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ELIZABETH
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SLEEPING WAS OUT OF the question. My mind was overcharged, racing, trying to make sense of things. I ran a bubble bath and sank in, going through the evening, then farther and farther back, recollecting the details of Khalid and our relationship, which had started the day Lottie and I had organized a public protest and had gotten arrested. There. That was the beginning. That day, unbeknownst to us, my path and Khalid’s had crossed for the first time.
Ahmed Demir’s cousin, Lottie had said, a solitary man recovering from some terrible accident. Khalid Nouri.
Eternal Light, I’d translated and wanted to google him.
Lottie had prevented me. Made me stay over at her place so that I couldn’t check him out at home.
“Okay,” I murmured to myself, “I have a pile of jigsaw puzzle pieces. See if I can match some of them. First, let’s try to figure out who’s who.”
Using the same method as I used for Khalid’s furniture, I started grouping pieces of information: first names, last names, physical similarities, possible family connections, the ages of different participants in this story. I’d tried combining the weirdest of premises to see if a conclusion would make any sense.
Khalid and Jack were relatives beyond any doubt, but what kind? Was Jack Khalid’s brother? Cousin? Son? Maybe after the accident, Khalid had undergone plastic surgeries and they had made him look much younger.
Was Jack’s mother Eve Khalid’s ex-wife as well? Khalid had said he was young when he’d had Jack. It was conceivable that Eve was young, too. Khalid said his son was twenty-two, but Khalid might not be able to tell me the whole truth. If Khalid was, let’s say, forty-eight and only looked ten years younger, and Jack thirty but looked a few years older, Eve could be Khalid’s ex-wife and Jack’s mother, as well as James’s wife now, and the mother of two children in their early twenties. She would also be in her early forties.
But why keep it secret? Khalid seemed like the last person who’d be ashamed of a wife he had once loved and a son whom he loved with all his heart.
And then, Jack’s childhood photo. Was it made with old photo equipment, or was the photo itself old? If it was an original picture from the 1890s, who was in it, then?
Why did Rosalie resemble the boy in the picture? She was the spitting image of her father.
One way or another, so far everyone had lied to me, told me a partial truth or concealed something. Everyone but Astrid. Why was she the exception?
What the hell did they want me to know? Why didn’t they simply tell me?
Another pile of pieces: Appearances.
Almost everyone here was tall, but then it was inconclusive because lots of people looked tall to me. Most people, however, didn’t look so vibrant, vital and healthy, no matter their age.
Rowena looked barely twenty-five. She had tried to make herself look older, but no makeup could cover youth. Ahmed didn’t look at all how Sam remembered him. Harriet steadily looked younger and younger, day by day. Jason, too. Azem and Lily hadn’t changed since I met them, but they were probably just young.
Astrid and Jack also seemed their own age, late twenties and early thirties, but even that didn't make any sense because Rowena was then too young to be Astrid’s mother.
A mayor who cooked, and another one whose son was younger than her granddaughter, an eleven-month-old baby with a vocabulary of a three-year-old child, a world-class orthopedic surgeon who sang in a local pub and a hospital CEO with a passion for Kammermusic.
Twin Peaks sans bad stuff?
Rivendell?
The Places and People pile: two twin-towns high up in the mountains, with a high level of humidity instead of aridness, with no avalanches on their wild slopes. Moon festivals, an unusually big and beautiful moon due to allegedly unique atmospheric characteristics. This night was also overcast, like every previous one since I’d arrived, so it remained to be seen. Superb roads with no heavy traffic, out-of-place architecture, private planes and the-best-of churches.
What magic place had I wandered into?
When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth, Sherlock Holmes said.
Are you sure, Mr. Holmes? What if the truth is right there, in the impossible?
My eyelids felt heavy and I closed them for a moment ...
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KHALID AND I ARE WALKING through a forest. The ground is soft, covered with a thick carpet of new grass, pine needles and moss. Our steps don’t make any sound. The forest is filled with lemony yellow morning light.
