The Fire Artist (15 page)

He doesn’t answer, just nods.

“So you could read?”

“Yes.”

“You can’t read unless you’re bound to me or something?”

He sighs. “I can’t do anything unless we’re bound. And I like reading, okay?”

I hold up my hands. “I think that’s great. It’s like a passion of yours.”

“You could say that.”

“Are all granters like that? I mean, I just think of all those
stories of granters. Tales within tales, and stories being able to set you free from debts and stuff.”

He shakes his head. “Don’t get hung up on the old stories. Just because Scheherazade freed herself night after night with stories doesn’t mean—”

“Doesn’t mean what?”

“Doesn’t mean anything,” he says heavily, but I doubt that’s what he meant to say.

I shift away from my questions that seem to pierce him. “Well, I’m impressed that you’re reading such a fancy book for fun. We were assigned
The Great Gatsby
in English class last year. I just looked up the SparkNotes online,” I admit.

“Really? It’s so beautiful. You should read it.”

“You’ve read it before?”

“No. I don’t reread books. I finished it this morning.”

“Fast reader.”

“Yes. You never know when you’ll lose your place,” he says.

“Isn’t that what bookmarks are for?”

He doesn’t respond. I glance down at the page. The book is open to a line about the green light at the end of the dock. “Hey! I remember that green light from the SparkNotes. It’s all about hope, right?”

Taj grins and raises an eyebrow. He seems to have rustled himself out of that temporary mournful state and is now back to teasing again. “Yes. Hope. There you go. No need to read it at all.”

“But seriously,” I press. “Isn’t the green light supposed to represent hopes and dreams? The thing we’re all striving for?”

“I think that’s fair to say. That’s why I like it.”

“Because you’re striving for something?”

“We all have a green light at the end of the dock, don’t we?”

“I suppose.”

“You must, Aria. That’s why we’re talking. Sooner or later, you’re going to tell me. You’re going to ask for your green light at the end of the dock, aren’t you?”

I feel selfish when he says that. Like I shouldn’t be asking, shouldn’t be wanting, when his very existence in my life is predicated on the possibility of what I might wish. But that’s why I’m here. Because of my
need
. Because it is so powerful—my need to stay in the Leagues, to find my way through, to save my family. That is my duty. Jana, my mom, and even Xavier. They are the reason I’m talking to Taj.

“I guess,” I admit, though I’m enjoying hanging out with him right now. More than I thought I would. “Do you want me to wish now or something?”

He shakes his head. “No. I mean, not unless you want to. But if you wanted to, I’d have to lay out the conditions. Standard operating proviso, you know. The rules, the regulations, the fine print. The loopholes and all that jazz.” He talks in a pseudo lawyerly voice.

I manage a small laugh. “I suppose I don’t have to wish this second,” I say, because Taj seems as if he could really use a night away from wishing, from his job, from being mastered. “Maybe we could …” I’m not sure how to finish the sentence, but Taj’s eyes light up.

“Go aboveground?”

“Well, your library is nice. But I kind of like light and air.”

“As do I.”

“Why did you want to show me where you live then?”

“I don’t know that I’d say I live here.”

And he’s back to his wiggly wordplay. “Where do you live then?”

“When I live, I live here.”

His words are chilly. “
When
you live?”

“Ah, you see. We do have lamps, so to speak. Only, unlike the genies of old, we don’t live in lamps in between wishers. In between wishers, we cease to live.”

I close my eyes for a moment, steady myself by placing a hand against his desk. I open my eyes, but I still feel like I’m swaying, like the room is uneven and hazy. “Do you mean you die after you grant a wish?”

“Not an official death. But we cease to exist when we’re not dealing with wishers. It’s just nothingness until we’re needed, and it’s only through a wisher giving us permission to stay that we get to hang around. Like I said, that’s why I finished the book last night. You never know when you’re no longer going to be needed. Your time can end just like that.”

He snaps his fingers.

That must be what happened with Mariska when he left. When he said he needed to finish
The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy
in ten minutes.

