Hesiod smoked her cigarette-that-wasn’t-really-a-cigarette thoughtfully. “How big can you do? If you wished for the sun to come up tomorrow, would the world end?”
“I don’t know, I’d never dare!”
“You never know unless you try.” The crone shrugged.
“I think…I think it’s just things to do with me. Or, at least, people I know,” he added hastily, thinking of the girl with the black ponytail. “It’s localized phenomena,” he whispered, lifting a phrase from one of his textbooks.
“Big words from a little man. If you’ve got this all figured out, what do you need me for? Have you got a question, or haven’t you?”
“Yes! Hold on! Jeez!” It was all getting away from him, skidding out from under his feet like red sand. Anchises shoved his hand in his shirt pocket and pulled out a piece of paper, on which he had written his question in neat, round letters, in case he got confused or upset. “What Is Going to Happen to Me?” he read slowly, evenly. “Is This Going to Happen Forever? Is It a Real Loophole? What Can I Do So It Goes Away?” He looked up at the fleshy lilac flowers in Hesiod’s hair and her big cataracted eyes. “Am I gonna be okay?”
Hesiod thought of fortune cards no differently than she thought of casino cards: each had a value, which changed according to its position on the table, and when it was laid down near other cards, their combined values made a winning or a losing hand. She dealt three cards from her deck as quick as breathing.
The House. The Eye. The Whale.
The House had a hut on it that looked a lot like Hesiod’s hut, only made up all of locks: locks for doors, locks for windows, a lock-thatched roof. The house stood, all locked up, under a sky full of stars, and in some of the stars, faces with suspicious eyes glared down. The Eye had three old ladies on it. They all had white hair that hung down like pillars to the ground. They wore silver, and they wore blindfolds. The middle one had an eyeball in her outstretched hand, from a green eye. The Whale had a callowhale on it, but it was not like Anchises’s drawing of a callowhale. It looked like a stone wrapped up in grass, only the leaves of the grass were shaped like peacock feathers, and they had eyes in them, too.
Hesiod burped. She liked to burp almost as much as she liked to swear, but her customers didn’t like the burping as much.
“Fucking hell, kidlet,” she sighed. Her breath smelled sour. “Just because things don’t go your way doesn’t mean you’re cursed. You think I didn’t wish to get old with my Iskender and have a bunch of babies and enough milk money for a house with central heating? You think I didn’t wish to be happy? You think any of the countries that landed here didn’t wish they could have it all to themselves and kick everyone else out? The world is made of wishing, Anki; just every bastard wishing all the time, and it’s a dog’s work to tell who gets their wishes and who doesn’t, because everyone’s wishes bash into each other a thousand times a minute, and it’ll get sorted out in hell if it ever does. If you wished the sun would come up tomorrow, it’d knock into a million other sad sacks wishing it wouldn’t, and no matter what happened come dawn, you couldn’t say who got their way. But mostly nobody gets their way. They wish for good and they get a handful of shit, and I know you’re young, but you’re old enough to get right with that. If you got that curse, baby boy, we all got it. I don’t want to hear you bitch before you get your beard. You got no idea how hard you can lose your wishes. You’re young enough to think there’s logic to time and events and desire. It’s cute, but I don’t go in for cute at my age.”
Anchises didn’t blink. “What do the cards say?” he said, stonily, his cheeks burning.
Hesiod burped again. “They say you’re never gonna get what you want, and you’ll just have to live with it like everyone else.”
Outside, beyond the glowing crimson breakers, the seals-which-were-not-really-seals barked out their rough songs like dinner bells, and never again did Doctor Callow tell a grown-up person what he knew.
As the years of July passed by, Anchises grew older—and more and more possessed by the desire to see the face of a callowhale. It was not only that no one had, but that little Doctor Callow was convinced that anything with a face had to be alive, alive the way he was, the way his parents and the foreman at the Prithvi factory and the cacao-dancers at the Nutcake Festival and the slick-suited politicians in White Peony Station were; the way the girl with the black ponytail no longer was. A face was where you kept your aliveness. It was the part of you that showed sorrow and laughing and anger and embarrassment and surprise. Other parts felt those things, but your face announced them. What did a surprised callowhale look like? How about sad? How about if you told one a joke, a really good joke, the best joke in the world, and it laughed? He had to know. At ten years old, Anchises felt that if he died without knowing, the bones of his face would be knotted up with grief. Anyone who dug him up a hundred years later would look at his skull and say: This man died missing the better part of his soul.
But he was only ten, and he did not yet have his own diving bell.
As Adonis began to look forward to the Nutcake Festival of the crisp, cold, lean year of July thirteenth, three things happened, one after the other. Like dreams following sleep, each one ended in wishes our Doctor Callow did not mean to make, and like morning following dreams, each wish drew borders round the territories of the rest of his life.
The village elders of Adonis put their shaggy heads and tight-stitched wallets together to plan something special for the Nutcake Festival that year, as it was the tenth Nutcake, and also because that year had not been so kind as July third: the amphorae were only three-quarters full, the cows-which-were-not-really-cows were surly and recalcitrant, and every other cacao-husk had no nut in it. Everyone needed cheering up. The elders sent away to Parvati, another village in the Land of Milk and Desire, deep in the lushest and loveliest jungles of the interior, for seven barrels of cider (which was not really cider, but heady, hearty, heavenly stuff the colour of a flamingo’s feathers for which Parvati was already becoming famous, as it was brewed from apples which are not really apples, but crisp, colossal, crystallized berries that grow only in the most protected and shadowy forests of the Land of Milk and Desire). They sent to the village of Dahomey on the slopes of Mount Neith where wild frangipani grows (which are not really frangipani, but fragrant, feral, fecund flowers the colour of sunset that smell like bread baking and are only the female of the species) for twelve mature Samedi moths, which are the males of the same species of the frangipani-which-is-not-really-frangipani. Every summer the frangipani-that-are-not-really-frangipani blossoms open up on the mountainside and thousands of great glossy black-green moths-that-are-not-really-moths fly out of their mothers and into the world. A single wing of the Samedi moth, properly roasted over a low, grass-fed fire, can feed twenty, with scraps left for the hounds. And, finally, the elders of Adonis sent to White Peony Station for three precious treasures, so dear they could not be purchased, only lent at robber’s prices, with thrice-signed bonds assuring their return in pristine condition. One treasure was white, the second silver, the third black. One enormous, the second awfully loud, the third nothing much to look at, but more dear than the other two combined.
The first treasure, white and enormous, was a projection screen.
The second, silver and awfully loud, was a film projector.
The third, black and not much to look at, was a movie, its spools of film closed tightly into canisters like holy jars of spices buried within the pyramids back Home.