The next day I returned to Ashuglar Street. Nothing had changed. The same cast of grungy characters. A few tztztz followed me as I passed the chaikhana, and the fat grocer saluted me with his lewd three-fingered proposition. I went straight to the green door, pressed forward, and stepped inside.
Before my eyes could adjust to the darkness, I heard, “Salam eleykum, peace be upon you, sunshine. Which of the winds should I praise for bringing you to my temple of music?”
I peered through the dim light, trying to locate the source of the high, melodious voice. And there he was.
Aladdin, wearing a dervish turban and a white tunic, seated cross-legged on a dark burgundy Afghani rug that seemed to float between clouds of smoke. The same boy I had seen the day before. But he didn’t look like a carefree Aladdin today. More like an Aladdin who had lost his magic lamp and didn’t even care. His face looked ghostly in the amber glow of an oil lamp. A cigarette dangled from the lower lip of his mouth. And his almond-shaped eyes could hardly accommodate two terribly dilated pupils.
So that’s what it was—that sweet scent of black currant. Hashish.
The boy-man in front of me was a hash head. A junkie. I turned to leave.
“Oh no. Don’t go.” Rising from the rug, he leaped across his grotto like a gazelle, planting himself next to me, blocking my escape with his arm across the threshold. “Don’t leave. I’m not going to bite you.”
He chewed on a cigarette, his eyes wide open, struggling to keep me in their focus. The task seemed to exhaust him. He removed his arm from the threshold and sagged back against the wall, tapping his fingers on his thighs. Rhythmically.
“Camille Saint-Saëns—Danse Macabre,” he said. “The xylophone plays the dance of rattling bones. And here’s the devil’s interval.” He made a loop with his hand in the air as if conducting the orchestra. “Fun, ha? I dig music, not little girls. You’re totally safe with me here. The real monsters”—he squinted and jerked his head toward the door—“the real monsters are out there. So what’s your name, sunshine?”
I hesitated. “Leila.”
“‘A dark-haired beauty bathing in moonlight, her olive skin as smooth as the touch of the sea, a thousand silver stars reflecting in her smile.’”
An ancient verse depicting the meaning of my name.
“How do you know this?”
“I know everything. I’ve got four eyes in the back of my head, and I know that you were spying on me the other day.”
“No, I wasn’t. I was just walking by. And then I heard music.”
“I didn’t know my music was blasting all over the street.”
“No, it wasn’t really. It’s just that piece.”
“Chopin?”
“Yes.”
“Hmm. I guess you loved it so much you needed to take the sleeve with you as a memento.” He paused. “Or as evidence?”
“Evidence of what?”
“Of my anti-Soviet activities.”
His face reverted to its ghostly appearance. His eyes—now iron gray—scrutinized me openly. The air grew heavy, thick as molasses. Every breath sounded like a cello sawing away against the bouncing-bow contrabasses of my heartbeat.
Aladdin took the cigarette out of his mouth, rubbed it against the sole of his sandal, and aimed for the sink. Missed. His hands flew up in resignation. “Oh well. At least today it’s pretty close. Don’t they say a good guest brings good luck with him? With her.” His mouth curled into what could pass for a smirk. “Would you like some tea, Leila? Then we can sit and talk in detail about my anti-Soviet scheme.”
His offer made my throat dry. The room spun around me, the slow ceyrani dance picking up speed. Why did he reveal himself? Why?
Unless he was planning to recruit me for his spy operation. Should I play along, win his trust, and then expose the plot?
“I’d love some tea,” I said. “Just not too strong.”
“I’ll make it to your liking.”
Aladdin bolted to a small, dilapidated stove plunked in the corner of the room. He struggled to light a fire, striking one match after another, failing to turn the gas on in time. His movements seemed awkward, his motor coordination disorderly. What kind of spy was this?
“Do you have many customers?” I asked.
“Not really. I might even say you are my first one. With Allah’s help, others will follow.”
“With what you just said and with the rumors going around town, I don’t think even Allah can help you.”
“This town brews gossip as much as it brews tea. Which rumor have you heard? The one that I am an American spy? Or the one that I’m a villain straight from Jafar’s cave, selling venomous music?”
I giggled before I could fight it off.
“What’s so funny?”
“Nothing really. It’s just…‘venomous music’ sounds like a flock of poisonous frogs singing in the swamp, all at the same time.”
“Poisonous frogs, you said.” He tilted his head, gaping sideways, as if visualizing the image, then grinned, displaying a mouthful of teeth. “Nice. I should write that down somewhere. Now let’s make that tea happen.”
He struck another match, managing to turn the gas on in time. Next he placed an iron pot on the fire that danced happily on top of the stove. Then, retrieving two armuds, pear-shaped glasses, from the shelf, he set them on a small tray with sugar and mint. The air of hostility melted away. The magic lamp returned to Aladdin’s hands.
A barely dressed woman in a bowler hat smiled devilishly at me from the wall, her black bodice and satin shorts, fishnet stockings and shiny boots obviously aimed at exposing rather than concealing her voluptuous body.
Pornography? Did I break a law by looking at this indignity?
“Do you know who this lady is?” Aladdin asked.
“No.”
“But you think she is fascinating, don’t you?”
I shrugged.
“It’s a poster for a movie titled Cabaret, in which she acts and sings. Her name is Liza Minnelli. I have a few of her songs. Would you like to hear?”
If you listen to his recordings, your skin will turn into fish scales.
“No, I really have to get going.”
Aladdin swept to the alcove, drew an album, and placed it on the turntable.
A lazy clarinet zigzagged a melody, its timbre trailing raspy echoes as if a performer had chosen a worn-out reed or accidentally dropped one inside the instrument’s bore. Then a pause, followed by the sound of a strenuous breath. A brazen, haunting female voice poured out of the gramophone. A voice of dark velvet. A voice like no other, carrying nostalgia from some mysterious, fantastic world. A world I had known before. Somewhere. A long time ago. Maybe in a different life? Or a dream?
I couldn’t understand the words. Instead, I contemplated them like the images in old black-and-white movies: ripples of rain sliding down a window; the lights of the city fading into the night; sea waves breaking across a deserted beach; two silhouettes against the moonlit path, their hands entwined, their first kiss.
I closed my eyes, embarrassed. Exposed. The passion of the music stripped me of my usual common sense and left my heart vulnerable to secret desires. Now I knew for sure that I was in a sorcerer’s lair. That I should run from this place as fast and as far as possible.
But I couldn’t leave. I yearned for more as if I had fallen under the spell of Aladdin’s music. The music had awakened in me something thrilling, forbidden, and so powerful that I felt wings—not fish scales—growing out of my skin.