“See, it’s still me,” he says. No sound comes from his muzzle, but I can clearly hear him in my head. “Now that you know, you won’t go, will you?”
“No, of course not. Look, it’s still me, too,” I say in the same soundless way and turn around to let him examine me. “How do you like it?”
“I like it fine, Elizabeth Chatwin. So fine I have some interesting thoughts. About something I’ve never tried before.”
My eyes widen as the meaning sinks in. “Oh. You mean you can be my first lover, after all?”
“And you mine.” He comes closer and licks my face. “You know, you taste really good.”
I tilt my head and ask, suppressing laughter, “You’re saying I’m a virgin?”
“Well, in a sense.”
“Omigod, I’m thirty, I’ve had tons of lovers and I’m still a virgin. Hilarious!”
“Tons of lovers, huh? How many exactly?”
“Many. Enough. And still a virgin!”
“Not that I care, but you can count all your lovers on the fingers of one hand.”
I know I should be upset. My lovers, or lack thereof, are my darn business. But somehow, I’m not. “And how do you know that?”
“Ha, you think you’re the only one who knows how to do research? In any case, if you’re a virgin, then I am too. In spite of all the women in my long life.”
“All the women in your life is not a topic I want to discuss,” I say. “But tell me honestly, do you really like how I look? My fur is dark and all curly and I think my hips might be a tad too wide. And my breasts,” I look down at my belly, “are suddenly small.”
“Your breasts are perfect. And your hips even more perfect. Let’s run. There is a creek up ahead. I’m thirsty.”
“At least I’m not small anymore. I like my size!” I shout as we run.
Soon we jump into the water. It’s shallow, barely to my belly, but cooler than I’d expected. I shriek and try to get out, but Khalid jumps on me and we roll back in.
“Let me out! Let me out!” I screech, laughing. He gently grabs my neck and pulls me out.
I’m soaked. I shake vigorously, sending droplets of water flying. In the bright morning sunlight, they look like a rain of tiny diamonds. “You still find me attractive?” I say looking at my wet, shiny black fur.
“You’ll always be my Beauty, no matter your current shape or the state of your fur, Elizabeth Chatwin. Come closer, I’ll warm you up.”
“You don’t look like the Beast either. Okay, maybe a sexy beast, but that’s no matter your shape!”
I jiggle once more, and the water drops suddenly turn into several short rows of sheet music. I look at them.
F# - E - F# - A - D
D - C# - D - F# - G
F# - G - E - F# - D
And I sing:
“Na-na- na-na naah
na-na- na-na naah
Beauty and the Beast.”
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I GASPED AND OPENED my eyes, pulling myself upright. I heard a splash of water. For a moment I didn’t know where I was.
The song I sang was still ringing in my ears. I looked down at my goose-bumped skin and shivered. Okay, I’d fallen asleep; the water had turned cold and it provoked a dream of falling into a creek, naked. It was dangerous to fall asleep in a bathtub. And before that, I’d been thinking about the forest and my questions about the wolves, the moon and moon festivals and I’d gotten all these Canagans mixed up—realtors, chefs, philanthropists.
“It was just a dream. Just a dream,” I kept repeating as I tried to put on my terry robe. It took me a while to push my arms through the sleeves and tie the belt. I drained the tub, squirted some toothpaste out and brushed my teeth.
It’s been just a silly dream.
The room was warm, but I was shaking when I slid under the covers, still in my robe.
I’ve started thinking out of the box more than is necessary, that’s the problem.
I continued with my monologue to calm myself down. It didn’t help. I was still shaking like a leaf, and the damned song was still playing in my mind.
Then I pulled the covers over my head and said aloud as if the sound of my voice could bring a sense of reality. “I had a weird dream, that’s all. I won’t even remember it tomorrow morning.”
I closed my eyes and by sheer force of will dived into welcome oblivion.