BY PING YI YEE
Copyright is held by the author.
THE DAY Ted found out that genies existed, he began to plan.
“I shall have the three best wishes in the world,” he declared, to no one in particular. “That’s very nice, dear,” said his mother, who heard him from the kitchen.
The next day, Ted walked to town, and went to the library. He spent the morning reading about Aladdin and the Genie in the Lamp, and the Genie in the Ring when the Lamp was taken away by Aladdin’s uncle. And because his mother did not expect him home yet, Ted spent the afternoon reading about the other One Thousand Arabi– This is slooow moving, repetitive, are you sure you want to do this? Your story is ancient.
Hush. Let me continue.
. . . So Ted went back to the library, and he was there for many days. He read about giant genies on red worlds where the sun never set and the moon never ros– That doesn’t make sense. If it’s a true satellite, an observer on a planet must see moon and sun at some point in the diurnal cycl —
Shush. Cool it will ya.
. . . Although Ted learnt everything he could from school, he knew it was not enough. “I know words and how to use them, but I do not know how to Bind genies with them. I shall learn about law and contracts.” So Ted left home to go to University to study Law. “Go meet a nice girl, dear,” his mother reminded him as she waved goodb– Oh my god this won’t fly. Perpetuating traditional education pathways, family structures, you’re in a time warp! And it’s not even set in your culture, you’re not Enid Blyton. As I said, this story is too old to tell.
Fine. And you’re right, it has been bothering me.
***
The day I found out genies existed, I began to plan.
“I shall have the three best wishes in the world,” I declared. “That’s nice dear,” said Mum, grading her test scripts at the dining table, humming along to Mandarin tunes on the Rediffusion set.
That very afternoon, with a fistful of dollar notes scrunched into my right pocket, I sprinted towards the traffic roundabout, to the used books’ beside the cinema. The Indian proprietor of Noteworthy Books tolerated us kids reading for hours at his wall of books; the adults might get a more targeted glare. Inside each book, a “N.B.” stamp indicated the refundable cost – a pristine Famous Five would cost a dollar eighty, plus fifty cents’ rental; a tatty disintegrating title might go for seventy cents plus fifty. I stood at the bookwall and read about Aladdin and the Lamp Jinn, and the contingency Ring Jinn after Evil Uncle Vizier pulled his little stunt. Ignoring stomach growls, I skimmed the other One Thousand Nights, until flying ants and moths materialized to attack the two light bulbs dangling overhead, casting frenzied shadows skirmishing over the worn-out cement deck.
“You were gone a while,” Mum remarked when I returned with an armful of yellowing and browned books. “I shall learn about other genies in other places,” I said.
I read for days, standing with towering fire genies on crimson worlds where the suns never set and the moons never rose; dancing with genies smaller than a pea and lighter than a feather who granted wishes that swallowed the seas; racing with genies of light and lightning who travelled at the speed of thought through the mountains and appeared everywhere and nowhere, everywhen and nowhen.
By the end of the holidays, I knew quite a bit about genies. Most importantly, I knew genies were Tricky and would twist the words in my wishes. “I shall learn how to make words and how to use them,” I decided. “As you wish dear.”
Back in school, I studie — No. This isn’t it either.
***
The day Mey found out genies existed, she began to plan.
“I shall have the three best wishes in the world,” she declared. “Go for it!” said Dad from the kitchen. He was writing as usual, or more precisely staring out the bay windows and making himself cross-eyed, while his pad remained blank, white.
Skipping lunch, Mey ran out to catch the underground to the central library. When she arrived, the books she needed were magically waiting for her, stacked neatly inside a locker matched to her mobile order. She couldn’t wait the two days it took for home delivery.
Mey sat in the living room, in her room, in the garden, in the kitchen, and read for days, fascinated with the Jinn; Chinese mythology permitted no wishes, brooked no fancies. Monsters and demons abound, yes, but nearly all roads led to hard work, or else!
She looked up, suddenly. “Ask you something, Dad?”
“Yep.” He was lining up his freshly-sharpened pencil stubs by height. They had been abandoned by her, but rehabilitated since.
“If you like writing so much, why did you give it up after school?”
Dad paused, while the shortest stub made a run for it, rolling off the table.
“. . . why spend thirty years doing something you didn’t like? Thirty years!”
“I chose not to write for a living, because Grandpa and Grandma would’ve felt they needed to continue worki —”
“So you didn’t love writing that much after all.”
He breathed in. “If I cannot support myself, I cannot make others do it for me. It was a different world. Everyone wanted to be a doctor, or lawyer, banker, engineer. Every parent, every kid.”
“But writing made you happy!” Mey did not understand how anyone could make themselves miserable for such an eternity.
“Your grandparents were bullied and very stressed at work ’cos they were not English-educated. Grandma couldn’t go to university. Once I took the financial burden off our family, they could both retire early. And I’m happy now —”
“But you weren’t! For so long. All those bosses!”
“Well, some bosses were all right.”
“Why do we need to work? Why can’t we just wish it all away?”
“Actually, you don’t need to work if you don’t want to. Mum and I have made this possible now. You can do anything you want in life . . .”
Mey gave up trying to get Dad to understand, and returned to the streets of Tangier and the shores of Asilah. By midnight, the Berbers had led her down a warren of alleys into a carpet shop musty with hay and mildew, and mild hint of danger. A few entry-level carpets were being piled between her and the faceless merchants, and serious haggling was about to begin.
“. . . or you can wait for your genie to show up some day,” said one of the Berbers, who turned into Dad.
“. . . say what, Dad?”
“Your genie will show up some day. You can decide then.”
“OK, Dad.” The man was clearly delirious.
“Well, mine did, anyway.”
“What?” Mey dropped her book.
“My genie showed up. When you were about seven? Or eight, we’d just returned from Japan, I think —”
“Wait, what genie?! What did you say?”
“To the genie? Oh I said, you’ve been Tricky and wise, and I have a loving family and we are all in good health.”
Mey’s head expanded, into a planet-scape of fire and ice that flowed through her ears and tangoed inside her brain.
“So I said, I seem to be all set and won’t be needing my wishes, I’ll just start my writing now. Then I bowed, and the genie bowed and left. Haven’t seen ’em since.”
Mey stared at Dad, not seeing him.
“Don’t worry about it,” said Dad as he bent under the kitchen table with his pencil extender, looking for the stub that slipped away.
***
Ping Yi Yee writes poetry, short fiction and creative nonfiction. After a three-decade detour in public service, he resumed his lifelong interest in speculative, humour and travel writing. His work has appeared in Orbis, Litro, The Stony Thursday Book, London Grip, Meniscus, and La Piccioletta Barca, among others.
