Enigma

The thief has departed, leaving only a written list and some hasty verbal instructions to Isabel. On the list is an address, and, Isabel has explained, the first of their destinations, and the first of their dreamers.

When they exit the thief’s cavern, Gwynn cannot decide if he is more frightened or curious.

Gwynn and Isabel enter slowly, Gwynn in he lead, and cough as they walk into a cloud of sugar sweet smoke.

The parlour is hung with heavy velvet curtains, permeated with the scent of musk and age. It is full of thick, cloudy smoke, curling around tables littered with silver spoons and discarded half full glasses of absinthe or wine, turning the candles into ghostly lights.

The air is stifling, hot as the desert beneath the sun, echoing with boisterous laughter and murmured conversations.

There are scantily clad figures in silk and fine suits, at various stages of profound intoxication, with lingering touches on elbows and knees, and low, velvety voices.

Navigating through the crowds is a journey through clouds of perfume, and like descending into a heated fog.

Gwynn and Isabel navigate their way to the bar with some difficulty, and Gwynn keeps a careful hand on her sleeved arm so they do not get separated.

The counter is sticky with spilled absinthe and brandy. The bottles lining the shelves behind it come in multiple shapes and sizes, like perfume or whiskey or oil bottles, with corks or lids, handles or none, with clear or frosted glass or opaque like porcelain.

Gwyn catches the scent of smoke and scorched sugar cubes from some niche behind the counter, as a cloud of amber smoke plumes like a large blossom.

As they take their seats on plush, dilapidated, velvet-cushioned stools, Gwynn asks, “Who are we looking for?”

Isabel raises her voice to be heard above the din of the parlour. “He’s an Arab, and very rich. He’ll be with an intimate company. He looks rather like a prince from the desert, Papa told me.”

They crane their necks above the crowd, but with the lightlessness and noise, it seems impossible that they will find the dreamer.

Through a haze of dim light and green tinted smoke, Gwynn can see shadows; the silhouettes of patrons milling before a stage that permeated the room with brassy music.

In the back of the parlour, Gwynn catches a glimpse of a golden silk swathed booth, between lascivious plumes of emerald tinted smoke, a party of turbaned men, and a tall, princely figure sitting in the middle.

“Is that him?” Gwynn asks, pointing to the man, sure that the smoke will hide the informal gesture. The man’s expression as his compatriots speak is one of practiced disinterest and reserved attentiveness.

Isabel subtly tilts her head in the man’s direction, glancing at him from the corner of her eye. “Yes, it must be.” She pauses, her eyes narrow. “I’ve heard of him. He has very dubious origins. No one is sure where he’s from. There are only stories.”

A waiter makes his way across the bar, coming toward them with a tarnished silver tray, but Gwynn waves him away. “What stories?” Gwynn asks, turning to Isabel.

“Some say he is a runaway slave, and he liberated many slaves who came with him on a ship across the ocean. I heard he stole rubies from an Arab prince and was chased by all of his warriors into exile. One story says he was raised by tigers in the jungle, until some poachers found him and returned him to civilization.”

“And some say I am the son of a runaway Indian princess and a djinn,” says a voice behind them.

He looked exotic from across the room, but up close he looks regal and alien to Gwynn. The gentleman’s face beneath his turban is a startling shade of gold, with dark almond eyes and a smile like a sphinx.

“What is a djinn?” Gwynn asks, before he can consider the question. He is about to apologize, when the man smiles and replies.

“It is a thing made of fire, as angels are made of air, and man of earth. Creatures of ashes and embers and black smoke. It is a deity that would offer you wishes. But they are unsafe wishes.”

“How can a wish be unsafe?” Gwynn asks. He can think of a few wishes he would make, were he given the chance.

“They are wishes with the sting of scorpion’s tail. They are like dreams that turn suddenly into nightmares, just when you are enjoying them.”

“We come with a proposition from our employer,” Isabel says, suddenly, reminding Gwynn of their task.

“And I would be very pleased to hear it. If you would join me and my companions,” the man responds, sweeping a hand in the direction of the table from which he came.

“Of course,” Isabel says, standing as the man disappears into the crowd, drifting through the fog toward his table. Gwynn follows her through boisterous absinthe-scented patrons, gasping when they emerge into clean air again.

The man waits for them at his table, indicating their seats across from him as he edges back into the booth.

Gwynn and Isabel are seated in silence, and Isabel readily meets the gazes of all four men across from them.

Before the man turns to his companion nearest the curtain and speaks a long fluid stream of some rich language Gwynn does not recognize. His companion stands and draws the curtain around the booth, turning it into a green-tinted enclosure.

“A little privacy for our discussion,” the man says, smiling at Gwynn.

They sit in silence for a few minutes, as the laughter and brass music crests and ebbs around them.

“You may call me the rajah,” the man says, eventually, in a voice dark and wild, like the heart of the jungle. It speaks of heat deep beneath the earth covered by burning plains of sand, eyes and teeth hidden by leaves and vines.”

“My name is Isabel Gray,” Isabel says, then gesture to Gwynn beside her. “This is Gwynnedd Faole.”

The rajah nods his head at them both, with a warm smile.

“Rajah means prince,” Isabel says, after a moment. “Are you a prince?”

The rajah’s smile becomes considerably larger as he leans in, as though to divulge a secret.

