling it from behind the boy's ear.

“Edwina!” the boy squealed with a grin. “Look, it's magic!”

“It's just a trick, Parker,” she said. “That's not real magic.”

“How do you know?” Ralph asked.

Edwina looked him dead in the eye. “Because I know what real magic looks like.”

Ralph's head felt light. “Do you?” he said, holding her gaze. He thought of his vial, which he had hidden in his pocket. He had not opened it in five years.

Not since the day he sprinkled some powder on the tree, and several hours later, it was hit by lightning but did not die. (In fact, the weeks that followed, it sprouted leaves more lush than ever before.) The same day his mother had sprinkled some into the sauerkraut pot, and changed their lives. Two wishes were gone already, thoughtlessly, and Ralph did not dare to use the third.

Ralph believed in real magic, too, and he longed for it, although it frightened him. This was why he learned tricks and kept the vial in his pocket—he wanted to come as close to magic as he could, without actually touching it. He didn't want to waste his last bit of it, and he didn't want to let it out of his sight.