The Girl and the Genie Page 2
His question stunned her. She couldn’t believe he was referring to the same manuscript that she had urged him to consider. “Do you mean Theater of Sin?” she asked, hearing her voice break into a stammer, and hating the fact that she was stammering in front of him.
“Exactly,” he said. “The title did give me hope, but the book was otherwise an utter disappointment. Where were the teenage vampires? Zombies? Even werewolves, for goodness sake! Or simply a page-turning plot? Or at the very least a young, plucky heroine who finds romance in every chapter? Since none of those were present, explain to me where this book has even a single hint of commercial viability.”
Emily swallowed hard so she could answer him without stammering any further. “This novel was one of the most moving and brilliantly written that I’ve come across since I’ve been here,” she said, stubbornly.
Mr. Pish blinked several times as he was surprised an associate editor would speak up to him since that seldom happened. After his blinking subsided, he continued with his bug-eyed stare for a good ten seconds before demanding that Emily give him a list of comps, which would be bestsellers that The Theater of Sin could be compared to.
“I can’t give you that,” Emily said. “This novel is wholly original.”
“And that’s the problem,” Mr. Pish said, his stern frown turning more into a condescending and very smug smile. “Even if I agreed with your assessment on this manuscript, and even if I were willing to overlook a complete lack of any overt commercial appeal, without a list of comps, I’d never get the approval to buy it. And if I did, the sales force would let it die on the vine. This book would be a miserable failure, even if a few hundred readers ended up buying it and agreeing with you. So Miss Mignon, do not waste my time again with another novel of this sort. Do we understand each other?”
Emily nodded, her cheeks reddening, and she could not move fast enough to get out of his office. She had been witnessing for three years how things worked. Why did she have to delude herself that the one brilliant novel that she came across would be treated any differently than the other worthy novels that she would see routinely discarded? When she got back to her desk, she felt too humiliated and too angry at herself to sit in that office building a minute longer, so she sent an email that she wasn’t feeling well and would be leaving early that day. On her way out she grabbed a stack of manuscripts that she needed to read.
The problem was she wasn’t in the mood to sit in a coffee shop and read any more mediocre and formulaic books, and the last thing she wanted to do was go back to her apartment and have to confront Mitch, or even worse these days, Sally and that icy cold shoulder that her once-upon-a-time best friend was now giving her.
With no place else to go, Emily decided to take the subway to Brooklyn. There was a curio shop across the street from the hardware store that she had visited when she needed a bathroom lock, and for some reason she had been thinking about that shop ever since that day. Little did she know how much her life was going to change because of that shop, and how much adventure and danger would soon come crashing down upon her, and possibly even romance. If she had she would’ve run to that shop once she got off the subway in Brooklyn, instead of simply walking at a determined pace.
Chapter 2
Mr. Smythe’s Curio Shop was tucked away in the basement of an old brownstone, and would’ve been easy to miss by anyone walking by since the store’s bronze sign was hidden in a window that was well below street level. Emily wasn’t sure how she had noticed the shop in the first place since it seemed to be doing everything it could to avoid any sort of attention. For reasons that Emily couldn’t explain she had been feeling a growing compulsion to visit the shop ever since she had spotted the sign.
The proprietor of the shop appeared every bit as ancient as the shop’s sign—a gnarled little man with heavily veined hands and thick features who sat hunched over reading a book when Emily entered the store. Emily had this strange impression that the man almost could’ve been carved out of wood, and only when she saw him blink was she fully convinced that he was flesh and blood. She smiled and said hello to him. Without looking away from his book he grunted something back at her from deep in his chest that could’ve been hello also, but she wasn’t sure. Aside from herself and this elderly man, there was no one else in the shop.
The pine shelving and floor looked every bit as ancient as the sign out front. Emily wondered briefly whether the old man could’ve been the Mr. Smythe from the shop’s name, but she had a feeling that the shop was much older than even he was. Perhaps he was a grandson or great grandson of the original proprietor.
The store’s shelves were filled with artifacts from bygone eras. Toys that when wound up would cause little figures to spring to life dancing or do other amusing things, intricately painted dolls from the nineteenth century, glass figurines of breathtaking beauty, and many other such objects. Emily soon felt as if she were in a museum. A weird and wonderful and very cluttered museum. It was when she was looking through a pile of antique stuffed animals that she discovered the wooden chest. It was two feet wide by three feet long and painted white with what looked like gold leaf detailing different scenes from the Arabian Nights, and when she opened it she found that it was lined with a rich red velvet. It was heavy also, at least thirty pounds, and seemed solidly constructed. There was no price tag on it. Emily thought about taking the chest to the old man sitting up front to ask how much it was, but then her resolve weakened. Whatever the cost, it would be too much of an extravagance for her. She didn’t have the money to be wasting on an antique wooden chest, especially since she was going to have to save so that she could move to another apartment. While Sally hadn’t made any demand yet about her moving out, Emily knew it was only a matter of time, and besides, she couldn’t stay there any longer, not if Mitch was going to be in the picture, and especially not if Sally didn’t trust her. Reluctantly she put the chest back down on the shelf.