“That’s terrible,” I say, and my heart—my scarred and bruised heart—feels leaden. It’s sad knowing he only comes alive to nod his head and say “Yes, Master, you’re a prince, you’re rich, you’re good-looking, here’s a mansion for you.”

Stupid people. Stupid wishers.

Stupid me.

“Do you still want me to wait a day or so to wish?” That seems only fair. I can last another day. “So you can be free for a while?”

He smiles. “Only if you want to.”

“I feel bad for you. That you just go away.”

He reaches for my hand. “Don’t, Aria. It doesn’t hurt. I’m barely even aware of it. It’s not even like sleeping or dreaming. It’s just … the way it is.”

I clasp my fingers around his, keenly aware that we’re holding hands for the second time tonight, and it feels natural and necessary.

“Sure, but sometimes
the way it is
sucks. Let’s get out of this figurative or figurehead or whatever-it-is lamp of a living room, Taj. Let’s get out of here and see New York. Wait, you’ve probably seen New York many times. How old are you? How long have you been a granter? How many wishers have you had?”

“Eighteen. Since I was almost sixteen. And,
plenty
. To answer your questions. And the other one about New York—I like New York. So let’s go.”

We leave, and he leads me through the cavernous underground, all the way to a grate. Only it’s not the one we came down in. It’s in an alley behind a theater on Broadway. As I climb up and out, we’re standing under a marquee, lit up in bright shining lights, blaring the name of a show.

“Do they all connect? The underground tunnels?”

“Not when you’re in them by yourself. When you’re with me, yes.”

I laugh, not because this is comical but because it’s incredible. “So this is part of your magic?”

“I wouldn’t call it magic, per se. It’s more like knowing the shortcut. When you’re with me, you can always take the shortcut underground. Then again, granters in general are kind of shortcuts, aren’t they?”

There he goes again. Making some sort of philosophical observation about the role of wish givers. He’s right—their purpose is to circumvent.

“But it’s kind of like a wish too,” he continues. “When we travel through the tunnels, they go the way we want them to, the way we wish. So it’s fitting. Do you like theater?” He gestures to the marquee.

“Never been.”

“Do you want to see a show right now?”

“Are you going to do that appear-disappear thing to get us in the theater?”

He scoffs at me. “I can, to get myself in. There’s just one little problem—I can’t take you with me that way. However, there’s a thing known as second-acting a show. Ever done it?”

“No, seeing as I just said I’ve never even seen a show.”

We’re surrounded by crowds milling about, by theatergoers making phone calls or puffing on cigarettes during intermission. A bell sounds from inside the theater, and the lights in the lobby flash. “Two-minute bell,” he says, and places a hand on my back, guiding me inside the theater lobby, then past the refreshment stand, then into the auditorium itself. He stands near the back, scanning the seats. The house isn’t full; several back rows are mostly empty. When the lights dim and the curtain rises, he tips his forehead to a nearby aisle, and we snag a pair of seats.

He grins. He had walked in like he owned the place. “Whoever said there was no such thing as a free show? Enjoy the show, Aria.”

We’ve missed the first act, but I don’t care because this second act is gorgeous. There’s a boat tossed at sea, and crewmen singing about the dangerous waters that heave back and forth. Then a scene on a dock as a beautiful blond woman sings to the moon, a sad, plaintive song. Soon curvy girls with long legs and tap shoes dance around a sea captain as he repairs the ship while crooning a love song. Then the blonde runs out to the stage, and when he sees her, he melts.

She rushes into his arms. He twirls her around, dips her,
and kisses her. Then they come up for air and belt out a final chorus.

The curtain falls and everyone claps. The curtain rises, and soon audience members start to stand and clap as the cast runs back onstage to take their bows. I stand and cheer, and so does Taj. When the show is over, we leave the theater like the rest of the audience, waiting and shuffling, taking our time.

“Did you like the show?” he asks.

“It was amazing. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

He smiles and it’s such a natural smile. His brown eyes light up, and I’m reminded of how pure the color is—they’re a rich, deep golden brown, a few shades darker than his skin.

“I’m glad,” he says, and he seems both happy and genuine.

“My mom has always wanted to see a Broadway show. I’m going to have to tell her all about it, especially since she was a water artist. She would love it.”