“I was named Aiden, which means ‘little fiery one’. It is a very English name, isn’t it? My grandfather on my mother’s side was English. Her mother was from India. She had skin the colour of milk tea, when she was younger, but it darkened like the red sands in the east. I was born sanguine, with too much blood, and I blushed constantly. It appeared as though my cheeks were enflamed, and I was a rambunctious child, so I was named ‘little fiery one’.

I was raised like a prince. In a house gilded with gold, with servants who fanned the rooms at midday, and the smells of exotic spices from the delicacies made by our private chef. My parents did not often leave me, but when they did, it was for trips to India or exotic places elsewhere.

One day, my father returned from a hunt, with my mother, from her native India. From the jungles in the mountains, they brought me back a present. In a gilded chain was a panther, black as night, still with his claws and mewling for his mother. And he was given to me.

I did not like the panther at first. He was feral and vicious. I could not come near him, for fear of his claws. And he resented being removed from his jungle. I avoided him, and to appease him, I ordered plants of all kinds to be brought into my apartments. He felt comfortable enough within them to leave me alone, though my parents insisted I tame him. For his benefit; animals taken from the wild often adjust beyond the point when they can return to the wild. Training was a mess at first, a combination of my own fear and his anger. But he learned that I was the hand to feed him, and I learned that he tempered my sense of invincibility, which is dangerous in a youth.

Months passed in this manner, then a time came when we traded our fear for friendship, and our resentment for care.

We shared stories. He told me of the flocks of flamingoes on the water in the lakes beyond the mountains. Of the elephants in the lagoons, and the scent of mangoes fallen from their trees. He told me of the mirror the moon makes out of the lake in the night.

While I taught him manners, and to control himself so as not to force mother or father to declaw him, he taught me how to be as silent as a shadow, and as watchful and patient as the hunter.

He moved like a prince of the jungle, and I tried to move in the same way. I was more than once chastised for walking on all fours.

And because I so mimicked the creature, so regal and beautiful, I was nicknamed rajah. I cannot remember who it was that bestowed the name, but it stuck, as nicknames do.”

Gwynn is so engaged in the story, that when the rajah finishes, he feels as though he has taken a step up the stairs in darkness, to discover one less step, and has his heart lurch in his chest. He tumbles back into the noise of the parlour, dimmed by the curtain.

When he glances at Isabel, she looks dazed. The rajah watches them patiently, silent even as his companions lean over and whisper in their rich language.

“Where is the panther now?” Gwynn asks, but Isabel begins speaking and the question is unanswered.

“We’ve come on behalf of our employer. Mr.____ would like to request your services in a future business exchange.”

“This venture your employer would involve me in, what would he have me do?” the man inquires.

“He is currently away in preparation for it. It is a simple exchange, for which we believe you have something to offer.”

The rajah regards Isabel with an expression that Gwynn cannot decipher.

“I would not dream of such a pretty young lady lying, but I can tell when you are taking liberties with the truth. That is a wonderful story, and while I appreciate it, I believe I would appreciate the truth a great deal more. Tell me why you are really here.”

“My father lost a game of cards,” Isabel says, with an unflinching expression. “And now he cannot pay for it. He has struck a more difficult, yet more possible, bargain, and you are in a position to be very helpful.” She pauses and stares at the man before adding, “You need only meet him.”

The rajah turns to one of his companions, who is whispering into his ear, quietly and quickly.

One of the men has been casting conspicuous glances at Isabel as she speaks, and as he consumes more wine, they are only becoming more obvious. If Isabel notices, she gives no indication of it, but Gwynn has noticed and his fingers have tightened their hold on one another.

“And how has he heard of me?” the man asks, when he and his companion are done conversing.

“Word of mouth. Mutual acquaintances,” Isabel says, vaguely.

The man tilts his head down, to better regard Isabel’s expression. He has hardly moved when the pause has gone on too long. “That is odd. I feel almost as though I have met you before.”

“I can assure you that we have not,” Isabel says, though she is well acquainted with his dreams. She slips her hand into her pocket and pulls out small rectangular card, embossed with a name Gwynn does not quite catch as she reaches forward.

Isabel slides the card across the table, turning it so the address of the function and her father’s pseudonym are face up.

The rajah does not look at it but when Isabel lifts her fingers from the card, he passes his hand over it and the card vanishes.

“Well then, I believe I am interested in hearing more. I am curious about the details of this proposition, and you are very intriguing. It is not often one comes across a person who is truly intriguing. And,” he continues, turning to Gwynn, “someone so quiet and watchful. You are an enigmatic pair.”

The rajah stands and holds out a hand to them both, in succession, to shake.

“I will see you both in due time.”

As Isabel and Gwynn turn, the rajah speaks from behind them. “The panther died many years ago.”

Gwynn turns to the rajah, who is watching him with a smile that holds a hint of sadness.

“He was old and weak, and he followed my through the desert and across the water to Venice. He died in his sleep, in his dreams.”

“I’m sorry,” Gwynn says, though it is not exactly what he means.

“Thank you, Gwynnedd.”

With the obvious dismissal, Gwynn turns and rejoins Isabel at the edge of the crowd. They push through the crowds, now somewhat fatigued and smelling even more strongly of alcohol and sugar, to the edge of the parlour and into the smell of the canal reflecting the star speckled sky.

Art by Linda R. Herzog

Text by Lucie MacAulay