“That once-in-a-lifetime antique chest is only a measly three hundred and fifty dollars, Miss. I would reconsider if I were you.”
Emily hadn’t heard the old man come up behind her. While his speaking voice was very different than the grunting noise he had made earlier, it sounded how she had imagined it would when she had first seen him, almost like a rusty door creaking open, so it didn’t startle her. That amount of money was too much for her, and she was surprised at how disappointed she felt realizing that she wouldn’t be able to purchase it.
“I wish I could afford it,” she said wistfully.
“A shame,” he said. “I can tell when one of my curios is perfect for a customer, and Miss, you were meant to own this exquisite object.” He shuffled forward so that he could pick it up and show it to her. “This was hand built over a century ago. Look at the craftsmanship.” He opened it and pointed a think finger at the hinges. “Those are brass. They’ll last another century. And look at the antique velvet used for the lining. You’re not going to find something like this every day. Go ahead, feel it.”
Emily did as he asked. She felt herself weakening, and the old man must’ve known it also from the way his thick lips twisted into a smile.
“This price is only for you,” he said in his thick croaking voice. “Two hundred and seventy-five dollars.”
She had lost the battle, and she knew it. She didn’t know why this wooden chest had such a pull on her, but it did. “Do you take credit cards?” she asked with a defeated sigh.
The old man smiled fully then. “Of course, Miss,” he said. “We’re living in the twenty-first century after all.”
##
It was two-thirty in the morning the first time that Emily heard a dog barking, and she was too groggy with sleep to make sense of what she was hearing. The second time was ten minutes later, and she had woken up enough from earlier to pay closer attention to it. The sound was muffled, but it definitely seemed to be coming from a dog, which struck her as a bit odd as she had never heard a dog barking before from
anywhere inside the apartment, especially her bedroom. While the apartment she shared with Sally was only on the fourth floor it was located on the back end of the building and Emily never heard street noises from her bedroom, so it was doubtful that she’d be able to hear any dog barking from outside. She wondered briefly before dozing off which of her neighbors in the building must’ve recently acquired a dog.
The third time the barking happened she woke up with a start. As muffled and soft as the sound was, she was convinced it was coming from inside her room. She was wide awake now and she turned on her night table lamp and held her breath as she looked around the room, thinking instead that the noise might’ve been coming from a mouse or worse. She didn’t see anything, and she carefully got out of bed and looked underneath it, then under the rest of her furniture, and finally looked in her closet. An exhalation of relief exploded from her over not finding any furry little animals hiding in her room, and she was about to get back into bed when she heard the barking noise again. Her eyes widened as she stared at what seemed to be the source of the barking: the antique wooden chest that she had bought earlier that day.
Emily had placed the chest on top of her dresser bureau, and she held her breath again as she cautiously crept over to her dresser. A mouse or some other rodent must’ve gotten inside of her newly acquired chest, and the thought of that gave her the shivers. It was weird, though, how much it sounded like a dog barking. The noise stopped again. Emily carefully lifted the chest from her dresser and placed it on the floor, then kneeled down beside it. She kept her breath held in as she opened the chest a crack, just enough to peek inside, but she didn’t see anything other than the red velvet lining. Bracing herself, she opened the chest fully, ready to scream if a mouse or some other critter jumped out at her. The chest was empty.
She let out her breath and breathed in deeply as she puzzled over the imagined barking noise that she could’ve sworn came from inside the chest. Then she heard the noise again, and this time it was louder and far less muffled. After several minutes of studying the chest, a tight smile formed over her lips as she found a false bottom. She braced herself once again as she expected to find a critter of some sort hiding in the secret compartment, but when she removed the false bottom what she found instead was an ancient-looking silver lamp that was packed within very old newspaper. The lamp looked exactly like the type that genies would always come out of in the movies. Newspaper pages had been crumpled up into balls for packing purposes, and Emily unfolded one of these. The date printed on the paper was October 3rd, 1890, and the name of the newspaper was The Times, which Emily quickly realized was the London version. The barking noise started again, coming from inside the lamp, and Emily’s heart almost jumped into her throat. She dropped the newspaper page and scrambled to her feet and backed up until the back of her legs bumped against the edge of her bed, and then she sat down barely aware of what she was doing, all the while her heart racing like crazy. She tried to make sense of what was happening, and after several minutes realized that she must’ve been in the middle of an elaborate practical joke. Someone had planted an electronic device of some sort inside that lamp to make it sound as if a dog were barking from inside of it, probably something similar to what was used in those greeting cards that played music when they were opened. The stunt didn’t make any sense to her. Why would someone hide an ancient-looking lamp like that inside the chest, as well as destroy a newspaper from the late eighteen hundreds, only to plant a dog-barking device inside of the lamp? She couldn’t fathom why someone would go to that kind of trouble, but that’s what had to have happened. She left her bed and went back to the chest so she could pick up the lamp. It had a substantial feel to it, and she wondered whether it could be made from pure silver as it appeared to be, and what something like that would be worth. The surface of the lamp had a dullness about it, but it only showed a small amount of tarnishing, and if she polished it it would be quite spectacular.