“What’s she like, your mom?”

“She’s this smart, sweet, loving, totally vibrant woman. But she doesn’t feel well most of the time, so she hardly ever leaves the house,” I say, even though that’s a distortion of the truth. She never leaves the house.

“Sorry to hear she doesn’t feel well. That’s a bummer.”

“Yeah, it totally is. I can’t even tell you the last time she saw sunshine or the ocean. And she loves water. I would love to take her to the ocean and see her swim again.”

“She really doesn’t leave the house?”

I shake my head. “No. Never, actually,” I say, admitting the full truth now. Something shifted between Taj and me in his library tonight. It’s as if there’s another side on display now.
The prickly, caustic granter he was last night is gone, and he seems like a friend. So I keep talking. “One of the reasons I’m even sticking with the Leagues at all is to raise enough money to help her somehow. To get well again. I need to make enough money so I can get her out of the house and find a great doctor for her.”

“You’re a good daughter. I hope you can do that, Aria.” When we’re on the street, he asks me, “What now?”

“I’m kind of hungry, to tell the truth.”

“Do you like diner food?”

“I’m from the backwaters of Florida. We went to restaurants once a year. We ate rice and beans for most meals. I like anything.”

Soon, we’re ordering chocolate milkshakes and French fries, and as we wait Taj asks again how I liked the show. Then he catches himself, remembering that he’d already asked that question. He seems a touch nervous with me right now.

“You know I loved it. Did you like it?” I ask, turning the question around. I don’t add that I want to go again, that I want to see more shows, that who knew I’d enjoy a musical so much. But I did enjoy it, so much so that it felt real, as if the boat were truly tossed at sea, as if the crew had actually saved it, as if the captain and his lady did live happily ever after. I believed in it, in the story and the song.

He nods, and then we’re both silent for a minute, and it’s awkward because it feels like we’re on a date—going to the theater, eating out, stumbling on words—but yet we’re also in the midst of a business transaction. I’m not sure how to steer things back to business without being a complete jerk.

“So, Aria. Let’s get down to business. You want a wish.”

Maybe he is a mind reader.

“Yeah. I do.”

“And you feel bad for wanting it.”

“Of course.”

“Tell me what you want.”

“Now? Is this how it works? I tell you in a diner?”

“Sure. Or you could wait until I take you to the top of the Empire State Building on my magic carpet and tell me there.”

He says it without irony, but I’m sure he’s joking, so I manage a laugh. He raises an eyebrow, waiting for me to speak.

“Why do you dress so fancy?” I ask to buy time.

Taj glances down at his clothes, his pressed shirt, his dark slacks, his shiny shoes. “I was raised that the way you dress is a sign of respect for the people you work with, interact with. That’s what my parents taught me.”

“Where are your parents? Do they know you’re a granter? Are they granters too?”

He shakes his head. “Some questions I will not answer. But, yes, they know.”

“Do you ever see them?”

“Never. Granters are forbidden from seeing family.”

“That’s sad. Do you miss them?”

“Terribly. But,” he says pointedly, and then stands up and joins me on my side of the booth, sliding in next to me. “We’re not going to talk about me now. We’re going to talk about you. You should know you’re free to wish under certain circumstances. I checked the registry and you’ve never wished before, which means you get one wish.”

“Registry? Like the registry of elemental artists?”

“Something like that. So tell me what you wish for.”

I swallow, bite my lip. I’m jangled inside, nerves exposed and antennae up. If I tell him why I need fire, he’ll know I stole it. He’ll know I did something punishable by the Leagues. “Taj, are you bound by our laws? If you knew something about me, something bad, would you have to turn me in to the Leagues?”

The corners of his lips curl up. “I am bound by you. I am bound by wishers. I am bound by the powers of granting. When I’m in your world, I do my best to pay my bills at restaurants and to cross when the light is green, but no. I’m not obligated, nor do I care much, for the laws that institutions lay down.”

“My fire is running out,” I whisper.

“Was it never yours to starts with?”

I shake my head, relieved for once to be honest. It feels so amazingly good to admit this, to confess what has twisted me up for so long. “It was never mine.”