The barking started again, and with a grim smile she shook the lamp and the barking quickly stopped. She shook the lamp some more. There was no sound of anything rattling around inside. Whoever placed whatever device that made that barking noise inside the lamp must’ve glued it to the bottom of the lamp so it wouldn’t rattle around. Emily couldn’t figure out how this person got the device inside of it in the first place. The only opening she could find was at the end of the lamp’s thin curved spout. She smiled thinly when she read what was engraved on the bottom of the lamp. Do Not Trust Him.
“Someone really went to a lot of trouble with this,” she muttered to herself. “The least I can do is play along. I guess I need to summon the genie of the lamp, huh?”
She felt silly talking to herself, but the moment seemed to call for it. Her smile turned into an embarrassed grin as she rubbed the lamp and whispered, “Oh genie of the lamp, show yourself.” When a dense smoke began to pour out of the opening in the lamp’s spout, she still believed this was only a ridiculously intricate prank. When the smoke formed into the shape of a man, she realized that she had to either still be dreaming or hallucinating. If she was still asleep and this was only a dream, then she might as well enjoy it, and if something had happened to her—such as suffering an aneurysm, and this was all only a hallucination, well, there was nothing she could do about it now. Understanding that this couldn’t be real left her feeling strangely calm, much calmer actually than when she had feared that a mouse might jump out of the chest.
The man who materialized in front of her didn’t look like what she would’ve imagined a genie to look like. He appeared only a few years older than herself, was lean and tall and dressed conservatively in a Brooks Brothers gray pinstriped suit and black leather oxfords. He had a pleasant enough face—really quite handsome in a way, and his hair was a chestnut brown and cut conservatively. She would’ve guessed him to be more a lawyer fresh out of law school than a genie. When he smiled wryly at her, a hint of mischief sparkled in his almond-shaped eyes. Cat’s eyes, that’s what Emily thought.
The genie bowed from the waist, making an elaborate gesture with his right hand before straightening back up.
“I am humbly at your service, my Master,” the genie said, his voice without any hint of an accent, and as pleasant as his appearance. If Emily didn’t know that he was supposed to be a genie, she would’ve guessed he was from California.
“You don’t look like a genie,” Emily said.
The genie laughed, and with a wink, was soon enveloped by a swirling blue mist.
Chapter 3
The blue mist cleared as quickly as it came, and the genie was no longer wearing his gray, pinstriped suit and black oxfords, but instead was shirtless with baggy turquoise silk pants that ended halfway down his calves, and on his feet he wore slippers that curled almost into a complete circle at the toe. With his mouth rounding into an ‘o’ he began sucking in air, and as he did this not only did his chest expand, but so did every other part of him, including his arms, legs and head. Within seconds he was larger than any sumo wrestler. Once he finished blowing himself up, he pinched the tips of both his ears to give them a pointy look.
“Is this more to your liking?” he asked.
Emily shook her head. “You now look more as I would imagine a genie to look, but I much preferred the way you looked before.”
“As you desire.”
There was another quick swirling of blue mist, and when it cleared the genie was back to how he had been originally, dressed once again in his suit and black oxfords.
Emily no longer believed that she was dreaming. As fantastic as everything was, it was all too realistic to be a dream with none of that sluggishness or stuck-in-molasses feeling she’d often experience in her dreams. Just to be sure she pinched her arm, and was positive then that this wasn’t a dream, nor was it a hallucination—as bizarre as the events were it was all too vivid and coherent to be a hallucination. As Emily accepted that this was really happening, she became aware that she was wearing
a worn pair of cotton pajamas that had become very clingy to her body, and she blushed and turned away from the genie so that she could reach for a flannel bathrobe. Once she had the robe secured tightly on her and felt less exposed, she turned back to him. Trying to take charge of the situation since this was her own bedroom after all, she held out her hand to him and introduced herself.
He looked at her outstretched hand but made no attempt to reciprocate. Emily’s blush deepened for a moment at this apparent snub, but she decided to assume that the act of handshaking didn’t exist in ancient times when this genie would have originally existed.
“It’s customary when someone extends a hand to you that you show the proper courtesy to accept it,” she said.
He nodded grimly. “I fully understand this custom, Master,” he said. “But it would be hazardous to you if I were to touch you.”
“Please call me Emily. And how would it be hazardous?”
He shook his head over the thought of calling her Emily. “No, that would be improper. It would too greatly violate master-genie etiquette for me to be that informal. But if it would make you more comfortable I could call you Miss Mignon.” He smiled wanly. “And if I were to come into physical contact with you your life would end quickly. Even quicker than if you were to be bitten by a thousand black mambas at once.”
Emily lowered her hand and took a step backward. With her brow severely furrowed, she asked, “Have you ever, um, touched one of your masters?”